#surely less than complaining about people having the gull to ask you to give a shit right?

[liquidstar]

This is such a tangent btw but on the topic of guilt tripping and reblogs... I remember a few years back there were some terrible fires in Greece (and again this year, entire island villages are gone now) and at that time I had family who were caught in them. I can't describe the desperation I felt with these horrible things happening to my family and loved ones in my country. And I remember being frustrated and desperate with how no one around me in America really seemed to give a shit. I remember blogging asking people to PLEASE care please share something please reblog this link for mutual aid please think about the stories and fires etc etc etc. And the thing is I was very much in a state of grief myself, maybe not every word or action was perfectly reasonable, because I don't realistically expect everyone everywhere to care about every tragedy in the world. You can't. Emotionally it's just not possible, especially with all the stuff going on in the states rn too. Yeah it's a lot. It's not like I blog about every tragedy that ever happens either. I understand.

HOWEVER what I also remember was at this time there were a couple mutuals very clearly making vagueposts along the lines of "remember not everyone has the energy to care about everything in the world uwu" while I was posting about family who died and family who were drifting in the ocean for hours as their homes and loved ones burned. Listen. You have to understand sometimes that when a person in grief and frustration with things going on in their countries and communities impacts them very personally beg you to care... It's coming from a place of needing to see that care in the world in general. They're not holding a gun to your head Specifically saying you have to reblog the posts, if you don't have the energy just ignore it.

You don't have to go out of your way saying "um actually I can't care about the horrible stuff you and your family and your country are experiencing rn. I'm too busy focusing on my own stuff so can you be quiet or more reasonable with your grief thanks." Like. Just keep it to yourself then??? Have some fucking sympathy for other people and understand that maybe it's not always logical. The same way you don't have the emotional energy to think about every tragedy in the world, people who've been impacted by them often don't have the emotional energy to handle that alone and may seek somekinda community or solidarity. Idk. It's not about forcing shit on you sometimes it's not about you

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Never a Gull Moment

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 3523

For @yavannie, who wanted Sam to either gain new powers or carry Bucky through the air. Spoiler, I went with both. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Sam’s had an intense first week as Captain America. The perfect opportunity for a break arises when Joaquín contacts him, offering new programming for his suit. All he needs to test the tech are the beach, birds, and one uncooperative bonehead Sam didn’t manage to leave behind in New York.

If there’s one skill Sam’s hoping to adopt from his predecessor—Steve, not Walker (sweet Jesus, not Walker)—it’s the ability to end a conversation with a humble handwave before it can even begin. Steve always had that in the bag. Leading with the wrist in a flick of the hand that came across as both sheepish and respectful. Like he’d love to stop and talk with that fan or this journalist but he was just too busy. And not rude busy, busy with a quiet nobility. Anyway, it all came across in the wave.

Sam hasn’t nailed the wave.

Four days after the GRC vote-that-wasn’t, he’s still in New York, bouncing between TV appearances; everybody wants a piece of the new Cap. Sam wishes they asked a little more about his opinions on compassion for the displaced, as well as those who survived the Snap to form new, functional communities, and less about the look of his new suit, but isn’t it always a battle between style and substance? At least people are listening. To everything except the look Sam knows he has in his eyes, the one that says this debut has been a lot and he’s longing for home.

He knows he has to nail this aspect of being Captain America too. Unfortunately, chuckling amiably with morning show hosts isn’t doing a hell of a lot to distract him from what it took to get him here. There are seconds where his attention wavers—he’ll be nodding along to whatever someone’s saying, or letting his gaze follow a bike courier down the street instead of staying trained on the camera the roving reporter has set up on the sidewalk—and that’s when Karli hurtles into his mind. He feels her desperate blows vibrating the shield, the weight of her body in his arms, in her death.

He can’t keep sitting behind desks or posing impressively and trying to answer the hard questions (on the rare occasion they’re asked) after he’s told people he’s not the expert. When Torres calls up, it’s the close-enough-to-official reason Sam’s been waiting for to step back and do something that actually feels useful.

Bucky, who’s been skulking behind the scenes, somehow never pulled into interviews (if he knows the deferring wave and he’s been doing it just outside Sam’s sightline all week, Sam’s gonna kill him), sticks with him. They head south to meet Torres, and at least that feels like the right direction. Homeward bound. Of course, they stop a handful of states before Louisiana and hug the east coast, but it’s an improvement. They meet Torres at… the beach.

He’s got his foot propped in the open doorframe of a Humvee, giving Sam and Bucky a big, eager, whole-arm wave as they pull up. Not like they’re gonna miss him; Torres is in the only vehicle parked halfway down an unpaved road. Sand dunes climb steep and high just feet from his front bumper, an informal path cutting between the dunes and leading to the water, though Sam can’t see that from this vantage.

Torres’s hand is somehow already grasping Sam’s in a pumping, congratulatory shake before he’s fully out of the car. Sam hears Bucky’s soft snort of suppressed laughter and shoots him a look across the seats. Bucky raises his palms, but Sam spots his smirk before they’re both slamming their doors and stretching their legs after the drive.

“Traffic?” Torres asks brightly.

“Nah,” Bucky answers, coming around the back of their ride. ��Sam just drives slower than my grandmother and she—”

“Died on the Titanic?” Sam guesses dryly.

Bucky’s flat stare could be saying a lot of things, or nothing. Sam feels as if he’s been a student of the language of Bucky’s stare for a while now, but his comprehension is still rudimentary. Pop that asshole in a sanctuary for rehabilitated brain-washees, have somebody study his behaviour like Jane Goodall studies chimpanzees, and they might get some answers. The idea starts as something funny Sam almost shares, but then he imagines handfeeding Bucky a banana and it gets weird. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Or she got the cryo treatment too and she’s kickin’ around someplace, speakin’ Russian and makin’ headshots.”

“Come on, man, Hydra jokes about your own grandmother?” Sam scoffs. “That’s not even a little bit funny.”

Torres’s expression is like a kid watching a wrestling match on TV—awed, alarmed, reluctant to question what’s real because he’s just enjoying the show.

Bucky cracks a slow smile and Sam rolls his eyes, slapping Torres’s shoulder to get him to head towards the Humvee and the reason they’re here.

“Nana woulda thought it was funny,” Bucky assures them.

“Nana?”

“Lemme guess… You called your aunt ‘TT,’ so your grandmother’s probably… ‘GG,’ am I right?”

Sam glares at him (because his guess is correct and he’s a pain in the ass) and turns fully to Torres as he opens the back, revealing a large case.

“You were vague on the phone,” Sam recalls, watching Torres tug the case close before undoing the clasps. Bucky leans against the vehicle as he observes, dark pants picking up a swipe of road dust from the dirty taillight. “Something about an update for the suit?”

“Right,” Torres agrees.

He throws the case open to reveal the wings Sam gifted him. They’ve been repaired and Sam automatically strokes a hand over the gleaming, extended metal. If Torres did this himself, he sure worked fast.

“That duffle bag wasn’t good enough for you?” Sam asks jokingly, remembering his gear broken and jumbled, fit to be dragged out with the trash.

“They’re kind my prized possession,” Torres admits. “I thought they deserved to be kept nice.”

“You might even wanna put ’em on sometime.”

“I’m working up to that.” Torres laughs. “I wanted to make sure they were in working order before I jumped off a building.”

“Or out of the back of a plane without a parachute, right, Buck?” Sam asks, smacking the back of his hand into Bucky’s chest.

“I was fine,” Bucky insists.

“Sure you were. We can watch the footage again. I’m up for that.”

“Just let the man finish.”

Torres grants Bucky a wide smile in thanks.

“Yeah,” he picks up, “so I was fixing them, working on the wiring, and when I got the electronics running smoothly again, I started thinking about Redwing—”

“May he rest in pieces,” Bucky contributes.

“Uncalled for,” Sam complains.

“I replaced it, didn’t I?”

“The Wakandans replaced it.”

“As a favour to me.”

Torres’s gaze dances between them until Sam motions for him to continue.

“About Redwing,” Torres goes on enthusiastically. “The sophistication of the relationship between you, how intuitive the tech was. How Redwing understood not just simply-stated commands, but a more conversational approach, interpreting your intentions.”

“Finally, a little Redwing appreciation,” Sam says. He crosses his arms and gives Bucky a meaningful look.

“But what if it was a real bird?” Torres blurts.

Most of a minute passes as Sam stares at Torres’s excited expression.

“I think I might get where Torres is going with this,” Bucky says.

Sam holds up a hand to pause him. He could make a guess at it too, but there’s no need for that. They have the source of whatever alterations have been made right here.

“In your own words, Joaquín,” Sam encourages.

“Well,” he begins, one palm braced in the bed of the Humvee as he leans over the case with unconscious protectiveness, “you know I’ve kinda been itching to get my hands on the wings for a long time.”

“Yeah.” Sam laughs, remembering having to practically slap Torres’s hands away from the jetpack in Tunisia.

“Since you gave them to me a couple weeks ago, I’ve been tinkering, like I said, and I had this idea. Now,” he warns, raising both hands in caution, “this might be either really obvious or really disrespectful to the whole concept of the Falcon, but I started wondering if it’d be possible for the person wearing the wings to talk to nearby birds. Use them like a resource, like with Redwing.”

“Black Panther dresses like a cat with Vibranium claws.”

“Spider-Man has webs,” Bucky adds.

“Right,” Sam agrees, nodding to him before looking back to Torres. “I don’t think it’s disrespectful to lean into the gimmick if it’s amplifying your abilities.”

“Awesome,” Torres pronounces.

“I assume you went further than just wondering about it?”

Torres gives them a modest shrug.

“I know a guy who knows an ornithologist.”

“Bird scientist,” Bucky translates.

Turning his head, Sam glances at Bucky with a no shit look.

“Thanks,” he says insincerely.

“You’re welcome.”

“Long story short,” Torres pipes up, “she got me access to a catalogue of bird calls and the scientific consensus on what they all mean. I patched that info into the suit and, hopefully, it’s something that could be used, uh, on the fly. Sorry, I was trying to think of another way to say that.”

“So my suit would be able to communicate with birds?” Sam checks. “Automatically?”

“Yeah, it would assess your surroundings the same way Redwing does already, but scanning for birds, identifying what kind they are, and having the interpretation of their calls at the ready if needed.”

“What sort of information would I be gaining with this tech?”

“Stuff like… are they feeling threatened or disturbed? Does something feel off about their environment that has something to do with somebody you’re maybe chasing?”

“Mating rituals,” Bucky says.

“How is being able to recognize mating rituals going to help me?” Sam demands.

“You never know.”

“You brought your suit, right?” Torres wants to know. Apparently, he’s not going to bother engaging with Bucky’s nonsense. “It won’t take long for me to install the new software.”

“It’s in the back,” Sam assures him, jerking a thumb towards the other vehicle.

“Great!”

“But just the bird calls. This suit is brand new. No tinkering.”

“No tinkering,” Torres swears.

He sets up his impromptu workshop in the back seat, next to the suit. Sam has to admit to himself that Torres’s reverential expression as he handles the Captain America suit is pretty flattering. He watches the progress until Torres sits back, stating it’ll just be a few minutes for the new programming to be assimilated.

“Why the beach?” Sam asks while they wait.

“I was inspired by some shaky, far-away footage of you in New York. You did, uh, kind of a nosedive into the river there, so I thought maybe you’d be interested in testing your suit’s maneuverability in water at the same time as we did a trial with the bird calls.”

“Are we running a drill or something?” Bucky wonders.

“That’s a good idea,” Torres says immediately. “A scenario to use both the calls and the water.”

“You got something in mind?”

Sam isn’t the one who asks because he can see from Torres’s face that he does. Fortunately, he is the one who gets to laugh when the Lieutenant squints consideringly at Bucky and asks, “How long can you hold your breath?”

—

The last Sam sees of Bucky, he’s taking off his shirt.

“Oh, entire jacket this time?” Torres asked when Bucky took that off first.

After that, it was his shoes and socks, then his t-shirt, and this whole Bucky stripping thing isn’t so much a last look as something that Sam has to stand there witnessing for a while. He’s already in the Cap suit and, seriously, Bucky could’ve changed at the same time. Then, he would’ve been ready to go without making Sam and Torres wait around. But Sam wouldn’t have gotten to see him undress.

“Hurry it up, man.” His voice is a little off because, at the same time, he’s thinking, Please don’t take your pants off.

“If you’re making me play a drowning victim, I can at least not be getting weighed down,” Bucky argues. “This is to help you, right? Quit complaining.”

Finally, he stalks away, mounting the dune in black jeans and a half-assed scowl and disappearing over the top. The plan is for him to swim out, then duck under the water when Torres tells him to (the guy’s brought along waterproof earpieces for the purpose). Next, Sam will fly up and search for the ‘victim,’ relying solely on input from the seagulls wheeling lazily overhead. It’s a good exercise Torres has cooked up.

Sam hands the shield off to Torres for safekeeping before the Lieutenant heads to the beach. The shield won’t be necessary for this and there’s no way in hell Sam’s leaving it in the car. Besides, it’s kinda funny how wide Torres’s eyes go when Sam offers it up. Even bigger reaction than leaving him the wings, though this he doesn’t get to keep.

“On my signal,” Torres restates.

Sam gives him a sharp nod.

Once he’s alone, he paces between the vehicles, eager to kick off the ground. He hasn’t had an opportunity to just enjoy himself in the new suit yet. Leading up to the confrontation with the Flag-Smashers (and Georges Batroc, that fists-of-steel bastard), he was in training mode, focused and determined. In the media-heavy days that followed, he conceded to a few stunts for the camera. Those hadn’t been purely fun though; they were actually something Sam had to think quick and hard about, ultimately deciding that it wasn’t just performing on command but rather giving the public a lighthearted look at their new Captain America. Testing new tech with Bucky, Torres, and a bunch of seagulls? That seems like it’ll actually be a good time.

The instant Torres’s voice in Sam’s ear says, “Bucky’s under,” he unfurls the wings and sails up over the crest of the dune.

It’s not the warmest day and the greenish-blue water’s choppy near the shore, but there is a surprising smattering of people along a quarter mile of beach. Must be locals, Sam guesses, trekking down to the water from nearby houses. That would explain the lack of other cars where he parked. The people aren’t that close or that bothered by his sudden appearance overhead. Startled, sure, but after they’ve identified him (he sees a few hands lifted to foreheads to block out the sun so they can get a good look), he gets to return a couple big waves. Besides that, nobody’s getting to their feet to pound sand and swarm Torres, who’s conspicuously there with Sam—he is holding the shield, after all. Pretty typical. The bigger the crowd, the greater the chance of people scrambling for his attention and/or whipping out their phones to film him. This group seems satisfied with watching Captain America hanging out at their beach on his downtime and Sam appreciates them for that.

“No scanning the water,” Torres says in his ear. Sam laughs.

“I’m not, just assessing our audience here.”

“Is this a bad spot? I didn’t think anybody’d be around when I sent you my location, but—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry. Did anybody ask you what was up when Bucky waded out into the water?”

“Nah. If they were wondering, they probably aren’t anymore.”

“Glad I won’t have to compete with a lifeguard to rescue him,” Sam jokes.

He hears Torres’s short laugh of agreement before focusing. Not on the water at all, but the birds. Those down on the sand are squawking for food, comfortable enough with these people to complain loudly in the hopes of being fed.

Sam’s sudden swoops scatter the gulls in the air, so he tries easier circles, mimicking their movements to hover high above the beach. Soon enough—these guys either have bad short-term memories or no patience—they start communicating with each other. The new programming Torres has uploaded to his suit signals to Sam that the birds are aware of a disturbance in the water. He gets a target on his goggles’ imaging and dives.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam crashes into the murky water no more than a hundred yards out. The drop-off is dramatic enough for him to not complete a faceplant into a shallow bottom. Bucky’s treading water a couple body-lengths down, but he wrecks his form to offer Sam a raised middle finger in greeting. Sam’s wings retract as he grabs Bucky’s wrist to haul him to the surface.

They breathe, bobbing in place.

“Thought you’d be faster,” Bucky says.

“You didn’t drown, did you?” Sam points out. “Come on.”

He catches hold of Bucky’s hand and shoots out of the water, wings opening in the air to carry him once the thruster’s done its work. But Bucky squirms below him, their wet grip twisting precariously. Water runs from his sopping jeans.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asks.

“I don’t want to be carried to shore!”

“Why?”

“Because dangling this high above the ground feels a little weird to me! Not all of us do this every day!”

“I guess we could run the exercise again.”

“Fine. Let’s do that. Just drop me.”

Sam rewards Bucky’s melodrama by abruptly releasing his grip. Hey, that’s what the idiot asked for, and if he can fall out of a plane to the forest floor, he can plunge into water. It’s not like Sam’s up at aircraft cruising altitude, just high enough to make Torres look like a little action figure army man, standing on the sand in his fatigues.

“Running it again?” Torres wants to know.

“Yep,” Sam tells him, accelerating away from the shore. “Just giving that dumbass time to swim to a new spot.”

“Even though he can’t reply while he’s underwater… you know he can hear you in the comms, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

When Torres lets him know that Bucky’s gone under a second time, they start the drill again. Once more, Sam does a gliding approach to the seagulls. Once more, they go quiet before filling the air with their screaming, overlapping calls. Once more, Sam finds Bucky. He knows he’s quicker this time, so he’s expecting an acknowledgement of that when he contracts the wings, straightens his body, and plummets into the water feetfirst next to where Bucky’s floating below the surface.

Instead of an appreciative nod, an outstretched hand, or even a thumbs up, Bucky darts away from him. Is he trying not to get rescued? Now he’s just fucking up the exercise. Only, Sam can’t even berate him, because he’s still under too, holding his breath as he swims after Bucky. He uses the jetpack for assistance, but Bucky’s a fast swimmer, legs kicking just ahead of Sam. Goddamn human shark.

Because he is not an idiot, Sam surfaces to catch his breath, leaving Bucky somewhere below.

“There a problem?” Torres asks.

“Only with Bucky’s idea of teamwork.”

“Get him like a bird would!”

“Is that a real suggestion?” Sam asks, rising and falling as a small wave swells under him, rolling towards the shore.

“Really, Sam! You know, like how birds hunt fish.” Back on the beach, he makes a sharp, downward gesture with his arm that has Sam chuckling. He gets what Torres means though.

“Alright.”

Sam goes from water to air, then, alerted by a trio of seagulls taking annoyed flight from the surface of the water, goes into a steep dive. Nabbing the swimmer from above is the trick, he learns, when the swimmer is being intentionally uncooperative with the rescue attempt. Bucky might be quick when he knows Sam’s behind him, but when he drops down on him, there’s nowhere Bucky can go. Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s bare chest from behind and lugs him up for air.

The first thing Bucky says is, “You took even longer that time.”

Frustrated, Sam splashes the back of his head, but when Bucky strokes his arms out, rotating to face him, he’s smiling.

“You messed it up,” Sam accuses. He rubs a hand across his goggles to smear the water droplets off.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun.”

Sam narrows his eyes before a laugh bursts out of him. He can’t help it; it’s the pressure he’s been under, so much internal conflict, suddenly drawn out with the current. Yeah, Bucky was slightly uncooperative, but that’s nothing unusual. Swimming ahead like he was going for a gold medal or forcing Sam to plunge deep after him, the two of them suspended like the goddamn Shape of Water before Sam towed him to the surface—either way, Bucky definitely gave him distinct scenarios to work with. Sam can’t say he doesn’t feel more comfortable now that he’s had some practice. More comfortable with his wings in the water, with working with his feathered allies. With Bucky.

“Still don’t want a lift?” Sam checks.

Bucky’s expression hardens and Sam backs off with a laugh.

“See you on the shore,” Bucky states firmly.

“Alright. Get doggy-paddlin’, White Wolf.”

Sam feels Bucky’s hand shoot out to seize his ankle in retaliation as he launches out of the water, but he’s too slow. Sam’s wings fan wide as he flies up, up, up with the birds.

[coeurdastronaute]

Fear 12

Previously on Fear

The apartment was very small. 

It was painfully tiny and nearly impossible to stretch across, but it did the job, it was a place to hide and a place to rest. A few plants took their places, vibrant and green against the mess of the room, with its dirty laundry on the floor and the lack of counter space. A bed was pushed against the window, the frame barely fit, the apartment just wide enough to accommodate it. On the kitchen counter, a few old mugs of stale coffee took up most of the space, while on the tiny desk, a stack of books and papers acted like a tablecloth. 

Elyza pushed open the door and felt the warmth as she walked inside from the rain. There was a taste to the air, there was a heat to the evening that felt like home, in a way she couldn’t fully comprehend, though she didn’t ask any questions. The window was cracked, and the hanging vine of one of the plants wafted in the breeze. 

There was traffic noises coming from outside somewhere, though she couldn’t quite place it, or really anything in particular. But that didn’t stop Elyza from walking inside. 

At the stove, Alicia moved around the pan and hummed, she moved her hips around slowly, though suddenly all the noises were gone. There wasn’t much else to do except stand there and look, and Elyza found herself searching for words, but not having much else to say, and so she watched and felt her heart grow very warm and full. 

The birds were too loud to allow her any longer with her dream. 

Real life came slowly to snatch away a perfect moment, and Elyza scrunched up her face and tried to turn away from the light that slipped in through the window. She ran her hands over her face and grunted in complaint that the first good dream she had in weeks was taken away because of some birds who got too overzealous with a little bit of sunlight. 

Even with her complaining, the body beside her didn’t move too much, unperturbed by the noises outside, still very invested in her own dream world. Elyza sighed and pressed her hand against her stomach before closing her eyes and hoping to fall asleep again. She did her best to conjure the images again, but they just played there in her brain, fragments and completely unattainable yet again. 

But she didn’t move again. Instead, she just stared at the ceiling. That was what she did for hours while attempting to not bother the other sleeping girl. If she stared long enough, she was certain she could fade away or freeze time. There were glimpses of it, she tricked herself into believing. 

For some reason, it never really mattered though. Alicia just kind of always knew when Elyza needed her. With a movement, the sleeping girl almost woke, and she slipped an arm over her middle, wiggling closer until her chin was on Elyza’s shoulders. No eyes opened as she clung to a few more minutes. 

“Sleep more,” Alicia murmured. She didn’t see it, but Elyza closed her eyes and smiled slightly, faintly, just the tiniest bit. 

“Okay.” 

“Bad dreams?” 

“No,” she shook her head and let out a big breath. “Good dreams.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

Alicia rubbed her stomach over her shirt and hummed, content at the news of her girlfriend’s good dreams. She kissed her shoulder and inhaled, squeezing her arms to hold the moment as tightly as Elyza had her dreams. 

“I want you to stay, please.” 

“I am,” Elyza promised, shifting only to kiss Alicia’s messy hair that tickled her nose. But still she kept there and waited-- for what, she wasn’t sure. 

“Tell me about the dream?” 

“It was before. You were dancing barefoot around my old apartment and cooking dinner.” 

“That’s it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I like socks. Tell your brain that for next time. Better to slide around in.” 

Elyza snorted and kissed her again, this time leaning her chin against her head and hoping that she might fall asleep once more. She knew it wouldn’t happen, but she didn’t care. She just didn’t want to be awake. 

XXXXXXXXXX

The sun snarls directly overhead in the mean kind of noon that comes despite the remaining haze from the half-dead city. Elyza drags her forearm across her forehead, the mix of blood and sweat forming a nasty mess on her arm that she wipes on her pant leg. The grunge of her hard work seems to be less that it was before-- something she’s noticed of the dead and how skeletal most were now. It either meant no one else was dying, or there were no more people to die. 

The remnants of the small group of walkers pile up to her shoulders as she pulls the bandana down from nose before pulling off the thick gloves. The killing them part was always more fun than the clean up, but here she was, still doing it. A janitor of sorts. She chuckled at the imagery. 

From her back pocket, she pulls out a cigarette, carefully putting it to her lips and lighting it with her old lighter. The smoke puffs into a cloud before drifting away as she snaps it shut and puts it back in her pocket. She doesn’t inhale it, and quickly pulls it from her lips after a moment of hanging there. She very much wants to smoke, but can’t convince herself to do it. It’s the habit, just as much as these fires are habit. Ritual, perhaps, would be a better explanation. 

Twenty-eight more notches to go on with the count, she observes, leaning on the shovel. The parking lot is quiet, though some gulls can be heard in the distance on their way back toward the bay.

With a small, proud nod, she tosses the cigarette onto the puddle of gas and takes a step back as the pyre goes up in an instant.

She doesn’t like watching them burn. It feels oddly intimate, as if she is forgetting some key step, as if she should say something. Often she doesn’t. Occasionally, she’ll mutter some prayer from the recesses of her mind, tugged out of the archives from her years in the orphanage’s school. Lately, she likes to forget that they’re people. She has to remember everyone back at the compound. She reminds herself that it is for them and not for herself, even though a tiny bit of rage seeps into this. Her retribution for those taken from her. She seeks her pounds and pounds and pounds of flesh as payment. 

With a clunk, the shovel gets tossed in the back of the old pick up and Elyza grabs her coat hanging on the tailgate. She has plans for the day, and she has a tight schedule to keep if she is going to save the world. A foolhardy task, she knows, but at this point, foolhardy is all the world has left.

The truck complains, gurgling as she shifts gears and heads in the opposite direction of the compound. As much as she does everything for them, she can’t quite stand being near the people that forced themselves into her being. She never wanted to be responsible. She just wanted to save the world. 

But she knew how to survive on the road. She preferred it. 

The apartment they picked was in an already vacated section of city that didn't’ attract many walkers. Elyza parked a few blocks over and walked, carefully lugging the backpack full of supplies and checking for anyone else. But all was clear despite the nagging feeling Elyza could never seem to shake. 

Sometimes she liked to pretend she was coming back from class to see her girlfriend in their shared apartment. Sometimes she liked to imagine they were married and would debate what to get for dinner-- their favorite place or try something new. Those nagging moments of before crept in, stemming from the time they were apart, when Elyza allowed herself a reprieve from searching to hide in made up places. 

But they were here, and it was now, and she carefully knocked before entering their little slice of the world. 

“You left early,” Alicia complained, looking up from her book. 

“Wanted to go look for a few things. 

“How many?” 

“Just a few,” she shrugged and tossed her bag on the table before crawling onto the couch between her girlfriend’s legs, flopping onto her chest, burrowing there soft and clumsy. 

“Mmm,” Alicia hummed, knowing it wasn’t the truth but accepting a few white lies. She learned that Elyza needed them to survive; accepting them as acceptable as long as she could spot them. 

She rubbed along her girlfriend’s back, the shirt still damp from sweat and her trip. She slipped beneath the fabric of the shirt and traced the spine and muscles there, snug beneath her skin. 

“Are you ready to go back yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Me either,” Alicia promised. “The trucks almost full though.” 

“We can get more stuff.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I got you something.” 

“What else could I want? I have the third floor walk up with an ocean-view in a trendy neighborhood I always wanted.” 

Elyza moved only slightly, pushing herself up and reaching behind her back. With a face she tugged and brought a fist back between the two of them. She had a smile that Alicia liked, ignoring the hand and whatever was inside. 

“I found it… a long time ago. Before you were…. When we lived on the rig.”

She twisted her palm and let the necklace dangle from the chain hooked on her finger. It swung between the two of them. 

“You got me this all that time ago?” 

“You went up and got yourself kidnapped so I couldn’t give it to you.” 

Alicia rolled her eyes but smiled as she played with the charm on the end. She looked it over and toyed with it. 

“It’s pretty.” 

“Thought you might like it.” 

“Can I put it on?” 

With a nod, Elyza sat up and waited for her girlfriend to do the same. When she did, Alicia pushed her hair to the side and let her clasp it there. She pressed it against her chest, as if telling it to stay put and never move. The weight of it was minute against her neck, but it was there, and it was new. 

“I love it,” she promised, leaning forward to kiss Elyza. “You should go shower.”

For a moment, Elyza didn’t move. She just stared at the necklace on Alicia’s chest. Almost bashfully, she lifted her eyes only and thought about something, though Alicia couldn’t quite decipher the look. And when she couldn’t, she cocked her head to the side and she rubbed her thumb along the jaw there. 

“I’m going to go shower.” 

“Okay.” 

XXXXXXXXXX

They stayed away for six months or so, because it was easier. Elyza went about the task of cleaning as best she could,t aking to it like a job, like one she refused to take any time off from at all. They lived a relatively normal life, considering it was the end of the world. Trucks were left at the drop point close to the cabin and they slept in a bed together every night. 

Elyza worked through things in her head, turning it over again and again. So she enjoyed the killing of the already dead. It made it easier to focus and think about anything else. It was a monumental task, to find herself amidst the deeds she’d done, and so she turned to words and books, inhaling them at every step, staying up late while Alicia slept beside her, the candle burning low into the night. And she’’d read them every day, as if she could find a manual for being alive. 

Beside her, Alicia watched the voracious way at which she studiously attacked life, and though she couldn’t fix it, she watched the burden fluctuate on her back. Though she couldn’t do anything, she fought as hard as she could to help. 

But they couldn’t stay away forever. 

The morning the clouds rolled in, Elyza sat down to breakfast by kissing her girlfriend’s forehead and simply muting those words aloud. 

“We can go back.” 

Alicia looked up from her oatmeal and furrowed, confused by the sudden thought. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I don’t want to stop what I’m doing,” Elyza decided. “But we should go back. God only knows what they’re doing anyway.” 

“We can stay if you’re not sure.” 

“No. You want to go back, and it’s not fair to keep you away.” 

“But you needed time.” 

“I don’t know what I need,” Elyza finally admitted. She was sheepish about it, about admitting and talking. “But I think we need people. They might need us.”

“They might,” Alicia nodded. 

They sat, drinking instant coffee. Alicia looked the surly girl beside her over, wondering what it all meant. There truly was no telling what happened in her head, or how she got from point A to point B, just that suddenly the blue in her eyes was earnest beyond reproach. 

“I’ll go out to gather some supplies,” she muttered, leaning forward to kiss her girlfriend’ once again. 

Alicia leaned back and watched her disappear. The thunder rumbled in the distance and she knew from experience that it was a bad time to be out and to travel. She would have to delay them a day or so until the storm passed. 

Never one for premonition, Alicia couldn’t help but think that something was wrong in the air. She wanted to blame the humidity and the storm and the uneasiness it caused, but it ran deeper than that. 

She decided they would visit the Colony first.

[etlunainmorte]

“As she comes to the city, hollow hands empty,

Eyes open to what lies in wait for her,”

She does not weep nor wail,

In her eyes, home has always been burning.”

***

🌙 To You Who Rejected Me 🌙

***

II

***

"Now, where could that thing be?" Griffon mused to himself as he flew high above the shores of Delphi, looking for that vital something that his master lost when he dived into the ocean to escape those fire - wielding Elves attacking him. The demonic bird has been searching for almost an hour but, with no such luck. "Honestly, it could turn up just about anywhere!" He complained in utter frustration. "This is hopeless!" 

The bird was about to give up on his search when he noticed something gleaming at the corner of his eye. He looked down and squinted those golden eyes of his until he finally saw the thing. Indeed, it was right there, washed up on the shore and almost covered with sand and sea weeds.

There it was, V's antique metal cane!

"There ya are!" Griffon flew down to fetch the thing, at the same time shooing the sea gulls that were trying to claim it as their own like it was some kind of a rare sea artifact, almost fighting over it. "HEY, I SAID, SHOO!" The familiar screeched once more as he let out a weak electrical current to scare the noisy birds away, and it worked to perfection.

"Hoho! Thought I'd never see ya again!" Griffon opened his talons wide, ready to pick up V's cane,...

"What in the - ?!" The bird muttered the moment his talons came into contact with the metal cane. It felt somehow hot, and not just warm. He was not sure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him but, the thing did seem to glow. And finally, the metal cane seemed to tremble a bit against his talons, like it was alive. Sentient.

Still hovering above the sand with V's metal cane in his talons, the demonic bird squinted his eyes in suspicion. Master and familiar alike knew that the cane was nothing but an old piece of metal, and not a source of any kind of power, demonic or not. An aid for V's,... disability. Nothing more.

However, despite that, Griffon could feel something coming from the cane. Like it was emanating some form of unknown power. He just knew it deep within his core.

But, being unimaginably tired after what happened last night, Griffon ignored the cane, ruffled his feathers, and flew back to where Dante and his master were.

"I'm heckin’ tired." Griffon uttered as his wings took him to his destination - the ruins of Apollo's temple. "I'll let Shakespeare deal with ya."

"Your foot seem fine to me, V." Dante said for the third time since morning. 

"I could've sworn I felt this,... excruciating pain when I was attacked,... "

"Well, your foot seem,... fine to me!" And that was the fourth time since morning. "Look, V: you're a son of Sparda. Maybe the Demon blood's finally kickin' in and healed your wounds?"

And to this, V only shook his head. It's impossible for him, after all.

No matter how much or how intense Dante stared at his brother's allegedly injured left foot, he just couldn't find anything wrong with it, save for the missing pair of the poet's old gladiator sandals, and the frayed, almost tattered end of his pants, like something burned it. If anything, to Dante's eyes, V only seemed to have lost the other pair of his unspeakably tacky footwear. And a good riddance to it, if he may add! To the legendary Devil Hunter, it seemed so difficult to move and fight Demons with such footwear. And he would never deny that fact, despite knowing that he could hurt his brother's feelings for having such a questionable taste in fashion.

On the other hand, to V, it was an entirely different story. For, only last night, he swore his foot got burned badly due to the attack. So badly and so painful, he was actually scared to look at it.

And now, as he looked, no, stared, at his foot with disbelief, he couldn't help but feel utterly mystified. First, there was this strange presence that saved him from the enemies, and now this.

It's as if nothing happened to his foot, at all!

And honestly? V could not believe his sheer, dumb luck.

Or, was it even luck?

After all, since those Elves, and her, entered their lives, V and his brother experienced nothing but the unusual. The unknown. And he felt that he must learn to accept such things. Get used to them, so to speak.

V pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and knitting his eyebrows as a helpless sigh escaped his parched lips. Well, there's no use raking up the past. They must focus on the present. They must focus on the now. And for now, they must focus on getting to the Elven world in one piece. The portal led them to Delphi of all places, and V knew it meant something. They were getting really close to their destination. And he knew they would face an even greater danger when they get there. Well, it's not like the Elves would give them a warm welcome or anything. They're still wanted persons, after all.

Opening his eyes once more, he noticed Griffon flying towards them, finally carrying his lost metal cane. He gave a weak smile as the loyal familiar gave the cane back to him and landed on his waiting arm.

Then, V noticed something strange. So did Dante.

"No wisecracks or something?" Dante asked the demonic bird as he crossed his arms and tapped his boot on the ground.

"You do seem a bit quiet." V added, raising his eyebrow as he looked at his familiar.

"Ahh, V," Griffon stuttered, unsure how to begin. " ... didn't ya notice anythin',... weird?"

"Pardon?" The poet asked as Griffon's eyes wandered to the metal cane in his right hand.

"That thing!" The demonic bird squawked.

"Ugh, now what - ?" Dante began when a woman approached them, getting their attention and making them drop their conversation, much to Griffon's frustration.

"Can we help you, lady?" With a flashy grin, the younger brother graciously asked the woman, who was smiling nervously as her eyes went back and forth from him, to V, to the strange avian on the poet's arm.

"I, ahh,... " The lady stuttered, not sure how to address the situation.

"Yes?" And Dante didn't seem to help with the situation, at all. The woman became somewhat more nervous than before she approached them.

Inhaling through her nose and clearing her throat, she began. “Yes, well," She said, pointing at Griffon with a trembling finger.  “The other guests are getting anxious of your,… ahh,… pet bird."

"Is that so?" Dante answered with a boisterous voice. "Don't you worry a thing about our pet bird! You see, he's a rare - "

“I see. Don’t worry.”

All of a sudden, V heard a clear and distinct voice, overlapping with the woman and his brother's voices.

“These are my loyal,… companions. They would bring no harm to any of the innocent people here. That,…”

V's hands went up to his temples as he tried to distinguish and trace where the voice was actually coming from, when the voice itself took over his hearing, drowning out the other voices, and all the other noises going on around him.

“I can assure you.”

The lady let out a helpless laugh, then nodded. “Okay. Whatever you say.” She hastily moved away from Dante to give herself a safe distance from him and Griffon and clumsily pointed at the breathtaking horizon. “Well, now, enjoy your stay here at Delphi!”

The woman, being proud of herself for handling the difficult situation, walked away with a huge smile on her face. And Dante, being a huge flirt, started following the woman.

However, when his brother stepped away, V noticed something taking his place where he stood.

V's eyes narrowed for a second for what he saw. He closed his eyes, rubbed the tiredness and fatigue off them, and opened them once more. However, despite that, the strange figure was still there.

V saw,... himself.

And he, the other him, was drinking in the beautiful sight of Delphi's ruins around him.

“So, V,…” He heard Griffon ask all of a sudden. “Are we going to look for that thing there?”

"I'm sorry - ?" V turned to his left to look at Griffon but, the demonic bird was nowhere to be found.

“Not this time.” V turned towards his other self at the sound of his voice and noticed Griffon, himself, flying towards him. “For now, I need to take a rest and reflect upon our journey, so far.”

V almost fell off the old bench he was sitting on.

That voice,...

... it really was him.

But,... how?!

“The Yamato really does wonders, huh?” the Griffon who was with the other V said, then chuckled, ruffling his own feathers in delight with tiny shakes. “Who knew it would go directly to you and not to that kid Nero?”

"The Yamato?" His other self whispered as V followed him and his familiar on their way towards the ruins of Apollo's temple. What has the Yamato got to do with all this?

“For one thing, I’ am the rightful owner of the Yamato, not the boy Nero.” The other V answered as he skipped some rocks along the pathway that led to the ruins of the temple. “I think it was fitting that it answered to me. But, as grateful as I’ am that it was returned to me,” he said, stopping at what looked like the remains of an altar. “I must not abuse my fragile body by using it over and over to transport us. You see,” He began tracing the remains with the tip of his cane. “It consumes way too much of my,… demonic power. I must be wary of that fact.”

Of course, V thought as he observed what the other V was doing. I don't have,... that much demonic power.

“Aha, so that’s why we had to hitch that stinkin’ bus ride with that awful bitch! Didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut!” And the other Griffon sounded less rude, either.

“Now, be nice to our little human.” V reprimanded the demonic bird. “We will ’hitch’ on the same vehicle on the way back.”

“Ugh! Not again,…”

V watched in amusement how this other Griffon threw tantrums. However, his other self drew V's attention back. He was looking at the altar with an unreadable expression, tracing the edges of the marble altar with his cane.

Then, all of a sudden, he started reciting the few lines of a poem that was very dear to him. It was,...

“As she comes to the city, hollow hands empty,

Eyes open to what lies in wait for her,”

His mother's favorite poem,...

V closed his eyes and recited the old poem along with his other self.

“She does not weep nor wail,

In her eyes, home has always been burning.”

His eyes closed, his senses surrendered to the vision before him, he allowed nostalgia to take over his entire being. Of his mother reading this same poem to him, of her tales about a Princess named Cassandra who was gifted by the God Apollo with the curse of predicting the future,...

... of this hidden gateway of Delphi where she went to after being rejected and stoned by her own people,...

V opened his eyes, feeling something pulling him back from his reverie to the present, like a powerful force.

It was then when he was greeted by the sight of a morphing demonic entity right before his other self, who he assumed was one of his familiars.

He watched in awe as the familiar morphed into multiple pulsing dark vines that filled the entire altar. Him and his other self took a step back as roses of all shapes and sizes sprouted from the dark vines, and when his other self pulled something from the largest rose, his eyes grew wide with shock.

It was the Yamato, only it was glowing in a very unusual way.

V wanted to listen more, to know more, to watch what happens next but, the vision itself began getting blurry as their voices became more and more warped, like a disrupted signal of an old television. The vision, and the voices, warped and warped, until only a distorted and blurry version was left. And before the vision entirely vanished, V saw his other self raising the sword,...

... and slicing the air before him, creating a portal that led him somewhere,...

"V!" He heard Dante's voice from afar, like he was being called by him from the other end of a long tunnel. "V!" He felt a strong hand go down on his shoulder, making him turn around. "What are you doing? I was looking all over for you!"

The poet could barely believe what just happened. He was back, and he felt like he just woke up from a very long dream.

"I, ahh,... " V stuttered, turning back to the altar and seeing nothing there.

"Hey, V," Griffon, who just landed on his waiting arm, asked. " ... are you okay?"

"The gateway,... " The poet uttered, the vision he saw still crystal clear on his mind.

"What gateway?" Dante questioned.

"There's a gateway here." V reiterated as he walked closer towards the altar where his other self vanished. "It was opened using the Yamato."

"How did you know that?" With a raised eyebrow, Dante asked in confusion. "And besides, even if that's true, we can't really use the Yamato. I mean, it's with its owner on the other side of the globe right now."

"We can't rely on Vergil this time, I know." V answered as thoughts and ideas ran through his head like an unstoppable drill. "But, what if the gate,... was left open? What if it was never closed?"

Dante's mouth fell open at the possibility. Only a slight drawback made him close it again and shake his head in disapproval. "But, I see no gate here! All I see in this place are rocks and statues and ruins and tourists everywhere."

V turned to Griffon, who drew back at the intensity in his master's facial features. "Do it."

"Do what?" The familiar questioned.

"Distract the people while I look for the portal."

"How could I do that?! How am I - ?!"

"Alright! I'll do it!" Dante offered, turning away from them and walking away from the altar as he began singing something. And it's working. The tourists, especially the ladies, started listening to him and flocking before him. "I'm lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you 'till it hurts,... "

V grabbed this opportunity to look for the portal. He can't be wrong, the vision can't be wrong! They must get to the Elven world and he would do whatever it takes to get there.

He will do whatever it takes to get to her and fix this huge mess that was messing with their lives,...

It was then when he noticed something small and gleaming right before him. He reached out a single finger to touch it, and lo and behold, the small gleam made a tiny ripple that reflected so many bright colors. Like a prism. Another touch of his finger produced a huge ripple, revealing its true nature in all its entirety. Indeed, it was a gate. In the form of a curtain that was seemingly made of glass that reflected light like numerous precious gems.

"Whoa! That looks so unreal!" Griffon, who watched the entire thing with curious eyes, said in awe. "How did you know all this, V?!"

"I'll explain later." The poet answered. "For now, we should press on."

"I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you - " Dante sang with much gusto, wowing his audience, when he suddenly heard a familiar whistle. He stopped singing and turned around to see V beckoning for him to come join him and Griffon. The Devil Hunter turned back to his audience, made an incredibly believable shocked expression, and pointed at the sky. "Thunderstorm! Incoming thunderstorm! Run and hide for your lives!"

The people instantly believed him, scrambling and running all over the place to shield themselves from Dante's imaginary thunderstorm. The younger brother took this opportunity to join V.

"How in the world - ?!" Dante began questioning at the sight of the translucent gateway but, he was cut short as Griffon went behind him and started pushing him towards the gate.

"I'll explain later! We must hurry!" V ordered, then went through the curtain, looking as if he just vanished into thin air.

"Let's get goin', lover boy!" Griffon squawked, grabbing onto Dante's shoulders with his talons.

"I swear I need to go to therapy after all this." The Devil Hunter said as he, too, went through the curtain and vanished.

***

🌙 Finally! And this one took longer than expected. Enjoy!😁😁😁❤❤❤ 🌙

🌙 Thank you so much to these lovelies, @dreaming-gamer , @la-vita and @thottyonmainsquid .❤❤❤ 🌙

***

A few moments later, Dante arrived at the other side. But, his path was blocked by V, himself, who was standing still, his back turned away from him.

"You alright there, V?" Dante asked as he scratched his temple in confusion. "Aren't we - ?"

"Yes, we are." V cut him off, raising his metal cane and using it to point at something before the two of them. "We have finally arrived."

The younger brother followed V's line of sight, and what he saw before him simply took his breath away.

"Holy mama - !" Dante breathed in awe at the marvelous sight.

***

🌙

***

[johnaculbreath]

Remembering Professor Ronald Rotunda

Twelve years ago, I walked into law school absolutely clueless. I had never taken a class in constitutional law and could not tell you what the acronym SCOTUS meant. That cluelessness changed when I entered Professor Ronald Rotunda’s ConLaw I class. I was immediately hooked. Ron, as I would come to know him, was able to seamlessly blend probing questions, compelling lectures, and uproarious humor. In the early days of this blog, I recounted my favorite Rotunda joke about the Mann Act: “A zookeeper fed his long-lived dolphins sea gulls, which was the secret to their longevity. One night he was was carrying the gulls, but he had to jump over a sleeping lion, and so he was arrested for transporting gulls across staid lions for immoral porpoises.”

Even his one-paragraph syllabus was comical:

For the first day of class, please read the U.S. Constitution (pp. lv-lxxix), in Rotunda, MODERN CONSTITUTIONAL LAW (Thomson West, 8th ed. 2007). Then, we will read Chapters 1 & 2. Then we will read §5-1 of Chapter 5. After that, we will read Chapters 3 & 4. Then, we will read Chapter 6, §§ 6-1 & 6-2. All pages include the associated pages in the 2007 Supplement. Finally, we will return to Chapter 5 and decide what parts of that chapter we will read next. For each class, please read about 30 pages beyond where we finished in the previous class. If you do that, you will often be ahead of the class but never behind.

A few weeks into the semester, I invited Ron to participant in a Federalist Society event with Roger Pilon (of the Cato Institute) on the 9th Amendment. Ron replied that he may not be the right person to participate. “I suppose you want someone who has a view of the 9th Amendment more restrictive than Roger’s. I’m not sure.” Eventually, Professor Nelson Lund indicated he would be willing to debate Roger. Ron agreed to moderate. “I’m a very moderate person,” he replied. When we tried to figure out the timing, Ron joked, “My guess is that the students like to ask questions rather than watching us talking heads.” The debate was a great success. It was the first event that I put together as a student, and inspired my ongoing involvement with the Federalist Society. (I became fortunate to count Nelson and Roger, along with Roger, as friends and colleagues.)

Ron and I would email quite frequently about the most arcane issues of constitutional law. And–unlike many law professors–he would always respond with clarity and care. Ron was always willing to engage with any questions I posed. At one point, Bill Clinton suggested he could run as Hillary Clinton’s VP. I asked Ron if that was constitutional under the 22nd Amendment. He replied, “I don’t think answering legal questions is Bill’s forte,” adding “he and Hillary are from the same state and the President and Vice President cannot be from the state state, amendment 12.” In another email, I inquired about then-candidate Rudy Giuliani’s proposal to “brib[e] the states with money and power.” Ron replied, “Giving money to the states is ok if there are not strings.  Sadly, there are always strings.” Later in the semester, I asked him whether the Virginia GOP could require voters to sign a loyalty oath. (This plan was designed to prevent Democrats from interceding in the Virginia’s open-primary.) He quickly wrote back, and pointed me to the Oaths cases in the textbook, and said “there is a real free speech problem. A few days later, Ron emailed me back to note that the GOP dropped the pledge. He thought that much of his students that, unprovoked, he sent me items that would interest me. I missed one class for a reason I cannot recall. During that class, Ron answered some question I asked earlier in the semester. Even years later, Ron would still carp that I missed the class where he answered my question

After our constitutional law class, Ron remained a presence in my life, with his characteristic wit. During my 2L year,  I asked him if he had some time to chat about clerkships at a certain time. He replied that my preferred day wouldn’t work: “I will have a small private lunch with the President!  I’m excited. It will be at a Georgetown restaurant.” In a follow-up email, he wrote “Speaking of the President, our lunch was great. Bush was in great form. He spoke, impromptu, for over an hour. We were about 6 feet from him the whole time. He told me that I have to obey Kyndra (his wife) because she is a Major and outranks me. I told him that I already knew that.” Another time he apologized for being unable to attend an event at GMU: “Tomorrow, I get two wisdom teeth extracted, so the next time we chat, I’ll have less wisdom.” After Boumedienne v. Bush was decided, Ron quipped, “As for bin Laden, I think he would get habeas after this decision, although the case has a lot of fudge words in it (e.g., Kennedy complained that people were detained for an ‘undue’ amount of time, with no definition of what amount of time is due.” Shortly before District of Columbia v. Heller was decided, he predicted “Scalia will write the majority.” Hours after it was decided, Ron wrote back “I’m trying to edit the case now to put it in the casebook. It is too long. But, there is a lot of discussion of how to interpret.  I’d editing Stevens now.”

Even after Ron left George Mason for Chapman, we kept in touch. During my 3L year, when I attended a clerkship workshop at Pepperdine, Ron and Kyndra picked me up in a snazzy Mercedes coupe and took me out to dinner. (In an earlier email, he joked that he had some car trouble: “There was a loose flux capacitor or something like that. They put in a new one.”).

After I started teaching, Ron and I grew closer. I sent him copies of my articles, and he always sent back pithy comments. (I thanked him in the dagger note of my recent piece on Model Rule 8.4(g).) He not only affected my scholarship, but also made a significant impact on my teaching. Many of the specific points I make in class come directly from Ron. For example, he would always complain that most constitutional law casebooks exclude Justice Blackmun’s citation to Buck v. Bell in the excerpt of Roe v. Wade. He wrote in an email, “they excise it from the opinion. I guess they wanted Blackmun and the Court to look better than they really are. That is what acolytes do.” (Rotunda had a fascinating exchange with Justice Blackmun about Roe.) When I became an editor of Cases in Context, I ensured that our casebook included that citation. Ron would always send me copies of his latest writings. “Hot off the presses!” the subject line would usually say. His writings were always punchy. In a 2015 email about Masterpiece Cakeshop, Ron offered a definition of the word “liberal”: “someone who doesn’t care what you do as long as it’s compulsory.”

In 2016, I spoke at the FIU Law Review Symposium on the separation of powers. It was my honor to be on the same program as both of my ConLaw professors: Ron and David Bernstein. I remarked to both of them that much of what I teach came directly from their class. I was very fortunate to have such amazing professors at George Mason. I wouldn’t be the professor I am today without having learned from them.

Earlier this week, the Fowler School of Law at Chapman University announced the heart-breaking news that Professor Rotunda passed away. Though Ron is gone, his memory will live on in the hearts and minds of his students, his colleagues, and the rule of law, which he cared so deeply about. This post is but a mere first step in remembering Ron’s remarkable legacy.

I encourage you to read other remembrances from Steve Bainbridge, Roger Pilon, Hans von Spakovsky and Elizabeth Slattery, John Dean, and The Federalist Society.

Remembering Professor Ronald Rotunda republished via Josh Blackman's Blog