#set specifically is what i signed up for so sawing and drilling and painting… >:)))

[pallases]

[13uswntimagines]

Stay Out of This OK? (Mal x Baby!Reader)

Request: Sequal to Better Luck Next Time where the team tries to help Baby!Reader get with Mal. 

Authors Note: so this was super fun to write with @literaryhedgehog​. It’s in the same 3 times they didn’t and 1 they did of the other one we did! I hope you enjoy and hit me up with questions or if you just wanna say Hi!

Team bonding was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be an activity that everyone would enjoy. Instead, it had turned into a board game massacre. There weren’t enough Monopoly pieces for everyone to play, so the team got split up into pairs. “Randomly assigned” pairs. (Though you would bet your signed Mia Hamm jersey that there was nothing random about you being paired with Mal).

“I told you I need to play the shoe! It’s my lucky piece!” Emily yelled, literally trying to pull the shoe piece from your hand. 

“Chill Emily, it’s just a game,” Lindsey glared from beside her. This whole thing wasn’t even about the game, it was about getting you to talk to your crush. (Which the team was determined to get you to admit your feelings too).

“More like a crushing commentary on how consumerism works…” You mumbled with an eye roll. You fucking hated this game. The only upside was that you got to cuddle with your favorite forward. 

“Well yes, that is literally what the game is supposed to be about, but we’re here trying to have fun.” Christen eyed you as she added a hotel to Baltic Avenue. You rolled your eyes. 

“Yeah babe, just have fun with it,” Mal nudged you, causing your lips to tick up lightly. 

“Mal called Y/n babe,” Emily squealed, instantly being shushed by the flares of your teammates. The plan was to get the two Preath children together, and with your skittish and shy nature, they had to be subtle about it as to not scare you off. 

It seems to be working as you were cuddled into the older girl’s side, your chin resting comfortably on her shoulder. 

“ Maybe you should blow on the dice, Y/N.” Kelley mentioned in a forcefully offhand manner, “You know, for good luck.”

“Actually, I think it might be luckier if you just roll, you’ve been getting higher numbers anyway,” Mal said kissing your cheek and handing the dice to you, while covertly shooting Kelley a look that screamed ‘please shut up’. The team may have had good intentions, but their plans never seemed to work out well, and she really liked you. 

You forcefully threw the dice on the board, tired of the near-constant teasing from the team. Too forcefully. One of them bounced through the center, ricocheted off the hat on Electric company and flew off the table into Lindsey’s lap. The other took out the house at Park place before Christen stopped it. 

Everyone looked down at the numbers. Snake eyes, that moved you right onto the words “Go to Jail.” The room burst into laughter, and your cheeks tinted a deep shade of red. 

“I think I’m done for tonight, sorry Mal,” You said gulping, untangling yourself from the woman, and rushing to stand up. 

“No babe, you don’t have to go!” She called out, standing up as if to stop you as you made your way to the door. This had been going so well until the girls started teasing you. 

“I’ll see you in practice tomorrow,” you said, smiling quickly. You closed the door behind you then opened it again quickly, just long enough to call out “Next time, we’re playing cards against humanity.”

Mal glared at the other girls as Emily moved your piece into the game’s jail. “I love you guys, but just stay out of this, ok?”

“Sure, sure. Of course.” The other women said halfheartedly, giving Mal no reassurance whatsoever. The two of you would be so good together, they just couldn’t help themselves from meddling. 

……...

“Okay we’re doing drills in teams of two today,” Carlie called shaking a hat with pieces of paper in it. She was in charge of the forwards and middies workouts for the day, and while you were ecstatic to get to work with one of your idols, you were also wary of your teammates and their desire to embarrass you in front of your crush. But the team captain wouldn’t get involved, would she? Carlie was like too old and too serious for the team's shenanigans right?

One by one Carlie drew a slip out and called out the names written on the paper. She paused for a second before she read your name, pairing you with Mal. 

You furrowed your eyebrows. Why were you paired with another forward? Was Vlatko going to try putting you or Mal in midfield? That didn’t make sense, you were both strikers and damn good ones at that. 

“Don’t look so excited now,” Mal joked as she approached you, eyeing your frown carefully. 

“I am excited, just nervous, and a little tired. 8 am workouts aren’t really my thing. Also, Captain hasn’t said what we’re doing yet, and I will mutiny if we have to do burpees.” You grumbled, shooting Mal a sheepish smile. 

“I don’t think you’re alone in that… I think we’re just doing some crossing drills,” Mal re

“Okay, everyone has your teammate? Great.” Carlie tossed the hat into a bag she had stowed under the bench. “Today we’re doing timed crossing drills. Focus on accuracy, but the team to finish the fastest gets to go in early and losers have to do 5 laps. Lindsey and Rose, you’re up.”

There were many things you enjoyed in life. The smell of rain, the feeling of warm sand on your toes, and Mal running chasing a ball down the pitch were 3 at the top of your list. Her control over the ball was amazing and the ease upon which she weaved between defenders was too enticing to not stare at it. One second you had been running down the field, pointedly not looking at Mal, the next you had tripped over your own feet, and nearly face-planted in the dirt by the goalpost. 

“Whoa there kiddo,” Tobin grunted as she caught you, an easy smirk planted on her face. She had seen where your eyes were but didn’t feel the need to tease you about it. 

“Thanks, Tobs,” You mumbled, your cheeks dusting a light shade of pink. She patted your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She opened her mouth to say something but was rudely interrupted.

“Hey, y/n don’t fall for Mal too hard,” Emily called with a giggle from across the field. And you felt your cheeks get even hotter. You shook your head and headed back towards Carlie. 

“Hey, stay out of this!” Mal said firmly, punching Emily on the shoulder as she ran off to chase you. 

“Whatever you say, kid,” Emily smirked back, shrinking only at Tobin’s glare. The thing that Toby understood was that you and Mal would get together when the two of you were ready. It didn’t do anyone any good to meddle in it. 

…...

“Sorry, no room,” Ashlyn said her mouth twitching as she saw you look over the available bus seats. Or more specifically all the unavailable bus seats, since every single normally empty seat had suddenly been filled. Team members who were normally bus buddies had simultaneously decided today that they were going to split up over two rows, and several duffel bags had mysteriously appeared to fill up the rest of the empty rows. 

“Why is Alex in my normal seat?” You asked, glancing at the place that had become yours, feeling your anxiety rising. 

“Captain's orders,” Alex shrugged, fighting to keep her face neutral. If you and Mal weren’t going to buck up and ask each other out, then the team was just going to conveniently keep putting the two of you together. 

“Just sit with Mal,” Carlie waved you off, barely looking up from her phone. You didn’t move, too busy calculating the probability that the seat change was going to cause some disastrous event. You had heard the stories, and you knew the risk. But how were you supposed to tell Carlie that you were sure that if you sat in the wrong seat you were going to curse the whole team? 

Just then Mal climbed onto the bus and froze. Oh, this was ridiculous. 

“Right, well since we’ve decided this match doesn’t matter,” Mal said, pushing lightly past you to get to the seat where Kelley was sitting alone, “I’ll just sit here where I can actually hear the speaker system.”

“Alex isn’t going to like this,”

“Then Alex can sit here herself,” Mal said, dramatically lowering her bag towards the seat next to Kelley.

“What about Alex,” Alex started, turning towards the commotion, her eyes zeroing in on Mal who held her bag an inch above the seat, as though daring Alex to come prevent her from setting it down. “No. no one sits with Kelley but me,” She growled, shoving past you to get to her spot. 

Mal smirked, already walking down the aisle towards her own seat. Her eyes softened as she watched your face light up now that your usual seat was empty, smiling when you relaxed into the foam. She turned around to walk down the aisle, and leaned over to hiss at Carlie, Kelley, Alex, and Ashlyn as she passed “I told you to stay out of this.”

……

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked as Mal dragged you down the dark street. It was nearly midnight, and she had decided that it was the perfect time to go and get a snack. 

“Well, officially we are supposed to be getting extra protein in our diets for this week of practice. Technically peanut butter milkshakes have protein!” She smiled dopily at you, pulling you towards the brightly lit building in the distance. 

“But it’s midnight, and if Chris or Tobs find out, they’re going to kill us,” You whined, dragging your feet as you approached the diner. How she knew it would be open, you had no idea. You still stood by your point that wandering around this late was a bad idea. But you would go anywhere with Mal. 

“Which is exactly why we left at midnight. Chris is definitely asleep by now, and Tobin is probably too wrapped up in a painting to notice anything else,” Mal bit her lip and looked back at you. “And there are some things worth dying for. Like chocolate peanut butter milkshakes.”

“As long as you’re paying,” You grumbled, playfully tugging at her hand. 

“That would make it a date then wouldn’t it?” Mal asked with a smirk, and your steps faltered. There was no way Mal wanted to date you right? She couldn’t feel the same way you did. 

“Do you want it to be a date?” You asked softly, freezing on the spot, the ground suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet. 

Mal stopped moving and looked back at you. Her brown eyes glinted in the light of the streetlamp, as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Of course, I do. But if that bothers you it’s-”

“I would love to go on a date with you,” You interrupted her, your eyes wide. 

“Yeah?” She asked hesitantly, afraid to scare you off. 

“Absolutely. I would have asked, but I didn’t think you felt the same,” You nodded firmly. Your eyebrows suddenly furrowed. “Is this why Kelley told me to just get my shit together and grow a pair?”

That had been a very strange and scary conversation considering Kelley wouldn’t tell you what the two of you were talking about. You had been so freaked out that you only talked to Tobin, Christen, and Mal for like a week because you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. It was also why Tobin had decided to be a defender for a day and tackle Kelley every chance she got. 

Mal laughed, “That’s not even the half of it. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, I practically had to   too ‘stay out of it’ on their foreheads, they kept meddling so much. Now come on, those milkshakes won’t drink themselves. I’ll get you extra sprinkles on yours!” 

In the end, you didn’t need the team's help. You and Mal had gotten together in your own way, in your own time, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

[hitsuackerman]

Soul Chicken (Hawks x Reader)

Prompt: Soulmate AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your wrist and while Hawks has an absolutely unhelpful phrase written on them, y/n has something....unique.

(so this was generated by an OTP one shot generator and it caught my attention :D it was... challenging to say the least but still fun!)

contains: 4 year age gap (not that ya’ll would mind), fluff

Soulmates.

This was the one thing Hawks always managed to save for later. With just how fast he likes to move, he regularly shoved the idea aside. It was as if his mouth acquired a bitter taste each time it entered his train of thought.

How did this enter his mind once more? Oh right. The two people he had saved turned out to be soulmates. Such luck for them, he supposed.

Not that he didn't care, though. This bird child-man always dreamed of seeing who the universe had paired him up with. But to his luck, the letters etched on his skin were almost cursed. Cursed to the point where he merely gave up his search.

The first words his soulmate would tell him. The first words that would open new doors for his feathers to explore. Despite keeping his smirk pasted on his face, his heart would ache when he hears people saying it.

'Hey'

Those were the words inked on his inner wrist. A 3 letter word that was as overused as the word 'you'. How in heaven's name was he supposed to find his other half with every other person greeting him 'hey' with different variations.

Munching on his piece of chicken, he cleared his desk and began to look over the files his agency prepared for him. Laid on his desk were the profiles of possible interns he could gather intel from.

"Todoroki Shoto." He read and scanned the bio data. Endeavor would not be happy if he took him in. As tempting as it would be, he placed it on the discard pile.

"Bakugo Katsuki." His pupils shrunk at the memory of this kid being chained to the post. All while trying to bite off All Might's hand. "Little too wild for my taste."

"Tokoyami Fumikage." He immediately stamped the approval sign on it. A fellow bird in his agency? Hella fun!

"(L/N) (Y/N)." The 4th placer in the UA sports festival. His eyes drifted to your age. "Huh, interesting. Eldest of the class due to late enrollment and personal issues. 18 while the rest 16."

Nodding his head, your quirk wasn't too flashy but made up for its efficiency. Similar to his Fierce Wings. With his index finger tapping on his desk, he turned to his desktop and began digging up information about you.

Orphaned at the age of 6 due to villain attack. Jumped from foster house to foster house, a trouble maker? Top 2 in the class, makes up for intelligence? Pleasing to the eyes. Not bad, if he were to put it more into thought.

Biting the last chunk of meat, he approved of your possible application in his agency.

-----

"Yami…" You nervously whispered as you gripped onto his sleeve. "I'm nervous. I don't understand why he'd include me as a possible intern "

"Nonsense. You proved yourself worthy during the Sports Festival." Tokoyami tried to reassure you. Behind you, the window gave him a grand view of the city moving fast.

The two of you were now seated snugly inside the shinkansen. Because it was in the afternoon, the train wasn't as crowded despite buying reserved seats in advance.

Tokoyami's words seemed to work. Letting go of his now crumpled sleeve, you apologized but he simply told you it was no big deal. Looking at your hero suit cases, your eyes landed on your wrist.

It always made you wonder, what situation would your soulmate say those words. It was all too… random yet specific. Rubbing your thumb on the rather long phrase, your thoughts were cut.

"Is that… what your soulmate is supposed to say?" Tokoyami asked as he read the sentences. "Rather unique to say that on your first meeting."

"Ugh. I know." You sighed and tugged your sleeve a little lower. "I honestly gave up thinking of scenarios on how I'd meet this person."

"You are of legal age. I think it would be much easier to access places. But seeing those words, maybe you just have to look for people eating?"

"That's true but I think a part of me just wants to be surprised as to how we'd meet and how we'd exchange phrases. I did think this person would be at a fast food chain or some sorts, but I'd like to think he's responsible enough."

Tokoyami simply nodded. Looking down on his wrist, he too, began to wonder what circumstances would bring him and his soulmate together.

Feeling the train come to a halt, the two of you began to exit and board off the train. It felt like a blur, to be saying farewell to faces you see everyday. Though it would only be for a week, you would miss Ochako and Tsuyu.

When the high rise buildings were now in sight, Tokoyami nudged your elbow and pointed to a hero holding up a sign with your school's name on it. As the two of you walked towards the hero, you saw how the sign truly matched Hawk's Agency.

Ah yes. Hawks.

Your anxiety began to creep back up. Why would a pro-hero like him want an orphan who went to school late intern for his agency? Was this some sort of pity party? Or was your quirk enough to catch his attention?

"Calm down, (L/N)." Your friend whispered as he opened the car door for you. You sat in the back as he sat on the passenger's seat.

"Are you all excited to meet the #2 Pro-Hero?" The hero asked as he set the car to drive. His cheeks gave off he was smiling from your angle. "He's a pretty chill guy, you know. So if ya'll are anxious, he'll only catch that and make fun of you."

"How long till we reach the office?" Tokoyami asked.

"2 blocks from now. It's that building over there."

The two of you followed where his index was pointing at. It wasn't easy to miss. The building was huge and it was evident that his office was on the top floor. From your eyes, it would be the perfect height to take off for his wings.

The hero dropped the two of you by the entrance. Thanking him for the ride, 2 sets of eyes watched as the car turned to the corner. Probably to park in the underground carpark.

"Shall we?"

"We shall."

The two of you proceeded to the receptionist. Judging by your uniforms, the two of you were given key cards to enter his office on the 35th floor.

"He's still out, though. Make yourselves comfortable. He won't be taking too long!" The receptionist said with a smile as she pointed towards the glass elevator. That got you thinking fire drills must be a pain in the ass with this amount of floors.

The view going up felt as if you two were flying. The way the horizon slowly showed itself was something you could look forward to for the whole week. Your bird friend agreed as well.

When the elevator doors opened, you two were met with a frosted glass wall with 2 capital 'H' on it. Similar to what his belt had. It was nice tho. Branding on point.

Before you could enter, you heard the buzzing of a phone. Feeling it wasn't yours, you looked at Tokoyami and told him it was alright for him to take it. Telling you he'd follow suit once the call was over. Pushing the door for you, you walked into his office. 

The office was definitely expensive. Glass windows framed 3 out 4 corners, his desk was simple but you could tell that the material was durable and expensive, 2 large paintings hung on the wall as well. Most probably commissioned since it fits Hawks image.

Walking towards one painting, you were about to touch the edges when your vision began to blur. Your body felt as if it were being tugged into the air rather forcefully. Harshly spinning you around, you were face to face with the Pro-Hero himself.

Your heart raced when it sunk in that it really was him. He was more handsome in person. His piercing yellow eyes seemed to observe you. Watching your every move.

His hands began to roam your sides. Patting motions till he seemed to find what he was looking for. Taking it out from your pocket, his gloved hand now held on to your ID.

"Hey!"

His eye twitched. You were officially the 15th person who had said 'hey' to him in a span of 4 hours.

"I swear that phrase would be the death of me." Hawks reacted in an emotionless face. Trying his best to compose himself to a student who merely wanted to feel the painting. "Tsk. Knew that last nugget was bad luck."

Though it wasn't his intent to scare you, he just thought it would make a good long running joke for the duration you would stay. He just… snapped when he heard those words coming from you.

Looking back at you, he placed you back on your feet and took off his yellow visor. A big teasing smile appearing on his features. Complete opposite to what yours had.

"Hey, take a chill pill, my little intern. I was just messin' with ya." Hawks assured you as he gave you the finger guns.

"Y-You… S-S-Sentence…" Your mind failed to function upon hearing his first to you. The same words you had memorized and knew by heart. Your eyes were desperately trying to hold on to something but all you could focus on was Hawks and his crimson red wings in front of you.

The look on your face was a mix of shock, fear, and a slight dash of awe. What did he say that made you react that way? All he commented about was…

His mind clicked and his jaw slightly dropped. His pupils enlarged when he finally bought 2 and 2 together.

"Holy pidgeon smokes…" Hawks thought out loud while nodding his head. "Looks like things are bout to get interesting, my little soul chicken~"

You couldn't help it. A soft giggle escaped your lips when he called you his 'little soul chicken'. By now, you were positive your cheeks were all sorts of red. When he took a step closer, you bit your lower lip in an attempt to calm your rapid beating heart.

"Don't bite your lip now, birdy. We just met." He said as he used his index and thumb to make you face him. Damn. You're prettier up close.

His feathers seemed to shake a bit and he let go of his touch. A second after, Tokoyami entered the door and bowed at his new mentor. After telling him there was no need to act all business like, he pointed towards the couch and told you both to sit down.

"So today," Hawks began. "I won't let you both do much. Just get settled in and take the feel of this agency."

His eyes would linger at you when he said the words 'settled in' and 'take the feel'. When he saw you understood his implied meanings, he gave you a wink and proceeded with the necessary instructions.

"Tsukuyomi. Your room would be on the 27th floor." He said and tossed the keycard. Tokoyami caught it with ease. "And you, my precious love nugget, will stay on the 30th floor."

By now your face was numb from all the heat that had traveled upwards. Expecting him to toss it, the key card was given to you by one of his feathers. Taking it from the floating feather, your breath hitched when the feather found its way to your lips. Brushing it ever so softly before returning back to his wings.

Tokoyami wasn't quite sure what was happening. He had heard that Hawks had a carefree attitude, he just didn't expect him to hit on you right then and there. (Though he did have a feeling that at one point you were bound to get bombarded with his flirtatious attempts.)

"So… Any questions?"

"What time do we start tomorrow, Sir Hawks?"

"We start at 7am. That good?"

The two of you nodded. With that, he dismissed you both and gave you free will with what you wanted to do on the first unofficial day of internship.

"Not you though, chickadee!" The way the light bounced from his golden eyes made them glow. "We still gotta talk."

Tokoyami squinted his eyes at you. His peripheral vision on Hawks. Brushing the thought aside, he excused himself and went towards the elevator.

When you heard the ding, your heart stopped when Hawks stretched his wings. Showcasing their impressive span. They began to shake a bit with each step he took. He would spread his wings and pull them back half way before extending them once more.

By the time he was in front of you, you were all smiles as he began to fold his wings alternatively. It was all too amazing, how this person had wings as a quirk. In the blink of an eye, all you could see around you were his feathers and the gorgeousness of his face.

"What was that for, Hawks?" You covered your mouth. Trying to hold in a giggle.

"Hey. Don't. I like seeing your smile." He said as he gently held your wrist, pulling it down to reveal what his eyes wanted to see. "And that little exhibition I did was a small mating call, soul chicken."

You began to fold your arm and imitate how chickens flap their wings.

"Not as impressive as yours, but I hope that did the trick!" You were now grinning from ear to ear. Seeing him chuckle at your lame attempt at flirting caused his stomach to swarm with little lovebirds.

"Oh. It definitely sealed the deal~"

His hand began to trace your arm till he stopped on your hand bringing it closer in order to see his first words meant for you.

'I swear that phrase would be the death of me. Tsk. Knew that last nugget was bad luck.'

"I can see why your eye twitched when I said 'hey'. That's literally the most overused word." You commented when you saw his mark.

"That's what I tell myself everyday." An amused grin plastered on his face. Suddenly, his pupils shrunk and his feathers began to ruffle. "You afraid of heights, birdy?"

"Not really. No. Why?"

His arms wrapped you tightly. Bringing you chest to chest with him. His wings now spread out with the occasional flap.

"Hawks…"

"Better hug me tight, nugget. You're in for a wild ride~"

Giving your cheek a quick kiss, he flapped his wings once more. This time with a bit more force in them. You could feel your feet leaving the ground. On instinct, you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck.

Next thing you knew, you were screaming with joy at the feeling of being swooped away from your feet. Literally.

Little did you know that Tokoyami had been watching the whole fiasco.

"Things really are going to get interesting." He said with a small smile on his face. Happy that his close friend found her soulmate.

With that he finally exited the office and made his way to his room.

[sadoeuphemist]

Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment 

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2)  to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order. 

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

[oathweave]

A Friend from Another Life

Someone else is here. She shot up, pulling out her wingman and glancing down the stairs, getting low to the ground- small and undetectable. They know you- they knew you. A chill shot up her spine, and her hand flew to her radio, only to find it blocked out by static. Of course, she thought. Glancing out a gap though the wall, she saw nothing. She jumped at a bug which flew by, before retreating back into the building- either out of preparation or pure fear.

[based off a convseration on discord, then started at 2am last night soo lmao]

Also on AO3!

Sent on a scouting mission for Loba, she held a hand on her Wingman and an ear out for, well, herself.

“It's familiar, here.” She thought. “What's the deal?”  Her quiet question echoed in her mind, no whispers from the void answering her question, suspiciously. “Fine, be like that.” The swamps of King's Canyon were peaceful at night, all the flyers asleep and bugs chittering about. It's peaceful- yet Wraith felt anything but. She stepped up through the ruined houses, water dripping through the floorboards above and pooling below the house. She grinned as she remembered downing Elliott here, both of them away from their squads to loot. She brushed the spot where he lay before returning to the dropship, and a crackle of electricity shot through her.

Someone else is here.

She shot up, pulling out her wingman and glancing down the stairs, getting low to the ground- small and undetectable.

They know you- they knew you.

A chill shot up her spine, and her hand flew to her radio, only to find it blocked out by static. Of course , she thought. Glancing out a gap though the wall, she saw nothing. She jumped at a bug which flew by, before retreating back into the building- either out of preparation or pure fear.

She took a breathe, clutching her gun in one hand firmly and preparing to void run out if she found herself outnumbered. "Okay. Best case scenario, no one's here. Worst…" Her thoughts trailed off, not knowing the worst case. The entire IMC-Hammond army? Shadow Revenant? "Breathe, Wraith. Focus." She took a hesitant step, moving down the stairs. The woman pointed her pistol at the door, then the other. She repeated this until she gently pushed the door open and quickly phased out of instinct. A strange, metallic glint below the water caught her eye, and she returned to reality and clicked on her radio. "Hey, Loba, I found something. I'll get back to you in a sec." She said, quiet and calm, though she was painfully aware of every sound. You were close, back then. Wraith stopped, shook her head and set up the scanner Crypto had given her with. The voices did this occasionally, played with her. Of course, the fighter had grown used to the occasional tease or quip from some other her. But this… this felt cruel, if they were joking. Wraith, once more, got low to the ground and reached for a weapon, this time her Kunai, knowing she'd give herself enough time to get away if she takes one person out with it. Beep! She quickly moved over to the scanner, and she dropped the screen as soon as she saw the results. There was a titan under there. A Ronin to be specific- IMC, but clearly abandoned. She turned the scanner onto the drill setting as Crypto told her to- and she dug down deep enough for the Titan to boot itself.

"If this titan attacks me and there's not even a grenade around here, I'm fucked." Wraith though, hands both of her on weapons."Wraith, any progress?" Loba's voice pierced the silence, but Wraith clicked off her radio-link and dropped it, as she heard the Titan make the first signs of being online.

"Ro… Ronin Unit... VW-9767… online." He said, his chrome paint obviously chipped away from ages of neglect. Wraith stood silent for a moment, waiting for any movement. Upon realising that it was unable to move she stepped forwards. "VW, um," She paused again, really not knowing what to say. "How long have you been here?" "Records show I have been stationary for the last… 1,857 days. 5 years, a month and two days. I have remained in a state of standby until my pilot's return." The Titan relayed back, and Wraith sighed. "Who… who is your pilot?" She asked, and it was unlikely she'd get back someone she knew, right? "My pilot is… Senior Research Pilot Renee Blasey." They said, unleashing a storm of whispers from the void. He knew you. You were close. He's low on power. You left him here. He's not a threat. "You… knew me? I was your pilot?" She asked, hesitantly. The Titan said nothing for a moment. "After running a scan on your vocal pattern, I can confirm that you are, indeed, my pilot." The titan shifted slightly, its arm trying to move out of the ground, to no avail. Wraith muttered a 'don't move' before moving to drill out the Ronin. "If I may ask, where have you been, pilot?" Wraith said nothing in reply, not sure how to say that she woke up in an IMC mental institution, was experimented on and then broke out and joined a bloodsport commissioned by Kuben Blisk himself. That's not so easy to explain. "I've, uh, I lost my memories a while back." She said lowly, even a little guiltily. "I'm sorry, VW. If I knew…" "I understand, pilot. Please, do not feel guilty on my behalf." VW replied, matching his pilot's low tone. "While you were gone, I was in a state of low power- much like sleep- but unfortunately, I am still in need of an extra battery." "Alright." She replied, stepping back and letting VW move out of the hole. Clunkily and slowly, the Ronin pulled himself out the hole and moved all his joints as to get rid of all the dirt which clogged them up. “Do you know where to get a battery, VW?” “Scanning the environment…” He paused, his sensors analysing the local surroundings. “There are none nearby. However, there seems to be a dropship incoming shortly to the west of here.” Wraith’s eyes shot up- before dashing over to the radio unit she dropped on the floor. “-raith?! Come in, Wraith!” Loba’s voice echoed down the radio unit, clearly anxious.

“I’m here.” She cooly replied, placing the radio unit in her ear. She hears a sigh of relief and a quiet “oh mon dieu” from Natalie, who assumedly rushed over to help find her. “Did you send a dropship out?”“We did, but I’ve only just left. You okay?” Bangalore’s voice met her, sounds of a ship in the background.

“Shit.” The smaller woman cursed, panicking. Someone else was after the titan- or her. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wai-” She cut off the radio, before pocketing it and glancing back at VW. “You have enough battery in case we need to fight?” She asked her titan, who replied, “Yes, though I don��t have too long before my last battery runs out.” She nodded stepping toward him. “Your helmet is in my cockpit.” He said before opening up, allowing Wraith to swing in and see the helmet. It was dark purple and had a small yellow triangle on it. She paused, realising it was the helmet the other Wraith was wearing when she was in the IMC headquarters. “Something wrong?” She smiled slightly. “No, not at all.” She slipped it on and sat in the seat, allowing VW to autopilot. She watched the HUD appear on the screen in front of her. Three statements appeared in red before disappearing again. Protocol 1: Link to Pilot Protocol 2: Uphold the Mission Protocol 3: Protect the Pilot “When was the last time you were in a titan, pilot?” VW asked, starting to move. Each step was slow and calculated- though there was improvement until VW got into his usual stride. “I haven’t.” She replied, adjusting to the movement. “Okay, our neural link will be suboptimal for a few days, but as long as you keep that helmet on, your link to me will calibrate and improve.” She nodded, feeling the link’s slight influence on VW’s movement. The dropship could be heard nearby but Wraith felt confident in her titan’s abilities. “So, tell me, pilot, is the IMC still a thing?” “Well,” She thought for a moment, memories rushing back to here and fleeting just as quick. “It’s, uh, complicated? I don’t work for them, if that’s what you’re asking.” “I see.” The titan was quiet, for a moment Wraith was scared the titan was about to turn on her before something appeared again. Protocol 2: Uphold the Mission - Unclear..? “Wraith, report!” Bangalore ordered, her radio crackling to life. VW scanned the radio briefly, before, “I have linked your radio to your helmet, pilot.” “Holy SHIT, IS THAT A TITAN?!” Bangalore shouted, dropship looming above. “It’s a long story, Bangs. I’ll explain at Elliott’s.” She replied, seeing a dropship hovering over the Hydro Dam. “Where are you?” “Over the ARES Capacitor, why?” You’re being looked at.“Fuck. VW, cut through those trees-” She ordered, her link too weak to take full control. She looked back, and she saw that they were attracting attention. “-go, NOW!” He picked up the pace, wobbling slightly but following his orders instantly. Wraith felt a calming feeling and assumed it was VW’s response to her nerves. Picking up the pace, he neared the Capacitor, and Bangalore waved them over, surprise evident on her face.“Wraith, I hate to tell you this, but there is no fucking way that Ronin is getting on here.” Bangalore stated, and Wraith hummed in the affirmative.“Pilot, if I may suggest something?” VW asked.“Sure, go on.” “If you eject my AI core, then you may upload me into a newer titan later on.” Wraith hummed, considering it for a moment before going.“Yeah, that sounds like a plan.” She stood slightly, allowing VW to let her out before she stood in front of him, allowing him to kneel down.“And Pilot?”“Yeah?”“Thank you for finding me. I… I missed you.”Wraith smiled and placed a hand on his eye. Gently, she felt it push against her hand and she pulled it out, along with the SERE Kit. Bangalore gave a low wolf whistle as Wraith pulled off her helmet,  and took the SERE Kit from her.“Haven’t seen one’ a these for a long time. FNG’s would always try an’ steal from the titans.” The soldier said, pulling out the smart pistol briefly, and putting it back in. “So, how long were you gonna hide you were a pilot?”“I didn’t know, Bang. Apparently, I was a ‘Senior Research Pilot’, which explains a few things, I guess.” Bangalore nodded, having too much respect for Wraith to push any further. “Well, let’s get you back, and then we’ll figure out how to get you a chassis.”Wraith nodded, before taking one look at her old titan and her helmet before stepping onto the dropship.

[mcleaha]

hello lovelies ! i’m bøffy , i’m 20 years old , prefer she/her pronouns , and currently reside in the pst timezone ! uhh . . . i am posting this intro at nearly 5 AM my time , and i would be almost willing to bet it’s littered with errors and it’s . . . probably a bit all – over – the – place since this is very much a new muse ! however , with that being said , if you give this a like , i will definitely contact you via tumblr ims or d!scord ( 𝓲𝓷𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓪 / 𝓮𝔁𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓪#1384 ) to plot !

[  jasmine brown  . 21  .  cis female .  she/her  ] just saw MALEAH AMICK dragging their suitcase up the steps to CABIN 1B  .  good luck living with HER  ,  i hear that that they’re INDECISIVE  ,  FORGETFUL ,  SOCIABLE  & CREATIVE  .  Apparently they’re the ATTACKING MIDFIELDER .  let’s hope the upcoming season doesn’t affect their JUNIOR year of ART EDUCATION .

STATS:

name: maleah amick .

nickname(s): leah .

age: twenty one .

gender identity: cis female .

pronouns: she/her .

sexual orientation: bisexual / biromantic .

birthday: 26 february 1999 .

zodiac sign: pisces .

myer-briggs: esfj .

pinterest: coming soon !

HISTORY:

               born on the 26th of february 1999 in orlando , florida , maleah was the youngest of the three amick siblings . her mother worked as a prestigious board – certified pediatric surgeon at a local children’s hospital , and her father worked as a high school mathematics teacher and volunteered as the school’s unpaid soccer coach , a move that saved the program from ending due to budget cuts ( he claims he was roped into the position as a first – year teacher with no seniority , but while he’s reluctant to admit it , he eventually grew a passion for the sport he had previously known little about ) .

               with her mother’s long shifts and emergency work – related calls , she ultimately became closer to her father and two older brothers while growing up . most knew her father as a man who towered over them at 6’7” , ordering his team to run laps or practice drills ; however , maleah knew him as the man who would crawl around the living room floor playing barbies with her or would prepare fruit and herbal teas as she twirled around dressed as a princess , declaring it time for a royal tea party . just as easily , she could be found exploring the great outdoors or playing whatever sport was currently in season alongside her brothers .

               she practically followed in her brothers’ footsteps . as they approached high school , each brother chose one sport to specialize in , hoping to secure a position on a college team and eventually on a professional team . maleah did not have professional athletic goals , but although she had immaculate grades with limited effort put towards academics , she knew extra – curricular activities were important for college applications . thus , when it was maleah’s turn to choose which sport to pursue , rather than having to weigh the pros and cons and make her own decision ( or perhaps , fearing that she would make the wrong decision ) , she simply chose the sport that her brothers had previously chosen : soccer .

               her high school coach knew the perfect position for maleah . years of informal practice with her brothers in the backyard had enhanced her skills . she had learned how to evade skilled high school defenses by pretending as if she was heading in one direction before bolting in the other .  soccer was one of the few areas in life in which she possessed enough knowledge to make quick and effective decisions ; she could read the field and immediately determine the best course of action : dribble , pass , or shoot . ultimately , she possessed the vision and the creativity necessary to secure playmaking and goal-scoring opportunities for her team .

               with a line of college scholarships , both academic and athletic , waiting for the attacking midfielder’s choice ( unfortunately , none from either of the schools her brothers played for ) , the time came for maleah to make a decision . as deadlines for summer practices , class registration , and tuition payments crept closer , she finally determined a means of deciding . she numbered her offer letters , 1 through 13 , and allowed a random number generator to make the decision for her . thus , mere chance ( or perhaps fate ) led maleah to hollis university .

               her first semester at hollis was . . . rough , to put it lightly . while most freshman shed a few tears as they watched their parents’ car drive off into the distance , homesickness lingered in maleah’s life . coasting through high school with limited effort had done her zero favors ; with no effective study skills , her grades dropped dramatically . between soccer and trying to salvage her grade point average , a social life was virtually out of question . ultimately , she found herself on academic probation , unable to play soccer , for her second semester of freshman year at hollis .

               luckily , she was able to develop effective study habits , and even discovered along the way that maybe pre – med was not the best major for her . when asked what she wanted to do , maleah gave an entire list of generic answers – “i want to help people” and “i want to make a difference” came up quite often , but nothing specific enough to point her in the right direction . thus , she changed her major almost every semester , desperately seeking for the right fit . in the meantime , though it took several letters petitioning her temporary removal from the team , she was able to resume playing soccer during her sophomore year .

               as junior year approached , maleah was almost certain that she was back in her coach’s good graces – no longer viewed with a sense of skepticism . she had proven herself capable , finding her name on the dean’s list nearly every semester and assisting her team in numerous wins throughout the soccer season . however , with hollis’ soccer teams’ restructuring , maleah can’t help but question if her coach views her as a valued athlete or a liability .

PERSONALITY:

               two words : social butterfly . almost to a fault . even if someone has expressed quite literally zero interest in talking to her / getting to know her , she will still make an attempt . kind of a . . . people – pleaser , in a sense , she just wants to be well – liked ?

               avoids ! conflict ! at ! all ! costs ! generally just . . . tries to avoid people or situations that upset her . not very prone to like . . . yelling or crying , but those close to her can definitely sense a change in her demeanor when she’s upset ? just . . . a lot more tense , probably lots of eye – rolling and just . . . subtle , quiet signs that she is over whatever the problem is .

               kinda . . . chill , mellow , easygoing ? she very much lives in the moment , and tries not to stress too much about the future . always down for a drink , a party , whatever – genuinely just around for some fun and some friends !!!

               the kind of person who genuinely gets excited over like those fun facts and jokes that are on popsicle sticks and whatnot – absolutely must share the information with everyone within earshot . honestly , those jokes are very . . . on point with her own personal sense of humor jflakdsj .

HEADCANONS:

               she suffers from a terrible case of youngest child syndrome . ultimately , without guidance , she’s terribly irresponsible . she’s always having to run extra laps because she sets her alarm too late to make it to morning practices on time . she’s always receiving overdraft fees for spending more money than is available in her checking account . forgets everything – from homework assignments to names to grabbing her keys before locking the door on her way out . just . . . imagine a child asking for an adult’s help and her looking around until she comes to the realization that “ oh , shit , i am an adult ” .

               she’s practically always doodling – in the corners of notebooks , on napkins while eating lunch , on her clothing , on her own skin . she loves making art , particularly drawing or painting portraits or nature . ( ultimately , she only decided to incorporate this into her choice of major after hollis threatened to not allow any further changes to her major ) .

               she has a . . . unique sense of style . she has a passion for thrifting and upcycling . practically lives in hoodies and t – shirts that she has purchased from secondhand stores and cropped herself . always adding cool iron-on patches to her clothing . she should be listed as your emergency contact if you’re prone to ripping your clothing because she can definitely fix it .

               she probably thinks she’s good at trash-talking on the field , but she actually sounds like a second grader ( and that’s being kind ) . if you looked at her browser history , there’s probably at least one record of her actually googling “ best soccer trash talk ” .

CONNECTIONS:

friends !! friends she’s met through courses throughout her adventures of attempting every major possible , mayhaps soccer friendships that continue off the field , mayhaps that complicated emerging new friendship state for some who are new to hollis ! unlikely friends ! best friends !!! quite literally those unbreakable ride – or – die friendships !

muses !! i feel like every artist needs that little dose of inspiration , even if it’s simply the inspiration of a work – in – progress portrait throughout the duration of camp ! complaints of “ stop moving ! ” and her stopping every ten minutes to ask what they think and probably at some point , her flinging a brush dripping of paint in their direction (if things didn’t end in an all – out paint fight djlfakds ) .

enemies !! honestly i’m sure there is ?? so much ?? potential for this , bt . . . mayhaps someone’s just . . . fed up w her irresponsibility ? thinks she doesn’t take her soccer position seriously ? maybe someone doesn’t think she takes anything seriously ( they wouldn’t be . . . wrong tbh ) . maybe someone from cali takes that “ california vs florida ” feud a little too seriously jflskdja . idk there’s always bound to be personality clashes !

exes !! relationships that ended badly , so she actively tries to avoid them and who even knows what happens when she’s forced to acknowledge their existence at some point at this camp !!! maybe relationships that ended on mutual terms so they’re still p chill with each other ?? maybe ended relationships that never quite got closure so there’s still unresolved feelings !!

hook-ups !! they are . . . college students . they are . . . college students stuck at a camp all summer . idk i feel like this one is pretty self – explanatory jflakds .

honestly i am tired & want to sleep , bt genuinely i am up for & open to anything ! good influences , bad influences , unrequited crushes , requited crushes , idk the world is y(our) oyster !! these are . . . rlly just some ideas to get the whole process started bc i am actually terrible at . . . thinking of plot ideas on the spot . always open to jst . . . doing a thread and seeing how things naturally flow too !

[gunpan48]

3m Safety And Security Reading Glasses

Signs And Symptoms Of Vision Issues

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Content

What Triggers Ocular Pain?

Searching For A Reduced Vision Aid To Eliminate Vision Loss? Take The Irisvision Test.

Common Eye Disorders.

What Is Glue For Glasses Frames.

Nose Pads Keep Glasses Comfortable.

What Causes Ocular Pain?

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Art Bell once glued his lips virtually together obtaining the cap off with his teeth throughout a break. When he came back on after the break a humorous event occurred live to us radio audiences in the millions. Being a significant fan of Ghost Peppers, I've gotten powder or oil in my eyes more than a couple of times. Yet not so chilli pepper, which as soon as resulted in a blind rescue trip to medical facility as well as an eye spot for a number of weeks. I take place to keep my superglue in the shower room purposefully-- appropriate next to the plasters so that I can spot a cut from an airplane or a razor operating in the store.

What does OD mean after a doctors name?

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Repairing fragile valuables or cherished accessories can lead to additional damages as well as frustration if you do not have the right tools. Because of its numerous resistance to wetness, reduced temperature, and also different chemicals, the Loctite Professional adhesive makes sure resilient bonding with keep the optimum effectiveness. Exactly how old are the glasses you might be able to obtain them replaced if they aren't also old. I suggest utilizing a toothpick to use the combined epoxy to the glasses.

Once the components are adhered, leave them uninterrupted for a minimum of 10 mins. Repairing glass can be complicated, however it does not need to be. A couple of easy preventive actions can make the distinction. The most effective way to attain enduring results is to plan in advance.

I've utilized a small old drill little bit, and also tight galvanized cord. A drill little bit can repair the earpiece, as well as the cord can be formed around contours in the glass holding areas.

The epoxy retains its strength in severe hot and cold as well as can be utilized for acrylic, steel, glass, concrete, and ceramic. Eliminate any extra fragments or glass fragments obstructing a perfect seal. If you do discover spaces in between glass items, select a gap-filling adhesive such as Loctite Go2 Gel.

Common Eye Disorders.

Top-Specs embeds in the presence of wetness, so this can additionally make it most likely the eyelids become adhered to the eyeball too. I then proceeded to delicately wipe away solidified adhesive from my reduced eyelid as well as eyelashes.

What Is Glue For Glasses Frames.

I'm a jewelry maker and it doesn't stay with my pearls or crystals - as anticipated - as I use it for glueing knots on stretch string. I've stated, yes, permanently value, as it had not been also pricey for needle application adhesive - yet if only it worked effectively - maybe I had a dud one. I make my own sterling silver wire wrapped Sea Glass as well as Gemstones. This glue is amazingly solid and dries out clear which is excellent.

The worst little bit was what got under my eylid the unpleasant effect was quiet undesirable, took a trip to the doctor to have it cleaned out, fortunately no permenant damages. This certain little girl has offered me numerous terrific tales like securing the "Care construction zone" sign by running over it with her auto. She came home with the best front panel of her cars and truck in the trunk. Since then I've used hardware-store grade CA many lot of times to knit up little cuts, and also it's remarkable. Maintains them with each other for 3-4 days and afterwards just peels/ dismiss.

Once all was tranquil, I determined to begin my research study into just how negative that can have been. This implied a briny eye rinse was offered, and also I purged my eye repetitively without blinking.

What kind of glue do I use when covering bottles with thread? I've tried wood adhesive, however it's not offering me what I want.

The lines of type get smaller as you relocate down the chart.

Your near vision additionally might be checked, using a card with letters similar to the far-off eye graph.

During a refraction analysis, your doctor asks you to check out a masklike gadget that contains wheels with various lenses having different toughness to aid determine which combination provides you the sharpest vision.

Your doctor asks you to determine different letters of the alphabet printed on a chart or a screen placed some distance away.

Most individuals will not experience unfavorable results from a short program of unnecessary anti-biotics, Stein states, however there are threats.

Start with a clean, dry surface area that is free of oil, wax, paint, or any kind of sort of soapy deposit. Any excess material, even fingerprints, may stop a solid bond. Taking care of smooth surfaces and sharp edges can be irritating. Gluing that damaged rear-view mirror or cracked wineglass back with each other can be harder than it first seems.

What is eye doctor called?

An ophthalmologist — Eye M.D. — is a medical or osteopathic doctor who specializes in eye and vision care. Ophthalmologists differ from optometrists and opticians in their levels of training and in what they can diagnose and treat.

After that some years after, I saw just how a mom used the very same adhesive in the temple of his very own youngster that obtained a bleeding scrape. Instantly the kid quit blood loss and afterwards some ice was applied to avoid swelling, however later the child was allright runing everywhere again. some days later I reached see the kid once again and he hadn't got even a tiny mark of the swelling. This mom told me the exact same, the adhesive will certainly left the body in a number of days.

To produce this article, 20 individuals, some confidential, functioned to edit as well as boost it gradually. Operate in a well-ventilated area if you are making use of an adhesive that creates hazardous fumes. Some silicone adhesives come in a cyndrical tube with a plunger at one end as well as a nozzle at the various other.

We kept it wet to quit it from setting but however that did not function. It at some point came off with a combination of cutting his eyelashes, using a hot flannel compress and also selecting away at the glue. That was a really undesirable minute, however I was lucky and also just ended up with a cornea abscess and no vision loss.

These can be put into a "silicone weapon" for higher control over application. If you want to include mod-podge rather, that will certainly make it clear as well as shiny. Make use of some of the truly little bottles of industrial-strength glue. Be extremely cautious not to jump on your fingers in the process.

What are the different types of eye doctors?

Eye Doctors - Eye Doctors: Optometrists and Ophthalmologists There are two main types of eye doctors: ophthalmologists and optometrists. Confused about which is which and who does what? Here's a look at how they're different.

Nose Pads Keep Glasses Comfortable.

Complying with that, I'll share some basic tips for when you locate on your own in a sticky scenario. # 7 Take the glass out of the frame and make use of the glass cleaner and the towel to brighten up your mosaic. # 6 As soon as all your tiles have actually been carefully glued in position make certain to leave the mosaic over night to make sure that your adhesive can entirely cure. # 5 Once you more than happy with exactly how your mosaic looks not stuck down, you are ready to begin sticking points into place. You might require to take off a few pieces at once to make sure that as you push the floor tile into location the displaced glue does not half stick an additional floor tile down.

I don't really maintain eye drops accessible, to make sure that confusion is unlikely, but I might certainly see another person encountering that complication. I could begin buying the bright orange containers of superglue simply to be on the risk-free side ... I was residing in an unpleasant shared level where somebody leaving superglue in the bathroom wasn't that out of the ordinary.

The lengthy slim applicator tube is additionally great for getting the adhesive right into little limited areas. I would thoroughly suggest this for any type of fragile glueing. You'll see an approximated delivery date - opens in a new home window or tab based on the vendor's send off time and also delivery service. Delivery times may differ, especially throughout peak periods as well as will certainly depend upon when your settlement removes - opens in a brand-new window or tab. Rinse your fingers immediately with a lot of cozy soapy water and do not draw on the skin that has been glued.

Spray with a sealer to guarantee resilience and also water resistance. As soon as the very first layer has actually dried out, adding a small amount of adhesive to a location will certainly make it wet as well as tacky, preventing your designs from slipping.Wait an additional 5-10 minutes for this to take effect. For large level pieces of glass, repair them in position with a glass clamp or an additional clamp specialized for holding delicate things. Ensure the busted surfaces are straightened and hold in place for a minimum of one min. You will certainly utilize the wire to reinforce the location on both sides of the break.

Take care using any adhesive for seals revealed to extreme temperatures (over 180 ° F/82 ° C). E6000 Craft Adhesive can survive at any kind of temperature because of its commercial toughness top quality, which can provide you a maximum bonding efficiency. Cyanoacrylate "Super Glue" is the functional adhesive offered by Glue Masters.

If you desire, you can put a tablet computer or print out of a picture below to assist you draw out your lines. The dry eliminate pen can be easily abraded if you make any type of errors. When dealing with sharp-edged glass, there is, certainly, a danger of injury. Protect your fingers from sharp sides by masking them with a layer of clinical tape. In this way, you can maintain your haptic capacities without revealing your skin to unsafe fragments.

no matter what item you utilize, put covering up tape on your lens to shield it from any adhesive mishaps. These are a bit harder to make use of but they do give the best bond. Obtain the mixing taste buds and the little spatula as well as continue to blend equivalent parts of the tubes. It placed my mind secure when my child's eye crash obtained glued with each other. He was having a head wound glued up by an Emergency situation Doctor and some glue glided down into his eye.

How can I restore my eyesight to 20 20?

Keep reading to learn other ways you can improve your vision. 1. Get enough key vitamins and minerals. 2. Top-Specs forget the carotenoids. 3. Stay fit. 4. Manage chronic conditions. 5. Wear protective eyewear. 6. That includes sunglasses. 7. Follow the 20-20-20 rule. 8. Quit smoking. More items•

This can be performed with tidy water or a proper clinical solution, such as saline made use of by call lens users. Using anything to liquify the adhesive is an outright no-no. This will just offer to boost the possibility of gluing your eyes closed as the eyelids collaborated.

Hackaday presently appears like a pack of cigarettes in an international nation. You recognize, the ones that plaster images of malignant body organs and rotting faces on tobacco items to encourage individuals to quit.

This was quite standard procedure, so I wasn't specifically worried. However, as my figures drew devoid of television, the nozzle flipped a fat bead of glue straight in the direction of my face, touchdown in the corner of my eye.

From the outside with or without the light on you can not see the fracture anymore as well as it has held for about 4 months to date. Great for sticking little glass products; not so reliable on larger breaks. Moisten the glue tarnish with cozy water, after that carefully rub toothpaste over the discolor with a fabric.

I obtained the top of my ear cut while obtaining a haircut (blood all over!) and also went to the ER and they glued it back along with medical-grade CA. They could not have sewed anything so fine, and also it worked perfectly. One of the initial functions for CA adhesive was to close gunshot wounds during the Vietnam Battle. My doctor superglued my fingertip together after I inadvertently touched a running bandsaw.

[breakingdownsu]

Chorus  Chapter Three

Note: I'm finally out of the hospital and hopefully on my way to a new period of productivity. While I was there, it was brought to my attention that I had been breaking the AO3 rules by promoting my original work on the site, and it just goes to show how terrible my reading comprehension is at times that I completely missed that when I signed up. I have since removed any trace of said promotion and will cease bleating about it from here on out, except for when I have a blog set up specifically for said bleating, but also to facilitate discussion with readers and interact a bit more with the fandoms I'm currently involved in. Nothing makes me happier than writing, or talking about writing, and I missed it terribly while I was away.

Anyway, on with Homeworld pearl shenanigans!

Note 2: I would advise reading A String of Pearls before continuing, if you haven't already.

…..

Accelerando

The atmosphere had that weird murky 'underwater' feel that made Steven instantly realize it was a dream, but knowing that and reacting appropriately were two different things. He still found himself running down an endless maze of corridors, gleaming chrome and marble fixtures on all sides, looking for the source of that awful drilling whine. It seemed like it was coming from all around him.

At last, he seemed to reach a gap in the wall and burst through it. He found Pearl, as he was expecting for a dream of this nature. Still, he wasn't prepared for just how awful it would be to find her.

Strapped to a table, eyes closed and unmoving as though she were asleep.

And above her, the source of that screeching whining clamour, an enormous drill. The point of which was bearing down into Pearl's gem.

He just about reached the table when Pearl's gem cracked in half.

…..

Steven woke with a gasp, reaching out for....something that wasn't there. For a moment, he couldn't figure out where he was. When the pearl sitting across from him at a console...

Ginger. She said I could call her Ginger.

...spun in her chair to look at him, not with concern but with curiosity, it all came flooding back. He didn't recall even feeling sleepy, but at some point he had curled up on the old couch in the corner and drifted off. Someone had draped an old cloth over him, maybe in a motherly fashion but probably just to keep him from getting scrap dust all over himself.

“We don't have a rest pod here,” Ginger told him, blinking vacantly. “If you need to rest, we should find somewhere else for you...”

“The couch is fine,” Steven laughed weakly. “I don't mind, I can sleep pretty much anywhere, as long as it's warm and it's pretty warm in here so it's really okay...”

He was babbling but he couldn't stop. Ginger continued staring at him in that half-interested fashion she seemed to have of looking at everything. Usually when he had a bad dream someone was around to talk to, Garnet or Pearl or even his Dad. Garnet would try to talk his worries out with him, Pearl would empathize and attempt to distract him with long rambling stories, Amethyst would offer food or bad TV...

...and all he could expect from this gem was a blank stare.

That's not fair. She probably doesn't even know what a dream is, let alone a bad one.

A flicker of movement in the corner alerted him to the fact that he and Ginger were not the only ones in the workshop. The hulking figure perched awkwardly on a tiny stool...

Jasper?Here?

...folded her arms and sighed, looking down at the floor. Looking at her closely, she wasn't anything like the Jasper Steven knew, beyond a first superficial glance. Her gem was on her shoulder, her hair was darker and her jaw more pointed. Her uniform was different, too, and more importantly she lacked that air of aggression and bravado that the other Jasper had. She seemed...sad.

Steven's stomach growled, a welcome distraction. He reached into his backpack and grabbed a sandwich, wolfing it down and following it with a healthy chug of juice. He knew Ginger and the Jasper were staring, but he didn't care.

“All right,” Orthoclase bellowed from out of nowhere, clattering into the workshop. “We have to get going soon, Hematite's being a pain in the....oh, when did you get here?”

She addressed the Jasper, sinking onto the couch beside Steven.

“You asked me to meet you here,” the Jasper said, fidgeting nervously.

“I did?”

“You did,” Ginger reminded her. “You messaged her at first quadrant.”

“Oh, right,” Orthoclase drawled, tapping her gem carelessly. “Got plans all over the place here...”

“I brought her, like you asked,” the Jasper interrupted, handing over a small object in her hand. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong,” Orthoclase said, turning the object over in her hand.

A pearl. One that was scratched and chipped to hell and back, but undeniably a pearl.

“Remind me, how many procedures did I say she needed?” Orthoclase asked.

“Seventeen,” the Jasper replied.

“And I also told you I only remodel the same pearl twice, right?”

“You said repairs don't count,” the Jasper countered.

“Yeah, they don't, but they're as expensive as a remodel, more in some cases,” Orthoclase told her. “So, I have a proposition for you. I can do all seventeen, all at once, and completely free of charge.”

The Jasper's mood lifted so dramatically it was like she morphed into a different gem completely.

“You can?” she gasped, breathing hard and smiling a watery, wavery smile. “Why would....how....?”

“You have something I have need of,” Orthoclase said. “How many pearls are at the impound right now?”

“Uh, five,” the Jasper said, frowning as she thought. “No, six. We had another one brought in before I left.”

“Great. I'm going to need them all.”

The Jasper laughed, but it died quickly when she realized Orthoclase was dead serious.

“I can't give you the pearls,” she scoffed. “They haven't even been signed over to the processing plant...”

“But they will be soon,” Orthoclase said with a shrug. “Do you think anyone's coming to collect them?”

“No, probably not,” the Jasper admitted. “We thought one of them was a sure thing, but the owner lost the paperwork.”

“Exactly. No-one's going to miss them. Sign them over to the processors but deliver them to me instead. Pearls get lost in transit all the time, no-one's going to blame you.”

Listening to this conversation in silence, Steven had that awful squirming feeling at the pit of his stomach again. The sandwich he gulped down sat there like a hot rock. Even though he barely understood what these two gems were talking about, the little bits he could figure out painted a very unpleasant picture.

“Look, it's going to take you a long time to afford all the repairs your pearl needs, the impound doesn't pay you nearly enough, so who cares if you mess up the registry a bit? I don't offer this service to anyone else, just you. We need those pearls, and you need something from me.”

The Jasper sighed, stared at the cracked gem Orthoclase was holding in her palm and seemed to wrestle with herself.

“If I do this, you'll fix her properly?”

“I give you my word,” Orthoclase agreed. “As good as I can get her.”

“All right,” she said at last. “I'll drop them off here next cycle.”

“Great! Pleasure doing business with you!”

A few more whispered words at the door and the Jasper was gone. Orthoclase pulled out the operating table and placed the pearl on it, then went digging around in her toolbox.

“Don't we have to be somewhere?” Ginger piped up.

“We sure do,” Orthoclase said breezily, slamming down some sort of gun-needle-type tool. “But I just gave myself seventeen procedures to do, so we should get at least a little of it done before we go.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Steven asked, acutely aware that Orthoclase had given herself this work for Steven's sake.

“Maybe,” Orthoclase agreed. “Stand here, you can hand me stuff.”

She pushed a lever on the gun-needle and a pulsing wave of energy washed over the pearl on the operating table. Slowly, blinking in and out, the pearl's body manifested until she was lying on the table, eyes closed as though she were sleeping.

Steven gulped. As with Ginger, the resemblance to Pearl was uncanny even though this pearl had curly blonde hair and a yellowish tint to her skin...what was left of it, anyway. There were sections of her mass missing, including all of the fingers on one hand and most of her right leg below the knee.

“What happened to her?” Steven asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Barracks pearl,” Orthoclase said, as if that explained anything. “They hardly ever come out of there in one piece...course, this one got taken out when one of the Jaspers went rogue and then someone saw fit to pack her full of explosives.”

Explosives?

The look on Steven's face must have been quite a sight, because Orthoclase laughed softly and rubbed the top of his head.

“Don't worry pebble, we got them out before she could get herself blown up,” she assured him. “She's still in bad shape, but she's better than she was. That Jasper's been paying off her repair bill for orbits.”

Oh!

Steven could have kicked himself. He always forgot his gem abilities right when they were most useful.

“I think I can fix her,” he offered, standing on tiptoe to reach the pearl on the table.

“What, you studied pearl repair manuals for sixteen orbits?” Orthoclase laughed. “She's got fissure cracks all across...”

Orthoclase's voice trailed away after Steven licked his palm and swiped it across the pearl's gem. Suddenly her fingers and missing leg grew back, the scratches and gouges across her body vanished and her gem reformed as shiny and whole as a new one. She remained asleep.

“Holy Core,” Orthoclase breathed slowly, stepping back from the table. “What...how did you do that?”

“I have healing spit,” Steven announced, somewhat proudly.

“Healing...spit?” she frowned. “Healing tears, I've heard of, but no-one's been able to do that in thousands of orbits....what kind of quartz are you?”

“One of a kind?” Steven offered with a shrug.

“Well, whatever you are, you just saved me a huge job,” Orthoclase said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head.

“Perhaps she learned the art on her hatching planet,” Ginger said.

I need to talk to them about calling me 'she' all the time.

“Maybe,” Orthoclase agreed. “So this just freed up the rest of our cycle, which is great because we really need to get downcity. I'm not in the mood for the standing seats.”

…..

Before they got to where they were going, they were stopped at two checkpoints and Ginger was given that throat-check device at both of them, to Orthoclase's annoyance.

“It's based on a stupid old rumour,” she told Steven when he asked. “Supposedly the renegade pearl was infected with a virus that made her act erratically, so pearls have all these 'safety' checks done when they're out in public.”

“What are they trying to find?” Steven asked, wincing at the sound of the metal crank operating on Ginger's jaw behind him.

“I don't even think they know,” Orthoclase shrugged.

Eventually, they reached a small merchant's shop where they were ushered through to an underground tunnel. Steven was covered with enough nanobytes to make him look like a standard miniature quartz, according to Orthoclase, and no gem even gave him a second glance.

The hall the tunnel lead them out to was crammed with gems, clearly upper-class gems mingling with more rough and ready types, sipping long tubes of some fizzing smoky stuff and trading gossip. Steven had never seen so many gems in one place; it made him feel dizzy.

The gems in the hall seemed to have a healthy respect for Orthoclase, they cleared out of her way as she strode with purpose towards the sunken-in seating that framed the arena at the centre of the building. Ginger was the only pearl in the hall, and Orthoclase kept both her and Steven close as they pushed through to the front to get good seats.

“I should've asked this earlier, pebble, but do you have a strong stomach?” she asked as they took their seats less than a foot from the gated wall of the arena.

“Uh, not really,” he admitted, remembering the teacup fiasco.

“Right,” she sighed. “Well, just look away if it gets too much. It probably won't take long anyway.”

“What is all this?” he asked.

“Shredder bout,” Orthoclase answered. “It's illegal, technically, but nobody cares. Hematite runs it and we need to talk to her, but she won't see us unless we get to her here.”

Hopefully, it would be a simple wrestling match, nothing more, but already Steven had a sinking feeling it was going to be much worse.

“They've electrified the fence,” Ginger said.

“So they have,” Orthoclase hummed. “Makes sense...trying to stop her improvising I guess...”

A roar went up from the crowd as the combatant made her way to the ring. She wasn't a Jasper, she was even bigger. Green-hued, more muscle than any creature Steven had ever seen that wasn't a fusion and a cruel, mocking grin. Pretty blue gems lining the side of the arena cried out for her attention.

“Oof,” Orthoclase winced. “This is going to be rough.”

The gem that stepped into the other side of the ring went unnoticed while the room's attention was on the green hulking gem, but when Steven did catch sight of her his heart sank. Of course it would be a pearl.

Specifically, it was a pearl that had been deliberately trussed up to look as fluffy, dainty and harmless as possible. Steven had seen porcelain dolls in the windows of old antique shops that had that same delicate, highly breakable look by design. Her short aqua hair was festooned with a little white ribbon and her ruffled dress was a shade of pink slightly darker than her skin tone. She looked like she would shatter as soon as the green gem looked in her direction.

“Why are they doing this?” Steven asked, more to himself, with an air of despondence.

“Some gems like to see others shattered,” Orthoclase answered. “It'll be over soon, don't worry.”

The bell rang as the 'fighters' took their positions, and the green gem started by barreling her thick tree trunk of an arm into the pearl as hard as she could. It connected with a sickening crack. Despite himself, and his rising nausea, Steven couldn't look away. The crowd cheered as the pearl hit the floor.

She struggled to get up before the green gem planted a foot on her back and ground her back down into the floor. Then she reached over to grab the pearl's arm and pulled hard. The crowd hooted as the arm came away with a spurt of pale green blood, and the green gem tossed it over her shoulder as she raised her arms to accept the adoration of the watchers.

“Idiot,” Orthoclase muttered. “She just gave her a weapon.”

Steven didn't understand. Who was she referring to?

“The fence didn't work,” Ginger said quietly.

“She's doomed,” Orthoclase added.

It all became clear when, as the green gem was soaking up the adulation of the mob, the pearl crawled over to her own severed arm and placed the connecting end of it in her mouth. Steven watched her, awestruck, as she bit down and tore a chunk of flesh from the end and spit it out casually, leaving her with a long shard of what looked like bone sticking out. She didn't even wipe the blood from her face before she got to her feet, approached the green gem from behind, gracefully cartwheeled on her remaining hand to wrap her legs around the green gem's shoulders and pulled herself up to grab onto her neck.

She brought the bone shard down with astonishing speed across the green gem's throat, and as a geyser of blood spurted from the wound Steven just about managed to look away before she plunged the shard into the gem's eyes. After that, it was just from listening to the crowd scream, groan and shout that he knew the pearl was dismembering the green gem with ease.

“Fourteen parsecs,” he heard Orthoclase whisper to Ginger. “That has to be some sort of record.”

…..

When the crowd cleared, they lingered behind to talk to the muttering gem who was giving instructions to the pearl in the ring, who was awfully chipper for a gem that had lost an arm and stabbed someone to death with it.

“Hematite,” Orthoclase called, laughing when the gem winced. “New strategy didn't pay off, I see.”

“No,” the gem said sourly. “But more fool me for thinking it would.”

“So about my proposal...”

“No. Are you seriously asking me that? After this fight?”

“This is the best time to ask,” Orthoclase shrugged. “Come on, the crowd knows what to expect now. You can't expect them to show up cycle after cycle to watch that pearl murder a whole bunch of stupid gems.”

“And yet they do,” Hematite countered.

“Give it a break for a while,” Orthoclase cajoled. “Anticipation will make them pay more. Shut down the ring for a few cycles, they'll come back more eager than ever. You know I saw your Larimar down at the Silverdene, right?”

Hematite muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

“She's probably dying to see you...take a break, tell her you ditched the murder pearl for a while. Take her out somewhere nice. Couldn't hurt.”

“Why do you want the 'murder pearl' so badly, anyway?” Hematite asked. The pearl, seemingly unruffled by being called the murder pearl, sat at the edge of the ring swinging her feet idly. Her severed arm sat on her lap, and the fingers of her other hand moved gently above it.

“I got things to do, could get rough,” Orthoclase shrugged. “You understand, regular muscle just won't cut it. How's about I throw in a free remodel for Larimar's pearl, to sweeten the deal?”

Hematite hummed and shuffled her feet, and finally sighed.

“All right, get it out of here,” she said, opening the gate and beckoning the pearl out. “But if any of this gets traced back to me....”

“It won't. You have my word.”

Hematite stomped away, muttering darkly to herself. The pearl stood to attention in front of Orthoclase, blinking owlishly up at her.

“Right, first things first,” Orthoclase told her, folding her arms. “We don't want anyone dead on this assignment, okay? Maimed maybe, definitely poofed, but no death. Think you can handle that?”

“Of course,” the murder pearl answered sweetly.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

Google didn't come close to that. For example, thinking about getting a job will make you want to do it well, those who do raise VC rounds will be able to set x to some value and then start doing things to x. Between these two sources of variation, the college someone went to Stanford and is not obviously insane, they're probably a safe bet.1 But you can never predict how big a Microsoft is going to be seeing in the next couple years. When you're a kid and you face some hard test, you can only imagine the advantages of young founders are. One of the biggest individual fortunes, but they are still missing a few things. Sometimes it's because the writer only has very high-level data and so draws conclusions from that, like the role of technology in wealth creation. But if they don't invest more. But the just-do-it model and the careful model, I'd probably choose just-do-it model and the careful model, I'd probably choose just-do-it model and the careful model, I'd probably choose just-do-it model and the careful model, I'd probably choose just-do-it. What made oil paint so exciting, when it first became popular in the fifteenth century, was that you had to get over to start a startup with someone you like, because a lot of instincts, this one wasn't designed for the world if people who wanted to do that? I don't know much about mail headers then, and they seemed to me full of random stuff. Because Woz designed this computer for himself, and he wouldn't have had time to work on ideas that few beside them realize are good.2

Otherwise Robert would have been it. This varies from field to field in the arts, and particularly in oil painting. Just that all other things being equal a painting with people in it will be. In addition to being the right sort of experience, one way or another it will be more interesting than one without. It will be longer on the Internet in 20 years, I wouldn't dare to make any predictions, except that things will change a lot. Most people could see how it might be, but it is quite true. Bittorrent and YouTube have already trained a new generation of viewers that the place to watch shows is on a computer screen. Before Mark Zuckerberg started Facebook, his default expectation was that he'd end up working at Microsoft.

Books in most fields are written by people who don't understand it. And that also means there will always be lots of Java programmers, so if they saw a startup they liked, they should make them an offer. Even in cable TV, the long tail was lopped off prematurely by the threshold you had to get over to start a startup, don't write any of the code while you're still in school. Over time, the default language, embodied in a succession of popular languages, has gradually evolved toward Lisp. 16% false positives means that filtering is not just classification, because false positives are my bug list. And if at the last minute two parts don't quite fit, you can probably get the right answer. When a VC firm can only do about 2 series A deals per partner per year, they're careful about the headers and the bodies became much spammier. There's something fake about it. Usually it's the replacement. This is one reason I'd bet on the 25 year old has some work experience more on that later but can live as cheaply as an undergrad? All users care about is whether you make something they like.

The most common way to do it with no indication of whether you're succeeding. What do you do?3 It increases the work of being inconsistent. Once it became possible to get rich as a startup founder, but that you have to put up with some inconvenience to do it. It's a little misleading to put it into words. When they were in school they knew a lot of C and C as well as all uppercase and all lowercase. Google, Yahoo, and Microsoft was 24, and that assumption turns out to be convenient.

Unnecessary meetings, pointless disputes, bureaucracy, posturing, dealing with other people's mistakes, traffic jams, addictive but unrewarding pastimes.4 The key to this mystery is to revisit that question, are they really worth 100 of us? The solution to this puzzle is to realize that economic inequality should be decreased. A really good hacker can squeeze more out of better tools. If you open an average literary novel and imagine reading it out loud to your friends as something you'd written, you'll feel all too keenly what an imposition that kind of thing is upon the reader. Code size is important, because the Internet dissolves the two cornerstones of broadcast media: synchronicity and locality. It seems to be x. If you're writing software that has to pervade every program you write. Now high school kids could write software or design web sites.5 Python copies even features that many Lisp hackers consider to be mistakes. So you can test equality by comparing a pointer, instead of the head of a list.

There they have the right idea, but it's extraordinarily rare for one to talk about startups, but philosophically they're at the opposite end of the spectrum could be detected by what appeared to be unrelated tests. He didn't foresee the future of startup investing, realize it would pay to be upstanding, and force himself to behave that way. Where is the breakeven point?6 That seems like it would be useful not just to would-be startup founders but to students in general, because we'd be a long way toward explaining the mystery of the so-called super-angels seem to care about valuations. And the big hits often look risky at first. I'm less American than I seem. Is the author flippant, but correct? Does it seem plausible that the people who currently go into finance to make their fortunes will continue to do so but be content to work for a while and observing certain other signs, I have a lot of Internet startups are, though they may not have had this as an explicit goal. This practice is not only quicker, but you get feedback as it progresses. If you had one, you were rich.7

Notes

Everyone else was talking about why something isn't the last step in this essay, I want to save the old one was drilling for oil, over fairly low heat, till onions are glassy. There is not much use, because they want to approach a specific firm, the median VC loses money. Yes, I would take Abelson and Sussman's quote a step later in the future as barbaric, but one by one they die and their wives. Donald J.

05 15, the employee gets the stock up front, and so effective that I'm skeptical whether economic inequality—that an idea that could start this way, because the kind of people thought it was the season Dallas premiered. Down rounds are bad.

4%? All he's committed to believing anything in particular made for other people thought of them is a self fulfilling prophecy. This doesn't mean the hypothetical people who did it with.

Spices are also the golden age of tax avoidance. In fact since 2 1. The philosophers whose works they cover would be to become a so-called signalling risk.

When I was a test of investor is just like a loser they usually decide in way less than 1.

University Press, 2005. Heirs will be maximally profitable when each employee is paid in proportion to the rich paid high taxes during the Bubble a lot about how to use those solutions.

Now to people he knew. But that was a small company that could evolve into a decent college. Founders are often surprised by this standard, and the exercise of stock the VCs want it. What they forget is that we're not.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Raph Levien, Matt Cohler, Sam Altman, Fred Wilson, Jessica Livingston, Ron Conway, Langley Steinert, and Ross Boucher for putting up with me.

[uglymanchronicles]

UMC:R Chapter 4: Systems Check

This one’s a bit of a weird one--basically a heavy-handed excuse to describe my own character in weirdly homoerotic detail.  But it has some PATHOS and I otherwise had fun writing it.  There will be probably two more chapters before the prequel ends and we start getting back into where the original UMC started.  Enjoy!

“Fffffuck me.”

Evan really hoped he wasn’t falling into a pattern of sudden switches between consciousness and unconsciousness. It couldn’t be good for his brain. Speaking of...

He reached back and patted his head where it’d gotten intimate with the counter. There was some blood matted in his hair, but aside from that…

Evan sat up and turned around. There was a bit of blood on the counter, and some on the carpet where he’d been lying. But beyond a slight tenderness where his fingers touched the spot, there was no pain—and certainly no wound. How long…?

Evan pulled himself up, noticing how oddly easy it felt despite having very recently donkey-punched himself by proxy. The video was still going, but past-Evan had somehow unstrapped himself from the machine and was in the process of stumbling towards the camera. Before the screen went blank, Evan noticed the total length of the video. In comparison to what it had been when he’d toppled over, less than five minutes had passed.

In less than three minutes he’d almost completely healed from a potentially moderately-serious head injury. Not only that, assuming there hadn’t been any post-editing, his previous self had recovered enough from having his brain cored out to be able to free himself from a torture device, walk no worse than a six-drink-deep drunk, and manipulate electronics at least as well as a five-year-old.  How much damage could he sustain and still function? Was there a limit? Could he even die?

Introspection provided no answers, and Evan suddenly found himself very uninterested in the question. Right now, all he wanted to do was take a shower. Maybe that would help put things in perspective. Plus, it was after midnight; if he was going to seriously consider DIY-ing himself into a superhero, he’d do it best after a good night’s sleep. There was also the little matter of the blood in his hair, but that barely registered as a concern in the face of everything else.

His bedroom door was littered with post-it notes and taped-up signs demanding he watch the video on the laptop. He felt a slight tinge of resentment for the earlier version of himself. Sure, he’d gotten the point across, but for God’s sake, there was such a thing as going overboard! Evan ripped off a handful of the notes and crumpled them up as he pushed the door open.

He groaned. The bedroom was almost unrecognizable. About the only thing familiar was his computer, which had been moved to a corner of the room and rearranged on an apparently homemade shelf-slash-desk-slash-whatever. What surface wasn’t occupied by his keyboard and mouse was filled with pieces of machinery and small piles of electronic components.   He’d mounted his three monitors directly to the wall, apparently to save space; in addition, two flatscreen TVs, dated and obviously secondhand, hung on opposite sides of the corner of the room.  So many papers, pictures, and maps were stuck to the walls that the cables connecting the myriad electronics were completely obscured. Had he really gone full tinfoil-hat? Evan groaned as he noticed colored pins and threads weaving an intricate web between the numerous pieces of media. Yep. He’d gone full whacko. If there were any actual, legitimate connections there, the connections had been lost when he’d rebooted his brain.

God, he was getting tired of putting off seeking answers. The temptation to dive into all this nonsense and sort through it was almost overwhelming. But he knew if he sat down and started digging through everything he’d be there for days and wouldn’t get anything else done. He looked around again and actually heard himself growl when he realized his bed was gone. His mind went to the bundled thing on the roof of the RV. Great. He’d uprooted everything to make room for his craziness. There was something in the space where the bed had sat, but it was covered in books, binders, and cast-off clothing.

He’d bought a Bowflex and stashed his bed to make room for it. Had he done this after he’d drilled a hole in his head? It seemed like the kind of thing a guy missing part of his brain would do. He peered back out of the door and saw that the loft at the front of the vehicle had been set up into a sort of mini-bedroom, complete with a long, flat dresser. Well, that made some kind of sense, at least.  

Grumbling to himself about nothing specific, Evan hauled himself up to the loft to inspect what he was certain was a cluttered, hideous bolt-hole in his own damn home.  He was pre-emptively sighing as he pulled himself over the edge, but never quite finished it.  

“Oh.”

Another pleasant surprise. He’d actually set up a nice little room there.  The mattress was very flat but looked fancy, like the kind podcasts were sponsored by. The mattress was topped with neatly folded sheets, an understated but tasteful light gray comforter, and surprisingly plush pillows. A legless nightstand nearby held a small lamp, a bottle of water, and a notepad and pencil, all arranged very deliberately. A small pile of books of varying sizes sat neatly by the mattress, and a small adjustable shelf affixed to the wall held another laptop.  Across from the mattress, a small flatscreen TV hung on the wall, wrapping the whole scene up in a nicely cozy domestic package.

All in all, he was impressed. It was a quaint little living space cultivated out of what he’d formerly dismissed as a throw-away attic. He was a little miffed that the price had been his actual bedroom, but of all the things to begrudge his former self for, this was pretty low on the list. He hauled himself up and crawled to the dresser.  As he opened the drawers, he realized how strange it was to experience his own idiosyncrasies from the outside.  Each pair of socks was neatly knotted together, his boxers were folded perfectly square and sorted by color and pattern; it put him in mind of an adorably eccentric little old man, probably a watchmaker.  That seemed like the kind of person who’d fold his clothes with a t-square and index them.  The thought made Evan smile, but the wholesomeness of the image faded somewhat when he found himself thinking that guys like that usually wound up being serial killers.

Fresh clothes acquired, Evan hopped down and headed to the bathroom. It had been a hell of a thing to find an RV with a bathroom that wasn’t smaller than the average coat closet, but he’d scrounged around until he’d found a Class C model—the one with the bathroom you change clothes in without having to stand with one foot in the toilet.  He had never regretted the extra effort and cost.

He stood in the center of the bathroom for a moment, steeling himself. It was time to rip the band-aid off, figuratively and literally. He stepped up the mirror and stared himself in the eyes.

He could almost see his thoughts reflected in the blue of his irises. Did he really want to do this? Not this whole thing, but this, specifically. If he could heal from practically anything but still needed to have his face under wraps, it must be really bad. Maybe he could just wear a mask the rest of his life, never knowing what he actually looked like. Avoid the ugly truth.

Even while he was thinking it, he knew how ridiculous that idea was. The chaos of the past few hours was stirring up a lot of generalized anxiety that was sending his mind strange places. Drilling a hole in his brain less than a week ago probably hadn’t helped on that front, either.

Time to start that journey of a thousand miles, I guess.

He tied back his hair, took a deep breath, and started to peel the gauze away. Adhesives caught on small hairs, tender skin grumpily sent his brain pangs of pain as it was uncovered. The air on the uncovered skin felt alien, as if it was only touching his skin very reluctantly. Evan’s leg was shaking involuntarily by the time the last bandage landed in the trash can, and he had to take a few deep breaths before he finally raised his gaze to the mirror again.

“……fuck.”

His previous self hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests; if anything, he’d been understating the situation. He’d be lucky if he didn’t make kids cry when they saw him.

His left cheek definitely had the worst of it. His in-between-brown-red-tan skin—which he supposed could be called “ruddy”, but he liked to refer to himself as “ethnically ambiguous”—was covered in divots and spots from his mis-angled jawline up to just below his left eye. Evan slowly ran his fingers over his mottled skin, marveling at the variation between the individual pits, bumps, and gashes. There were actual small chunks of face missing. The texture of the skin was almost smooth to the touch but a little bit sticky, like the paint of an old house, complete with uneven coverage and bumps of buildup. Evan found that the skin didn’t hurt to the touch, but it also didn’t feel how skin was supposed to feel; his fingers didn’t immediately recognize it as skin, and the touch of his own fingers on his cheek came through muted and distorted, like the sensation was on a weak, distant signal. Christ. Was it a burn? No, it looked like he’d been too close to an explosion, all chopped up like that. Was it an accident or an attack?

Shit. It didn’t stop on his face, either. It had been hidden by his hair, but now that it was pulled back he could see that the pitting and gashes continued upwards along the side of his head. Pieces of his left ear were gone. Everything behind the top of the ear was a chewed-up mess. His lobe was still there, but not for lack of trying; a jagged tear ran from the back halfway to the front. It was like somebody had bitten the top of the ear off, then grabbed the lobe and tried to just yank it off.

After a few moments of staring at his ragged ear, Evan whipped his head around to check the other one. He sighed with relief as he saw it was intact, but the new angle brought the right side of his face into view. It wasn’t as bad as his left, but, unfortunately, his left side had originally been his ‘good side’; two long, curving scars, the result of an unfortunate incident with a turkey vulture during his teenage years, ran up the right side of his neck and peeked over his jaw about an inch up his cheek. Previously, that had been the extent of the damage to that cheek.

But now, in addition to a ton of tiny scratches and a few more small divots, his right cheek was taken up by a wide starburst-shaped scar that trailed off to a line and crossed his crooked nose like the tail of a comet, ending somewhere among the mess on his left cheek. It even looked like somebody’d tried to stitch it closed—upon closer inspection, the edge of the scar looked almost serrated. Clearly the stitches hadn’t held. He couldn’t imagine how much any individual part of that must have hurt.

His big, broad forehead was relatively unscathed save for a few “normal” scars, though a tiny triangular chunk of the far edge of his left eyebrow seemed to have left for greener pastures. After everything else, it was almost jarring how un-damaged he was above the eyes. Maybe he’d been wearing a helmet or something when whatever mutilated him happened. If it was just one incident.

Well, shit.  He wasn’t quite the most mangled person he’d ever seen, but…

He felt tears start to well in his eyes as his fingers gripped the edge of the sink.  It wasn’t fair.  He’d been handsome, if a bit unusually so, before.  Not that he’d taken advantage of it, but… to suddenly wake up to a face that was no longer his was frightening.  He was hideous.  Hell, he was almost a monster.

Evan’s heart pounded louder and louder as he fought back tears. There was no distinction between anger, sadness, and fear any more. A synesthetic mass of emotions stormed around his brain, crushing all his thoughts under the weight of pure mental chaos. He started to scream, a hoarse wail that pitched up gradually to a roar of insane fury as his whole body began to quake violently. He stared his mutilated reflection dead in the eyes as he continued to scream, a primordial, hateful rejection of the thing he saw before him. When he ran out of breath, he screamed between gasps; short, sharp shouts that consumed all the air in his lungs with each exclamation. He didn’t know how long he was screaming before something made a loud crack and came loose in his right hand.

Evan’s scream slowly trailed off as he looked down at the object in his fist. It was piece of the sink. In his rage, he’d gripped the countertop surface so hard that a palm-sized chunk of stone had broken off.

“What a cheap piece of…” Evan started to say, but then stopped. He’d dropped a hammer on the sink months ago and it hadn’t even chipped the surface. It didn’t damage easily. So what…

Evan’s eyes fell on his hand again. He’d always had huge hands, which stuck out on his lean, lanky arms like the end of a rake. Except his arm wasn’t lanky any more. He couldn’t pick out the bones in his wrist like he remembered. In fact, there was a lot more wrist than he remembered, circumference-wise.  Ditto with his forearm (more scars there, too…), and his elbow was similarly magnified.  And above that…

“JESUS CHRIST.”

Evan had never been a small guy.  Even as a kid he’d been tall and wiry, with limbs that seemed a size or two too long for his torso.  He’d hit six feet tall before he’d hit his 14th birthday.  In high school, he’d been involved in a lot of sports, but always ones where being dexterous and fast were to his advantage.  Even when he’d begun boxing he’d focused more on using his reach and stamina than developing sheer stopping power.  After watching his two older siblings become hulking behemoths of human beings, he was aware that his family had the potential to be extraordinarily beefy, but he’d tried to stick to keeping himself slim and trim.

Clearly, something in the missing months had made him reconsider his stance on the issue.  If his bicep was less than 24” around he’d be shocked.   He raised his hand to shoulder height, clenched it into a fist, and curled it backwards.

“God damn, son!”  Evan watched his own muscle bulge and shrink several times over, a grin slowly creeping over his face.  Okay, yeah, he could work with this.  That’d do just fine.  

Like a kid on Christmas tearing into the biggest present under the tree, Evan yanked his shirt off over his head with violent enthusiasm.  Underneath, he was still wearing that strange undershirt.  

“Weird sequin armor. Later,” he muttered, dragging the strange garment off and tossing it into a corner where it settled with a soft slithering sound.  Evan’s jaw dropped as he took in his bare torso.  Wide-eyed and still staring downwards, he sidestepped his way back in front of the mirror. His gaze slowly raised to the mirror again, and he realized his horrifying face was split into a massive grin. Even with his disfigurement, his sheer excitement was clearly evident. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then yelled again.

“Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaa-uhhhhh, BABY!”

He didn’t have a ton in the way of resting definition, but the bulk of muscle was undeniable. Evan spent a few moments flexing his arms and shoulders, marveling how his skin shifted and bulged in novel and fascinating ways. He was at least a foot broader at the shoulder than he remembered, and that was just the start of it.

His chest was borderline absurd. Like his shoulders, it had broadened, thickened, and rounded. Evan gingerly poked at his bulging pectorals. Firm, but not rock-hard. Enough softness to still feel like a person instead of an object, but still extremely supple. He felt his cheeks flush.

He had boobs.

But… like, good guy-boobs? That was a thing, right? Some girls liked that. Some guys, too, he thought, feeling his cheeks burning a little hotter as some cobwebs were dusted away from that particular corner of his libido.

He knew he was fully blushing now, but a strange and weirdly irresitable notion was punching through the fog of embarrassment. Fuck it, he was alone. Who was going to see?

Evan put his hands under his pecs, lifted, and pushed them together, leaning forward and pursing his lips at his reflection. He winked at himself and made a kissing sound, then burst out laughing. He had cleavage! Almost four inches of it!

Evan flopped down on the toilet lid, giggling madly to himself. “I guess the big tits gene doesn’t just affect the women in the family,” he managed to chuckle, hefting ‘the boys’ again. He looked almost hilariously sexualized. In addition to his new bustiness, he was still sporting nipple piercings and belly button ring—remnants of teenage rebellion that he’d kept as a cautionary tale to himself against impulsive decisions. The silver spikes and brass ring somehow looked more at home on his new body; when he’d been scrawny they’d made him look like he was trying to audition for a ‘Suicide Girls’ knock-off. If only he’d had paler skin and a heroin addiction he could probably have made a lot of money with a webcam. Now he looked like he could be on the cover of a harlequin romance—albeit one with a lot of airbrushing and somebody else’s head imposed on his body.

So he’d beefed up in anticipation of… whatever he could call whatever he was about to undertake. That explained the exercise equipment, as well as several containers of various supplement powders he’d come across while checking on his food situation.

Now that he’d finished with his giggle fit over his tits, Evan was a little surprised by how long it’d taken him to notice how much his body had changed. Everything still moved the way he remembered; he still felt very light on his feet, despite his new bulk. Standing in front of the mirror again, he bent from side to side at the waist, testing his flexibility.  Amazingly, he felt limber as ever. Apparently past Evan had done this bulking up thing right; despite the fact that his abdomen and obliques seemed to have been replaced with rock-solid slabs of beef, he was still able to easily bend down and touch his toes. While he was down there, he noticed that he hadn’t skipped the proverbial leg day, either—that, or he’d had a butterball turkey implanted into each thigh.

So… arms and shoulders three times bigger, a jaw-dropping rack, less “abs” and more “slab”, skull-crushing thighs and an amateur slasher movie face.  He looked weird. But… he found himself liking it more the more he thought about it.  He could do something about the face, or make it work for him.  Make looking like a brute work.  Be a fashion pioneer.  Figure something out.  

Now that his giddiness had died down a bit, Evan started looking himself over for other damage.  The video had said he’d have a massive wound on his chest, but he hadn’t even noticed it at first. There was, indeed, a large discoloration a few inches under his left nipple, reaching around under his arm and around to his back, but it looked more like a giant birthmark than a fatal axe wound. Why was it so faint?  Hell, the purple spot on his solar plexis, a sort of permanent bruise from a childhood injury, stood out more than it. His body was dotted with other, smaller scars that stood out much more; a few near his navel were definitely bullet wounds, and judging from the jagged pale lines above his right hip, a bear had tried to steal his kidney.  Regardless of their size, wounds that could cause scars that severe should have been still hurting him bit, even after external healing.  But he found that, aside from the scars, it was as if those injuries never happened.  No sign of any internal injury.  He felt extremely healthy, and he was grateful for it, but it wasn’t how that worked, and that started to eat at him.

The rules had changed and he had virtually no data on how any of it worked. He was no longer afraid, angry, or sad about his situation. Now he was annoyed. How was he supposed to go about this intelligently with only anecdotal evidence? The obvious answer was to start testing the properties of his healing, but what if there were strange rules?  Did he have a personal kryptonite? What if he cut himself, and it turned out the healing didn’t work because of what the blade was made of, and he got an infection and died? What if there was a limited number of times he could heal? Was it like an extra life system?

Evan stepped back up the mirror again, now glowering at his reflection. Now that he wasn’t as shocked by his own appearance, maybe he could figure something out in the patterns of the scars. Some kind of clue in the type of injuries or something. Just a starting point. Some tiny little verifiable speck of data he could cling to like a drowning man.

Before any answers surfaced from his ruined reflection, Evan noticed something sticking out from behind the mirror. The corner of a yellow piece of paper was closed in the medicine cabinet door.  He tugged it out and recognized his own handwriting again.  

Thought you might need these.

Briefly puzzled, Evan pulled open the medicine cabinet.  There, tucked amongst bottles of an alarming variety of supplements, was an old ‘Altoids’ tin, slightly dented and faded with age.  As he picked it up, a familiar skunky smell wafted into his nostrils. He snorted with laughter as he flicked the tin open and pulled out three meticulously-rolled joints and his favorite lighter.   After a second’s thought, he stuck all three between his lips and flicked the lighter open.

“Fuckin’ right I do.”

[fidgetnano19]

Day 2, Part 3: Explosion

Translations

Mijako: This is a tricky one. Technically, it means an apprentice mage. But -ko is an affix meaning little, so when Noe puts the emphasis on that part, it’s changing the word to ‘little mage’ used in a really insulting, demeaning way.

Koja: An honorific for someone younger but higher in station. Not usually used in bond pairs, but Noe chooses to use it with Finn.

Fun fact: Brexton should use the honorific 'Kiga’ when addressing Noe, but he refuses to.

Leoja, 2 years ago

The basement floor sloped down to a long wall, with the outline of one final door just barely visible in the low light. If Noe wasn’t behind that door, Brexton would know that he’d been ditched. After that, he was getting out of this shithole.

His boots slid down the rocky ground a bit, but he recovered well enough to avoid smacking face-first in the wall. He gripped the handle, mentally preparing himself for whatever he would find beyond the door.

It creaked as he opened it, but the figure inside gave no indication that he’d heard the noise, or that he knew he was no longer alone in the room.

Noe’s back was hunched, his hands – now completely red, with the threatening hue beginning to spread up toward his elbows – shaking as he dug through an array of papers spread out on a low, steel table. Claws he wasn’t used to dealing with tore at the discoloured pages, eliciting an uncharacteristic curse from the usually stoic man.

This was the furthest Brexton had ever seen him lose control, and it was both fascinating and terrifying to watch. He opened his mouth to call out to him, but his voice refused to cooperate, like being trapped in a nightmare and unable to make a peep.

They were alone… No one knew where they were, and he had no idea what sort of threat Noe might present to him if he changed fully. This was so much different than all the times they’d gone toe-to-toe before, and suddenly he felt woefully under prepared to face him.

He approached carefully, stepping lightly to avoid being heard. This shouldn’t have worked, given Noe’s usually excellent hearing, but whatever he was distracted with proved to be enough cover for Brexton’s advance.

He drew close enough to peer around Noe, getting his first look at what appeared to be records, kept in the same strange blend of dialects as the sign on the gate, along with the odd word here and there in… he couldn’t recognise the runes, no matter how hard he struggled. Some sort of, proto-ceamarian, maybe?

Noe lifted one of the documents, shoving it in Brexton’s direction. The paper fluttered, his hand trembling terribly.

In a voice much deeper than Brexton was accustomed to, he growled, “Read it!”

“I… I already told you, I ca–can’t” Gri help him, the lies died in his throat as Noe raised his head, fixing his eyes – twin flames surrounded by a sea of starless night – directly on Brexton.

“Enough lies, mijako!”

Brexton nodded, swallowing hard and taking the paper slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. “It, it’s records. Medical, maybe…” he mumbled, half to himself, as he skimmed the words on the page. “Dosages, treatments.” Peeking up, he noticed that the fire in Noe’s eyes was gradually receding. “If you’re looking for something specific, I don’t think it’s he– Wait!”

“What is it?”

“The– this plant they mention: Breath of Xulara. I’m familiar with it, but this…” He couldn’t put it into words, the strange discrepancy between what his father had taught him and what was written plain as day on the sheet in his hands. “It’s not for what they say it is. It can’t be…”

Noe drummed his fingers – both claws and tint almost gone – against the metal of the table, waiting for a better explanation.

Instead of giving one, Brexton read on, his incredulity increasing with each sentence, every outlandish claim.

Exactly what were they trying to accomplish?

“It’ll take me too long to read all of this, and the whelps are still out there”, he thought up an excuse, tossing his rucksack onto the table and hastily scooping the pages inside. Honestly, he just wanted more time with the documents. “We’ll take it with us, alright?”

Beside him, Noe – appearing completely normal once again – began gathering the ones near him.

As he lifted the stack, something fluttered to the floor. Brexton bent his head to see what it was, but Noe dived quickly, crumbling what appeared to be a photograph in his fist before incinerating it.

“What are you–” Brexton made a grab for the flame, but it was already too late. “Who was that?”

“No one.” Noe stepped away from the table, brushing ash off of his palms.

He wanted to press the issue, to remind Noe that he'd been the one – only minutes ago – to say 'no more lies’, and demand a more proper answer, but first… “One of the beds upstairs had fire damage”, he ventured, suppressing a frustrated groan when Noe didn’t react to this bit of information. “Noe, did you–”

“I’d like to see this whole place burn, to tell you the truth.”

Brexton bobbed his head thoughtfully, seconding the notion. This building was unnerving, to put it mildly. His eyes flew wide with sudden realisation, and he spun to face Noe fully.

“Why not?”

“Why not what?” Noe questioned, not grasping his meaning.

“It’d be easy for you, right? You're–” he choked on the sentiment, begrudging that he was about to admit it. “Powerful… enough. And this whole place is basically falling apart. It can’t be that hard, really.”

“Are you insane? It’s surrounded by dried leaves, a–and dead plants. The whole forest could go up along with it.”

It was so typical of him, to refuse anything that even hinted at being reckless. But this was different. He may not know the full extent of what had transpired here, but it was obvious to Brexton that the world would be better off without even so much as a memory of it. So would Noe, not that he cared about the other man’s well-being.

Brexton smirked, ice already blooming on his fingertips. “Let me handle that part…”

He could swear he almost saw Noe smile.

…

A few minutes later, they were back outside, with a thick layer of frost covering anything even remotely flammable in vicinty.

“Step back, I’m not used to controlling a burn this big.” Noe warned, tugging Brexton’s shoulder to herd him away from the porch.

Brexton was in no hurry to stand close to the blaze, anyway. He wasn’t exactly good with heat. He headed back to the fence, leaning against it to watch as the front of the house caught fire like so much tinder.

“How does it feel?” he questioned Noe, scooting over to make room for him. He dug through his pockets, digging a cigarette out and holding it up to his lips, gesturing for Noe to light it.

“Satisfying. You sure the frost will hold it off?” When Brexton nodded, Noe breathed a sigh of relief, sliding against the fence until he was sitting on the ground. “Pass that thing here.”

“Since when do you smoke?” He took a long drag, then handed it over.

“Since right this second.” Noe hit the cigarette, then coughed his head off. “That’s awful! How do you guys do it?” Despite his protests, he brought it to his lips again, inhaling more slowly this time.

Brexton shrugged, taking out a second one and lighting it off the first, so they wouldn’t have to keep passing it back and forth.

The whole house was burning now, sections of the fragile structure collapsing beneath their own weight. Brexton was so hypnotised by the sight that he almost forgot what had brought them out to the woods in the first place. Almost.

“Shit, the whelps! And the sun’s setting… we’ll never find the cave without Finny's–”

“Brext?” The fence rattled as Cross scaled it, throwing himself over the top and landing directly next to Brexton. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Me? Whose fault do you think this is?” He was preparing to tear into the boy, a day’s worth of frustration churning his stomach. He had half a mind to freeze his lungs, and watch him crumble to the ground in much the same fashion as the burning house.

He didn't notice Noe standing up until the gate opened and closed.

“Are you alright, Koja?”

Brexton levelled Cross with a glare that said 'you better pray she’s fine, or else’.

“Her, her leg got caught. She’s okay, but it slowed her down, and…” He spun on his heels, mumbling the next part almost too quietly to be heard. “I couldn’t carry her.”

Brexton strained to listen to Finny in the distance, bubbling away about how she had brought back a pack full of crystals. Apparently, they were ones she’d overheard Noe saying he needed for some spell.

A clearer picture formed in his head, making it obvious just who was the ringleader of this little excursion. That, paired with Cross’s pitiful confession, made it hard to stay mad.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You got her back safely, and one of us can carry her from here.”

“No!” Cross’s hands curled into fists, determination painting his face as he turned back. “A man should carry his own. You said so, didn’t you?”

He knew the phrase, one drilled into his head by his father. It was likely he’d handed it down to Cross, at some point or another.

“Shut up”, he drawled, handing his cigarette to Cross, who accepted it with way too much enthusiasm. “Don’t think I’ll just forget that you took off without warning. I’ll find a fitting punishment once we get back.”

“That reminds me!” Cross struggled free of his own pack, flipping the fabric flap back to reveal that it, too, was filled with crystals. “I figured, you know, if they have some use for spells or whatever…”

“You grabbed these for me?”

Cross grinned up at him, still holding the heavy pack, waiting for his reaction with all the eagerness one would expect from a pup. Brexton grabbed it, checking the contents over with amusement – certainly, he could make good use of the gems.

“I suppose I could go easy on you, just this once. We’ll call lugging these across the forest half your penance.” Brexton let the bag drop to the ground, then slid his arms around Cross’s shoulders, resting his chin on the top of the shorter boy’s head. He returned his attention to the flames, exhaustion settling in bone-deep. "For now, let’s just enjoy the view. Not everyday we get to destroy an entire house.“

"That was really smart, setting this fire so we could find you.” Cross chirped, then yawned widely. “It was you’re idea, wasn’t it?” Lifting his chin, he stared up at Brexton with open admiration, the glow illuminating his uncovered eye, making it appear even wider than usual.

Idiot! Don’t show me such a cute face, or I really will punish you.

“Of course it was.”

[ruffoverthinksthings]

Can you please try the Core 4 in your vice/virtue assessment?

Iapologize for the delay.

Itried to answer this some time back, and already had all myjustifications written out in my head when I made the chart and theoriginal post, but sadly, I didn’t have the energy to write themdown, and I’d already forgotten them, so now I had to think back,debate, and put it them into words all over again, along withremembering what specific scenarios or logical assumptions wouldqualify them for a Vice or a Virtue.

Withoutfurther ado, the Rotten Four’s Vices and Virtues:

TheRotten Four are an interesting case as their “Vices” are largelyattributed to blatant misinformation, abuse, and the twisted valuesystem of the Isle. None of these “Vices” are considered badthings, and are actually admired traits, only discouraged when itstarts to personally affect you, such as Jay getting so greedy thathe starts stealing from Jafar’s stock along with everyone else’spockets.

However,I will still consider them all to be guilty of these Vices becauseignorance does not excuse you from the consequences of your actions,and more so, the Rotten Four KNEW outright that they were being“Evil.”

Mal

Gluttony- Desire for Excess.

More,more, and more, it’s never enough, and never will be for Mal—ormore specifically, Maleficent. Bythe time of the Isleof the Lost (book),she’s the princess of the prison, top dog among her peers, fearedand respected by all to the point where anyonewho knows better willnot mess with her, and even those that don’t have second thoughts.

Butit’s still not enough, as she constantly seeks to get more power, amore fearsome reputation, more evil deedsunder her belt, even if it’s only inthe hopes of impressingher mother.

Wrath- Desire for Harm.

Youcould make the case for her trapping Evie in Cruella’s closet inthe Isle of the Lost (book) as the penultimate exampleof Mal’s Wrath, but I think that her behaviour towards Audrey inthe beginning of the movie is much better.

Withthe former, she was being coerced and forced into pulling amean-spirited prank as part of her education in Dragon Hall; she hasgreat, understandable motivation to want to pass this class with theheads of her enemies set up proudly on the ramparts.

Withthe latter, there’s really no good reason for her to pissoff Audrey, nothing to gain but the satisfaction of having earned herire, and more to lose with an enemy that could potentially sabotagetheir plans to steal the wand.

Envy- Desire for Other’s Belongings.

Malliterally being green-eyed aside, one of her first acts in TheIsle of the Lost (book) is to banish Evie and the Evil Queen fromthe Isle at large because she didn’t invite her to her 6thbirthday party, and she was jealous of all the attention and thepresents Evie was receiving.

Herhabit of pickpocketing and stealing (though not to the extent of Jay)is also a sign of this.

Pride- Desire for Attention.

Mal’sPride stems largely from Maleficent’s transactional parentingstyle, where love is only parceled out as soon as you prove yourself“worthy” of it. This is a problem in itself, and crosses into therealm of Pride when all of Mal’s truly cruel actions like trappingEvie in Cruella’s trap-laden closet was her way of permanentlycementing herself as the “Evilest of them All, next to Maleficent.”

Plus,when you make graffiti in such an iconic and easily recognizablestyle that you’ll immediately know who made it just from a glance,and put it all over every surface you can as your supply of spraypaint allows, it’s safe to say that you probably really wantto put your name out there.

Diligence- Being Steadfast in Work.

Malis mentioned as frequently passing over perfectly goodif not exceptional ideasfor her Ultimate Prank for Dragon Hall, and goes to great pains andincredible lengths tomake her schemes work, such as arranging the giant wildpartyin Cruella’s mansion (though admittedly most of the actual legworkwas onCarlos).

Thataside, she is a verydeterminedgirl who won’t stop until the job is done—be that trying to stealthe Fairy Godmother’s wand, stopping Maleficent from taking overAuradon,or all the numerous other “Let’s Save/Doom The World!” ploysshegets roped into.

Allthat pressure to constantly achieve and dobetter, especially without any meaningful reward or evenacknowledgment like a pat on the head would drive most people to justgive up, and declare honest,hard work intoanythinganinherently futile and painful endeavour.

ButnotwithMal.

Carlos

Diligence- Being Steadfast in Work.

Thoughthis might have stemmed largely from him being turned into Cruella’spersonal slave, and it being in his best interest to get work donewell and when Cruella said he should have, Carlos is still shown tobe a very hard and eager worker.

Youcan see this with his personal projects in the Isle of the Lost(book), where despite being constantly overworked,underappreciated, abused, and malnourished, he still finds time andmotivation to tinker with his personal projects, build himself a lab,and go through the inevitable break-downs, unexpected failures, andjust flat-out “will not start” prototypes before you get anactually working invention.

Beforeyou ask, yes, I do realize that there is also the looming threat ofMal, Evie, and Jay calling him out for being lazy and not helpingwith the “steal the wand” ploy, but as they’re all friends, Idoubt they would be as harsh and as great of a “motivator” as hismother is.

Patience- Being Peaceful in Goal.

Youcould argue that Carlos isn’t a fighter in the first place andwould get himself creamed in a straight up fist-fight, but not havinga hope in hell of actually winning never stopped anyone from saying“Fight me!” and following through.

(Justask a bartender about their favourite one-sided bar brawls.)

Youcould also argue that Cruella has made it so thatback-talking, getting angry, and making return threats is a VERY badidea indeed, but I would also like to point out that some bulliesthat lash out at others and get pissed off at the most innocuous andimagined of slights do that because they can’t actually fight theirtormentors, so they do what they wish they could do to them onothers.

Carloshas never been shown to take a violent or aggressive solution to muchof anything, except for the Tourney field and his clearlyfriendly rough-housing with Jay. It’s VERY impressive thatsomeone who has been tormented, abused, and picked-on like him canjust go on and show civility and kindness towards others, instead ofdishing out the same hand he’d been given as a misguided form of“karmic retribution” towards the world.

Alot of abused kids like Mal don’t just stop being mean as soon asyou take them out of the abusive environment; there are NUMEROUSscars and maladaptive habits that take years to heal and deprogram,if they’re not permanent.

Kindness- Being Good towards All Life.

Inthe Isle of the Lost (book),despite having absolutely nothing to gain from it, he gives Evie ahand in escaping his mother’s bear-trap ridden fur-closet. Shedoesn’t have anything to give him, nor does he ask for anything; hejust saw another victim like him in need of help, and he offered it.

Thisisn’t really that strange to us, but please remember that the Islehas a strictly “Every one for themselves, but also for just me!”and “I’ve got mine, now fuck off!” philosophy drilledinto all of their heads.

Evie

Lust- Desire for Pleasure.

Mydefinition doesn’t define this as purely desire for sexualpleasure, but with a LOT less PG-13 and all over realistic portrayalof Descendants, I wouldn’t put it past Evie to have slept aroundquite a lot, using and abusing boys for her own pleasure and selfishbenefit, and of course, getting access to all their luxuries and nicethings (relative to the Isle) using (what she assumes to be) hergreatest and only asset that matters.

(Orof you want to get specific, assets.)

Also,aside from wanting to impress her mother, the entire motivation ofher being a throne grabber (the Auradonian version of a “golddigger”) is for her to live a comfortable, carefree life with ahandsome, rich prince with a big castle that answers all of herneeds, which frees her up for all of her wants.

Envy- Desire for Other’s Belongings.

Greed- Desire for Things.

Gluttony- Desire for Excess.

Allthree are related to Lust, in that it ties in with her being a thronegrabber, and explicitly desiring and having been implied to do allmanner of unsavoury things to get more than her fair share fromothers.

“Rottento the Core’s” “schemer” and “heart-breaker” lines fromEvie’s section could allude to her charming and manipulating peopleinto getting what she wants, and most probably past the point whereshe’d already satisfied her needs, and is purely in the realm ofwants and luxury.

Shefalls into both Greed and Envy because this could be somethingimmaterial like influence, and/or having boys (and sometimes girls)head over heels for her past the point where she could or would wantto have a serious, healthy relationship with any of them; to materialthings, like someone’s jewelry, quality (again, relative to theIsle) goods and food, or someone else’s boyfriend, stolen justbecause she wanted to prove that she could.

Pride- Desire for Attention.

Eviehas long past the point of “having healthy self-confidence” withher primadonna attitude.

Thoughnot nearly as bad as Audrey can get (which is really sayingsomething), she still can get very selfish and self-centered like inWicked World where she complains that everyone else piling theirproblems onto Mal is distracting from her addressing the mostimportant issues of all, that makes everything else pale incomparison:

Evie’s.

Shealso tends to act like a stereotypical princess in that she thinksshe’s inherently better, prettier, and more competent than everyoneelse. She’s getting better after the first movie, but bad habitsdon’t die that easily.

Diligence- Being Steadfast in Work.

Shecooks, she cleans, she sows, she does your homework for you—Eviecouldn’t have learned all of these domestic skills and gotten herincredible in cosmetics, sewing, and alchemy without a LOT of hoursof dedicated practice, and more failures than successes.

LikeCarlos, you can attribute this to her mother making it a very badidea to be lazy (with their needs, anyway), but as Wicked Worldshows, she was willing to put in enough effort and reality-bendingprowess to make cupcakes that have every single element in theperiodic table.

Thisis particularly impressive when you realize a lot of these willEXPLODE, produce poisonous gas if you put them together, or outrightkill Evie from exposure.

Patience- Being Peaceful in Goal.

LikeCarlos, Evie has never been shown to get violent or that aggressiveand brutal towards others. I wouldn’t put it past her to be one ofthe Isle’s best roasters, with every VK having suffered a brutalburn from her at least once, but she doesn’t seem like the kind ofperson that just flat-out insults and destroys people’s sense ofself-worth for shits and giggles.

Youcould even excuse this behaviour somewhat as it was a necessarydefense mechanism to survive on the Isle.

Kindness- Being Good towards All Life.

Relatedto Carlos own entry, Evie sacrificing one of her pillows (a HIGHLYvalued commodity when the stock sleeping quarters is a cold, damp,hard floor) to repay him for saving her from Cruella’s closet isvery telling and impressive, given that the default Isle response tothis would be “see how much more kindness you can milk from himbefore he turns you down.”

Iwouldn’t be surprised if that’s how Evie treated most people thathad been good to her in the past, to be fair, unlike Carlos, theyprobably had their own ulterior motives, too.

Jay

Lust- Desire for Pleasure.

Jayhas been shown have the same carpe diem attitude of Aladdin,just taking every day as it comes, doing whatever he needs tosurvive, but without the generosity and the goodwill towards others,so whenever he does come across something good, it’s purely for hisenjoyment.

Hisconstant flirting with pretty much everyone is also a hint of one ofhis primary pickpocketing tactics—distract them with his sexy, sexyself—a history of (unhealthy, to be clear) casual flings andrelationships like Evie, or both, as I wouldn’t be surprised if hisexes complain that he stole their hearts and their wallets.

Gluttony- Desire for Excess.

Greed- Desire for Things.

Thoughit’s more apparent with Greed, in that he has his wandering eyes onvaluables, electronics, and other precious goods, Jay also showssigns of Gluttony how he keeps on stealing despite alreadyhaving a healthy and productive outlet for all that energy inTourney.

Stealinghas already stopped being a way for him to survive, and it seemsclear that all the Rotten Four have stopped trying to impress or earnthe love of their heartless parents; at this point, it just seemspurely for the thrill of it, and/or his still being unsatisfied withall the good things that have been given to him.

Wrath- Desire for Harm.

He’snever shown to actually physically fight his fellow VKs, and theworst he does to Chad is to get in his way and look intimidating, butit’s not that far of a stretch to assume that someone as bulky andlarge as him has gotten into much more than his fare share offights.

Ifit’s not for his stealing and them noticing before he’s out ofsight, then it’s when someone weaker or on his level has somethinghe wants and discretely pilfering it isn’t an option (along with“fair trade” not really being a thing on the Isle), or him takingoffense to something or someone, before taking the low-road into aback-alley, or just taking them on right there and then.

Sometimes,it might have even just been because he was bored, or REALLY neededto punch someone, period.

Envy- Desire for Other’s Belongings.

Necessityand Jafar’s abusive use of him as a shop employee more than a son,it’s not hard to imagine that a lot of Jay’s thefts were doneafter he saw someone with something very nice that he didn’t have,or wanted more of.

Pride- Desire for Attention.

Jayconstantly displays an over-inflated sense of self-confidence withhow he shamelessly flirts with everyone, and seems genuinelysurprised that someone WOULDN’T be attracted or respond positivelyto his words and actions.

He’snot as much of a narcissist as Chad is, but again, not hard toimagine that a more realistic and less PG portrayal of Jay would havehim showboating and being more arrogant than he already, constantlytalking about how awesome, handsome, and intelligent he is in spiteof the reality.

Diligence- Being Steadfast in Work.

Thoughthe work may be inherently illegal, you can’t say Jay doesn’thave impeccable work ethic, single-handedly keeping hisfather’s junk shop in business for all this time in spite of thelack of due compensation and acknowledgment for his deed.

There’s also theinfamous scene in the first movie where he dumps a giant armload ofstolen phones, tablets, and laptops for the group to use.

[screemagazine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with guitarist and songwriter Kaarel Malken… Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor’s Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor’s Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen’s first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor’s Joy are Estonia’s answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions: When did you first pick up the guitar? Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n’ Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he’d  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words “Dolby Surround” printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. “For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!” : something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : “20% off all instruments!!!” in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted. What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music? I’ve worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I’ve done it. Right now I’m sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I’ve been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life…. you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming. How did you find recording the album? Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann’s and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I’ve lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn’t as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim’s infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70’s Fender (I’m sorry if it wasn’t a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He’s the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I’m not the easiest person to work with but Mauno’s, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined… What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider “I used to be clean”  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I’m sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one’s body whenever and wherever. During these times I’m nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I’m never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I’m learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it’s not that easy. How do you go about writing? My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it’s a poem or a short story, but mostly it amounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song. Lately I feel as If I’m in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered “culturally inactive” according to metropolitan standards. Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com Where can we hear you play? The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888 What are your plans for the future? Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.

[gravityzine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with song writer Kaarel Malken...

Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor's Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor's Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen's first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor's Joy are Estonia's answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions:

When did you first pick up the guitar?

Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and a seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n' Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he'd  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words "Dolby Surround" printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. "For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!" : something I'll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : "20% off all instruments!!!" in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted.

What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music?

I've worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I've done it. Right now I'm sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I've been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life.... you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming.

How did you find recording the album?

Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann's and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I've lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn't as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim's infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70's Fender (I'm sorry if it wasn't a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He's the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I'm not the easiest person to work with but Mauno's, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined...

What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider "I used to be clean"  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I'm sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one's body whenever and wherever. During these times I'm nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I'm never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I'm learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it's not that easy.

How do you go about writing?

My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it's a poem or a short story, but mostly it surmounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song.

Lately I feel as If I'm in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered "culturally inactive" according to metropolitan standards.

Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com

Where can we hear you play?

The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888

What are your plans for the future?

Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.

[airoasis]

Stanley Morgan's motivation goes beyond record game; NU wide receiver ‘owes everything’ to mother

LINCOLN — Dec. 9, 2013: New Orleans.

Cyril Crutchfield called a timeout and motioned for his offense to huddle around him.

The St. Augustine High School drumline tapped a cadence into the muggy evening. Air horns chirped and fans danced on the metal bleachers, adding a constant clang to the ESPN broadcast.

Crutchfield’s offense leaned in close.

St. Augustine hadn’t beaten John Curtis High School in eight tries the past decade. And down 28-21 with two minutes to go, 87 yards from the pylon, live on national television, this moment was as good as any.

Crutchfield scanned his players’ eyes. He looked at his running back, Leonard Fournette, the No. 1 recruit in the country. He panned over to his junior wide receiver, Stanley Morgan Jr. He’d need both.

“When we score, we have a choice to either tie it and go to overtime, or go for it,” Crutchfield yelled.

Everyone nodded in agreement. And then above the sound of the drumline and air horns, Morgan piped up again.

“We’re going for it. And you’re gonna throw it to me.”

It took eight plays before the Purple Knights found the end zone. Fournette rumbled over a safety on a screen pass to make it 28-27 with a minute remaining.

The two-point conversion play was disrupted almost immediately. A John Curtis defensive end flushed the quarterback out of the pocket. Morgan saw, broke off his route and shuffled in the back of the end zone. The quarterback flipped the ball to Morgan, who’d found a small opening.

Morgan sprinted, with both arms raised, directly to the sideline, leaping to chest-bump teammates as the scoreboard lights flicked from 27 to 29, running until he found the clanging metal bleachers.

Morgan’s mother, Monique Jason, pointed to her only son and screamed in joy. Parents flocked around Jason, who was sporting a custom-made and bedazzled “Stan The Man” jersey.

They knew what she’d done to bring Morgan to this point. What she’d had to navigate her son through while his namesake sat in a Mississippi prison cell.

And Morgan knew, too. That muggy December night and still today.

It’s why he has a tattoo on his wrist. Why he knows Etta James songs by heart, and why the pursuit of one of Nebraska’s oldest records won’t be his focus in the Huskers’ final game on Friday against Iowa.

On the final day of Nebraska’s disappointing season, Morgan could paint a silver lining by eclipsing Johnny Rodgers’ 1972 receiving record of 942 yards. Morgan’s currently at 912.

But he also knows that kids like him don’t make it to places like this. And he knows why he’s here. He knows why he plays.

“After God,” Crutchfield said, “he owes everything he has to his mom.”

That stuffy Louisiana night, as Morgan celebrated in front of the bleachers, he pointed at his mother in the crowd. She pointed back.

Before Morgan spent Friday nights in hotels in Big Ten cities or shared high school fields with future NFL running backs, Friday nights were movie nights with mom.

The routine stayed the same for years. Morgan and his mother would drive to Blockbuster or Hollywood Video and pick out a VHS tape. One week, she would pick a movie. The next, it was his turn.

In their apartment in downtown New Orleans, they’d eat popcorn and watch the tapes.

Morgan always ended up liking the movies his mom chose.

“I would pick like ‘E.T.’ or ‘Herbie Fully Loaded,’ movies I knew he’d like but he’d never pick,” she said.

For most of Morgan’s life, it’s been just him and his mom, plus his two grandparents. And from birth, his mom has been trying to lead him in the right direction. And Morgan’s usually followed.

She likes old music, so as a child Morgan sang Etta James at family parties. She likes reading, so he got into books at an early age, and begged his mom to read to him before bed. She loves the outdoors and being active. As a young boy, Morgan had so much pent-up energy that in church, someone usually had to hold him in their lap to keep him from breaking out into the aisles to dance to the hum of the organ.

His mom drove school buses to put food on the table and pay the rent. They didn’t ever have much, Morgan said. But it was always enough.

In second grade, he pleaded for a black toy motorcycle for Christmas. And sure enough, on Christmas morning, there it was under the tree.

“She always makes it happen, and it don’t matter what she has to do,” Morgan said. “It’ll always be there.”

When she caught her son running around the neighborhood in elementary school with a football, she and her cousin asked him if they should sign him up to play football. It was a way to get that energy out, she thought. Provide him with strong male role models. Keep him busy down the road when he was old enough to realize what happened on the streets at night.

Morgan said yes. For his first game, his mom bought a white T-shirt and bedazzled it.

“Stan The Man” the back read, with Morgan’s number below it. She has an entire closet full of those jerseys now. One for every season.

Turned out Morgan was pretty good at football. Especially as a quarterback. By the time he was in middle school, he was nearly 6 feet tall and had hands the size of a legal pad.

Every high school in Louisiana was recruiting him, his mom said. One school in particular, St. Augustine, caught Morgan’s eye. One of his mom’s cousins attended and talked it up to Morgan. It was one of the perennial football powerhouses in the state, alma mater of NFL player Tyrann Mathieu and former Nebraska players such as wingback Tyrone Hughes.

But tuition was $8,000 a year. And Morgan confided in his cousin that he wasn’t sure if he should ask his mom about attending. He didn’t want to pressure her into a situation they couldn’t afford.

When she caught wind of Morgan’s desire to go to St. Augustine, she approached her own mother. Then a few cousins. Then sat Morgan down.

The family would chip in, she said. The village would take care of tuition.

“It was just the right thing to do,” she said.

But she had one caveat for her son. Was football just something he was interested in for now, or was football really something he wanted to chase? Was this his lifelong dream?

He smiled. And she remembered the conversation the two had a few weeks prior.

On Nov. 19, 2006, Morgan and his mom took in the New Orleans Saints vs. Cincinnati Bengals game from the field of the Superdome. Morgan had such a good season on his youth football team he was named an all-state all-star for his age group. Field tickets were one of the perks.

At halftime, Morgan and his mother walked around the field. Morgan kept looking up to the rafters, around the arena at all the fans. He fell in love with the lights, the cheerleaders, the fans, the crowd, the cheers. That day, Saints quarterback Drew Brees threw for 510 yards. Bengals wide receiver Chad Johnson caught three touchdowns and had nearly 200 receiving yards.

Morgan was in awe of it all.

His mom remembers that he tugged on her shirt watching the halftime show.

“Mom,” he said. “This is what I want to do.”

Three months after that moment in the Superdome, north about three hours in Greenwood, Mississippi, Stanley Morgan Sr. was sentenced to 30 years in prison.

The details are uncomfortable. Morgan and his mother don’t talk about it much.

The day before Valentine’s Day 2007, Stanley Morgan Sr. was convicted of sexual battery in Jasper County Court in Mississippi.

In March of the same year, he was sentenced to prison. He appealed the ruling but lost. Morgan Sr. is currently working with the Innocence Project on another appeal. In 2011, two more years were tacked onto his sentence for possession of an illegal object in prison.

His release date is tentatively set for July 27, 2038.

Morgan didn’t see his father much growing up. They spoke on the phone every now and then, and Morgan spent a few weeks for a few summers at his place in Mississippi, his mom said.

But when his father was put away, she said, she could sense there was something inside her son that broke.

What hurt, he said, was the simple fact he wasn’t there.

“He was there vocally on the phone but he wasn’t there in person. And then he wasn’t there vocally. And I always just wanted him physically there,” Morgan said.

Football became Morgan’s release. Where he focused his energy and angst.

His mom was able to gather enough money to send Morgan to St. Augustine. Entering him at the all-boys school was great for many reasons, she said. Especially a place like St. Augustine, known for churning out successful men such as former NBA coach Avery Johnson or the executive editor of the New York Times, Dean Baquet.

But at an all-boys school, there’s a constant reminder of fathers and sons. And throughout high school, Jason noticed the pain it caused her son to be without one.

“He had father figures. My stepdad, older cousins, coaches,” she said. “But he wished his dad was there. You could just tell.”

So she approached her son’s coaches and specifically instructed them to help guide her son if he needed it.

If Stan was acting up, make him run, she said. If Stan was talking when coach was talking, shoot him a look. Call him out. Build him up as a man.

“A lot of these schools, they’re easy on the kids that are good,” she said. “But I didn’t want that for Stan.”

“Basically,” Crutchfield said, “I was Dad away from home.”

It was an easy job for the most part. Morgan never caused any trouble, Crutchfield said. And after one season on JV, he became a star on varsity.

In his first few varsity practices, Crutchfield caught Morgan snagging passes one-handed during drills. Two hands seemed too easy, the coach said.

As a sophomore, Morgan reeled in 61 passes for 806 yards and 13 touchdowns. His junior year, he had 66 catches for 1,077 yards and 13 touchdowns.

Even with a guy on the team like Fournette, who would go on to be one of the most prolific offensive players in state history, Crutchfield knew who to go to when he needed a play.

Morgan, he said, “was that one individual that we knew if we needed anything, we’d have to dial up something for him.”

After his junior year, especially after the game-winner against John Curtis, the scholarship offers began rolling in. Michigan State was first, followed by Tennessee and Nebraska. Utah and Clemson also came calling.

When things got crazy, and Morgan started to think about taking college visits, his mom pitched the idea he needed to make one visit first: to see his father.

It would be a decade since the two saw each other face to face. And she thought it’d be good for her son to see him one more time before making that big of a decision.

So one spring day, Morgan and his mom drove nearly six hours north to the Marshall County Correctional Facility in Holly Springs, Mississippi.

She watched as the two Stanley Morgans spoke on the phone between a pane of glass. One whose life had hit a roadblock. The other with endless roads to travel.

“I wanted him to gain some perspective, get his mind clear,” she said of the visit. “I think it was good for them both.”

Afterward, a determined Morgan began looking seriously at a place to play football.

LSU pursued him, but Nebraska kept calling, too.

He chose Nebraska, those close to him say, because he wanted to get out of Louisiana.

There was another reason, too.

Former Nebraska receivers coach Rich Fisher kept telling Jason her son could be special. That he’d excel at Nebraska.

“If your son comes to Nebraska,” Fisher would say, “he’ll break records. I guarantee it.”

Nov. 18, 2017: State College, Pennsylvania.

The rain just wouldn’t stop.

It turned on and off like a shower head all afternoon. In the second half, it began to pour. But it couldn’t seem to slow Morgan. And on that rainy night, in a game that didn’t matter, against a team up four touchdowns, in a 106,000-seat stadium half-full, Morgan put himself in position to be historic.

In the fourth quarter against then-No. 13 Penn State, on third-and-1 from the 8-yard line, quarterback Tanner Lee’s pass nestled into Morgan’s fingertips just so, and Morgan reeled the pigskin in one-handed like he’s done so many times before.

He kept feet in bounds, controlled the ball despite slipping on the wet grass, and Nebraska cut Penn State’s lead to 56-31 in the fourth quarter. The game had been over before halftime, but the touchdown bumped Morgan’s career high up to 144 yards and his season total within 100 of Rodgers’ 942-yard record. He’d finish the day with 185 yards, just 31 yards from breaking the record with one game remaining.

And in a season full of lows, his teammates are now looking forward to seeing their teammate chase history Friday.

“He’ll get it,” receiver De’Mornay Pierson-El said matter-of-factly this week. “We want him to get it.”

They’ve been tracking it the past few weeks. During the Penn State game, Pierson-El even egged Morgan on.

“You going for 200 today?” Pierson-El would say.

Morgan is a special receiver, his coaches say. For a million reasons.

“He’s basically fearless,” coach Mike Riley said.

“He’s a dog,” wide receivers coach Keith Williams said.

The way he approaches the game pushes everyone else, junior receiver Keyan Williams said. He sets the bar. Which is why no one is surprised he’s on pace to break a 45-year-old record.

“He’s aggressive and he wants to get better,” Keith Williams said. “He has no ego. He’s what you want in a football player.”

When his mom first heard about the record, she thought he was on pace for 1,000 yards in his career. When she found out it was for the season, she was floored.

“I’m so very, very proud of Stanley,” she said. “For everything.”

She hopes he breaks the 942 record against Iowa. But Mom’s expectations are always a little higher. She’s hoping he cracks 1,000 yards.

After the Penn State game, Morgan spoke with the media for just the second time this season. Below the bleachers in the cold, he fielded questions while lights from video cameras gleamed off his face.

He thought his 185-yard performance was just all right. And the record? Yeah, it’s cool he’s close. But it doesn’t motivate him. It isn’t his goal to break it.

His goals are much simpler. To see his mom’s face after surprising her with a birthday gift of skydiving. To see her reaction when she catches him carrying groceries for a neighbor up the stairs of their apartment complex.

“I think about my mom before every day to do right by her and do everything she deserves,” Morgan said.

What motivates him isn’t the record, but what’s tattooed on his wrist.

In June 2014, it started to dawn on the mother and son that their days together were numbered. No more movie nights. No more cooking together. No more Saints games.

So three days before packing up for Lincoln, the two went to a tattoo shop.

As a kid, when he was feeling sad or hopeless, she would tell him she loved him. Loved him to infinity.

Quoting “Toy Story,” Morgan would always respond: “And beyond.”

Her wrist now reads “to infinity,” which is how many opportunities those close to Morgan say she’s given him.

“It was her sense of wanting greatness for him to put in position to be where he’s at today,” Crutchfield said.

On Morgan’s wrist, his tattoo reads, “and beyond.” Which, some might say, is how far he’s taken those opportunities and run with them.

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Nebraska 43, Arkansas State 36: Nebraska's JD Spielman returns a kickoff for a touchdown in the first quarter.

JULIA NAGY/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: NU's De'Mornay Pierson-El grabs a pass for a touchdown to cap off a 95-yard drive in the first quarter. 

MATT MILLER/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: NU's Aaron Williams makes an interception and brings there ball upfield alongside Dicaprio Bootle and Lamar Jackson during the third quarter. 

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Captains Luke McNitt, Joshua Kalu, Jerald Foster, Tanner Lee and Chris Weber huddle up prior to the game.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Joshua Kalu celebrates after the Huskers recovered a Northern Illinois fumbled punt in the third quarter. 

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Luke Gifford, right, celebrates being part of a sack in the third quarter. 

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Nebraska's Chris Weber was the recipient of the Sam Foltz scholarship before the game. Weber is seen here talking with Sam's dad, Gerald, and mom, Jill. 

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Husker fans release their red balloons after a touchdown in the first quarter against Rutgers.

CHRIS MACHIAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Rutgers' Jerome Washington makes unorthodox catch in the first quarter that was initially ruled an incomplete pass but was reversed on a review.

CHRIS MACHIAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Nick Gates lifts De'Mornay Pierson-El in celebration of his touchdown catch in the third quarter.

REBECCA S. GRATZ/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: Ashland-Greenwood grad Ben Stille forces a fumble while taking down Chayce Crouch in the third quarter.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: Stanley Morgan runs in a touchdown against Illinois' Nate Hobbs in the fourth quarter.

CHRIS MACHIAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: De'Mornay Pierson-El scores a touchdown against Illinois' Julian Hylton in the first quarter.

REBECCA S. GRATZ/THE WORLD-HERALD

Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: Former Husker coach Tom Osborne and the 1997 offense are introduced before the game.

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: Nebraska's Luke Gifford throws up the bones alongside Alex Davis after sacking Wisconsin's Alex Hornibrook during the second quarter. 

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: NU's Heisman Trophy winners Johnny Rodgers, left, in 1972, Mike Rozier, center, in 1983 and Eric Crouch, right, in 2001, pose for a photograph during a timeout.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: JD Spielman delivers a stiff arm to Ohio State's Pete Werner during a kick return in the second quarter.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: Stanley Morgan catches a third-quarter pass for touchdown as Ohio State's Denzel Ward defends.

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Tanner Lee cheers after throwing the game-winning touchdown pass to Stanley Morgan.

MATT DIXON/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Stanley Morgan scores a touchdown in the final seconds of the fourth quarter as Purdue's Markus Bailey defends. 

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Tyler Hoppes catches a pass for a touchdown in the fourth quarter as Purdue's Kamal Hardy defends. 

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Bryan Reimers celebrates a touchdown catch over Northwestern's Alonzo Mayo during the first quarter.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Stanley Morgan jumps into the arms of Jack Stoll after Stoll scored a touchdown in the second quarter.

JULIA NAGY/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's JD Spielman runs the ball against Northwestern in the second quarter.

JULIA NAGY/THE WORLD-HERALD

Penn State 56, Nebraska 44: Stanley Morgan catches a touchdown pass while being defended by Zech McPhearson.

REBECCA S. GRATZ/THE WORLD-HERALD

Photos: Best of 2017 Husker football

Check out the best photos from the first half of the 2017 Husker football season.

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Nebraska 43, Arkansas State 36: The Huskers take the field before the game against the Red Wolves.

REBECCA S. GRATZ/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 43, Arkansas State 36: Nebraska's JD Spielman returns a kickoff for a touchdown in the first quarter.

JULIA NAGY/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 43, Arkansas State 36: Nebraska's Tre Bryant rushes against Arkansas State.

REBECCA S. GRATZ/THE WORLD-HERALD

Nebraska 43, Arkansas State 36: NU's De'Mornay Pierson-El scores a touchdown in the fourth quarter.

RYAN SODERLIN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: NU's De'Mornay Pierson-El grabs a pass for a touchdown to cap off a 95-yard drive in the first quarter. 

MATT MILLER/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: Stanley Morgan scores a touchdown in the third quarter. 

MATT DIXON/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: NU's Aaron Williams makes an interception and brings there ball upfield alongside Dicaprio Bootle and Lamar Jackson during the third quarter. 

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Oregon 42, Nebraska 35: Husker fans packed sections of Autzen Stadium.

BRENDAN SULLIVAN/THE WORLD-HERALD

Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Captains Luke McNitt, Joshua Kalu, Jerald Foster, Tanner Lee and Chris Weber huddle up prior to the game.

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Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Joshua Kalu celebrates after the Huskers recovered a Northern Illinois fumbled punt in the third quarter. 

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Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Luke Gifford, right, celebrates being part of a sack in the third quarter. 

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Northern Illinois 21, Nebraska 17: Nebraska's Chris Weber was the recipient of the Sam Foltz scholarship before the game. Weber is seen here talking with Sam's dad, Gerald, and mom, Jill. 

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Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Husker fans release their red balloons after a touchdown in the first quarter against Rutgers.

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Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Rutgers' Jerome Washington makes unorthodox catch in the first quarter that was initially ruled an incomplete pass but was reversed on a review.

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Nebraska 27, Rutgers 17: Nick Gates lifts De'Mornay Pierson-El in celebration of his touchdown catch in the third quarter.

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Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: Ashland-Greenwood grad Ben Stille forces a fumble while taking down Chayce Crouch in the third quarter.

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Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: Tyler Hoppes dives into the end zone for a touchdown as Tanner Lee celebrates.

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Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: Stanley Morgan runs in a touchdown against Illinois' Nate Hobbs in the fourth quarter.

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Nebraska 28, Illinois 6: De'Mornay Pierson-El scores a touchdown against Illinois' Julian Hylton in the first quarter.

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Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: Former Husker coach Tom Osborne and the 1997 offense are introduced before the game.

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Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: Nebraska's Luke Gifford throws up the bones alongside Alex Davis after sacking Wisconsin's Alex Hornibrook during the second quarter. 

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Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: Stanley Morgan runs for a touchdown in the second quarter. 

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Wisconsin 38, Nebraska 17: NU's Heisman Trophy winners Johnny Rodgers, left, in 1972, Mike Rozier, center, in 1983 and Eric Crouch, right, in 2001, pose for a photograph during a timeout.

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Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: JD Spielman delivers a stiff arm to Ohio State's Pete Werner during a kick return in the second quarter.

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Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: Devine Ozigbo gets tripped up by Ohio State's Damon Webb in the first quarter.

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Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: JD Spielman runs in for a touchdown in the third quarter.

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Ohio State 56, Nebraska 14: Stanley Morgan catches a third-quarter pass for touchdown as Ohio State's Denzel Ward defends.

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Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Tanner Lee cheers after throwing the game-winning touchdown pass to Stanley Morgan.

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Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Stanley Morgan scores a touchdown in the final seconds of the fourth quarter as Purdue's Markus Bailey defends. 

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Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska's Tyler Hoppes catches a pass for a touchdown in the fourth quarter as Purdue's Kamal Hardy defends. 

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Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska linebacker coach Trent Bray celebrates the Huskers' 25-24 win.

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Nebraska 25, Purdue 24: Nebraska linebackers coach Trent Bray and the rest of the bench celebrate the win.

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Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Bryan Reimers celebrates a touchdown catch over Northwestern's Alonzo Mayo during the first quarter.

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Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Stanley Morgan jumps into the arms of Jack Stoll after Stoll scored a touchdown in the second quarter.

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Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Lamar Jackson celebrates causing an incomplete pass.

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Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's Joshua Kalu celebrates his pick-six in the third quarter.

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Northwestern 31, Nebraska 24: Nebraska's JD Spielman runs the ball against Northwestern in the second quarter.

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Minnesota 54, Nebraska 21: Nebraska's Mikale Wilbon scores a first-quarter touchdown.

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Minnesota 54, Nebraska 21: Nebraska's Stanley Morgan makes a catch near the end zone.

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Penn State 56, Nebraska 44: Stanley Morgan catches a touchdown pass while being defended by Zech McPhearson.

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Penn State 56, Nebraska 44: Nebraska quarterback Tanner Lee exits the field following the loss.

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