#should I get my UK passport to make this happen………….. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imeternallylove · 3 years ago

Text

The Survivor #1 - BBC Sherlock

[ Survivor 2015 ]

MASTERLIST: x

TW: bomb, bloody, injury, the gun and strong language

Genre: british-american, action, spy and thriller

playlist: x

- the bombing in gaston’s -

"Now our enemies know they can't forge visas. That means they'll be looking for ways to get real ones, the kind you hand out every day."

"We're trying to work with all the US security agencies, but they're stretched thin. Budget cuts, plus they have homegrown terrorists to worry about." Y/N looks at British gov officer. Mr Holmes. "That's why we need to cooperate with our government."

"We're not saying that you have to give everyone the third degree, Y/N. 90% of our applicants are straightforward."

Y/N slides the report file onto the desk, her dissatisfaction with Anderson's foolish mindset spread across full on her faces. "Remaining 10% that we should lose sleepover." Then the boss, Greg Lestrade, talk to everyone, cuts off the cold war. "Well, any application that tweaks you the wrong way, take it straight to Y/N. She excelled at this work in the US."

"What Greg means is when you need someone to blame if the wrong guy gets through, so use me." Y/N grins everyone does the same. "What I'm interested in is anyone with scientific expertise, specialists in chemicals, gases, or anything could cause the explosive. Any question-"

Anderson gets up, cutting Y/N with no manners. "No. Back to work." Y/N leer at him: rolled eyes, less than pleased.

--------------------

The computer desk, Y/N intense reading the file that Mycroft gives at the meeting. The new message pop up from her com, from Molly:

1 New Message

FROM: Molly Hooper

一

I might have someone of interest.

"Dr Balan, good afternoon." Y/N greeted the application as she sat at the position of immigration officer instead of Molly. "I was told my paperwork is in order." Y/N smile and grabs his passport into the scanner. "This won't take long."

"I hope so."

"Romanian citizen." Y/N starts typing, his information showing on the screen. "You have listed a medical conference as the reason for visiting the United Kingdom." He nods, staring at her. "Yes." Y/N, still typing. "Well, this conference is for paediatricians. You're a general practitioner."

"I work in a clinic for newly arrived immigrants. Many of my patients are children." He replies quickly. Sudden, Y/N found something unusual. "Dr Balan, it also says that you consult for Vicker's Pharmaceuticals." She looks at Balan. "I'm curious why we don't have a letter from them?"

"I- I've only been there a few months."

Y/N frowns her eyebrows before Anderson walks over. "Is there a problem? Let me see this file." Y/N rolls her eyes. "I'm not done with my review. Anderson." But he opens the box, forces her to get up. "Come here."

Y/N and Anderson go to the back of the lots box. "You don't think it's strange that a GP, who also happens to be a researcher, wants to attend a paediatrics conference?" Y/N shook her head, extreme displeasure. "There's nothing odd about moonlighting as a consultant to make a few extra bucks. Besides, Molly already did the background check. - Balan's fine."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Look, I know you were a high-flyer in both US and UK. You're all-surpassing, but not this time."

"You should learn about 911, also be more strict on all the things that could cause the explosion and all the risk." Y/N is in such a bad mood, stepping closer to his face, cold tone. "I am not here on holiday."

"Even when it's slow, we're not processing people fast enough. We're seriously understaffed. Y/N. So when the paperwork gets held up by security, people start missing flights, and I'm the one that has to deal with their complaints. Unless you wanna suffer the Ambassador's wrath."

Y/N looks extended out of the mood, "I'm doing my job, Anderson."

--------------------

The middle of bedtime. At 221B Baker St, Y/N boyfriend's flat, Sherlock Holmes. "Late now." Y/N looks so sleepy, stretches herself face out from her computer, shows Dr Baran's visa pending approval, "yeah." Sherlock that was just showered step to puts his lips to hers. He flicks her forehead. "You still not shower, not wash your hair, Y/N!" Y/N laugh. Immediate. The screen alarmed the 'recently processed scientists' that Y/N's searching from the Immigration - immigrants' archives database. She asked Howie to link data in a flash drive, using Lestrade's name. The visa has approved by D. Shelton and F. Anderson, four-person; one of them seemed irregular:

Deloraine Andred. - Wedding in York.

Narong Dith. - Christmas trip and visit friends in Chester.

Minchen Sarah. - Job interview at Cambridge uni.

Fazli Sameer. - Attend for researched indications of drug safety, efficacy, and absorption, Pharmacology models.

Y/N freeze, "look, I didn't see him before, Fazli Sameer, scientific expertise. I told my team that I was interested in scientific expertise, specialists in chemicals, gases or, everything. Sameer related to but, it all approved by Anderson," Y/N told Sherlock with an angry mood while she made a call to Dean. He looks at the screen beside her, silent.

"Hi. Dean. It's Y/N. I'm so sorry it's so late."

"It's okay. Is something wrong?" Dean's voice came through the phone. "You remember a guy you processed a while ago, Sri Lankan researcher by the name of Fazli Sameer?"

"Uh, yeah, I was checking him out when Anderson pulled the file." Y/N looks up at Sherlock, confused. "Why he does that?"

"He said I had too much on my plate, and he'd handle it." Y/N rubs her eyes needs to sleep. "Okay, all right, Dean. Thanks so much. Goodnight."

Sherlock perch on his girl's shoulder. "You need to sleep, love." Y/N typing, she searching more in the database about Dr Baran, "hmm, yeah." Sherlock's face is grumpy. "No." He pulls Y/N in his embrace, lifts her and, holds her into the shared bedroom. "Sherl!"

Sherlock's flat filled among laughing by them both.

--------------------

"Miss Y/L/N. I believe you know Inspector Charles Augustus Magnussen from Counter Terrorism command?" Greg led you in his office. Y/N talks to him but, he cut her off. "Why are you making inquiries into the security status of a US resident, Dr Emil Balan?"

Y/N replies easily, both hands crossed behind her back. "Dr Balan applied for a visa to come to the United Kingdom."

"So you took it upon yourself to go to his workplace and interrogate his superior rather than contacting my office?"

"Dr Balan needs his visa today. I just thought it would be faster." Greg moves to where Y/N stood. "What's this about, Magnussen?"

"The director, Perry, contacted me personally to complain that Ms Y/L/N had been making unauthorized inquiries. Then he called his friend, the Home Secretary, who asked me if you have issued the visa." Y/N sigh looks at the floor. "No, I haven't."

"Is there a problem?" Ambassador Crane opens Greg's door, comes in inside. "Inspector. Sorry, I'm late."

Greg and Magnussen shake Ambassador's hand, "The Home Secretary just called. So what's the problem?" Magnussen looks at Y/N, driving her to answer. "I can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation." His sharp eyes frame at her. "We're talking about a medical professional with political connections. Is this a matter of national security?"

"I-"

Magnussen cut Y/N off again. "I'll inform the Home Secretary." He looks at Y/N, "But let me tell you something about Balan that you probably don't know. A few years ago, his wife applied for a visa for emergency medical treatment in the United States. She died because some bureaucrat kept asking for one more piece of paper. Under the circumstances, you might consider showing her widower a little compassion, Ms Y/L/N." Then, he walks stride away.

"Congratulations, Y/L/N. You're already making enemies in high places when you're only just in. Keep it up." Ambassador Crane closes the door, gives a repulse glace to Y/N. "I'll take care of it, Ambassador Crane." Ambassador Crane nod to Greg walks away.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked. "Yeah." Y/N shrugs her shoulder, "thanks to back me up."

"You have great instincts, Y/N." Y/N gives Greg a sickly smile. "I can phone Mycroft, your soon bro-in-law."

You chuckle. "That's would be better, huh."

--------------------

"Okay. Gaston's, right?" Y/N with her coworker plan to celebrate the birthday of Andeson in the restaurant. Molly's not there. She has attended the meeting with Mycroft. "Guys! After you! I have a phone call." Anderson shouts behind them. However, while the team heads to the restaurant, Anderson deletes Dr Balan, Sameer and the three other visa applicants using Y/N Y/L/N's account for what British Gov and MI6 did to his son, Joseph, in Afghanistan. Joseph dies because Mycroft wants traffic concurs, a terrorist big strike on London.

Now the team visits the restaurant. "I think this is our table. Classy. Look at that bar." Naomi said as Y/N asked Dean, "Do you remember that I asked you. Anderson was pulling the file when you..."

"Y/N, it's this guy's birthday party. We're supposed to be having fun." So Y/N stop, "sorry. Fine."

"Naomi, do you remember to pick up the present?" She was shocked, "Bloody hell! I forgot about that."

"Urg." Y/N get up, "well, right, guys, pony up. I'll take it."

Y/N enter in the present shop. "Hi. I'm here to pick up a gift. Can I look at this one?" She points at the black-white desk clock crystal, "that's beautiful."

"Yes. It's a great choice." Y/N smile at the owner of the shop, "I'll wrap it up for you."

"Thank you."

Back to Gaston's. Dimmock glances at the two waiters that serve the duck. They were sliding the duck to the table. "Yes, here comes the good part."

"Let’s start." The waiter begins to fill the duck breast has blown a hole of gold hand-spinner, start to spin slowly. The blood down follows the jar. "That's disgusting." The waiter continues to spin. Naomi looks around the bar, "Why Anderson so late?"

Outside, a man in a black suit stands next to the wall, far from the restaurant, holding the phone. Wait. There was a bomb hidden under the spinner. He receives an explosive powder - hidden in a brick - using a mobile phone as a trigger, he then delivers it to the restaurant where Y/N's team sitting. Then, his phone vibrates, pops up the message, spinner touch the ignition:

ARMED

Y/N, still waiting for the owner shop to wrap the gift.

The black suit man presses the button to activate the explode.

--------------------

Y/N passed out on the floor inside the shop. The explosion caused her and the shopkeeper to smash into the big display cabinet. Slowly, Y/N came to her senses, tried to stay calm, and got up. Her face was full of wounds with blood, the body as the same, goddamned lucky to her, Y/N was putting on the jacket of Embassy's uniform.

The whole area was burnt and destroyed. Y/N quickly out of the shop to find her friends: "Naomi! Alvin! Dimmock! Dean!" She shouts, crying. There's no sign of exiting from there. The flames remained blown up inside, the fire spouts to her belly, Y/N falls the street, fire catches her scarf, Sherlock's blue scarf. "No! No!" Y/N freaked out, trying to put it out. The car topped, injured people lie down on the street. She coughs because of the smoke, tries to phone Sherlock.

The black suit man walks over to Y/N. He saw her get up, look around and, spot him. "Help!" Y/N attempt to holler. She points at the injured. "Help! There's someone hurt." But he points the gun to Y/N. She put her hands above her head with dread. Straight away, the burst fire extinguisher darted to him.

With an injured body, Y/N runs immensely slow. She went back to the present shop, crushed inside, gasps for breath at the back door. It's difficult to unlock "No! Open it. Open." Y/N sobs. She could hear the footstep of the assassin closer. Shortly, the door opens. Y/N runs agile out of the block. He shot the bullet behind her, grazed her shoulder. YN runs into crowds, across the car, escapes from him. The assassin sighs heavily. He can't catch her. He talks to the phone. "Y/L/N's still alive."

"Where?"

"Following the Embassy survivor protocol. That's what they have trained to do."

"Make sure she doesn't survive. Nash."

--------------------

Greg arrived at the crime scene with Sherlock and John following. He rushes to the yellow line, pushes it up. "British Embassy." He walks to the restaurant. Magnussen was here too. "Four of yours, two waiters, a saleswoman from the glassware shop, and five passersby. And more than a dozen wounded. The blast originated where your people were seated." He indicates the situation. Greg reviles. "God's Sake."

"The bomb took out most of the security cameras near the restaurant. Don't know how much of the feed we'll recover."

"Where's Y/N?" Sherlock questioned Magnussen instead deducts this place. His eyes were red, couldn't keep his shit on the down-low. "We found this in the shop. Y/L/N must have been in there when the bomb went off." Sherlock takes her stuff from him, her credit card in there. John moves down alongside Sherlock. "Do you think she's dead?" The Inspector swung his head. "We can't find her. Dean, Alvin, Naomi, Dimmock, they're all dead." John was fearful after hearing that. "Oh, God."

A few minutes later. Greg, Sherlock and, John back to the car. Greg phones Molly, "Where's Anderson?" Molly answered him, "he had a call before going to the restaurant," Greg's head in hand. "Molly. Get a lock on the trackers on Anderson and Y/N's IDs, now!"

Sherlock doesn't get in the car. "I've something to do." John yells after him, "wait! Sherlock!" But the younger Holmes walks away from the area now.

In the next car, not far. Magnussen and his secretary inside with a wiretap Greg. "Okay. That was the search team, sir. There's still no sign of Y/L/N."

"So whats do we know about her?" His secretary opens Y/N's identity file, "Y/N Y/L/N, an only child, born and raised in Bristol, parents are deceased. Now 32. Oxford and Stanford uni by a scholarship for graduate. She applied to the State Department, scored high enough to get into the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. She single-handedly unravelled a plot to bomb the American Embassy in 20..."

"So she knows the city and, she's good at her job." Magnussen ends her, "tell me something I don't know." The secretary answers. "Well, she's better than good. London's considered a senior posting. She speaks four languages, three of them being Russian, Arabic, and Mandarin."

"-Wait. She's CIA?"

"We don't know, sir."

"Okay, until proven otherwise, we assume Y/L/N is alive. That makes her a material witness and quite possibly a suspect. Get her details out to the police, MI5, the media."

"If she's wandering around injured, surely a security camera will pick her up."

"No, she'll know better than that." Magnussen looks at his secretary, "But put her friends, especially that consulting detective, her boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, under surveillance. He might be on the government's part because of his brother. I'm sure Y/L/N might reach out to him."

"Yes. Sir."

#bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock holmes imagines #bbc sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x you

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literaphobe · 3 years ago

Note

What I'd be really excited for is to find out how this works in-world.

Is this literally the first time ever this has ever happened in that universe? Is it something that's happened before in history? Is there mythology about it in ancient cultures where love stories are solved by one person being teleported, thus proving them to be made for each other despite other restrictions? Has the fandom in that world been making jokes about "careful Dream, if you take another step to the left you might just teleport George there lol" about dnf?

Did the military try and fail to utilize it because it's too at-random? Does the government handle it or is it so rare that they decided "ah screw it here's a half assed law about how they should just try to get back when they can"? Are there non profits in places where cross-cultural or cross-racial marriage isn't allowed that treat these as a special case and fight for the rights of the couples? What does an extremely homophobic state/country do when it's two women or two men, do they go "ah look theyre just SO GOOD friends, you know its oversexualization to assume raptures are always romantic!!!" or do they just get super sus and try to sue you?

I'm probably reading WAY too far into it but I'm a worldbuilding nerd. Even if it's just the first time ever it happens I'll still be happy to read the fic tho! Your writing is super banger. I also want to note that it took me literal weeks to find the askbox because my brain is too hollow to understand how to do that from ur page on the theme and I have to do it by going thru the dash-sight when you click the eye. No pressure to give spoilers (I would totally eat them up though) and I'm sure I'll love it either way!

I feel like after this essay I can say that I'm that one long comment person on ao3 who disappeared for the last few chapters and to avoid my heart being actually shattered into a million pieces I'm waiting for the last chapter to come out to drop comments on everything, bc if I have to see them heartbroken again i will ACTUALLY cry and also if they don't get an actual happy ending I will also cry, and I've been trying to avoid that by trying to see if they are actually happy in the end via osmosis thru my dash before I read. I'm fragile sdkfjsdf.

ok this is a long ask sorry for the wall of text but anyways excited for ur future projects!

HI! also no, there is no pre-existing lore about teleportation in the rapture!dnf universe :) basically, they do some googling online but realize this is some freaky crazy shit that would be very hard to prove, so they don’t end up telling a lot of people, and even though they speculate that its possible they’re not the first people this /tp irl shit has happened to, they think it’s dangerous to try and actively find people who have experienced it on the off chance that it 1) gets them in trouble bc they’re famous 2) it doesn’t work 3) they get like murdered…. but basically, since dream doesn’t have a passport OR any legal records of him leaving the US and going to the UK, they realize how dangerous their situation could be because dream could be accused of trespassing, worst case scenario, which THEY DO NOT WANT so on the surface they’re hoping dream wakes up back in florida and nothing else happens so that they don’t run into any trouble, but UNDER THE SURFACE… what do they ACTUALLY want? y’know

also HOPING U LOVE SADF WHEN U CATCH UP AND LOOKING FORWARD TO UR THOUGHTS!!!

#ask #sadf #slashtp

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beatricethecat2 · 4 years ago

Photo

"A road trip? How exciting!" Jeanie exclaims.

"They gave you that much time off?" Warren gruffs.

"I'm still working. Sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena quips.

"And you're still...doing whatever it is you do? For the Secret Service? You never did explain," Jeanie asks.

"'Secret' and 'in-service of' the government, yeah," Myka answers.

"A-And what do you do, Helena?" Jeanie asks.

"I..." Helena glances at Myka.

"...work at a rare book collection. In Montreal," Myka adds.

"For a private patron, specializing in Victorian tomes," Helena elaborates.

"Dad, you should show her your collection."

"Oh, I don't know," Warren grumbles. "Won't be as fancy as she's used to."

"So you're Canadian?" Jeanie presses.

"No, English," Helena says.

"But you work in Canada?"

"It is a British commonwealth."

"Was," Myka snips. "Was a British Commonwealth."

"Is." Helena shoots Myka a firm glance. "Hence the Queen on their currency. I'm not being—"

"But you are sometimes."

"I'm aware," Helena snaps. "I researched my residence. It was easier to obtain a visa there due to my UK passport."

"You only have a British one?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why?"

"I thought they'd give you a..." Myka glances at her parents. "Never mind."

A beat passes as the conversation hits a lull.

"How long did you say you've been traveling?" Jeanie inquires.

"A few months?" Myka looks at Helena for confirmation.

"Two and a half."

"And you've been able to leave work that long?" Jeanie asks Helena.

"I've made arrangements."

Jeanie looks between the two of them, wheels turning in her head. "Did you meet in Montreal? When were you there, honey?" she asks Myka.

"We, um, met a few years earlier." Myka's hands twist together on her lap.

The room quiets as both Myka and Helena fail to elaborate.

"Did something happen at work like last time?" Warren throws out.

"No," Myka answers, a little too forcefully and Helena shies away from her shoulder. She looks in Helena's direction, but Helena won't meet her gaze.

"Something else happened. A few things, actually."

"They don't know about your--"

"No. I went looking for you after my surgery. Then this trip happened—"

"Surgery?" Warren blurts.

"Tumor on my ovaries. They thought it was cancer, but it turned out benign. I didn't tell anyone, but Pete knew something was off. He picked me up from my biopsy and a few weeks later, they cut it out."

"Oh, Myka," Jeanie says.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Warren asks.

"Work was so crazy, I didn't have time," Myka says.

"You were still working?" Jeanie asks.

"You should have stayed with us," Warren adds.

"Tracy just had the baby, and I didn't want you to worry—"

"Baby?" Helena looks at Myka, brow raised.

"I told you, didn't I?"

"I think I would have recalled."

"Sorry. He's what," Myka says, looking at her mom, "three, four months old now?"

"Four and a half. Does your sister know any of this? About you being sick?"

"No. I haven't talked to her much—"

"You've not seen your sister's child?" Helena's whole body turns as she glares at Myka incredulously.

"I-I was recovering. Then I went to find you," Myka says, her tone small. "A-And, it's a baby, right? It just sort of lies there, drooling. I thought I'd wait until he was...walking or something."

"That will take quite some time."

"I saw pictures. I texted I'd see him at Christmas."

Helena and Jeanne share a look of judgement.

"What? I don't get the whole 'having kids' thing."

"You will when you find the right fellow," Warren advises.

"Dad, that's not..." Myka starts, then stops with a breathy grunt. "Helena and I are dating, OK?"

"Oh." Warren's eyes dart to Helena, his expression minimally surprised. "The right woman then."

"You two are dating?" Jeanie asks.

"I thought you could tell."

"You do seem close, which is unusual for you," Jeanie mumbles nodding thoughtfully to herself.

"So surgery and a new beau. Keeping secrets again, Myka? I thought we moved past that," Warren says.

"Helena's not a secre--' Myka's phone rings. "Oh, thank god." She hits accept. "Agent Bering...yes...hang on a sec," she says, striding out of the room.

Helena sits up straighter as all eyes fall on her.

"What's your position on kids?" Warren asks Helena.

"Myka doesn't want them, Warren," Jeanne says, lips pursed.

"Yes, but I'm asking her," Warren points with his eyes to Helena.

"I'm...inclined to agree with Mrs. Bering."

"Oh, Jeanie, please," Jeanie says to Helena. "No need to pressure the poor girl. You have one grandkid already. Be happy with that."

"But Myka's the smart one," Warren says.

"Oh, now you're on her side?" Jeanie quips. "All those years you pushed her—"

"Wells..." Warren interrupts, eyes on Helena. "Myka said your last name is Wells?"

"That is correct."

"Any relation to the author?"

Helena opens her mouth to answer just as Myka swoops in. "Distant," she says and pokes Helena with her elbow as she sits.

"What did they want," Helena asks.

"There's a thing nearby."

"And?" Helena frowns.

"I told them maybe."

"You should have said no. We're otherwise engaged." Helena nods towards Myka's parents.

"You work with Myka at...whatever it is she does?" Jeanie asks.

"She helps out sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena adds.

"Don't you have to be an agent?"

"She's a former one."

"But she's not American," Warren says.

"It's...a partnership. Of a kind. Not worth explaining."

"Go on," Warren grumbles. "Keep keeping us in the dark."

"You didn't tell me about your cataract surgery."

"We didn't want you to worry," Jeanie says. "They said it was routine."

Myka frowns.

The room quiets again.

"Your shop is quite impressive, Mr. Bering," Helena says, speaking up to fill the pause. "I'm curious about your collection. Myka's told me wonderful things."

"Ach, call me Warren," Warren says, his tone softening. "Let me dig out my Wells first editions. I'll meet you two in the back."

"Sure, Dad," Myka says, watching him leave the room.

"Be civil with him," Myka whispers to Helena. "This was your idea."

"I'm aware--"

"Should we order Chinese or are you two not staying for dinner?" Jeanie asks, rising from the couch.

"We have that thing," Myka says, flashing her phone at Helena.

"Which can wait," Helena snips. "We'd be pleased to join you."

"Good," Jeanie says, her expression brightening. "Myka can tell us more about her surgery. I'll get you that moo shu pork you always liked."

"I haven't liked that since I was twelve."

"Oh, that's right...before your 'vegetarian' phase."

"Do tell," Helena says, perking up.

"She's thin now, but you should have seen her then. A beanpole!"

"I was still growing!"

"You lived on lettuce and Twizzlers."

"She still does."

"Hey, I pigged out at that barbecue place. You were the one picking at it."

"I wasn't familiar with the offerings."

"They don't have barbecue in England?" Jeanie asks.

"Not in her day," Myka pokes.

"That never gets old, does it."

"Nope!"

Helena scowls as Myka grins.

Jeanie looks on, confused.

"Order whatever, Mom. It'll be fine. We should go meet Dad."

"No, I'll bring you two the menu. I don't want to get the wrong thing. Or maybe we should get pizza? You have that in England, don't you, Helena?"

"Not in my day," Helena snips at Myka.

"Myka!" Warren bellows.

"Coming, Dad!" Myka looks at Jeanie. "Whatever you get is fine. Let's go." She grabs Helena's hand and drags her out of the room.

Jeanie shakes her head but smiles to herself as she watches them leave.

-----------------

Bering and Wells: Travelogged ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 6 Title: Colorado Springs: Rocky Mountain Way

Summary: Our intrepid pair travel north-east from Mesa Verde, meandering through the Rocky Mountains, hitting spots both familiar and new. As they descend from Pike's Peak, a last minute decision lands them on the Bering and Sons doorstep, with little, if any, prep work put into what meeting Myka's family might entail.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5

-----------------

***BONUS SCENE***

"Why don't you allow me to assist," Helena offers, hovering just behind Tracy.

"What's she saying?" Tracy asks Myka.

"Let her make the tea," Myka interprets.

"It's just tea, Myka. I'm not that sleep-deprived."

Helena looks at Myka, her exasperation evident.

"But she's English," Myka explains.

"So?"

"She can make it better."

"It's tea Myka, not rocket science."

"There is a science to it," Helena says, stepping closer to inspect Tracy's setup. "What sort of tea are you serving?"

"The kind with caffeine." Tracy pours water into the teapot and plucks four unlabelled bags from a silver plastic sheath. She plops the bags in the pot and covers it with the lid. "I don't remember the brand. I threw the box out and stuffed them in this one." She hands the box to Helena.

Helena's face droops.

"Helena's kind of a tea expert," Myka explains. "Maybe not as much as Steve--"

"Why didn't you say so! I have the fancy kind." Tracy rustles around the pantry and hands Myka boxes one by one. "Here's Raspberry Zinger and, um, some mint thing, and Sleepytime, but you wouldn't want that now. And I think..." She reaches deep into the cabinet and hauls out a tin. "African Autumn. I won it at a raffle at Kevin's work. But it's loose, not in bags. Such a hassle."

"Yes, indeed," Helena says, her tone slightly mocking. She takes the tin and scours its ingredients.

"How much sleep are you getting?" Myka asks.

"Not much. The kid needs fed all the time, and I'm the milk dispenser." Tracy cups a breast and jiggles it up and down.

Myka wrinkles her nose.

"Too gross for you, huh sis?" Tracy says.

"This ties in nicely to yesterday's conversation with your parents," Helena says.

"Aw, don't..." Myka says.

Tracy twirls around and faces Helena. "Don't listen to her. What did Mom and Dad say?"

"They seemed surprised...no, your father seemed surprised to hear Myka holds no interest in procreating."

"Myka, with kids? Ha! I'd love to see that." Tracy smacks Myka on the arm.

"I could if I wanted to," Myka mumbles, rubbing the smacked area.

"You'd be an excellent mother," Helena says.

"You think so?"

"A helicopter parent, totally. She'd have a spreadsheet for every little thing. Dinner now. Nap now. And if the kid went off script..." Tracy gives an eye roll and a dismissive wave. "Do you have kids?" she asks Helena.

"Not at present."

"Do you want some?"

"I've made my peace with the subject," Helena says, adding a sage head nod.

"Too old?"

"Ha!" Myka's hand flies up to cover her huge grin.

"In a sense," Helena says, scowling.

A tinny cry directs all eyes to the baby monitor.

"Annnd he's up." Tracy groans. "Let me go grab him. I'll meet you in the living room."

"OK," Myka says, eyeing the teapot. "We'll just--"

"Go. Sit!" Tracy says, looking over her shoulder before leaving the room.

Myka and Helena shuffle off and settle on the couch.

"I'm sorry about all this kid stuff," Myka says.

"Twas I that 'poked the bear' today, so to speak," Helena says, scooting closer to Myka. "Did you not mention the child earlier because you thought it would upset me?"

"Maybe? I think it's more I felt guilty about not being as excited as everyone kept telling me I was supposed to be. So I just blocked it out."

"I see."

"Look, I know you were an uber-mom and everything, but is it ok with you how I feel? I don't want to ruin this." Myka takes hold of Helena's hands.

"I have made my peace with the subject. You saw the shell of a person I became to live out a fantasy of family."

"Yeah, but...and it pains me to say this, part of you was happy there."

"Fleetingly," Helena says, looking down at their intertwined hands, squeezing lightly. "But I do believe I'll make a better partner to you because of it, if that means anything."

"P-Partner?"

"Is that not the correct phrase? I have much to learn about modern terminology."

"It is if you...if you think I'm..."

Myka drifts towards an already leaning in Helena, their lips barely touching when...

"Here we are!" Tracy blurts, smiling down at the baby as she walks in. "Your nephew!" She displays the child to Myka.

"Hey, little buddy!" Myka smiles a toothy, performative smile, her eyes opening wider and rounder than usual.

"Waaahh," the baby cries.

"Did Aunt Myka scare you," Tracy says, bouncing him in her arms as his cries continue.

"All I did was smile!"

"Weirdly," Tracy grumps. "He's fussy sometimes."

"May I?" Helena asks, rising, holding out her hands.

"Knock yourself out," Tracy says, gently laying the baby and blanket in Helena's arms.

Helena cradles the boy and rocks him back and forth. "Shhh," she whispers from time to time. His cries decrease in length and volume until he gurgles and quiets down.

"There you are, little one," Helena says, her broad smile echoing her shining eyes. She shifts him to one side and pokes a finger into his tiny hand.

"Myka, your face!" Tracy blurts.

Myka stares at the scene in front of her. "You're r-really good at that," she says.

"I'd have suggested a nip of gin if he wouldn't quiet. But this one's an angel," Helena says.

"For him or for me?" Tracy asks.

"Perhaps both," Helena says, passing the baby back to Tracy. "He seems a tad peckish."

"Eternally," Tracy grumbles, settling into the rocking chair.

"Are you alright?" Helena asks Myka as she returns to the couch.

"I've never seen you smile like that."

"And it disturbed you?"

"No, it was...nice. Brighter than usual."

"Brighter than for you?"

"Just...different."

"I do have a soft spot for infants--"

"So you were about to kiss when I walked in. I knew it!" Tracy blurts.

"Mom didn't tell you--whoa!" Myka shields her eyes as the baby latches onto Tracy's breast.

"All mom said was you were here with your girlfriend."

"Y-You couldn't give him a bottle?" Myka says.

"It's natural, Myka."

"But you're my sister, and that's your boob."

"I'm pleased wet nurses are out of fashion," Helena quips.

"Gin? Wet nurses? How old are you?" Tracy asks.

"Ugh," Myka grunts, face wrinkling as she chances a glance at Tracy. "What'd Mom say again?"

"You were here with your girlfriend. I thought she meant bestie."

"No girlfriend." Myka slips her hand into Helena's and smiles triumphantly.

"Leave it to Mom to understate that," Tracy says, her free hand reaching towards the end table but falling inches short of her goal.

"Allow me." Helena springs up and hands the towel to Tracy.

"Thank you." Tracy blots milk off of the baby's face and her chest. "Ugh, I completely forgot about the tea!" she says, looking up at Helena.

"Not to worry, I'll tend to it. Is there anything else you need?"

"A modesty curtain for Myka?" Tracy jokes.

Myka sticks her tongue out. Tracy reciprocates.

"Milk and sugar?" Helena asks.

"Yes, please," Tracy answers.

"Black for you, I know," Helena says to Myka. "Barbarian."

Myka sticks her tongue out at Helena.

Helena smiles and walks into the kitchen.

"Tell me everything," Tracy says once Helena's out of earshot.

"After you put that thing away," Myka says, pointing with her eyes at Tracy's chest.

"Prude."

"Helena would disagree."

Tracy gasps and throws the milk-stained towel at Myka.

"Gross!" Myka says, ducking away.

"Start talking," Tracy says, buttoning up her top with one hand. "Where on earth did you find her?" Becuase I think I want one, too "

END SCENE

-TBC-

NOTES: No artifacts this time, just a glimpse into family dynamics and H.G. and Myka's budding relationship. I rewatched the episode with Myka's parents to see where that was left in-canon and can't imagine it became more resolved over time. I did a tiny bit of research into Victorian breastfeeding practices and was surprised to have turned up some daguerrotypes/tin types from the 1840's-60's. Apparently, it was a fashion in the US to have your portrait taken while breastfeeding (infant mortality being what is was back then). Look up Hyperallergic's article, "The Victorian-era Daguerrotypes of Women Breastfeeding" for more info. (And yes, nearly everything leads back to photographs somehow with me.) PS: Two more of these and I'll wrap up season one!

#BERING AND WELLS #w13 #fanfiction #fan art #canon divergent AU #Myka Bering #Helena HG Wells #We're going to visit my parents this week #for the first time in a year and a half #so this lines up nicely with that event #it's going to be weird to be in a small town #but nice to get out of this big one

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jenniferdiazisatransgirl · 3 years ago

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Passport Update

So today my GP has rang to say that they will provide me a doctor’s note free of charge. And for those thinking, “Wait! Don’t you live in the UK? I thought you had free healthcare.” We do, however there are certain things doctors can still charge for. A doctor’s note is one of them. So the fact they have kindly agreed to waive their charge is nice.

Provided the Passport Office doesn’t suddenly decide both my GRC and a doctor’s note are unacceptable evidence that my change of gender is permanent. I should at the very least be able to get my passport now. However, after what they have put me through they can get stuffed if they think I am dropping it at getting that little blue book.

I do NOT want this to happen to any other trans person. The fact that their excuses have varied from “the rules have change and we just haven’t updated our website” to “We can choose to reject any document as evidence that we desire”, even one issued by Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service apparently. Yeah, I will not be dropping this.

This shouldn’t have happened in the first place and I won’t let it happen to any other trans person. A GRC should make it easier to change your gender on ID. It should not make it harder.

The Home Office can answer to both my solicitor and my MP.

#gender recognition certificate #her majesty’s passport office #home office #trans woman #transgender #miscelllaneous

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hireath24 · 5 years ago

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Everything Wrong with ACOFAS: A Rant Part Four

Disclaimer: This is the fourth and final part of this series and will continue from pages 151 to 229. Part one can be found here. Part two can be found here. Part three can be found here. These page numbers come from the UK paperback edition of A Court of Frost and Starlight. This is my own opinion of the book - the writing, the grammar, the characters, etc. I won’t be commenting on anything that may have been plagiarized or that has been ripped off from the history of other cultures as SJM has a tendency to do. However, if there is something you pick up on about these subjects, feel free to comment them and I will add them to the post with credit. If you disagree with my opinions, I’m sorry and hope you see the error in your ways.

Page 152: ‘...felt like a decadence.’ I’m sorry, felt like a decadence? That’s not how you use that word.

Page 153: Feyre is drawing Rhys in the nude and all I can think of is draw me like one of your french girls Jack.

Page 154: Whilst I’m happy that SJM is showing everyone suffering from a hangover because of all the drinking they did in the previous chapter, I want to know why Feyre couldn’t just use her magic to get rid of hers. And everybody else’s. If she’s said that she could use her magic to remove the pain of grief, why can’t she do this?

Page 155: The paragraphing in this book is so messed up. I’m going to type out this little bit exactly as it is printed in the book, look: ‘But two massive figures filled the archway of the dining room, and Rhys paused.

Azriel and Cassian, having crept up on cat-soft feet, were also wearing their Illyrian leathers.

And from their shit-eating grins, I knew this would not end well.’ What is this? It’s such a mess.

Page 155: ‘Tradition indeed.’

Page 156: Everyone keeps going on about how wealthy the Night Court is and I still don’t understand where they’re getting their money from. Do the people of the Night Court have to pay tax? Does Rhys have an amount of money that he puts back into Velaris for the upkeep of it? And why is Feyre saying that ‘paperwork could wait’? Uh, no. No, it can’t. The people of her court can’t spend the Solstice like she is because their homes are wrecked, they’ve lost family members. Feyre abandons her duties as High Lady to fuck around with friends and we’re supposed to believe that she’s a decent ruler? I don’t think so.

Page 164: ‘What is.’

Page 165: So Rhys upset Tamlin when he went to go and yell at the poor sod over in Spring Court a few chapters back and it upset Tamlin so much that it made him throw out all of Lucien’s clothes because he ‘wishes to remain in solitude’? So, basically, this was all Rhys’s fault and he doesn’t face any consequences for it.

Page 167: I’m so happy that Elain is making it very clear that she doesn’t want a mate, but I wish Feyre would stop going on about how good of a male Lucien is to her. And she says to Elain ‘You couldn’t say a single word to him’ as if it’s Elain’s job to make him feel comfortable? Elain wants nothing to do with him! Feyre needs to stop pressuring people.

Page 167: ‘Solstice. It was Solstice.’ WHY

Page 168: Aaaaand they’re drinking again. Feyre abandoned her work for friends and alcohol. I’m not okay with it but I’m even less okay with how common and casual wine is used here.

Page 169: ‘Tell me what.’

Page 171: ‘Illyrian babies indeed.’

Page 172: Do you remember a couple of years ago when high school AUs were all the rage in fanfiction? That is what this book reads like, only high school AUs managed to make me cry on a few occasions.

Page 172: So it’s an ‘Illyrian custom’ for the heated shed, birchin, and a bunch of naked warriors ‘sitting in the steam, sweating’. But... Why? And can somebody please tell me what a birchin is?

Page 178: One of the characters gets red sexy underwear as a present, which is fine. But in a kid’s book? No, no, no, no. No!! A twelve year old could be reading this! What the fuck?

Page 179: ‘Against the onslaught of Nesta.’ Wow, SJM is really trying her hardest here to villainize Nesta.

Page 184: ‘rare, vibrant paint from the continent.’ This line was just thrown in here without any explanation at all! Why is the paint rare? How did Azriel get it from the continent? Why is it only available on the continent?

Page 193: These last couple of pages really did it for me with Cassian’s character. He follows Nesta home after she says she doesn’t want him to? He yells at her and tells her to ‘go somewhere else’ even though he knows she can’t? He reaches for her hand after she’s told him many, many times to leave her alone? This is creepy. This is stalker behavior. And if they get together (which we all know that they will), this is fucking borderline abuse. It’s controlling and toxic and unhealthy, which could be said about all of SJM’s romances but heigh ho.

Page 194: What is ‘faelight’?

Page 201: ‘Would it indeed be a gift for you?’

Page 201: Also, why is the mountains with the stars the Night Court’s symbol? What’s the history behind it?

Page 201: Feyre’s toes have ‘curled’ three times in this book and I’m just thankful that the Fae can’t develop arthritis.

Page 202: I can’t... I can’t read this sex scene. I can’t do it. It’s too much. ‘My breasts turned achingly heavy.’ OH MY GOD. Not only is this a kid’s book but.... It’s also just disgusting.

Page 202: ‘Brazen possessiveness.’ This can’t even be read as sex positivism anymore. It’s violent, possessive smut. Did somebody say BDSM? (Wait, wait. BDSM requires consent and safe words.) Also, if you want to write about sex positively then talk a bit about protection? And consent? And making sure that everyone is comfortable? And for goodness sake, don’t add this to a kid’s book. I made a post that goes into more detail about this here.

Page 204: ‘How you let me do such naughty, terrible things to you.’ FUCKING WHAT?! DO I EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN HOW BAD THIS IS?!??!

Page 205: ‘Undiluted, utter predator’ You cannot look me in the eye and tell me that this was SJM’s attempts at adding in some sex positivity. To be honest, I’m, starting to think that this whole book was just fan service. SJM knew that her readers wanted the wall scene and here we have a whole book dedicated to the build up of it. NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS FUCKING BOOK!

Page 206: Rhysand just climaxed at a picture of his child.

Page 209: It’s incredibly sweet that Rhys bought a house for Feyre. Really, no, it is. And the ‘build a nursery, Feyre’ is also sweet. But A) the money side of things needs explaining. B) Why does nobody want to be at the House of Wind and what’s the point of even having it if nobody uses it? C) Rhysand bought Feyre a house when many of his people are currently homeless due to the wars... Right.

Page 211: At this point, Rhysand should just leave Tamlin alone. I don’t care what his intentions were. And seriously, is this the way that High Lords act with each other? There should be guards there, there should be people there to protect their own High Lord. There should be advisors and- What does the Fae government look like? What are the rules? Is there a jail? A judge? The High Lords act like spoiled, rich children.

Page 214: ‘Alive. It was all alive.’

Page 214: Mor has an estate that sits on ‘three hundred pristine acres.’ I want to know the geography of the courts. Yes, I know, we have a map. But that’s all we have. I want to know about borders (and if there are physical borders that need to be guarded to stop people from coming in to separate courts). Is a passport thing or even papers required to travel between courts? Buckingham Palace has 39 acres of land, including what it sits on. Did SJM do any research? There are whole countries smaller than three hundred acres.

Page 215: ‘She didn’t want to take his joy away from him. Anymore than she already did.’ Mor feels guilty about her sexuality because she won’t be with Azriel and, somehow, fans of the book are okay with that.

Page 222: This may just be me being stupid but I’m confused about ‘Illyrian.’ Rhysand said their children would be Illyrians, Feyre calls him an Illyrian baby. They wear Illyrian leathers and follow Illyrian customs but here: ‘Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget it.’ What does this mean? I’m so confused.

Page 222: Do you know what might be a better act of feminism then having girls train to fight? Having the boys of all the camps be allowed to leave. Being allowed to stop fighting and go and have families.

And that’s it from me, folks! I’ve read this book twice now and my opinion hasn’t changed. It’s boring, problematic, addresses things very poorly. It’s too sexual, there’s too much talk about alcohol and sex. And it really did nothing at all.

Thank you for joining me on this little series! It’s definitely been interesting. Again, if there’s anything that I’ve missed then tell me and I shall write it in. I may do this again with more of SJM’s books but it’s surprisingly time consuming.

#anti sjm #anti sarah j maas #anti feysand #anti acofas #anti acomaf #anti acowar #anti acotar #anti roawaelin #anti feyre #anti rhysand #anti cc city #anti crescent cty #anti tog #my post

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 4 years ago

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Dying on PLA (Pure Love Alliance)

This post was written by a former BC who questioned an authority figure on PLA and experience life-threatening consequences.

I’ll start with this: the moment I was dying was when I felt my soul sinking into the ground during the PLA 2000 tour, in a lavish town house owned by The Unification Church in Kensington, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in London, UK. I was 16 when this all happened. For some reason, my soul wasn’t rising as you might imagine when people die, probably because it was too tired, instead, it sank. I was in a sleeping bag and surrounded by 300 other kids all in sleeping bags, lined up like goods in the grocery store with little room to walk. Asleep, I slowly realized that I was sinking through my sleeping bag, past my body, into the oriental rug and through hardwood floor, deep into the ground, creeping further and further below the foundation of the building. So I knew I was dying—but I didn’t feel the least bit sad or upset. In fact I was relieved—even ecstatic. It meant that the torment from my supposed fellow BCs would be over, that this pain from the infection raging through my body that left my neck, arms, wrists wrapped in puss filled bandages, and my body so fatigued (so. fatigued.) would be over. The ground felt cool, and was getting colder, and it was really actually quite refreshing.

How great would that be to not have to wake up? Who cares if these people found a dead girl in her sleeping bag in the morning. Good for them. They might be surprised but they’d get to spin some fantastic story about my soul paying indemnity for the crimes that my Japanese ancestors committed against the Koreans; that’s apparently how they were explaining my mysterious illness to friends— an illness that had my upper body oozing a relentless and embarrassing flow of thick yellow puss, that had me changing my bandages every hour if I had the energy and a clean bandage on me. I found out that this story was making the rounds through the 300 or so BCs who were also on that tour. Before that, someone who I went to summer camp with for years, actually asked nonplussed, if I was currently struggling with Satan. Another story that others hinted to was that I was fallen. Writer’s note: At that point in time, like many of you, I had not so much as held a boy’s hand, let alone kissed anyone, made out and definitely never lost my virginity. I was precocious, spirited, ballsy—like any teenager trying to find humor in strange places. Most things I did was for the sake of a good laugh. But I was in my heart a total straight arrow, and I believed in the church, seriously, like the best or worst of them.

On this trip, there were also elders who took me aside from the group dinners and recounted the amazing stories about my dad and what a great guy he was at the religious seminary, the New Yorker Hotel, Belvedere, etc. And then they would say; Why would you disappoint him so horribly?

I wouldn’t know exactly how much I was disappointing him because I was never allowed to call him or my mom, or make any phone calls for that matter. I was being guarded 24/7, my passport was locked up, I wasn’t allowed to sleep much (I would be kept up later and woken up earlier than the others), nor take showers, which caused, what I would later find to be a trio of life-threatening infections coursing through my body. I had a very different experience from other BCs who were free to eat, shower, and sleep.

When I felt like my soul must have been half a mile below ground. I stopped, because this was it. Then I felt something big—bigger than me, bigger than everything and everyone around me, pulling me up with the utmost urgency, and I knew that this big thing gave a damn— even if I didn’t. I snapped back to my body with a whiplash that woke me up, panting, freaking out. Even if I didn’t care to live (and I really didn’t), even if these 300 other people around me, even if my religion didn’t care, God, the universe, this force, without a doubt, cared violently. This is when I realized that God did not move exclusively through organized religion, he/it moves and vibrates in anything, in everything. So my direct relationship with this force was felt for the first time under those floorboards, separate from and despite the machinations of my religion.

I immediately woke up and saw in the reflection of this gigantic ornate gold mirror on the wall opposite me, what looked like at least 20-30 white, blue glowing shadows, all very tall, standing around me and the dozens of sleeping BCs around me. Who they were, I’m not sure, I was delirious, and more importantly I was terrified that I had almost died, and so willingly. I couldn’t go back to sleep. But now I had a fire in my stomach, to get through this alive and a rabid indignity against those who’d put me in this position, including myself. I would do right by the universe, by God, by surviving this.

I got here by making the mistake of questioning the director of the PLA on the modus operandi of the Pure Love Alliance, on Day 1 of the tour. My fellow BCs didn’t make the mistake of vocalizing the inconsistencies in the logic of posing as a non-denominational group when we were 99% BCs, they didn’t stand up for the not even 1 percent non-BC kids who didn’t have a choice but to read the Divine Principle and join our prayers. If you are too precocious with too many rhetorical questions for elders, you’ll see just how nasty and how quickly the machine will mobilize against you.

Why. During the previous PLA tour of 1999 I remember lying about our religious association when being interviewed by the local news in Birmingham, AL. We were vetted and instructed to withhold our association with the Unification Church so when a reporter asked me what I was, I responded “Lutheran"— my father’s previous religion before joining the church.

I hate lying about something as grand and dumb as my religion. I didn’t think that we needed to constantly lie, it frustrated me always having to hide the church from my school friends and I wanted to do away with the smoke and mirrors and live openly about this. So at the beginning of the 2000 tour that would be marching through the US in July and then marching through Europe in August, I went up to the director and I asked him: why can’t we be forthright about who we are, if we’re truly non-denominational?

I didn’t immediately realize what a total coward he was, I just thought he was an adult, he must have some good answers. But he pandered with half answers, trotted me around the ring with half baked logic all while getting increasingly upset and dismissive: you just don’t understand; this is much too complicated for you to understand (more upset); this is God’s will; do you want to go against God’s will? And I responded with: I think it’s pretty simple, God doesn’t need us to lie. We should be honest to the press and other churches about being associated with the UC. Otherwise we should stop calling ourselves non-denominational, right? The conversation went nowhere and I eventually walked away.

I was probably earmarked as being a troublemaker but it wasn’t that bad. At least in the beginning, I hung out with my BC friends, some of whom I’d been growing up with and all was well during the tour through the US.

It was when I noticed that there were 3 or 4 non-BC kids on the tour—how they were roped in to hang out with us nutjobs for two weeks, I’m not sure, but I know everyone looked at them with a special wonder. They were special to us because we were showing them that there was this great camaraderie and communal life that we had together amongst ourselves and we really believed that we were letting them in on something special.

I noticed that while we were reading the Divine Principle and praying in circles, they were expected to do the same with us, without any opportunity to decide for themselves whether or not they wanted to in the first place. This would be a small but important gesture to extend for any organization that called itself non-denominational to the outside world; to accept and respect people of other faiths; to let them have the opportunity to pray in their own way if they needed to. It really bothered me because it seemed wildly disrespectful and a bit dishonest. If I were traveling with a Christian youth group, wouldn’t I want the right to read the DP and pray my way at 5 am in the morning on Sundays?

It became a breaking point when late one night on a tour bus in Europe, I brought up the issue again during a bus reading of the DP, and I got pissed. I openly pointed out to the bus leaders the hypocrisy of a so-called non-denominational youth group posing as such to the press, all while not respecting the faiths of others on the tour.They said that this is how it’s done, that everyone does the same thing so that they can stick to the strict schedule to get through the tour. This is the will and mission of the PLA, this is God’s will, and we need to see it through. Then I said: If they aren’t allowed to choose, than I refuse to read the DP and refuse to join prayers until they do have the choice.

I’m not really sure why I cared so much but it was because I could see my bus leaders acknowledging my logic, I could see behind their eyes that they did. But they towed the line and refused to acknowledge that there was any right. But my refusal to pray or read DP, they took very, very seriously—yet in my mind, I wasn’t doing anything drastic, I wasn’t leaving the church. That would be crazy! I was just taking a stand.

These non-BC kids were, at least outwardly, complacent. But let’s be honest we were all 14, 15, 16 years old and expected to do everything en masse, but why shouldn’t they/we have the choice to read the DP or not? What was faith if it wasn’t a deliberate, and educated choice? Shouldn’t anyone be allowed the right to question things, if only to return with stronger answers?

As soon as I had this fight on the bus, that was when the horrible things really began. I was always being shaken awake on long rides when everyone else was allowed to fall asleep, even if only for an hour or two. Lack of sleep breaks you quickly. I wasn’t allowed to sleep with my friends, instead I always had sometimes two unnis sleeping and walking with me. I could mingle with others, but I was always being watched by them close by. I was escorted to bathrooms but never allowed to take a shower, they said I could take one later, but later never came until it was too late, after my infections had become so severe they couldn’t exactly ignore it.

It was 3 in the morning when the buses filled with BC teenagers and our wranglers parked on the curve of the fucking German autobahn to let us out. We were released into the cold night by our demented but well-meaning leaders, searching along the curve of the freeway in the wet grass and mud trying to find our suitcases. Let me repeat, 3 am, 300+ teenagers trudging in the dark along a sharp curve of the German autobahn before entering what, in my mind, was the Black Forest.

I don’t even remember who was in charge of me at that point but it seemed to be predetermined that one sister became my handler in Germany. She came out of the blue, barking at me to move out, and personally marched me into that forest, literally behind me nipping at my heels, always on the assumption that I would flee sideways, off the trail, deeper into the forest, to what, I don’t know. I had no desire to leave, I was just hungry and exhausted. When we reached the top it was a huge building that wasn’t even fully constructed with insulation hanging out and utility lights haphazardly nailed and dangling from the ceilings. It was in a huge large barn like space where we convened in a long line to finally get some split pea soup as dinner, and by the time I finally got some, someone knocked it out of my hand, on purpose? Who the fuck knows. I would have cried but I was too tired and I don’t need sympathy. Some other BCs said that was too bad, but my handler wouldn’t let me go back in line to get more. Instead, we had to pitch our tents in the mud incline below the barn, my tent mate was of course my ever-watchful unni/handler.

I’m not exactly sure how the tent stood up, it was lopsided because of the mud and the wet grass, and the incline, but once that was done I went to go brush my teeth, and saw behind the barn, a bunch of white statues staggered in a terrifying symmetry along the hill; literally, I don’t think I’d ever seen anything as frightening as those statues in the moonlight. They were the true family, ghostly white and with their arms outstretched like they were dancing, I went up to them unsure as to what they were. They were smooth and so white but when I touched them, they weren’t marble, just hollow and plastic—creepy, empty lawn furniture. And for the first time in my life I saw them as this insidious, careless force who either had no idea, or simply had no compassion for the ramifications of their will and franchise. That was the night when my perspective on everything started to shift.

I wasn’t allowed to shower the next day even though I could see my other friends lining up with their towels. And I was always ferried away from communal meals, to have a one on one with some important elder who would shame me for an hour. And it worked. I remember one guy telling me with beady eyes, rather emphatically, how disappointing this will be for my father, who’s such a good guy, everyone loves him, I don’t know him, but everyone loves him— when he finds out how I’ve been working against the mission. I really tried hard to imagine if my dad would be proud or disappointed in me for taking a stand but my thoughts fizzled into a murky question mark while I stared at the white statues now in daylight. I didn’t know the answer and I was so tired, exhausted and hungry, and I was beginning to slowly not care as much.

But I also began to resent these elders for believing that I was working against them, I wasn’t! I was only asking good questions! I was on their side, and I believed I was still a good person.

Instead of not really being able to hang out with my friends, I sensed they were also avoiding me. I remember incredulous looks. It got super lonely fast.

It was when one elder oppa along with a whole slew of younger oppas in training crowded around me in a circle in front of everyone after one march to give me a talk. "Stop setting a bad example to the other sisters, this is your last warning.” Their vague warning was made abundantly clear. Even if it wasn’t true, my generation believed that I was fallen and that’s why I was acting out…

At that point I didn’t even consider the sheer stupidity in this non-linear logic, clearly, I ruined my chances of a good match! That was the end for me. No one would want to be blessed to me and that was when I began to really lose it because it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t have an arranged marriage, that my trajectory would be anything less than what was expected of me, or any different from anyone else. Even when I was asking these people seemingly simple rhetorical questions, it didn’t mean that I wanted to leave. But I was beginning to realize that it would be impossible to have a happily ever after ending in the church.

I don’t remember France, France was a blur, I just felt sluggish and horrible, light sensitive the entire time, still wasn’t allowed to sleep much and was barred from the showers. I was hiding a nasty rash that was breaking out all over my skin by wearing a cardigan, the only cardigan that I had brought on the trip.

My illness was getting bad when we arrived in the posh neighborhood of Kensington, London. The buses unloaded this shocking fire hazard number of teenagers into one townhouse that strangely appeared to have a bullet proof vestibule and a security camera at the entrance which only added to my feeling that I was being held captive. Meanwhile, nobody else seemed to care about this detail, the fact that we were in a fucking compound. You wouldn’t know it from the unassuming white exterior that blended in with the row of townhouses exactly like all the others in the neighborhood.

I remember after marching through Leicester Square, my subgroup broke off to Trafalgar Square where we shouted our testimonies at one of the fountains and anyone else who would care to stop, but no one did. My leader wasn’t really convinced by my conviction to Pure Love. It was a bit hard, being exhausted, with a fever, to be shouting about Pure Love all while being slut shamed by my generation for no good reason at all. I didn’t really feel like shouting, I just wanted rest and to be alone.

My illness was getting from bad to worse quickly, I had a fever, felt hot, then clammy cold, sweating bullets, in addition to huge open sores spreading on my neck and arms, but whenever I asked to see a Dr. they wouldn’t allow it, I later realized it wasn’t because of money, even after I offered to pay myself, it was because they were afraid that I would talk about everything happening on the tour. It hadn’t even occurred to me to go public with any of this. With what? I didn’t know that there was a story, how bad it really was until afterward.

I did finally get to take a shower in London, I think because that was more reasonable than covering up a dead girl, probably. But the shower didn’t help at that point. Whatever was happening with the sores, it was also in my blood, I felt exhausted, jumpy, crazy, sensitive to light, miserable. When they wouldn’t let me see a doctor, when the pus was spilling out of my bandages and running down my neck, running down my arms, like in some horror film, I begged them to at least let me go to a pharmacy to buy bandages, Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide. They agreed so long as a brother escorted me, a tall one who could easily outrun me if it came to it.

Maybe it was because they were making such a huge deal to keep me on watch that I began to fantasize about getting away. Not to tell on anyone or anything, with no agenda in mind, I just wanted to go home. I asked if I could get my passport and my ticket to try and go home early but that was not possible. I just wanted to get away and so on our way to one rally, I had this brilliant idea and I jumped out of a subway train and onto the platform, I only ran 5 steps before I was yanked back into the train by my unni. After that everyone thought I was totally nuts and definitely pure evil. I had no idea where I was planning to go, I think I was just going to ask directions to a hospital— at that point my sores on my upper body were just getting bigger and were oozing, no amount of soaking the sores in hydrogen peroxide or neosporin would help. It was embarrassing because it was pus and blood soaking through my bandages and into my shirts that I could only rotate so many times. People on the subway and in public were furtively staring at me, they probably smelled the disease on me, but I couldn’t ask for their help.

In my mind today, my older self rewrites the history of that trip. In my older self’s version: I’m unstoppable even though I’m sick. In a fit of manic strength, I jump out of the train, out run my guard, and I don’t stop running until I get to a doctor or to a police station, whichever happens first — then I seek protection at the US embassy despite not having a passport or money on me, and then I get to all major news outlets and I expose this youth group for their psychological and physical abuse, and for misleading the public on the PLA. By doing so, I set a chain of events on an international scale that would bring to light all of the questionable things we’ve had to quietly endure. I put a small chink in the church’s armor and it all comes crashing down. I save my fellow BCs from a life without an educated choice to believe or not, from the waste of time spent fundraising for a thankless institution while their families struggle to get by, in questionable matchings, in a sad, vicious cycle.

In actuality, after nearly dying in a sleeping bag, I’m too tired but crazy alert and a day and a half later I’m somehow on my way to Heathrow airport via the subway. On the way there I fall asleep hugging my backpack, only to wake up to find that other passengers are just looking at me horrified; my bandages had soaked through again, I was pouring pus onto my backpack. I’m so embarrassed for alarming these strangers but there’s nothing I can do, I had changed my bandages only an hour before hand, right before leaving the townhouse. All I can do is zip up my anorak and hope I can rinse these out later.

Finally at Heathrow, I’m handed my plane ticket and finally, my passport and it turns out that the tour is over. I can’t even believe it but the elders, including my handler, are walking away to catch their own planes. I curb my hysteria and get to a pay phone where I finally call my parents in Seattle on a collect call, and I’m freaking out, I’m worried that someone will come out from nowhere and cut the line, capture me, throw me in a white van, what with my luck.

My parents are so happy to hear from me! How are you kiddo? I have to fight to keep from sobbing, I’m shattering and yelling, focusing on just one thing: that they have to get me to a doctor as soon as I land, I keep repeating this until my dad promises and repeats this to me. I’m scared I just might drop dead right then and there. Once I’m appeased, I take deep breaths to cool down and I ask my mom if anyone in her family did anything to the Koreans during the occupation. She doesn’t understand the question until I explain to her the theory behind one of these rumors.

The line went quiet.

My dad doesn’t know what to say, but my mom blew her top, she was furious.

In my mother’s adorable, hot headed Japanese mom fashion, she emphatically starts yelling into the phone about how my ancestors did nothing. No one in my family served, and in fact, my family was socially ostracized for years for accepting a Korean family who were on hard times into their farming community in Shizuoka prefecture. (see Footnote)

She was furious and I think stormed away from the phone but I was happy to know, without a doubt, that this dark age posturing was completely ridiculous. My sense of what was reality and what wasn’t was a bit diminished in my daze the past few days, I was glad to have my intellect reinforced.

My parents collect me at the airport and are stunned by the shape I’m in. The doctor explains that I have several severe infections, a staph (staphylococcal) infection and impetigo— a highly contagious bacterial infection on my skin, but it was progressing as an infection in my blood—septicemia, which would have killed me in 48 hours without medical attention. I’m given a heavy flow of an antibiotic cocktail and I’m closely monitored. When I do get home, I can hardly move, and if I’m not sleeping or sitting in a mineral bath, I’m taking antibiotics and trying to heal my skin in time for the new school that I’m transferring to. But in every waking moment, I’m trying to make sense of the previous two weeks. I tell my parents that I’m no longer in the church and they don’t even put up a fight. We don’t talk about it but they can hardly believe what happened to me.

From that point on, I’ve kept my distance from every BC. I partially hold it against them for being complacent, for not chiming in with me, for not seeing the fatal flaws that were so obvious to me. I hold it against them for not standing up for me when they saw the quiet abuse that I went through. For not speaking up for me when people were effectively spreading lies about me. But I realize they didn’t really know me enough, or really even know what was going on all around us at the time, or themselves for that matter. And if I were them instead of me, would I do it any differently?

I hold it against the church for breeding ignorance and stupidity in its members and families; encouraging them to have upwards 10 kids before they can even think about what it means to really take care of them, giving them a real, true education and a fulfilling life; for grinding these families into poverty, a life partially lived on food stamps, for what exactly, I’m still not sure; for collectively instilling this insidious belief that it’s women who are always at fault/responsible in all situations and who carry the onus of Eve’s imprint on the Fall; that men are never to blame/never responsible and therefore unaccountable creatures save for their purpose of begetting a blessed family; that if you’re about to be raped, it’s your duty to kill yourself—not defend yourself and your right to live—before it gets to that; that you are anything less in God’s eyes if you are raped; that our sexuality is a fixed binary without room to account for a full spectrum within ourselves that acknowledges and respects humanity in its entirety—homosexuality and all. I hold the Church responsible for the deaths of BCs I knew, but that’s a longer, separate story.

When and where it all went bad for the Unification Church, I don’t know. I know it was a beautiful thing when my parents joined, I truly believe that they were meant to be together. It was something that I believed in with my whole heart when I was little. I do in fact believe that I’m a blessed child— I have no doubt that there’s a divinity in me, but I know there’s a divinity in everyone, BC or not. Our lives should be lived acknowledging and honoring that little spark, that bit of magic in each of us. It’s that simple.

My only regret in leaving the church at 16 was leaving behind my fellow BCs, especially the younger ones who have no one to advocate for their choice to question. I know they’re struggling or have struggled against parents and elders who are even more forceful and too scared to ask the same questions themselves. I know their questions are harder because they haven’t seen what I have in such crazy, sharp relief. It was made almost too clear to me but for them their experience is slower, blurred and more broken. I have dreams where I’m fighting for them, but I have to leave them behind to fight my own battles. I can hardly think about the church for very long without feeling the most violent, extreme emotions, mostly on behalf of my fellow BCs. It’s part of the reason why I’ve kept away for as long as I have, I’ve forgotten names and faces, and while I’ve forgiven the church for what it’s done to me, I will never forgive what it’s done to the thousands of individuals and families raised in almost poverty because of it. In my heart, it’s not hate, it’s justice, it’s right and wrong, clean. In my heart, I am a fucking vigilante, and part of what propels me is to vindicate them. I fantasize about doing well enough in life, to have enough money so that I can buy up each of the church’s properties so that I can burn them all down to the ground, in the name of all my fellow BCs. If there is one thing that I can thank the church, it’s for making me a fiercely passionate person. To this day, I don’t think anyone can hold a candle to the flames that burn in our hearts.

Life outside of the church is hard, reprogramming the way you consider everything never ends. Dating still feels impossible even after 10 years at it. But it’s so beautiful, it’s so varied and complex and breathtaking— the multitudes, the possibilities that I’ve experienced and are still at my feet. It’s always up to me, every mistake, triumph, difficulty and opportunity is up to me, and I’m so grateful that my conclusions are my conclusions even if it’s a process. As stupid or sad as this story is, I’m grateful for it because now I have a tenacity that rivals most anything. Now, almost 14 years later, I am a fucking panther and I don’t let anyone or anything take me down. Nothing fools me, no situation happens without my consent, and I live life fully, authentically, deliberately and always on my terms. And I want that for every single BC, in the church or not.

__________________________

Silra said: This makes me so sad. I’m an ex British moonie and the PLA was a last straw for me. I was 12 during that time and remember rumours being rife amongst all the BCs. I had to say my testimony at Leicester Square where my dad was super proud. Little did he know I wasn’t happy and the rumour mill was ripe with bullshit about me. I’m sorry you had to go through that.

__________________________

Footnote

The Unification Church heavily guilt tripped the Japanese members about the Japanese occupation of Korea (1910-1945), and about the Korean ‘Comfort Women’. To understand the psychology of this manipulation used during recruitment, see:

Japanese woman recruited by the Unification Church and sold to an older Korean farmer in an ‘apology marriage’

To understand more about the Korean ‘Comfort Women’ issue see:

The Comfort Women controversy

This ‘Comfort Women’ research is very important for all Japanese members. For some perspective, here is an extract from a piece from the New York Times. There were more Korean ‘Comfort Women’ serving the US military from 1950 than ever served the Japanese military during the colonial period.

New York Times:

Ex-Prostitutes Say South Korea and U.S. Enabled Sex Trade Near Bases By Choe Sang-Hun January 7, 2009

SEOUL, South Korea. South Korea has railed for years against the Japanese government’s waffling over how much responsibility it bears for one of the ugliest chapters in its wartime history: the enslavement of women from Korea and elsewhere to work in brothels serving Japan’s imperial army. 

Now, a group of former prostitutes in South Korea have accused some of their country’s former leaders of a different kind of abuse: encouraging them to have sex with the American soldiers who protected South Korea from North Korea. They also accuse past South Korean governments, and the United States military, of taking a direct hand in the sex trade from the 1960s through the 1980s, working together to build a testing and treatment system to ensure that prostitutes were disease-free for American troops. 

While the women have made no claims that they were coerced into prostitution by South Korean or American officials during those years, they accuse successive Korean governments of hypocrisy in calling for reparations from Japan while refusing to take a hard look at South Korea’s own history. 

“Our government was one big pimp for the U.S. military,” one of the women, Kim Ae-ran, 58, said in a recent interview. 

Scholars on the issue say that the South Korean government was motivated in part by fears that the American military would leave, and that it wanted to do whatever it could to prevent that. 

But the women suggest that the government also viewed them as commodities to be used to shore up the country’s struggling economy in the decades after the Korean War. They say the government not only sponsored classes for them in basic English and etiquette meant to help them sell themselves more effectively but also sent bureaucrats to praise them for earning dollars when South Korea was desperate for foreign currency. 

“They urged us to sell as much as possible to the G.I.’s, praising us as ‘dollar-earning patriots,’ ” Ms. Kim said. ...

The Comfort Women controversy

youtube

#PLA #Pure Love Alliance #Moonies #Sun Myung Moon #Unification Church #CARP #Japanese occupation of Korea #Comfort Women

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quentinblack · 4 years ago

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Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 6: Dean I - I Should Have Just Gone To Eton (link to full story on FF.net)

Featuring: Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley

Word Count: 4K words

Dean looked around desperately at the various signs signalling all of the different departure gates as he walked through the main entrance.

Gatwick Airport was an absolutely massive place and he’d never been to an airport by himself before, so he was finding it very difficult to navigate.

It was all a lot easier travelling internationally by portkey, but that was too risky – at least this way there would be no trace of him.

Professor McGonagall had sat down with each and every muggle-born student before the end of the last year and explained the likelihood of what was to happen.

Dumbledore was dead, which meant it would not be long before You Know Who moved against The Ministry – and who knew what might happen to the muggle-born population of Wizarding Britain. She had taken the bold decision to wipe the records of every single muggle-born student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so that they would be protected as best they could be if You Know Who and his followers were to purge or take control of the school over the summer. It was almost as if she knew something they didn’t.

Dean had been one of the most outspoken students in the initial meeting with his Head of House. He had been adamant that he wasn’t going anywhere and would return to school. He wasn’t a coward. He was a Gryffindor!

But he had read and heard of terrible things happening over the summer. The Daily Prophet was ramping up disdain for muggle-borns – and whilst watching and reading the muggle-news there were many events that were very evidently influenced by dark wizards and Death Eaters, even if the muggles themselves were blissfully unaware of that fact.

It was his Mum who had made the decision for him in the end. At first she had been very strong-willed and stubborn that he was to go. This tactic didn’t work on him, but when she started crying and guilt-tripping him instead he quickly relented.

He couldn’t let her down so he agreed to go and live with his step-sister in America until it had all blown-over, although deep down he knew it would only get worse – and soon Wizarding Britain would be in open war with You Know Who and his army of Death Eaters, Dementors and worse. He just wished he could have done his bit and been part of it.

It hadn’t been too much hassle to sort out his departure. He’d had to get a passport and a VISA, but that was no bother really. Bruce had managed to do most of it for him. Bayley was based in Los Angeles for work and had a spare room in her apartment, so he would go and live with her and see what happened. She said she would be able to get him a job and he was reasonably excited about the move. At the very least it would be a nice new start.

The check-in process at the airport had been simple enough. Dean had only taken a small carry on-bag so he didn’t have anything for the hold.

He put his suitcase onto the security conveyor belt to go through the X-Ray, then as it slowly made its way in, Dean wondered what the border officer was seeing on the reading on his screen. That small suitcase he’d picked up from Wiseacre’s in Diagon Alley had about two full 15KG hold bags worth of stuff in it. It was a real test of magic vs muggle technology.

Who would win in this battle of airport security scanners and undetectable extension charms?

It seemed that the wizards had taken the victory as the stern staff of the airport barely raised an eyebrow when his bag went through. The metal detector failed to go off when he walked through it with his wand in his jacket pocket. Of course his wand was made from cedar and the heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon, so it shouldn’t have gone off anyway, but that didn’t dispel his nerves when he walked through it.

He had to remind himself that it was, after all, a metal detector, not a magic detector – and even if the airport staff had have found his wand, they would’ve just thought he was just an oddball that was carrying some weird kind of stick.

Dean retrieved his bag from its tray and after putting it with the other collection of discarded trays he strolled through to the departure lounge.

There was still at least an hour before he would be able to board the long-haul flight, so to kill some time he thought he would wander through Duty Free. He soon regretted that choice though.

As soon as he walked in he was flanked by massive posters and cardboard cut outs of the muggle band Oasis. It all seemed to be advertising a new album being released called ‘Be Here Now’ and the poster showed what looked like a massive country house, with the members of the band dotting around outside standing in-front of a moped, whilst a white car was sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool.

Dean never had much time for Brit-pop bands like Oasis, Blur or The Stone Roses. His best friend, Seamus, was very much a fan though and often loved blasting their songs in their Gryffindor dormitory. He could just about make out the lyrics of what must’ve been a new single.

A cold and frosty morning there’s not a lot to say,

About the things caught in my mind,

As the day was dawning my plane flew away,

With all the things caught in my mind,

And I want to be there when you’re

Coming down,

And I want to be there when you hit the ground,

So don’t go away, say what you say,

But say that you’ll stay,

If the racket of the music wasn’t enough of an annoyance - the one thing that Dean hated most about muggle shops was the staff’s tendency to constantly badger you. Within a minute of browsing the aftershave section he had been harassed by four different people trying to shove samples in his face.

There was Armani, Versace, then Dior and Issey Miyake and Hugo Boss too. He was sure there was one that he would’ve really liked, but having test strips shoved in his face every time he tried to look had put him off going anywhere near them.

A pretty young red-headed girl advertising the latest Chanel release stopped him in his tracks though. She had piercing brown eyes, just like Ginny’s. The girl blushed slightly when she noticed that he was staring at her – he snapped himself out of it, feeling quite embarrassed.

He’d moved on from Ginny now.

Well, mostly.

He held no real ill-will to her or Harry, but he was quite disappointed at how it had all worked out. He thought everything had been going pretty swimmingly with her and he didn’t really know why they’d argued as much as they did by the end of it.

Dean had always tried to do right by her. He’d hold doors open for her, stand-up for her if anyone ever spoke out of line to her in-front of him and always insist on paying on every date they went on. She had called it controlling and patronising, but he was just trying to be nice and he knew that she didn’t have a lot of money so he didn’t like letting her split the bill like she would often suggest.

During one particularly-heated row she’d told him that she wasn’t a damsel in distress that needed saving, yet on numerous occasions she’d spoken in awe of how Harry had saved her in the Chamber of Secrets. Dean had pointed this out to her, which to put it lightly, had not gone down too well.

One of the last straws of their relationship had been when Cormac McLaggen inadvertently fractured Harry’s skull by hitting him with a bludger by accident. Dean hadn’t quite realised how serious the injury had been at first and he’d had to laugh at Cormac’s gross incompetence – as he’d flown past Ginny he’d made a joke about how You Know Who had spent years trying to kill Harry, yet after all that Cormac McLaggen might beat him to it if he wasn’t careful.

Ginny hadn’t seen the funny side, yet even Ron and Harry himself had cracked a laugh when he’d mentioned what he’d said later in their dormitory. It didn’t matter what Ginny thought now though. He might well never see her or any of the others again.

Perhaps it was for the best.

It took great effort but as he made his way through the store he managed to duck and dive out of the way of a man trying to sell him a ginormous toblerone, then dodged another trying to sell him a bottle of ludicrously expensive vodka. Dean couldn’t have even bought it if he had wanted to, as whilst he was considered of age by wizarding standards at 17 – it would still be a few months before he reached the legal age to drink in the UK as a muggle.

As he escaped Duty Free he saw a big stack of newspapers on a side-wall. The headlines all read ‘BROWN BLOWS BILLIONS ON BENEFITS AS LABOUR ANNOUNCE FIRST BUDGET’ and with it there was a still picture of a white man in a suit, with dark hair, who Dean guessed was in his mid to late forties, who was addressing a collection of journalists whilst standing in-front of a red banner that read ‘NEW LABOUR - NEW LIFE FOR BRITAIN’.

Dean didn’t care much for muggle politics. He turned the newspaper over to see what was on the back-page.

‘INTER MILAN BREAK TRANSFER RECORD TO LAND SAMBA STAR RONALDO’

That was more like it. Dean pulled up a seat nearby, then eagerly read the article which described in detail how the Italian super club had spent an incredible 19.5 million pounds to buy the brilliant Brazilian from Barcelona.

He lowered the newspaper from his eye line slightly to check the departure board and see if his flight was boarding yet.

“Oh, I sayyy…surely it can’t be…Dean Thomas?”

Dean didn’t immediately recognize the very ostentatious voice addressing him, but then he saw for his own eyes someone he’d shared the Hogwarts castle with for the best part of six years.

“Alright Justin, mate?”

“Dean! My goodness. It is you! What a surprise to see you here! I almost didn’t recognize you there for a second.”

Justin Finch-Fletchey had briefly broken away from who Dean assumed must be his parents. A very prim and proper white man, with old-fashioned spectacles and greased back hair, who Dean guessed was probably around forty-five and Justin’s father, followed his son but looked a bit hesitant.

“A friend of yours, Justin?” he asked, squinting curiously at Dean.

“Yes, Father. From school. You must excuse me for a moment. We have much to discuss,” Justin replied confidently, yet still very politely.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Don’t forget though, Justin… first class boards first so we mustn’t dither too long.”

And with that his Father headed back towards his Mother and they headed to what looked like the Ralph Lauren boutique store.

“So… you’re upping sticks too, huh? Always knew you were a smart man,” Justin said in a slightly condescending, yet very light-hearted manner, patting Dean on the shoulder slightly as he winked.

“Yeah, well… I thought it was best to be on the safe side. Nobody knows what will happen if You Know Who does kick off a war. And with Dumbledore gone, well, not even Hogwarts is safe anymore so-

“Hogwarts was never bloody safe anyway! Especially for us. I was nearly killed by a murderous snake for Christ’s sake. If it hadn’t been for that irritating ghost I would have been,” Justin scoffed, quite understandably still annoyed at his petrification in their second year.

Dean had dodged a bullet that year to be fair. The basilisk had made short work of many muggle-borns in the school, even several in his own year, but he’d somehow managed to avoid the potentially lethal glare of the giant serpent, more through luck than any kind of skill or planning.

“I wouldn’t have minded it that much,” Justin began. Dean knew that some kind of rant was coming.

“But that old fool Dumbledore didn’t even have the humility or self-respect to go to the Ministry of Magic for help. He was too concerned about the school’s reputation that he left several students petrified indefinitely. You can’t tell me that St Mungo’s couldn’t have cooked up a remedy within a few days? It was farcical! Never would have happened if it had been going after the purebloods. It beggars belief that a society can have such a ridiculous order based entirely on social class.”

“Yeah, terrible…” Dean managed to mutter out.

He’d never spoken to Justin that much particularly, perhaps that had been a good decision as he seemed to have all the self-awareness of a goldfish.

Dean thought it best to try and change the subject. He had never been particularly close to Albus Dumbledore, but he wasn’t exactly going to stand here and let Justin shit-talk a dead man he had at least held a lot of respect for. It did also seem a bit rich for him to be criticising their former Headmaster, when Justin himself had been a member of a group named Dumbledore’s Army for several years.

“So where are you heading then?” he asked neutrally.

“We’re flying out to Los Angeles. Father has got a transfer at work to the San Francisco office, so we’ll be based there for now. I might also shadow my Uncle if I get the chance. He works with the Foreign Office in Washington. He’s quite high up, you know,” Justin said very proudly, perhaps not all that aware of how he could be misconstrued as boasting.

“Oh that’s cool,” Dean said, doing his best to sound as interested as he could.

“How about you, lad? You heading to The States as well?” Justin enquired.

“Yeah, Los Angeles too,” he replied, trying to play down the fact that they were probably going to be leaving on the same plane. It really was a small world after all.

“Ohhh snap,” Justin said, presumably thinking he sounded quite cool, but in his posh-voice he actually sounded as far from cool as it was humanly possible to be.

“Yeah ha-ha… my sister lives out near Santa Monica so I’m going to go and live with her,” he added half-heartedly.

“Santa Monica, ehh? Right near Bel-Air? Why, you’ll be just like that coloured chap in The Fresh Prince!” Justin chided, positively under the impression that he’d just cracked the funniest joke anyone had ever heard. Dean didn’t really see the funny side, but chose to ignore the slightly offensive gag.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, doing his best to muster an awkward laugh and hide his annoyed demeanour.

“I’ll be a little sad to leave, you know. I won’t miss Hogwarts that much, nor the magic. No…I fear that was all a big waste of time now. I should have just gone to Eton like Father had planned. But it will be a shame to leave Oxford. We’ve got a really lovely house there. Of course, we won’t be downsizing in San Francisco, no if anything quite the opposite with house prices over there, but well, you can’t beat home. Where was your parent’s house?”

“Surrey,” Dean said quickly, which wasn’t technically a lie. Surrey was where people from Croydon told people they lived when they wanted it to sound fancier. If they wanted it to sound a bit cooler than they’d say they were from London, although anyone who lived in ‘proper’ London would fiercely argue that Croydon wasn’t really London at all.

“Lived there with my Mum and step-dad as long as I can remember. It’s a shame to have to leave them, but I guess it’s for the best.”

Dean didn’t fail to notice Justin’s slightly raised eyebrow when he’d said that he had a step-dad. He didn’t care what Justin thought of him though.

“Hmm, yes. Not to worry though, Deano. It’s a good time to be leaving Britain anyway really… with Labour back in power the country will soon be bankrupt anyway. It’s a disgrace how much they’re going to spend on welfare. Bloody lefties. You know, it’s actually the wizard’s fault that they got in anyway.”

“You think?” Dean asked in bewilderment.

He knew enough about Wizards to know that they didn’t care in the slightest about muggle politics, let alone know or care enough to actively influence who the Prime Minister was.

“Well yes, it’s obvious really, isn’t it? The Conservatives had no chance of winning the election given everything that’s happened in the last few years. They had enough on their hands with the bloody Irish, but look at all the extra problems they had from the wizards. Mass murderers on the loose. A government funded bridge collapsing unexpectedly. Those bloody Dementors roaming the country making everybody miserable. Poor old John Major never stood a chance! Of course there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t exactly come out and tell everyone that it was actually the incompetence of the wizarding government causing all of it.”

Dean wondered what would have happened if a British Prime Minister had gone on TV and announced to the public that wizards were behind all of the country’s problems. He guessed it would make a change from them blaming all of the foreigners and unemployed people.

“With any luck they’ll all wipe each other out if there is a war,” Justin scorned.

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You don’t mean-

Justin reacted quickly to Dean’s incredulous response.

“Of course I don’t mean everyone at school. I mean you know, The Death Eaters and the Ministry forces. Almost as bad as each other if you ask me. Everyone else is far too young to be getting involved in a bloody war. Michael and Terry are both adamant they’re going to fight in any battle that they can,” Justin said as if it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

Dean had never been that fond of Michael Corner. It was nothing he had done personally, but he’d been Ginny’s ex-boyfriend, so Dean had to hate him on principle. He was emboldened by Michael and Terry Boot’s courage to fight though.

“I had a lot of fun at all of those DA meetings of course,” Justin mumbled.

“It was good to learn more spells from Potter and his friends for self-defence. But that night the Death Eaters raided the school and Professor Snape killed Dumbledore, well. That was it for me. It’s one thing training up for it and all, but I’m not willing to put my neck on the line to stay a part of the magical word. If everyone else wants to throw their life away, well more fool them. Some would call it bravery, but I say it’s just naivety. We’re not even 18, Dean. The days of teenagers being needlessly slain in pointless wars should be left behind in the 1940’s. We’ve made the right choice, pal,” he said solemnly, once again patting Dean on the shoulder.

It was at that moment that Dean suddenly began to question whether he had in-fact made the correct choice.

“You know, Zacharias Smith was even trying to recruit me for some kind of secret resistance movement his uncle is involved in,” he scoffed. “Told me to keep it all very quiet of course, but well, I suppose given the circumstances telling you won’t do any harm, will it?”

“Resistance movement?” Dean asked curiously. He hadn’t been asked to join any resistance movement.

“Yes. His Uncle is an Auror, isn’t he? On quite good terms with that Mad-Eye Moody fellow. He said they’re setting up a top secret resistance movement, recruiting some muggle-borns for some highly classified unofficial operation if You Know Who gets in power. Sounded like a bloody suicide mission to me. Well, as you can imagine, I practically laughed in his face at the idea. What sort of braindead moron would sign up for that?” he scorned.

“Yeah. Right…” Dean replied, but his head with racing with ideas. This was it. He’d wanted to stay and fight, but it wasn’t as if the Wizarding world had an army you could just sign up to when you were 17 like the muggles did. But if this resistance movement had been interested in recruiting Justin, then they’d surely take Dean too.

Dean looked past his old class-mate and saw that Justin’s parents were heading out of the boutique shop with several bags of clothes that they must’ve bought in there for some serious money.

“Ah, well, I suppose I best be off,” Justin murmured, having noticed this development himself.

“I’ll be sure to pop down from first class and come and see you during the flight,” the youngest member of the Finch-Fletchley clan said elegantly, as he reached out to shake Dean’s hand.

“Can’t wait, mate,” Dean replied, trying his best to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Justin’s handshake was almost like a metaphor for his whole character, half-hearted and weak.

“See you in a bit,” Justin said as a parting comment, which Dean mumbled a polite agreement too, although if Dean was honest he would’ve been pretty happy if he’d have never seen him again for the rest of his life.

As it would happen, Dean never boarded that flight bound for Los Angeles – and it would be four years before Dean, or anyone else in the Wizarding world would see or hear from Justin Finch-Fletchley again.

#hp fanfic #hpfanfiction #hp #hpff #hpf #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #harrypotter #dean thomas #deanthomas #gryffindor #justin finch fletchley #hufflepuff #fanfic #fanfiction

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toastedbuckwheat · 5 years ago

Photo

Inktober 2019 - day 16

Self portrait, because it was an important day.

Had my first appointment with the gender doctor!!

It wouldn’t have happened (or certainly not so quickly) without your contributions and support. Thank you so much. You guys are a blessing and I never expected so much help!

It means now I can finally do my *first transition update*

My hair was a bit more presentable than pictured above when I got to the touristy heart of London and sat in the (surprisingly posh, my mind of a poor art graduate was blown) waiting room to have my first consultation. If you wanna know which doctor did I go to or know more, please drop me a message; I just somehow don’t feel comfortable operating with names of respected medical professionals so openly on my fanart blog. I don’t think I need to describe how nervous I was - today had a potential to either be the best day of my life (in unlikely circumstances of getting hormones prescribed there and then) or at least a step towards a better life, finally.

It was both slightly difficult and very relieving, that meeting. Mostly her trying to get to know me, asking loads of general questions rather than doing a dry box ticking exercise that I expected in that situation. Taking her time. I was surprised when she mentioned she had concerns about me reaching out to her for testosterone and not making the top surgery my first step, seeing that I identified as non-binary (the exact opposite of how the public gender clinic approaches the situation!) - and that she had not had good outcomes who took that route. I think it got clarified when I mentioned that a desire to have a surgery first was the original reason why I contacted the GIC (Gender Identity Clinic - the public one) two years ago, and while waiting to be seen by them (as I ranted before, it currently takes 2 years to get to a first assessment) I realised that there were other things that affect how I feel about myself on a daily basis- such as my voice, the fact that I do not pass if I wear anything remotely feminine etc - I basically decided that I did in fact need hormones, and it would be a long route to even get a smell of it through the strained National Health Services. It is worth mentioning that she is respectful of the non-binary identity and attempt not to make it more difficult (the GIC do, apparently?), however - how I understood it at least - she tried to exercise pushing me into binary for the sake of finding out whether hormones are what I really want, because of course taking it wouldn’t really leave me ‘in between’ and whether we want it or not, people do immediately categorise us as male or female. Her take was that being on testosterone, after certain point at least, would push me the other side, so she wanted to find out whether I would for instance be comfortable if people suddenly started calling me ‘he’. I of course exclaimed something along the lines of ‘hell yes??? i would be comfortable, please may I be a he???’, but I understand the concern. It wasn’t in a ‘you briefly mentioned you could describe your gender as enby, I will now deny you HRT’ way, not at all. It felt more profound and caring.

One thing that made me very nervous is the fact that she wanted me to change my name by deed poll. Now, I would have done it long time ago had I known it was legal for me to do! But I am not a British citizen yet, so changing my name and all British documents would result in a conflict with my Polish passport. Which I wish I could change, but as there’s no other way to have your sex reassigned in Poland but by taking your own parents to court (which in my case also requires a lawyer to represent my deceased father whom I never met) over mistakenly assigning you the wrong sex at birth or however else should I formulate this bullshit of a law - I can’t do it just right now. Yes, you don’t just go there and tell them you’re trans - you sue your own parents, despite being a grown up - and technically parents could make it difficult fot you. I don’t think I’m strong enough or have enough money to fly back and forth to a hostile country that treated me so badly just to follow this process. But if I do change my name in the UK now, this will have to be done asap. And the doctor, who said she’s advised that to multiple foreigners living here - says it will actually be required by the GIC as an important milestone in living in a desired gender role (screw that, I’ve been living in one for years, I just wanna be legal and use my passport, and Brexit is coming!!!)

Meanwhile, after 22 months of a wait about which I rambled multiple times, the GIC suddenly texted (!) me on Friday asking me to contact them asap cuz they might have a short notice appointment for me. I was at work til late, so I called them on Monday morning, just to discovered that the slot had been snatched. I was not particularly surprised by it. But then I got another call in the afternoon informing me that they had one more appointment available, but it was going to be this Thursday. That is, in a few hours from the moment I am writing it. I am shocked that I will finally be seen - surely no chance for hormones/surgery recommendation right now, and the next appointment won’t be in a year knowing how things work, but at least something!

So that’s it - congratulations if you’ve gotten to the end of it! I hope things progress soon; I am nervous AF but at least the ball is rolling now.

I still do accept any donations from kind ppl who wish to buy me a virtual coffee - there’s a secret drawing of Aziraphale in the updates section that should be revealed upon making a contribution! Again, thanks to all of you who made things possible so I had something to write this long post about!!

and as always thanks to my dearest @mimimarilynart who is always here for me and somehow hasn’t died from listening to my rants yet. Thank you for being so supportive all the time <3

#transition update #inktober 2019 #inktober #self portrait #personal #rl #my illustrations #doodles #transgender #transitioning in the uk #art #digital colouring #non fandom #toastedbuckwheat

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straight-outta-hobbiton · 5 years ago

Text

A Few Notes About American Legal Documents (Specifically For Proving Citizenship/Legal Residency and Traveling)

I work with a lot of legal documents associated with citizenship and legal residency. With the rise of legal residents and citizens unlucky enough to actually look like their ethnicity, I thought it might help to give a basic rundown of legal documents that could help in a sticky situation. It’s mostly simple stuff, but there might be something of value to your personal situation or the situation of someone you know, so, y’know.

VALID BIRTH CERTIFICATES:

Your birth certificate needs a raised seal on it, with as little damage as possible. I see a lot of folded/fucked up BCs from people in less than ideal living situations, and I understand that there are times when the only thing you can do to protect yourself is keep your shit with you all the time (abusive/controlling parents, foster care, intermittent homelessness, etc), but if the print is illegible, the seal torn or damaged, or the BC is in pieces, YOU NEED TO GET A NEW ONE. Most state ID places won’t accept it if there’s too much damage— it fucks with the security features, and most government worker grunts aren’t going to chance their jobs on faith in your puppy dog eyes.

If you need a new BC and you don’t have a way to get to the county clerk’s office (you need to go to the county you were born in, which is a hassle for some people)— vitalchek.com is a website where you can securely order your documents and have them delivered to whatever address you feel is best. It takes a little while sometimes, though, so it isn’t a perfect solution to more immediate issues.

If possible, see if you can get yourself a wallet-sized BC. I typically see older folk carrying them, but I’m pretty sure some states still offer the option. I highly recommend this for anyone who might be targeted by the current administration— again, it doesn’t solve every problem, but for right now, all American-born Latine and other non-whites can only benefit from having as much paperwork as they can. At the very least, it might slow some officers down.

IF YOU HAVE A PUERTO RICAN BIRTH CERTIFICATE, MAKE SURE IT’S THE MOST RECENTLY UPDATED VERSION. Plain PR birth certificates have been stolen from legal agencies on multiple occasions in the past to be used in the forgery of false documents for other Latin immigrants of a less-than savory nature, and it happened again in the wake of Hurricane Maria. The only BC most government agencies accept at this point have English translations next to the Spanish, and they won’t take anything older/untranslated.

PASSPORTS/PASSPORT CARDS/GLOBAL ENTRY CARDS/NEXUS CARDS:

Google the nearest place you can go to get your passport. I went to a post office and they took my picture, but not every place offers the option— you might have to go to Walgreens or some equivalent first to get your picture taken and bring it with you to the office.

They’ll need your birth certificate when you go get your passport. They will take it from you and ship it out to whatever undisclosed location it needs to go to in order for them to print your paperwork. You’ll get it when your passport is sent to you.

It costs around $145 dollars including service fees to get your American passport, which is an unfortunate reality.

Passports take up to eight weeks to get to your house, so it isn’t a solution to immediate problems. That being said, GET IT DONE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

Passport cards exist, and they’re pocket-sized. If you’re eligible to get one (meaning you were born here or were naturalized), DO IT. GET A PASSPORT CARD AND KEEP IT WITH YOU. It’s just as good as a regular passport and far easier to keep with you if the worst happens and you need to get out. They’re also a cheaper than the average passport at a total of $65 (including service fees).

Passports/passport cards work as federal ID as well as international. In some states, children under a certain age might be unable to get state identification (in my state you have to be at least fourteen). If you have American-born/naturalized children that could be targeted and they’re under a certain age, get them their passports, get them their cards. Our government has proven they have no issue with snatching kids, but it’s a little harder to justify when the kid has legal US identification.

Global Entry Cards are accepted at every land and sea port in the US. They’re available to US citizens, legal US residents, and Mexican nationals, as well as citizens of Argentina, Colombia, Germany, India, Panama, South Korea, Switzerland, Taiwan, and the UK. This I would recommend for people who already have passports/other legal documentation within the realms of the above listed countries but are uncomfortable with the idea of carrying a passport with them. It costs about $100.

Global Entry fingerprints you, no exceptions.

Global Entry does not help you enter countries not listed above.

Nexus Cards are the Canadian equivalent of Global Entry. It allows passage between Canada and America at any land crossing as well as airports. If you have one of these already and they’ve already fingerprinted you, you can get a GEC with minimal hassle, with the added bonus of being able to cross the Canadian border freely.

Nexus Cards require interviews, and once you’ve been approved they take your fingerprints and a retinal scan. Considering we’re living in the beginnings of a Big Brother dystopia, this might make some people uncomfortable, but again, it’s a cheap option for people who might not want to carry passports. Plus, it has the added benefit of being attached to Canada, and the potential disaster of arresting a possible legal Canadian resident might be enough to stall some of the more reasonable officers. It costs about $50.

LEGAL RESIDENTS AND VISA CARRIERS, GENERAL THINGS:

If you’ve gotten your Permanent Resident card you need to make sure you get a new social security card, one without the ‘NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT’ or ‘VALID FOR WORK ONLY WITH DHS AUTHORIZATION’ on the front. These cards aren’t valid to use alongside your new green card, and they can get you into trouble if the person checking your paperwork is in the wrong sort of mood.

MAKE SURE ALL YOUR PAPERWORK MATCHES. I realize that American paperwork sometimes can’t handle non-white naming traditions and that makes it difficult for you to keep your shit together. Ideally, though, whatever it says on your immigration papers should be exactly what’s printed on all your other documents— your credit cards, mail, whatever. If your naturalization paperwork lists both your mother and father’s names, you need to either make sure you have that shit on everything and if it isn’t, you’ve got a decision to make. Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but they will use any excuse to detain a ‘suspicious’ person, and dropping your second middle name on your driver’s license so it doesn’t match your visa is exactly the sort of thing they’ll pick at. My grandparents had to make this decision a few years ago— for convenience’s sake, they changed everything to match the anglicized forms of their names. I realize for a lot of people it isn’t an ideal solution, but for now, we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.

If you’re here as a Dependent Spouse (H-4) I don’t have to tell you that you’ll need your partner with you to do a lot of legal stuff. That being said, when you need to get stuff handled, please make sure your spouse has ALL of their paperwork proving they’re here legally. Even if the focus is on you, if their shit’s not in order, you won’t be able to get anything done. It is an inconvenient facet of the nature of your visa, but you’ve got to work with it until you can change your status to something less limited.

If you’re here on a Student Visa, the SAVE won’t update your status until your classes start. Keep that in mind when handling paperwork reliant on your status as a legal immigrant.

If your Permanent Resident Card has no expiration date on it, if it’s a laminated paper card, or if it’s just plain damaged— REPLACE IT. They don’t accept the old cards now thanks to a huge boom in forgeries, so particularly if you have an older relative who hasn’t been naturalized, you need to make sure that shit is up to date.

MARRIAGE CERTIFICATES:

(Marriage certificates are less important in the grand scheme of legal residency, but any little bit helps, and if you’re an immigrant married to a citizen, it’s another little piece that proves you just might have a legitimate reason or two to be here.)

Nobody is going to take the pretty version of the MC. The one you get from your place of worship is NOT the official certificate. It needs to be from the probate//surrogate’s/orphan’s court, not just signed in accordance with the official document.

It MUST have a seal on it. Not every state does the raised seal, so you have to double-check with your local, but it will have something that makes it a recognizable, official document.

If you got married in a country that doesn’t have English as the official language, you NEED a translation. In my state, you have to go to an official state translator and get— you guessed it— an official seal.

When you get married, that receipt slip they give you is not the official certificate. The official certificate is supposed to be mailed to you (the first one’s usually complimentary) after about a month. If you didn’t get it or you lost it, GO AND GET A NEW ONE. Little things like that can make or break you in the eyes of a government official.

If you have older relatives who are immigrants, CHECK TO MAKE SURE THEIR PAPERWORK IS UP TO DATE. I know it’s common for older folk to let their IDs expire because they’re in in a care facility or simply unable to leave their homes. I know that shit gets lost in the shuffle of life and most of the time those documents just sit in a box and do nothing, but this shit is important. Make sure they have their stuff and make sure their documents are all up to federal standard— relatively undamaged, legible, and with the right seals.

I know this isn’t stuff we want to talk about, but it’s important. If you are a person of one of the groups targeted by this administration, you cannot make mistakes. You have to make sure there is no reason besides gross incompetence on the part of the ICE officers for them to detain you— as we all know, they will take advantage of any excuse they can find to fuck you and the people you love over.

Don’t let them.

#immigration #legal documents #ICE #detention centers #preparing for the worst

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