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loneberry · 1 year ago

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Baby's First Meditation Retreat

…attention is prayer. —Simone Weil

It would be simpler—the monastic life would be so much simpler. Wake, pray, meditate, do battle with the ego, eat, sleep—live such that everything inessential is stripped away. Why did you come here, I said, I’m tired of living a distracted life, of going through my days in a fog of unawareness.

In Cambridge, MA I attended a meditation retreat. I signed up on a whim, out of a vague feeling that I have lost control of my mind. I have been meditating very casually for the last nine years, mostly using the Calm app, listening to Tara Brach recordings, and attending guided meditations while a grad student. I had come to the practice out of desperation, in the midst of a debilitating depression that made me feel perpetually tormented by my thoughts. During that time, I would voraciously read every study I could find on depression treatments and tried basically every treatment modality out there: neurofeedback, ketamine, therapeutic yoga, medication, CBT, DBT, fish oil, an anti-inflammatory diet, psychedelics, and the “treatment” that ultimately saved me: intensive psychoanalysis four days a week. Meditation seemed a particularly promising and low-risk way to manage depression and anxiety—and yes, it did bring me some relief, working as a kind of supplement to the psychoanalysis. Even though I haven’t been as consistent about it as I would have liked, I continued to practice it regularly, usually for about 10-20 minutes a day. Not once have I regretted meditating, though when life gets busy it’s easy to tell yourself that you just don’t have the time to sit and do nothing, even though we seem to somehow always have the time to mindlessly surf the internet.

What is there to say. I’m just so tired of living on autopilot, of not having to face the moment, to face myself. There are a million ways to blot out one’s internal monologue, filling up our days with the background chatter of podcasts or social media.

The recrudescence of my Simone Weil mania has forced me to reflect on attention—that rare quality of mind which is increasingly in short supply. And yet everything is a matter of attention—not because attention can be instrumentalized to achieve one’s goals. No. Attention is the end in itself. Weil: “We have to try to cure our faults by attention and not by will.” It’s in that second-to-second awareness that reverence for the moment blossoms. The fog is lifting. Here is the trembling world, a cloud passing, the dancing light on the pavement as the sun passes through the rustling leaves of the tree. Weil: “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love.”

I landed in Boston late Friday night and early the next morning was off to the Zen center for the silent two-day retreat. I really did not know what to expect when I signed up. I knew a little about the different schools of Buddhism from studying it in a course as an undergrad. I remember being slightly afraid of “Zen” (or Chan) in particular because it seemed so severe to me. I imagined interminable zazen sessions, without guidance or visualizations; imagined slouching pupils getting whacked with sticks for bad posture or falling asleep. Yet surely if I were to test the Buddhist waters, I should do Zen/Chan since it is a specifically Chinese tradition? My father’s uncle was a Buddhist monk who wandered the mountains of China. I don’t know anything about him, other than his sister (my grandma) was devastated when he died after getting hit by a train. Whether it was suicide or just a manic pixie monk moment, I do not know.

Some meditation retreats are completely secular—they are just like a series of long, guided mindfulness sessions, with the context, rituals, and “religious” dimensions stripped away. This was not really that kind of retreat. There were robes, chants in Korean, elaborate meal rituals, and yes, getting whacked with a stick! Of course it is always possible to opt out of getting hit with the keisaku stick—I thought I would, but in the end I took the whacking almost every time it was offered, partly because it jolted me awake and relieved the tension building up in my body from hours and hours of sitting cross-legged on a cushion. The first couple of times the keisaku whacking was administered, I had to restrain myself from laughing. Oh my God, we’re getting whacked by a Buddhist master! In the orientation the instructor said it was for “tension release” but I did feel that it was something like a ritual of submission to the authority of the teacher, even if it didn’t really hurt. Watching how eagerly D. bowed to receive the stick in the orientation, I wondered if the Zen pupils were secretly sadomasochists.

Constitutionally, I am not a “joiner” and have an aversion to organized religion and anything that emits even a whiff of cult vibes. I’ve always been critical of authority and incapable of following rules, possibly because I didn’t have any growing up. But there was something soothing about how regimented everything was. We performed our actions in sync, chanted about emptiness at 4:30am. The whole experience felt almost militaristic, but a part of me enjoyed the austere, disciplinary atmosphere and the obsessive attention to detail. Not disciplinary in a punitive sense, but disciplinary in the way I imagine Russian classical music training to be: the methodical pursuit of self-mastery (it’s hardly surprising that the Zen master I received instruction from was a classically trained pianist). During the retreat I concluded that more discipline would be good for me.

Most of the retreat consisted of meditating in silence. There was no small talk, no psychobabble, no “now we will get started…”—he just hits the wooden clapper three times, and the sitting session starts. No guidance, no body-scan, no loving-kindness prompts. Just you, seated cross-legged on the cushion in silence, facing the tumult of your chaotic mind, your hands in the Dhyana Mudra position, your eyes half-closed.

It is a profound and difficult experience, having to face your own mind…both utterly banal and deeply disturbing, thoughts flitting from “maybe I should try to find a used bicycle on the OfferUp app” to thoughts of my parents’ mortality. I was warned by the Zen teacher that difficult emotions might bubble up. Thrice I broke out into tears and strained to regain my composure. It began during one of the short breaks, when I was lying on a bench outside looking up at the sky, imagining that a passing cloud was a life appearing briefly before dissipating. It was an unmediated confrontation with the eternal flux of the universe—pure panta rhei.

Weil: “Whatever frightful thing may happen, can we desire that time should stop, that the stars should be stayed in their courses? Time’s violence rends the soul: by the rent eternity enters.” Time’s violence has utterly and completely ripped apart my soul. I wanted to hold onto everyone and everything I love, for the stars to be stayed in their courses, for time to stop, for my parents to live forever. I thought about Mari Ruti’s rapid decline and death, about my recent visit to my older brother in prison, and my trip to my relatives’ assisted living home, where my mother’s cousin has been completely waylaid by the rapid onset of Parkinson’s disease. I thought about my father sitting down in the chair looking out the window at the assisted living home, talking about getting old, how his knees ache now. Time’s violence rends the soul.Will I be strong enough to face the eternal flux, the impermanence of everything I love, with a fierceness that borders on madness, grieving even the eventual death of the Sun? Sitting on the cushion meditating, crying: let go. Will I ever be able to let go with grace? Don’t know. Sink into don’t-know mind. Count the breath. Something passes through me.

What did I see, what did I hear—I heard every exhibit of the Museum of Jurassic Technology: the voice imploring us to follow the chain of flowers into the mysteries of life, the burbling waters of the miniature model of Iguazú Falls, a recording of David Wilson talking about exploding dice, the distant echoes of barks in the bestiary room, the mournful sound of the duduk in Djivan Gasparyan’s “Lovely Spring” playing the Sandaldjian room, Monteverdi’s “Lamento della Ninfa” as I ascend the stairs to the sublime courtyard, Bach’s “Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ” in the ‘Ecstatic Journey of Konstantin Tsiolkovsky’ exhibit (impossible not to see the levitation scene from Tarkovsky’s Solaris when hearing BWV 639), Mihály Víg’s “Valuska” in The Borzoi Kabinet Theater at the end of the day, and the sound of David’s nyckelharpa reverberating in the garden.

Now the birds of the mind are taking flight.

In, out. In, out. Return to the breath.

The mind opening like a door to the sky

a deep purple flower unfolding in the emptiness.

List everything you see, her feet standing on the lotus.

Clear mind

Don’t know.

(In) 1-2-3-4 (out) 5-6-7-8

Κύριε Ἰησοῦ Χριστέ ἐλέησόν με

The heart

The spherical heart of the manatee

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts

like waves, saturating the swash zone of the mind…

It’s the weekend of the Perseid meteor shower. Eight years ago, Ed and I watched them from the dock of a Maine pond. We had rented an Airbnb from a man with the same name as a dear poet friend of mine, Dana Ward. (I was dreaming of Dana when I woke up this morning.) A week after the Maine trip, I was at the mental hospital. I had forgotten I had a poetry reading. The woman organizing it called, wondering where I was.

Eight years have passed me in the blink of an eye.

Thoughts.

out

In 10-30 second intervals: nothing. Just the space between thoughts.

There were two states of non-self:

one of calm neutrality—just the is-ness of the world.

The other, something more ecstatic:

a mystical amnesia, when you become the contraction and expansion of the breath.

What is there to say about it? In my stead there was a heaving purple cloud floating in a black room.

Then, the “I” coheres again. Head so full of language, thinking about everything I want to write. “I shouldn’t be so attached to my thoughts.” The teacher says in the interview: it’s not about suppression.

Writers are fundamentally hoarders of thoughts. I try to collect each one, as the squirrel does the acorns. In my head I am writing an essay about the antidepressant withdrawals, my astonishment that I did not relapse as David Foster Wallace did when he committed suicide after tapering off his antidepressant. I remember when my thoughts were stuck on the “I want to die” loop, how Ed installed the ad blocker on my internet browser because he was disturbed by the suicide hotline targeted ads. I do not think such thoughts anymore. Maybe it is true—we are not our thoughts. They pass through my mind like water through the sieve. Did Woolf train herself to observe the stream? Too much thinking. I must be doing it wrong. Wrong again—I’m supposed to suspend judgment.

I hear my friend Tim saying, “the mathematics section is the most mystical part of the library.”

Then Weil says, “As soon as we have a point of eternity in the soul, we have nothing more to do but to take care of it, for it will grow of itself like a seed. It is necessary to surround it with an armed guard, waiting in stillness, and to nourish it with the contemplation of numbers…”

Now I’m thinking about the relationship between math and mysticism, about the Indian number theorist Srinivasa Ramanujan, who received, in his dreams, thousands of formulas from the Hindu Goddess Namagiri. Ramanujan: “An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of God.”

I remember my poem “Umbra,” in which I reference the French mathematician Alexander Grothendieck’s strange book, La Clef des Songes (‘The Key of Dreams’). As one commenter puts it: “It’s a book about God. Grothendieck’s thesis is simple. We meet God in dreams. But we aren’t ourselves dreaming God, rather God Himself is dreaming us. Or better: according to Grothendieck ‘a Dreamer’ exists, an external force who ‘dreams our dreams’ and at the same time dreams us. And this force can only be God. … he declares, in a little footnote that it’s almost hidden, that mathematics wasn’t ‘created by God’ nor by man, but by an aspect of God’s nature that, unique among his attributes, is accessible to human reason.”

A week ago, I was telling Alex about Oppenheimer’s mysticism, his proficiency in Sanskrit and intensive study of the Bhagavad Gita, his “feeling for the mystery of the universe that surrounded him almost like a fog.” I watched Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer biopic with Alex—a mathematician/mathematical physicist—and my father—an almost-physicist who immigrated to the U.S. from Taiwan to do a physics PhD in Wyoming but dropped out after his first year to move to NYC to wait tables at a Chinese restaurant. After the film, we watched a documentary about Sir Isaac Newton’s heretical theology and alchemical studies, how he read the Bible as a cryptogram and determined the world will end in 2060.

Could there be a connection between mathematics and the capacity for the divine, between the abstraction of mathematical thinking and the ability to sense the invisible, to see the hidden points that connect disparate realms? Wasn’t Einstein a Spinozist?

Scraps of language jostle around in my mind like a shaking bowl of coins. Stupid thoughts like, “Lacan is to psychoanalysis as Zen is to Buddhism.”

I see myself thinking about the news, about geopolitics and the madness of nation states. China is preparing their population for war, as are we. A kind of nausea overcomes me, as I see the whole nuclear age unfurl before me.

We dwell on whatever we expose ourselves to, the articles we read, the people we see, the people we lurk online, the reflex to compare, to repeat the name of the Other like a mantra.

Everything you think you need, you don’t actually need.

A butterfly has somehow flown into the Dharma room. It flits on the floor in the middle of the room. The teacher scoops it up and brings it outside. She corrects my dreadfully sloppy attempt to perform the meal ritual. I panic because I’ve taken too much food and must eat every last crumb. The pear is not ripe, and it is a torture to eat the whole thing. The pear is not ripe—a Zen lesson! Mastication of the unripe pear, a kind of koan.

There was a short break. I decided to walk around Central Square, without a wallet or phone or headphones.

How can I describe the sense of aliveness I felt in that moment, that alert receptivity, when I looked at the sky and saw the birds of Central Square taking flight above the Greek Orthodox Church? I walked up the stairs—some ceremony is taking place inside. Down the streets, there’s a brunch spot I never knew about in the seven years I lived in this town. There’s the sound of a busker, so sweet, and a flower shop I wandered into. There’s the bus stop I would wait at on my way to psychoanalysis. I cross the street. Emanating from a building on Mass Ave is the rhythmic thud of Latin American music—it must be the music-dance sessions my ethnomusicologist friend told me about years ago.

Before dawn on the second day, we perform 108 prostrations. It turns my legs to Jell-O. When I walk up the stairs to use the bathroom, I have to grasp the banister to drag myself up. A few days later I can still barely walk from the soreness caused by the rapid-fire prostrations. Was there something off about my form? I noticed that the others relied more on their arms to hoist themselves up, while I relied almost exclusively on my legs.

And yet I quite enjoy prostrating myself. Outside of any religious or ritual context, I sometimes find myself spontaneously performing prostrations—to what or whom, I do not know. To the earth? I like to kiss the ground, to give thanks to this marvelous rock on which we all dwell.

The interview with the Zen teacher takes a bizarre turn: she asks me questions about DeSantis, in a ‘liberals-trying-to-commiserate’ kind of way. My hatred of DeSantis is bottomless—I had just flown in from Florida the night before the retreat. Please, anything but a DeSantis koan! She asks me if it annoys me that she has been correcting my attempt to execute the meal ritual. I say, No, I don’t mind being an amateur, and crack a joke about being an adult music learner. When the short interview is over, I return to the silence of the Dharma room.

Sitting in silence for long periods is much harder than it looks. Yet the second day feels easier than the first day, despite being on day three of almost no sleep. Toward the end of the retreat, I stare at a spot on the floor, convinced it is a moving bug. It jiggles and jerks, walks in a circle, but always seems to return to the same spot. I can’t stop observing the bug. At the end of the sit, I lean in to get a closer look only to realize it’s not a bug at all, but a dark spot in the wood flooring.

When the retreat is over, there’s the shock of hearing everyone’s voices, of realizing you had projected otherworldliness on people who are just people in the way you are just a person. We sit in a circle and take turns sharing our experiences. I say, “I came on a whim…because I watched YouTube videos about Buddhism with my dad.” We eat vegan pie at the table. The girlfriend of the man sitting next to me has come to meet him, with roses.

I grab my backpack, put on my Blundstones, and leave the center, in the soft afterglow of the mind’s clearing. What did it feel like: I had no desire to look at my phone. Turning on my phone was almost painful, and yet I needed to call the friend I was staying with. I met up with the religious studies poets, felt more present with others, more natural. We tried to go to the Harvard Film Archive to watch Ozu but were turned away for arriving late. We sat on a rooftop terrace to watch the sunset, with a view of the two spires of Harvard Yard, Memorial Church and Memorial Hall. Sun through the leaves, perceived crisply, as though a layer of mediation had been removed.

#meditation #buddhism #Zen Buddhism #mysticism #chan buddhism #mathematics #Simone Weil #attention

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briamichellewrites · 8 months ago

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“Mike, can you control this situation”, Phoenix asked.

No, he couldn’t. Could he control how he handled the situation? Yes, he could. Then, that was what he should be focusing on. He thought about that and saw that he was right. How did he do that? That was something he learned from his therapist. It helped him control his emotions. He never thought about that before. But yes, he was right. He couldn’t control what Bria and Jason were doing. What he could control was how he handled everything.

Linsey encouraged him to go into therapy. The last time he thought about doing that was back in 1999 when he found his ex-girlfriend was pregnant with another man’s baby. Phoenix remembered that. Anna. Why didn’t he go to therapy then? He couldn’t remember. The band was finally getting to the point where everything was happening at once. He likely didn’t have time.

He and Bradford were also working with Bria on her album. That seemed like a lifetime ago. They agreed it did. Going to therapy was something he needed to do a long time ago. He had anxiety and it was affecting his relationship with Bria and Jason. The more he tried to control their lives, the more he pushed them away. He couldn’t think the sky was falling every time Jason made a decision he didn’t agree with. Phoenix congratulated him for getting help.

It was the hardest thing he could do. But it was worth it. It was why he was still sober. How long has it been since he got sober? He had to think. It had to be almost ten years. He had one slip-up that he could remember. How many times has he gone to rehab? Three. The first one was to get sober. The other two were programs to help him remain sober.

Mike received a text from her later saying she was taking Jason’s car to Boston to do some shopping. Since he had class all day, it seemed like a good idea. She would get bored sitting at his house with nothing to do. He and his housemates gave her directions the night before. Yes, it was a good idea. He asked her to call him when he got there. She did fifteen minutes later. After finding a parking spot, she got out and took a picture of the car, so she could remember what it looked like.

A security guard asked her why she was taking a picture of the car. She borrowed a friend’s car and she needed the picture in case she got lost later. Okay, he was just making sure. Mike was relieved to hear from her. How was Cambridge? It was gorgeous! She could understand why Jason wanted to move there. Even though it was a lot colder than LA. He had lent her his winter jacket since she didn’t have one. What was he wearing? He had another one.

Oh, okay. He truly wanted her to have fun. She was.

“We’re going to go to a house party tonight. I’ve never been to a party before.”

“It’s not my thing. It’s loud music and alcohol. You will likely have fun. What have you done so far?”

“He took me to Grafton Street Bar. It’s a local restaurant. We both had a drink and food. He introduced me to a couple of his friends. I kind of wished I would have gone to college because of the experience, even though I would have hated writing papers and studying.”

What would she have majored in? She didn’t know. Maybe something in music or performing arts. It wouldn’t have been Harvard, but maybe UCLA. He laughed. Was she going to get something with Harvard on it? She was thinking about getting a Harvard Law sweatshirt or something similar. He wanted to see it when she got home.

Even though she was going through something traumatic, she was in an upbeat mood. He didn’t want to ruin it by telling her about his lying to her. That would wait until she got home. He didn’t want to ruin her vacation. What he did mention was going to therapy. He had his first appointment the following day. Good for him! Why was he going to therapy? Anxiety. He had been pushing it down for six years. Linsey and Phoenix pushed him to go, so he bit the bullet. She was so happy for him!

Could she tell Jason? Yes, he didn’t care. Okay. They cut their call short, so she could shop. They told each other I love you before hanging up. He texted Phoenix and Brad to give them an update.

I just got off the phone with Bria. I told her about going to therapy and why. She was in a great mood. Jason sent her shopping for the afternoon. I couldn’t tell her about lying to her because I didn’t want to ruin her happiness. I’ll tell her when she gets home. – Mike

Let us know how she reacts. He would definitely do that. Chester texted him about hanging out, so he was going to go over there. Phoenix jokingly asked who was worse: him, Bria, or Chester. He jokingly replied that he didn’t have a good answer for that. Haha. He asked that he also keep him updated on how he was doing. I will do that.

Bria spent an afternoon trying on clothes and going around the store. She finally decided on a handbag, a new outfit for the party, and a new underwear set. A sales associate helped her by giving her ideas on what to wear to the party since she had never gone before. She was tall and thin, so everything she tried on looked great on her. It was cold outside but she would get warm inside. She picked out a v-cut crop top t-shirt with a pair of skinny blue jeans and black knee-high boots.

She also bought a matching jacket. Her total cost? Hundreds of dollars. When she got home, she put everything on before sending a mirror picture to Jason. He was finishing up his class and would be home soon. As he was checking his phone, he saw the picture. She looked great! He wanted to take them off of her.

I’m going to ask Bria to be my girlfriend. What did he think about that? Mike had to laugh because he thought his brother asking for his opinion was adorable. Go for it! He couldn’t keep up with him sometimes. The only thing he was worried about was the long distance. They would have to work together on that. It would mean a lot of commitment and communication. They had to remain faithful to each other. Yes, he thought about that.

Then do it! Congratulations! – Mike

Thanks! The party was a chance to get rid of stress from his studies and the miscarriage. He introduced her to his friends as a friend from LA. She was having fun and enjoying herself. He got a beer for himself and her. After a while, they disappeared upstairs. He closed and locked the door behind them. She waited for him on the bed. He kissed her before asking her to be his girlfriend. She said yes! He kissed her again happily before lying her down and getting on top of her.

She left scratches on his back, as he moved inside of her. The loud music drowned them out. He touched and explored her body like he was experiencing it for the first time. They rolled around the bed until she ended up on top.

He laid down and let her take control. She leaned over and kissed his neck. They heard a knock on the door. Jason? He was not going to answer. He’s probably busy. They heard laughter. Yes, he was. He was falling in love. When they finished, he emptied everything inside of her. She then got off his lap and laid down beside him. He leaned over and kissed her.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon

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dangerousstrawberryshark · 4 years ago

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Love in a Hopeless World

A/N: Hello, my 🍓Little Strawberries🍓! I’m back with another fic for you! This was one of the options given to me.

Pairing: Chris Redfield x Male reader

Requested: @evansphnx12

Rating: Mature

Warnings: NSFW, smut, bottom male reader, sir kink, degradation, creampie, size kink, Choking kink, breeding kink, masturbation, and all characters are above the age of 18+

Word Count: 2355

Summary: Its turns out there weren't that many supplies in the old abandoned campus. So, you and Chris have to go deeper into the city to find more but during the little scavenge, Chris began to dirty thoughts...

I hope you enjoy it! Sorry if it’s bad! And sorry for any errors that are found!

If you like what I write, how about check out my masterlist?

Keys:

M/n: Male name.

«••••••••••••••»

[1]

[2] YOU ARE HERE

DISCLAIMER!: I never played or watched any gameplay of the resident evil series. And this doesn’t follow any of the resident evil timelines, it’s on its own.

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MINORS DNI. FEMALE READERS… I’LL ALLOW YOU TO READ MY FICS BUT DO NOT FETISHIZE ANY OF MY STORIES

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Previously...

Then y'all had another round of hot steamy sex. And the others at the base had a hard time sleeping that night.

«••••••••••••••»

Your eyes twitch at the unpleasant light hitting it directly. 'It's morning already?' you moved around only to feel wet sheets. 'What happened last night?'

Then you felt a body move and a muscular arm grab you, pulling you closer. You could feel the warmth, and muscular chest pushed against your back.

'Oh! That's right!' now you remembered why you were all sticky and sleeping against Chris. 'I had sex with my superior! But he felt the same.'

Then you felt Chris move around and waking up. "Hey, baby boy," Chris said with a raspy and deep voice. "Morning." you pressed your lips against his.

"If you continue, we may have to repeat what we did last night, baby," Chris growled as pulled back, gripping your waist. You smirked before getting up.

"Come one, we have to get ready. We have important business," you said. "Ugh, can't we just sleep in and have some... Fun?" Chris complained.

"I know you haven't had sex in 5 years but we need to go get those people. We'll have fun at the end of the day," you said stressing your muscles and popping your back.

The bed creaked meaning he finally got off his ass to get ready. "We need to go get those survivors. And scavenge for more supplies," you said putting your armor on and fixing it up.

After you both got your gear and weapons, you both walked into the main area with all the others.

Everybody looked at you both and immediately looked at way. There was awkwardness in the room. 'They must have heard me last night!' Hell! maybe the whole city heard it is quiet

"Uh,- sir... We have a situation." one of the soldiers said. "shot." Chris said. "Well... it turns out there weren't that many supplies found on the campus. We need more supplies if weren't gonna go get those survivors." the soldier said

You heard listening but your mind began to wonder. You still couldn't let go of the past, you remembered one of your siblings was accepted into MIT. This was 3 months after the Raccoon City Incident.

You would see on the news- Raccoon City survivors being discriminated against by the American people. "Hey, what do I keep saying?" Chris said next to you. His conversation was done.

"Stop thinking about the past, it's long gone," you replied, mimicking his voice. Chris laughed, "Okay, baby. But we need to go get those people."

You nodded but kind of chuckled at the fact that he didn't want to do anything today but now wants to do business.

"Come on, M/n! We have to get going. EVERYONE, protect the base at all cost." Chris commanded. "YES SIR!" they all said at the same time.

You, Chris, and a few others left the confines of the base. Even though it was morning, the sky still had a grey color to it. You open the door to the back seat and closed it.

"We should be there in 20 minutes or less." the driver said starting the engine up. "Alright, let's go." the armored car pulled out before driving down the messy road.

It wasn't long before you reached the waterfront. You could see the skyline perfectly, most buildings were on the verge of collapsing. Others were burnt to where the wall showed the skeleton.

Up ahead, you saw a bridge leading into Cambridge was destroyed. 'Longfellow Bridge.' You have been to Boston before and got to explore everything before the world went hell.

The ride continued for a while. There was nothing or anyone in sight. You could see the freeway ahead but like all other ways leading into Cambridge was destroyed.

"We're closing in on Bunker Hill. They said they are taking refuge by the monument." one of them said.

And wouldn't you know it? In the distance, you could see the tall granite obelisk peaking out. It kind of looked like the one down in D.C. but this one is still standing.

What you meant by "This one is still standing" is because the capital was hit by a nuclear warhead, along with other cities across the US.

The President and other government officials were evacuated and the countries important documents were evacuated as well. So, the legacy of the US would still live.

That means the President is still alive and is in some remote area devoid of zombie life.

"I see some people! They appear to be walking around." one of the soldiers said. And the people seem to notice us because they were waving at us.

"Stop the car," Chris said, the car stopped. He and others got out. Two of the survivors looked familiar? Like you have seen them before. They both were tall and had beards.

They walked up to y'all. "Please, are you here to rescue us?" one of them pleaded. "Yes, we're here to take you to our temporary base," Chris said.

They all smiled and some hugged each other. Chris ordered the soldiers to help some things and you approached the two survivors. "Why do you two look familiar?"

One of them laughed and smiled. "Well...- are you fan of Captain America and Thor?"

Your jaw dropped and your eyes widen. "No. Way. You're Chris Evans and Hemsworth!" you were lost at speech. "I thought y'all was dead! I- how-"

"Well, we survived! I'm not too sure about the others though..." Chris H said with that thick Australian accent. You both were just talking, unknown to Chris R was glaring holes into your head.

After y'all returned to MIT Dorms, you still talked with Chris E and H. You didn't even acknowledge Chris R's glares.

He was getting more and more jealous. 'I hate those two!' Chris yelled in his mind. They were taking your attention from him.

"We have to go M/n! We need to find supplies." Chris yelled at you. 'What's wrong with him?' you thought to yourself. "Bye guys!" You waved at the two Chris.

"He was fun to talk to." Chris H said and Chris E agreed.

«••••••••••••••»

TIMESKIP (To Supermarket)

«••••••••••••••»

You and Chris arrived at the market. There were some abandoned cars in the parking lot. "Come on." You both walked to the doors and opened them.

The place was absolutely trashed. Lights flickering, aisles tipped over, some cans on the floor - also money, which was useless-, and the roof caved in on the left side.

"Look for non-perishables. Canned food would be good and find any water- if there is any that is." you nodded your head before going down one of the aisles.

There were some canned foods but no water. The smell of a rotting corpse filled the air, you could hear flies buzzing. "Ugh." you covered your nose and looked at the rotting corpse. "Poor bastard..."

Meanwhile, Chris was looking for the same stuff, but he was still bitter about you talking to those guys. And completely ignoring him. He could already imagine your punishment.

He could imagine you begging for more, feeling the tightness of your ass wrapped around his cock. 'Shit.' Chris was getting hard. His cock was feeling restricted by the tight pants.

"Hurry up, M/n!" Chris yelled from the other side of the store. "Okay!" you finished gathering anything you could find. 'Why are we leaving early? We have few more places to loot/raid.'

You left the aisles and made your way to the front doors. "Come on, we have to go." you both we made went to the vehicle and drove back to base.

You had found some supplies. 15 canned foods, and some water as well. It wasn't much, but it's something.

«••••••••••••••»

TIMESKIP (Arrival at the base.)

«••••••••••••••»

You and Chris arrived at MIT. You were gonna go talk with Chris E and H, but Chris R wasn't having it.

"Hey-" Chris grabbed your hand and began to rush to the room. Everyone knew what was gonna happen. 'Ah, shit- there gonna go at it again.'

At the room, Chris pinned you against the wall and latched his lips onto yours. The kiss rough, his much larger body pushed against yours shows the difference in size.

His tongue pushed against your teeth telling you to open them. You slowly pushed your mouth, Chris immediately pushed his tongue and invaded your mouth.

"Mmm-" you moaned into the kiss as Chris began to grip your ass. "Up." He growled into your ear. You wrapped your legs around his waist and continued to make out.

He lifted you and carried you to the bed. He slammed you onto your back before pulling away and attacking your neck. "A-ah!" Chris found your sweet spot.

"You belong to me, M/n! I claimed you that night we had sex last night!" Chris growled. "Strip." he quickly removed his clothes, leaving him in his boxers.

You could see the outline thick meaty cock. "You got hard from just kissing me?" you laughed. "You don't talk me like that! You're the slut here." Chris growled as he gripped and slapped your thighs.

You whimpered under the touch. "Look at you, whimpering under me. And your pathetic cock got hard from me hitting you. But let's see what this ass has to say." Chris said as he put your legs on his shoulders

You then felt his thick slicked fingers at your entrance. One finger slips in, your muscles immediately clenched at the invader. "M-mm." you gripped the sheets as his finger pushed deeper.

Then a second finger went in. You clench even more as it did a scissor motion. "Aagh!" you felt his fingers touch the bundle of pleasure. "You're ready."

Chris pulled his fingers out to see your hole doing a grabbing motion. 'Fuck... that's hot.' Chris threw his head back while jerking his cock. "Can't wait to pound this slutty boipussy."

You felt his fat tip push past your tight ring. "Mmm... C-Chris!-"

Smack

"YOU DON'T CALL ME THAT! You didn't learn from last time? You. Call. Me. Sir. You got that?" Chris growled/yelled. "Y-yes, Sir... It's just that... You're so big..." You whimpered.

Then with one Thrust, Chris pushed his entire cock inside. "See? You're taking all 12 inches of me! Fuck, so tight..." Chris groaned. His cock was touching your prostate.

His thick meaty cock filled your insides perfectly. Like you were made for each other. "Y-you're... splitting m-me... in two!" you moaned as you felt it throb and twitch.

"P-please... fuck me... make me your slut." you begged. Chris smirked before snapping his hips.

He began pounding into you. His big cum-filled balls smacked against your ass as he thrusts harder. "S-sir! Y-you feel... s-so good!" You moaned as you threw your head back and gripped the sheets tighter.

"You think those guys can fuck you like I do?! Only I can give you this pleasure, only me!" Chris growled as he thrust harder, hitting your prostate repeatedly.

You used the last of your strength to get up and wrapped your arms around Chris's neck. You clawed his back as he thrust more, you were sure those were gonna leave marks.

"Maybe those guys can give me more pleasure," you smirked at your fake statement. You heard a deep growl as Chris dropped you on the bed and flipped you onto your stomach.

"You fucking slut! Only I can give you this much pleasure! Those guys don't deserve you. Bet their cocks aren't as big as mines." Chris growled as he gripped your hips.

Sounds of skin-slapping and balls slapping against your ass filled the room and the others in the building had to hear it. The walls weren't soundproof.

Your cock was twitching, ready to release a load. "You're about to cum without me touching you! Well, I'm -FUCK- about to cum too." Chris groaned as you tighten around him.

"P-please... give me... y-your load!" You moaned as you arched your back to give Chris more access. "Want me to fill this slutty ass with my cum? Gonna... cum... soon!"

After 5 more thrusts, Chris reached his breaking point, and so did you.

"FUCK! I'M CUMMING! CUM WITH ME!" Chris groaned, he wrapped his hand around cock stroking it before you released it all over his hand. That was enough for him.

"FUCK!" you felt his cock twitch before pumping his hot load inside, filling you up to the brim.

*Breathing intensifies*

Chris collapses onto the bed right next to you with his cock still inside. You felt him pull out with his cum leaking out. "I'll never leave you for those two. My heart only beats for you," you said sincerely turning over to face him.

"I'll never leave you too. We'll be together until our time runs out." Chris said pulling you into a kiss filled with passion and love.

'There is still Love in a Hopeless World.'

THE END.

«••••••••••••••»

A/N: Finally this is done! I hoped you enjoy this, by 🍓Little Strawberries🍓!

#x male reader #male reader insert #male reader imagine #male reader #chris redfield x male reader #chris redfield #chris redfield imagine #resident evil #resident evil fanfic #chris redfield x reader #requested #sorry if it's bad #i hope you enjoy #sorry for any errors

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scripturiends · 4 years ago

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law school episode 9 musings

warning: very very long post ahead. i have a lot of thoughts.

hey folks — how we feeling about episode 9?

given that there are so many plotlines in the show, i’m afraid i won’t be able to extend my analysis of the episode as far as i would like, but there are three characters who stood out to me the most last night that i’d like to talk about for now:

kang dan

there’s a lot that we got to uncover about her thanks to professor yang’s trial. if i’m piecing it all together right, the basic summary of what led to her disappearance goes like this:

she was a volunteer for assemblyman ko’s campaign, but upon discovering that he was spreading fake news about his opposition, dan reported him to the authorities (i’m guessing not just the police but also the media) and became a whistleblower. assemblyman ko tried to buy her off with money, but she refused, so he attacked her where she’s most vulnerable instead — by using her family.

i’m not completely sure about this (please feel free to correct me!) but it’s either byeol is (1) the twins’ half-sister, or (2) their stepsister? it’s so hard to tell, especially since korean terms can get lost in translation in the process (i watch on netflix, if that helps). but anyway, sol and dan’s mom married someone who was abusing her, and in exchange for dan’s silence (and her fleeing), the husband signs a contract that he would stop hurting his wife.

so that’s the backbone of dan’s story. however, this still doesn’t answer a lot of things, like where seo byungju or lee manho fits into the equation, the whereabouts of their mom’s ex-husband, or why dan was sent into boston in the first place.

i usually don’t like theorizing, but i do have one: there is an ivy league school located just outside of boston — harvard. (it’s technically in cambridge but you know, i’m taking liberties here.) professor yang said in passing one episode that he thought he saw dan when he went to the school for a seminar or a talk or something. could it be that assemblyman ko offered her an education at a top school in exchange for her silence? it could explain why she gave it up all so easily. what if she took that topnotch education as a chance to prepare, so that when she came back, she had much stronger leverage to take assemblyman ko down, given the knowledge and network of connections she’ll have earned in that school?

the theory’s plausible but i might be overestimating assemblyman ko’s kindness — unless he’s insanely desperate, he might not give a damn about dan’s education. it actually benefits him more if she stayed uninformed, but still. let me know what you think about it.

yoo seungjae

in this episode, we learned a little bit more about how yoo seungjae was able to hack into the professors’ laptops, and they also confirmed some of our previous speculations about him: that his wife yujeong was an ob gyn, and so was he, and that they were trying for a baby. unfortunately, i find it all to be a bit lacking in substance. i was hoping we could get down to the nitty-gritty of why he did what he did.

i say this for one important reason: i don’t know about you guys, but i would never make such a stupid mistake in undergrad, let alone in law school. seungjae has gone to med school, so we know that he knows the repercussions of his actions. why would he go to such lengths? sure, he found an opening, he was tempted, and he took it. but he didn’t just do it once, he did it multiple times, and those offenses add up (hacking, stealing exam papers, and cheating). surely he must know that something like this can ruin careers even before they even start, and not only would he get kicked out of the school, he would also get blacklisted from the industry once he implicates himself. so we understand why he’s so hesitant to testify (especially now that his wife is pregnant).

but why did he do that in the first place? we could say he’s insecure about his skills, but he’s survived med school. how much harder could law school be for him? i just don’t think that the payoff is worth the risk. what must be so important for yoo seungjae to do all of this for? what does he get in return if he successfully pulls it off and gets straight As during his entire time in law school? who is he doing for?

i hope it runs deeper than just wanting a ‘good future’ for him and his wife and their baby or something — because he could just as easily do that as a doctor. there must be another reason he went into law.

still, though, and this is just a personal opinion, even if i did find out his entire backstory, there’s no way i could ever defend him. we see in the show how his guilt builds up (from observing how kang sol A studies so well, to his conversation with jeon yeseul in the hospital), but at this point there is no more excusing what he did. not that i ever condoned it in the first place.

we’re still in the dark about a lot of things regarding yoo seungjae. hopefully by the next episode, we get something. but until then, he is still a shady, shady man to me.

kang sol B

her screen time in this episode was short, but i still wanted to highlight her because she is pretty much a ticking time bomb.

she’s in a tight spot right now because even if she testifies about having seen the sugar packet, the prosecutor will just twist the argument by saying she colluded with a murderer just to cover up her plagiarism.

and now, seo jiho needs her help, probably for something related to his case with prosecutor jin. in exchange, she puts pressure on him to ‘confirm’ that she didn’t plagiarize in middle school, since they were schoolmates and rivals.

there may be more to this plagiarism issue than meets the eye. who knows, we might find out later on that she actually didn’t plagiarize? but given what i know now, i have no reason to believe that she didn’t. i don’t blame her specifically for that, seeing as she has to pay for the consequences for something that her awful mom forced her to do. but now that the mess has been made, i want to see how she cleans it up.

kang sol B is a very elusive character to me. the scary thing about her is that she’s on no one’s side but her own. and that’s why i think she’s a ticking time bomb.

bonus: han joonhwi

so that’s all i have for the serious stuff. as a bonus, i’d like to talk about han joonhwi and his four (4) children jeon yeseul, seo jiho, kang byeol, and min bokgi.

one of my friends brought up how it’s so funny how he’s somehow just at the right place at the right time all the time. this happened when he ran into kang sol A when she was looking for yeseul (i still think they were on the phone with each other beforehand but this is just my shipper self talking — truthfully, if the focus was shifted towards that phone call without divulging who it was, i have a feeling it might be more important later on), and when seo jiho confronted prosecutor jin. adding his elevator conversation with kang sol B, i think it just solidified what we already know: han joonhwi is a very compassionate person. but he doesn’t sacrifice his own personality just to appease them — he recognizes that these individuals have agency, and he’s just giving them the little push they need to make them realize what they need to do.

i also felt the need to bring up kang byeol. the show does such a good job of ensuring that all the solhwi scenes that we get, no matter how indulgent and “fanservice-y” they might seem, actually have a deeper purpose. again, i could go on and on about what each solhwi scene has actually contributed to the development of the plot, which is exactly why i love them so much! because all of their scenes are so meaningful. but anyway, it’s nice to see han joonhwi care so much for his, ehem, future sister-in-law.

and for min bokgi — this scene was so short, but i absolutely loved it so much (i tend to pay attention to the throwaway scenes): min bokgi is going off about how yoo seungjae is acting weird, and he says to joonhwi, “hyung, you should call him.” and joonhwi responds with, “sure. eat your food.” it’s such a fatherly thing to do and it’s such a great contrast to bokgi’s dynamic with sol A, with whom he’s so loud and vibrant, moods that both match their personalities, but with joonhwi, who is more subdued, he’s like a little kid in need of rescue from an older brother, or even a dad. ah, i love it so much. min bokgi is such an underrated character. i wish he had more screen time. (if he doesn’t get a central ep, well, you guys know where i’m going with this, right? it means i’ll give it to him myself.)

so that’s it for now! i’m sorry i went on rambling again, but if there’s anything noteworthy in this post that you think is worth discussing, please do tell! if there’s anything that you found thought-provoking in the episode that i didn’t get to touch up on, let me know as well!

i personally don’t make any theories about the overarching plot myself, seeing as by the time the new episode comes out, we get fed information that renders the theory useless. still, that doesn’t mean we should stop coming up with our own ideas. sometimes, the theories are more interesting than the canon itself.

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copias-thrall · 4 years ago

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Cause I'm Young and I'm Here and So Beautiful

A look into the rise and fall of Mary Goore's flash-in-the-pan modeling career.

~12.5K Mary Goore/Reader *drug/alcohol use; mentions of past child abuse; brief homelessness; plot no porn; POV shift*

This fic was inspired by and is very loosely based on Aurelio Voltaire's early days in NYC in the 90s, though I have set it in Boston in the early aughts. 😊

Many thanks to the artists who did commissions for this! 🥰

One Way Streets

Mary stepped off the regional rail and gripped his backpack. He had $72.57 in cash rolled into his socks and a give-em-hell attitude.

When he’d packed his bag the night before, he wasn’t even sure if he’d go through with it, but he couldn’t stand being home anymore. Some of his friends had told him he was crazy.

"Three more months, dude. You got this. Just finish high school, then bounce."

But they didn’t have to live with his dad and the step-monster. Every day was a new indignity. Having them bitch about his music and his style was one thing—that he could have dealt with—but everything else had just kind of…escalated.

Now that the kiddies were older, they’d turned into gremlins. They’d somehow sensed that Mary wasn’t their beloved older brother—he was some sort of half other. They’d stopped questioning why "mom was so mean" to him and had accepted that she was because there was something wrong with Mary. They realized they could be little shits and blame everything on him.

And dad just didn’t care. He’d throw up his hands and say, "I have to live with her"—as if Mary wasn’t in the same boat.

Dad hadn’t stopped her when—in a rage—she’d smashed every single vinyl album Mary had owned because the twins ruined her nice tablecloth. He’d shrugged when she cut all Mary's guitar strings so he couldn’t play "the devil’s music." He’d held Mary back when she took a match and burned all his secret stuff that Mary kept under his bed—action figures, books, guitar mags, journals—in the backyard because he got detention for smoking. He hadn’t said a word when the police showed up after she came at Mary with scissors because he’d dyed his hair black and he’d pushed her away before she could scalp him.

Mary thought for sure he was going to get carted off to jail as she screamed about him terrorizing the family and being afraid he was going to kill her sons in their sleep, but the officers had just looked at her bored and told her being a teenager wasn’t a crime.

So, no: Mary couldn’t wait 3 more months.

He’d scraped together what money he had left from his secret shifts working as a busboy under the table at a local dive downtown, packed his backpack with the essentials, and walked the 5 miles to the train station instead of going to school.

Eighteen was 10 weeks away. He could fudge it for a few months, especially since he could already get away without using his fake ID to get into shows most of the time.

So, to the big city it was.

He shifted his weight and tried to pretend that he belonged here in Boston, but actually facing the busy streets was a lot different from looking at a bird’s-eye view map. He had a printout in his pocket, but he didn’t want to look like a doe-eyed tourist. So he set off down the seemingly labyrinthine streets in the direction he could have sworn was the correct one.

It wasn't.

When he came out a side alley into Faneuil Hall, he almost wondered if he'd gone through a fairy portal, since he was clear on the other side of town. Begrudgingly, he checked his creased map, and set out once more.

And ended up spit out by the State building.

Finding the hostel turned into a fraught adventure, and he got turned around several times more. When he tried to ask for directions, most people pushed past him while one lady shoved $5 at him. He used the cash to buy a hotdog, and it was the vendor who ultimately gave him directions in his thick, Southie accent.

Of course, making it to the hostel ended up being just part one. The rates were almost double what it stated online ("Sorry, honey—that site hasn’t been upgraded since the 90s."), and two nights were practically all his savings. Mary had thought he’d at least have a couple of days to find a job, not 36hrs.

He left the hostel, wondering for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t go back home…but he decided it was a nice day out. Surely there was some place he could hunker down. Just for the night.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the cops at every fucking turn telling him to move along. And any place out of line-of-sight seemed to already be inhabited.

He finally found a place behind some rocks in the Seaport where he didn’t think he’d be murdered in his sleep, curled around his backpack, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Mary woke up damp from the dew and the morning sun streaming into his eyes. The birds were creating an awful racket, but Mary guessed it was as good an alarm clock as any.

He ran his fingers through his bird's nest of hair, and he made his way back to the South Station. The men’s room may have smelled like a sewage treatment plant, but at least it was free. He had expected it to be mostly empty at the crack of dawn, but it was full of commuters making that last run to the head before they had to take the train 2hrs out of the city for work.

And it was a sight: a bunch of suits with their fancy lattes washing their hands, and Mary in the corner trying to surreptitiously wipe down with paper towels under his Misfits t-shirt and his shredded jeans. At school, he’d have probably gotten into several altercations by now—no one would have let him just turn into Mary Goore without a fight—but this was Boston, and no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just another college kid.

It emboldened Mary to go full-out in the kind of way he had only done when going out to the punk shows downtown at night: kohl all the way around his eyes, and some on his cheekbones; mascara because his lashes are long and thick, and he knows it (his dad had said it made him look hard, and Mary had sneered that maybe that was what he’d been going for. But maybe it had been because he’d liked the way it had made his green eyes pop.); a smear of the step-monster’s fanciest matte lipstick on his full lips; and airplane glue in his hair to give it that lift.

He made a kissy face at himself in the mirror, and headed back out.

It was a nice Spring day—almost boiling in the direct sun—and it tempted Mary to wear only his battle vest, but even he kind of figured applying to jobs half dressed was a mistake.

He walked all over the city, trying not to get lost, looking for any kind of work—dishwasher, busboy, barback—but all he had to show for it was blistered feet and a raging appetite. The only good part of the day was that he noted any restaurant or bakery that looked like it might toss perfectly good food at the end of the day.

He and his friends had become experts at dumpster diving in his podunk town, and he felt confident that he had a good feel for a jackpot. Mary staked out a bakery and was rewarded with a find of "old" bagels. He shoved as many as he could into the nooks and crannies of his backpack before slinking off to the Commons to inhale at least two of them.

Cold, stale dough never tasted so good.

He watched the tourists and the professionals walk by in ones and in groups while he ran his bare feet through the grass. Some laughed with each other as they sauntered down the path while others seemed singularly intent on their ultimate destination. A pack of dogs ran and played with each other as their owners looked on fondly, and nearby the baseball diamond hosted a casual game.

Mary counted his lucky stars that his first week in Boston was April at its kindest—always mild during the day, even when it turned cloudy, and a few times even downright warm. The nights turned chilly, though, and it had Mary in more layers than an onion. If the birds or damp didn't wake him, his butt cramps from being curled in a tight ball all night did.

He spent those days walking around the city proper looking for work. He wasn't adventurous enough to make the leap across the bridges to Cambridge just yet, but his travels gave him a good sense on how the different sections of Boston connected—and showed him potential places to crash at night. He didn't even mind living off day-old garbage food and drinking from bubblers (he'd bought a water for the express purpose of reusing the bottle), but the barren wasteland that seemed to be the job market was beginning to weigh on him.

At home, he could always find a shit job if he was willing to put up with shit hours and ridiculous requests. Here, though, Mary was just one of many desperate people willing to do desperate work.

And he didn’t look particularly trustworthy or reliable.

@dipendancesld

Hashtag WTF

I’m scrolling through Insta on the T, and I’m way down the rabbit hole of hashtags. New content was at a minimum this morning (how can I follow accounts in triple digits and only see the same 4 posts?!), so I’d started with some art tags and ended up where I usually end up—trolling social media for blurry pictures of my boy.

His band has been a local staple for years—or at least that’s what he told me on our first date. I had just moved from New York after a nasty breakup, ready to start fresh, and I’d seen him at a coffee shop hanging posters for his next show in his leather jacket, asymmetrical Metallica crop top, and stomping boots.

Fresh had never looked so good.

Then, a few months back, an online publication had featured his band in the year’s 50 best bands "you’ve never heard of," and now the band's starting to gain traction.

He’s starting to gain traction.

Finding the new online content of him first has become a game the two of us play. We had to stop counting images posted from the popular fan accounts because Mary's now acquaintances with most of them, and I said it was hardly fair to snipe me that way. Mary had pouted—but it was to cover up his grin. So now we troll for the pictures of his latest gig or at his favorite haunts from either his casual fans or one of his new ones. I even have a whole range of hashtag typos saved if I really want to triumph, since Mary just doesn't have the attention span.

I usually win, though, by virtue of not keeping Rockstar Hours—and because Mary doesn’t have a smartphone. Mary delights in spending the wee hours while I'm sleeping finding new content, and I'll often wake to one he's pulled up on my laptop and a "suck it" sticky note stuck to my monitor.

(But I’m reigning supreme.)

There’s a thirst tag I sometimes comb through (for reasons), and today I’m desperate for that morning serotonin to keep me from dozing off, which is why I stumble across a particularly convincing cosplayer in some…risqué poses and outfits.

The dude is really good, and I have to admit he really does have Mary’s mannerisms down pat. He’s younger and a little skinnier than Mary is now, but his facial expressions are on point. I zoom in to see the contouring technique because he's using one of those filters to make it look old…and that’s when I sense something off. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but usually there’s an uncanny valley to his serious cosplayers, and this dude looks so real. He’s even 100% accurate with the mole placement, which is something I never see.

My heart does a flip-flop.

Is that…actually Mary?

Foundling

Mary's sixth night in the city, it rained. It was more of a brief Spring shower, but it was still enough to soak him and his backpack through. He shivered through the early morning hours until the sun came up, then he made his way to the Commons to lay his belongings—and himself—out into the sun to dry.

By midday, he had a slight sunburn across his nose, but most of his things were dryish—though the food was a soggy lost cause. He cut his losses and decided to buy a sausage from the hotdog vendor, even if that meant he was down to $52.37 in his sock bank.

It was the most amazing thing he'd ever eaten in his entire life (sometimes he still dreams of it), and he gobbled it down as he sat in the grass and watched the show of people pass by.

He could take today off from his job search.

Just another Groundhog Day of rejections.

A gaggle of kids about his age walked past, and he lit up when he saw them: studs and bright hair and cuffs and combat boots. They ran and shrieked and shoved at each other, and Mary had never felt such longing to be a part of something.

Not that nebulous feeling of "my world is out there somewhere," but "my world is right there if I can just get to it."

And he realized maybe he could.

These were his people.

Mary hopped off the bench and approached the boisterous group.

"Uh, hey…guys."

The pack stopped and looked him over, confused but not hostile.

"Oh hey, man" said a girl with green fins and a studded, leather jacket.

"Hey."

I have nowhere to go. Can I go with you?

"Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Oh, you don’t—"

A guy in a tight striped shirt, snake bites, and blue hair interrupted him.

"Shit, were you in my intro into film class last year?"

Mary was a high school dropout.

"Nah, dude. I’m new and shit."

…But he wasn’t stupid.

A curvy white goth with bleached blonde hair and a cream princess dress smiled at him.

"Aww, that’s rough, honey. If you think about it, they really ought to give transfers on-campus housing. It sucks to be so new and away from the action."

Mary nodded. "Yeah. Sucks."

"Well, we’re going to The Pit, wanna come?"

"If you guys don’t mind…"

"Fuck, the more the merrier!"

Mary smiled as they assimilated him into the group. He found out the goth’s name was Vanessa ("But call me Vanity."), green fins was Alexa ("Or Alex. I’m trying it out."), striped shirt was Billy, and the two other punks were Mandi (Manic Panic red) and Aaron (band tee, spiked collar).

No one laughed at him when he introduced himself as Mary or asked him why he had a girl’s name.

They took him onto the T at Charles MGH, and Mary marveled at the setting sun over the Charles River before the train ducked underground to barrel in Cambridge. At Harvard, they ushered him off the train and directly into The Pit, and Mary almost cried when he saw the pit rats there playing hacky sack, strumming guitars, and smoking cloves. Mary watched as his group high-fived, bumped chests, and hugged nearly everyone there before introducing him as if they’d known him for years.

He was shit at hacky sack, but he accepted a round on the guitar and shared a clove with a white girl who had a rat's nest of hair.

"Fuck their beauty stands," she said when she caught Mary staring.

Mary smiled and pointed to his own mess of hair. "Fuck ‘em," he repeated.

She cackled and handed him a brown bag with what he expected to be whiskey, but tasted like turpentine.

She laughed harder at his face as he coughed, and she pounded him on the back.

"Moonshine, dude. Lenny makes it in his bathtub."

"Which one is Lenny," Mary asked as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, he’s not here. He goes to MIT. We have a strict trade agreement—booze for pot. I’m Katie."

Head fuzzy, Mary had made out with her until Aaron tugged on his arm.

"Shit dude, we gotta go before the T closes. You live close to here?"

"Uh…"

"Aww, I think he got into Lenny’s moonshine," said Vanity. "If he’s a transfer, I bet he’s at some shithole in Allston. You in Allston, honey?"

Mary just nodded.

"All right then," said Alex, taking charge. "We’ll put him up tonight. There’s no way he’s gonna make it back to Allston by himself, and I’ll be fucked if I’m trekking out there without a BU party to crash."

Mary wobbled slightly as Alex took his arm in his and led him to the T.

"Ok, we gotta go now or we’ll all be hoofing it."

They took Mary back to their dorm by the Hatch Shell and signed him in as a guest.

"Is this ok?" Mary asked warily—he didn't want to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

Mandi patted him on the back.

"We do it all time. No one really gives a shit. Vegan Mick dropped out 2 semesters ago and they don’t even check for his ID."

That night, Mary slept in the common room on a lumpy couch that was half as long as he was.

It was heaven.

The next morning seemed like the end, and Mary slumped as Vanity to sign him out. For one brief day he'd been a part of something, and now it was back to Mary, party of one. But Vanity took one look at his face and asked if he wanted to get breakfast at the dining hall.

Of course, he wanted to…but he thought of the dwindling cash in sock bank and hesitated. Vanity, bless her, misread his trepidation.

"It's on me, sweetie. I know most transfers don’t opt in. Too expensive when it’s not bundled. No worries, I got a ton of points I don’t use."

Alex and Aaron were already half done with their food when Vanity and he joined them, and they looked on in amusement as Mary ate half the breakfast buffet.

When the subject of classes came up, he shrugged off questions.

"None this morning."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him.

"What year did you say you were?"

"Sophomore."

"Not a freshman?"

Mary shook his head. "I’m not a freshman."

She seemed about to ask another question, so Mary quickly changed the subject.

"I thought I’d spend the day applying for jobs. You guys know of any place that’s hiring?"

"No work study?"

"No."

"What kind of work you looking for?"

"Shit, anything. I’ll sweep the fucking floors."

They bandied about ideas, places for Mary to try, but no one had any leads. Too soon, some unknown gong had them scurrying to get to class.

Mary suddenly panicked.

"Hey, do you guys mind if I spend the night again? I mean…"

"Yeah, sure," said Vanity. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, man. Meet me after class and I'll swipe you in."

It apparently was a time-honored tradition, passed down from upperclassmen to underclassmen, on gaming the guest system. Most kids used it to essentially move their significant others into their dorm rooms, but a handful every year used it to give haven to others who had questionable housing situations.

So, just like that, Mary had a place to rest his bones.

@dilfpassing

A Deeper Look

I’m so intent on scrolling through the comments on the grainy pics—which I'm sure now are actual scans—that I completely miss my stop, and I have to put my phone away so I can wheeze lightly jog my way to where I work as a receptionist at an alternative hair salon.

It’s really important that I start a good hour before we open so I can return any calls left on our voicemail first thing in case I can fit anyone in today. Which means I have to shelve my find for now, much to my irritation.

Mornings are super-busy because apparently there are some people in the world that like getting up with the sun and want everything done by noon. (June Cleaver’s salon lets me get away with a lot—like coming to work in denim short-shorts and ripped tights, free hair colors, and a snarky attitude—but late start times aren’t one of them.) I honestly don’t have room in my brain to obsess about the pictures because I’m too busy answering calls, making coffee, settling accounts, and giving the new customer spiel for the 57th time to a walk-in.

It’s just after midday, when Penny, the shampoo girl, collects my cash for the salon-wide sandwich run, and I finally have a moment to breathe. And obsess.

I take out my phone again, and I have to retrace my steps because of course the app has refreshed, which is why Sonia has the time to look over my shoulder.

"Missing dream boy’s dick so much you gotta spend your lunch hour ogling pics of him on the internet?"

I zoom in on the one of maybe!Mary in his underwear.

"Who does that look like to you?"

Sonia makes a guh sound in her throat and backs away.

"I don’t need to see your intimates!"

"That’s the thing! It’s not mine!"

"Your boy’s nudes get leaked??"

I wave my arms around.

"I don’t freakin’ know! They may not even be him. Fucking. C’mere and help me out!"

Sonia warily creeps back over, and so does Ryan, since all the yelling has attracted him.

The three of us peer over the phone as I scroll through the images again.

By the time Penny comes back with lunch, we’ve gone back and forth on who’s in the images—Mary or a fake—and I haven’t been able to do any actual research. The afternoon rush starts, and I have to table the whole thing again, having made no progress at all.

It isn’t until near-closing, when most of the other stylists have gone home—and it’s only June who does the post-work crowd—that I can really dig into the matter.

A deep dive and a couple of defunct, decade-old forums later, I find that what I took as an aspirational hashtag was actually the name of a zine called "Heroes."

There’s like, zero online trail about it—except for a few other grainy scans of other pages of articles, poetry, concert pictures, and art—but it seemed to be an early aughts missive for local underground culture and color.

It still doesn’t explain why Mary’s in there in various states of undress and poses.

Or why Mary has never said a word about it to me.

Stripped Bare

Mary settled into a sort of routine. He spent most days looking for a job—any job—with his backpack full of food from their dining hall. Most nights he rotated couches on different floors so the RAs didn’t notice that he basically lived there.

He made friends with Vegan Mick for about 5 seconds until Mary had eaten an entire Rotisserie chicken from 7-11 in front of him. Mick had launched into a whole spiel, and Mary had pointed out that Mick's jacket and Docs were made of leather. He’d only meant it as a joke—a callout in answer to a callout, like he'd do with his friends back home—but Vegan Mick had turned purple, then iced Mary out every time he saw him after that.

Oops.

The brief friendship had lasted long enough, however, for Mick to give Mary some tips and tricks of being homeless.

Homeless.

That had been a tough pill to swallow. Until Vegan Mick had put Mary’s situation like that, Mary had just thought of himself between places.

But it was true: he didn’t live anywhere. He skated by on the kindness of his new friends, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the ruse of "transfer student who didn’t like his shithole apartment and was too busy job searching to concentrate on classes."

He still spent a few nights a week finding an out-of-the-way place outside to hunker down in or huddling in with Katie and a few of the other gutter punks under their boxes in the corners of the T stations. He knew they would have been more than happy to make room, anyway, but Mary always emptied his backpack of all the pilfered dining hall food for distribution amongst them.

It honestly wasn't so terrible now that he had friends and a warm place to go on cold or rainy nights, but.

He needed an actual place to live. To afford an actual place to live, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a place to live.

It seemed like a catch-22, and he began to despair that he’d never get ahead…until Mandi offered him a leg up.

Mary was sitting on the grass in the Commons in the shade, thinking that with summer coming up, maybe he could fudge it until the gang came back in September. There was always Katie and The Pit, and Mary was sure he could chip in somehow.

Mandi sat down next to him.

"I thought that mess of hair was you, Mare."

"Hey, Mandi. What’s kicks?"

"You still looking for a job?"

Mary put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Don’t remind me."

"You over 18?"

Just last week. But Mary hadn’t said, since they thought he was a Sophomore.

"Yeah."

"Wanna be at least 21?"

Mary grinned at her.

"That’s what my fake ID says."

She laughed, a tinkling thing.

"You got anything against strip clubs?"

Mary furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh…what’s the right answer here?"

She shoved him playfully.

"Do you want a job?"

"Yeah?"

"Then say no."

"No. No problems with strip clubs." He squinted at her. "Are they looking for male strippers?"

She laughed again.

"Definitely not." She canted her head at Mary. "I mean, you're very pretty, Mare. I could probably put you on as one of the girls…even with these triple As," she flicked playfully at his nipple, which had him grunting and batting at her, "but I was thinking more behind the scenes."

Mary held up his arm and made a weak muscle.

"I don’t think I’d be much of a bouncer, Mands."

"You said you’d wash dishes, sweep floors and shit, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the club I work at—"

"The club at you what now?"

Mandi gave him a strange look.

"Yeah. The strip club I work at."

Mary’s eyes bugged out.

"As a…waitress?"

"As a stripper, Mary. Duh." At his dumbfounded look she shook her head. "It’s kind of extra credit, as a dance major. I’m going to turn it into my thesis. Plus, I make hella bank."

She swept her arm across the park that made up her college "campus."

"How else do you think I can afford this rock-and-roll lifestyle? Not all of us are here on scholarship or mom and dad’s dime."

She tilted her head at him.

"I thought you’d get it."

When Mary didn't respond, she touched his shoulder.

"Mare. I know you don't go here."

"W-what…? I…"

He looked at her, wide-eyed as the blood drained from his face.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not gonna tell anybody. Not if you don't want me to."

Mary looked down. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know that means I've got no address."

Mandi bumped his shoulder and waved his words away.

"A lot of the girls dance. Paddy is used to dorm rooms as addresses. You can use mine."

Mary looked at her, hoping he could convey every ounce of gratitude he was feeling.

She grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

"So, you up for it? Sweeping floors and bussing tables?" She leveled a look at him. "Cleaning up puke?"

Anything.

"Fuck, I’m desperate, Mands. I’ll hold their hair back if it means a paycheck."

"That’s the spirit!"

***

Mary was sure Patrick was part of the mob—or at least in cahoots. The guy had taken one look at Mary’s ID and had said, "But how old are you really?" and Mary had said, "Nineteen."

Patrick had thrown up his hands. "Well, you ain’t gonna be serving alcohol anyway, kid. Your job is to do whatever I tell you. Some asshole breaks a bottle, you clean up the glass so the girls don’t hurt themselves. Some idiot ralphs all over the toilet seat, you scrub the shit out of that fucker. A bachelor party leaves a table a hot mess, you better be out there clearing off the table for the next one, got it?"

Mary had nodded.

"You show up at 5 to help the girls set up the bar. You stay til whenever it takes to close down—but you only get paid 'til 2am—and you get an hour to eat, unpaid. You don’t bother the girls, and," Patrick had leaned in, "you don’t steal from me."

Mary had gulped and nodded emphatically.

Patrick had jabbed a finger at him. "That includes the booze. If I get fucked because some snot-nosed, underage kid is drinking with my good friends Jim and Johnnie, I’m gonna be very put out."

"Got it, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. I’m Paddy to my friends, so you can call me Patrick."

"Yes, Patrick."

Patrick had looked him over.

"You get paid as an independent contractor just like the girls, so you gotta deal with your own taxes, you got that? I’ll start you at $10 an hour."

Mary’s eyes had gone wide. Back home he was lucky to get 5.

"Ten…?"

Patrick had tilted his head again.

"No, you’re right, 12. Do a good job, and I’ll think about raising it to 15."

Mary had to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"You do weeknights for now so if you fuck up it’s not that much of a problem. If you don’t fuck up and the girls don’t hate you, you can get weekends. Deal?"

Mary had sat up straighter. "Deal." He’d held his hand out, but Patrick had just looked at it until Mary pulled it back into his side.

"Ariel vouched for you, so I’m giving you a shot. Don’t make her regret it."

Mary had shaken his head as Patrick had handed him some forms to fill out.

"Come back at 4 tomorrow with these and we’ll get you started. Now, get out, I got shit to do."

Mary had taken the forms and skedaddled.

Mandi was outside waiting for him, all smiles.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but fuck—your boss is scary."

"Nah, he’s a teddy bear."

***

The job was awful.

The puke was an almost nightly occurrence, and by the end of the first week, little cuts covered Mary’s hands from the broken glass. The customers were loud, rowdy, and acted as if their mother was going to clean up after them.

Mary swore he would never get the beer smell out. It now lived in his soul.

One dude punched Mary and broke his nose for no reason Mary could tell before the bouncers dragged the guy away. The girls gave him some tampons to stop the bleeding, and Mary finished his shift.

Patrick paid Mary in cash at the end of every week with a "It’s your job to report that, not mine," and at the end of the month, Patrick bumped Mary up to $15/hr. He worked 5 days a week because, according to Patrick, "The Lord gave us a day of rest, and you get one day off per week."

Mary never reported a single cent to the IRS.

The girls loved him, and joked that Patrick had gotten them a pet. They showed him winged eyeliner and smokey eyes and how to contour. They guffawed when they watched him try out their shoes like a newborn deer. On slow nights, they tried to show him pole techniques.

He saw the gang less and less because by the time they were getting out of class, he was going into work, and when he was done work, they were crawling into bed. Fortunately, the desk sitters seemed to forget that he wasn’t an on-campus "student" and didn’t even bother signing him in anymore. There were a few sticklers, but Mary found that—while back home he was less than scum—here, he attracted all the right kinds of attention…and a smirk with the right compliment went a long way.

By the time their school year ended, Mary had saved up $1,000 (and he needed to transfer his money out of sock bank and into the ripped lining of his jacket).

Even though they didn't know just how much they'd saved him, Mary showed up on the last day as thanks to help them all move their stuff into family cars or rented trucks. They hugged him goodbye and said to ring them next semester.

Mandi bopped him on the nose and told him to keep his nose clean.

Mary took a sublet in Allston with 2 BU kids and a Berkley grad student. The "room" was a closed-in porch with a sleeping bag left by the last resident—but it was $400 a month until September, utilities included.

At first, Mary didn't know why the gang was so snobby about Allston, but the summer seemed to be one continual party. It didn't matter what day Mary got up, there were always broken beer bottles and stale beer on their front stoop, and the apartment had a designated watering can for washing away the vomit that dripped down from the top porches to their own.

But he took it in stride, and when he wasn’t at the strip club or sleeping, he was partying with the BU kids, or letting the Berkley grad show him better string fingering techniques.

Mary still tried to get out to The Pit with what groceries he could spare, but Katie had moved on with some of the others to do a protest tour with an activist street band that had come through town, and without her or the gang, it made Mary feel lonely.

By the end of the summer, Mary had saved up enough money for first, last, and security. He even had some left over to buy more than ramen and some new clothes. To Mary, it felt like a million dollars. He rented a garden-level apartment in the cheap part of Jamaica Plain for September 1st and spent that entire day with the BU dudes driving around in their rented truck for Allston Christmas’s best furniture finds.

Mary ended up with a mattress that he hoped on a wish and a prayer didn’t have bedbugs, a mismatched set of dishes, plastic drawers that were slightly warped, and a broken futon frame he swore he would fix. Throw in a few sets of slightly used string lights, and Mary’s cave felt downright homey.

When the gang got back, he simply told them he’d dropped out.

"Yeah, I just don’t think college is for me. Music’s my real passion, you know?"

Alex had groaned.

"I knew that Berkley kid was gonna be a bad influence on you."

Mary shrugged.

"My grades were shit anyway. But I’m still around, you know. The strip club’s only a block from campus."

"Because we saw you so much then," deadpanned Billy.

"Hey! Stop piling on Mary," said Vanity. "He’s following his path."

Mary shot her a wide smile.

"Thanks, Vanity."

Patrick finally gave him a little more leeway with his days off, and Mary started taking Saturday night to join the gang in Harvard Square for the shadow cast of Rocky Horror. One of Aaron’s classmates, Amber, was in it, and they all wanted to support her.

Mary felt that something again. That thing that told that this was his place and his people. This eclectic group who got up in front of strangers every week in their underwear for free enthralled Mary.

He and Amber bonded immediately, and Mary began going even without the gang. The cast welcomed him in as an honorary groupie, and Mary's friendship with the gang waned. There was still Mandi to cavort with at the strip club, but now when Mary wasn't there, he was at any one of the Rocky crew's apartments getting high and playing dress up.

"You’ve got such a Look, Mare," sighed Amber. "I’d kill for your cheekbones."

"I’d kill for your tits."

She slapped him playfully. "Don’t be gross."

"No, I’m serious. Someone once put it in my head that I'd be a hot chick."

The girls had giggled and proceeded to dress him up in bras and corsets with cutlets. They added a wig, and the glo-up surprised even Mary.

Still buzzed, they went out for girl’s night and hit up all the bars in Fenway and flirted their way to free shots from the dude bros before batting their falsies at bouncers to let them into the clubs ahead of the line and without the cover.

The cutlets eventually became a nuisance—and soon they were all flapping them about above their heads as they danced—but Mary had loved the feel of the lace and satin corsets against his skin.

When they’d all collapsed in a pile at the end of the night, Mary wondered if they’d tell him where to get some lingerie for himself.

***

By August, Mary was ready to quit the strip club.

He was tired of cut fingers (they were making it hard to play the guitar he’d bought), the drunks, and the sick everywhere. Now that he had a little cushion, he thought maybe he could at least find something with better hours.

Mandi had graduated and was well into a summer internship at Disney in hopes they’d bring her on as a dancer.

Alex had also graduated and moved out to LA to make it as a film editor.

Vanity and Aaron had started dating after finals, and they had moved in together in Cambridgeport for their last year.

Billy had stopped going to classes before dropping out altogether. No one seemed to know what happened, and when they called his home, his mother just said he was unavailable.

There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around the Grid anymore, and it was a bitch of a commute back to his place if he wasn’t going to hang out with the Rocky crew. He landed a job at a record store that was walking distance to his apartment.

Patrick seemed surprisingly sad to see him go, saying, "Ah, the good ones smart up," and gave him a $500 bonus for not "fucking up."

Tim, one of the older Rocky people, turned out to not live too far from him, and when Mary started hanging out there, so did the party.

Now that Mary was no longer shackled by the strip club’s hours, his world opened a few more degrees. He spent his nights dressing up while he watched the cast rehearse. (When he showed them a move or two he learned from the women at the club, they tried to get him to do a guest star as Frank. But Mary had shaken his head and said that wasn’t the kind of performing he wanted to do.)

When they weren't rehearsing, they dragged Mary to TT The Bear’s, The Middle East, and The Milky Way Lounge for underground shows. They took him to fetish night at ManRay after a trip to Hubba Hubba for pleather and lingerie, and Mary made a lot of new friends.

Sometimes, Mary would show up to work straight off a night out in his club clothes, eyeliner smudged and lipstick smeared. It should have got him fired, but his boss just shrugged.

"I used to keep rockstar hours too."

Mary still wore all his old vestiges—his battle vest and his ripped jeans—it was just that now he sometimes added a corset and heels.

Wherever Katie was now, he hoped she knew he was still fucking their beauty standards.

ry.omen Insta

Answer Me This

I practically vibrate the entire way back to our place. I'm still trying to wring information out of the internet like it's too-wet clothes, but the only thing I accomplish is making myself motion sick on the bus, so I put my phone back in my pocket and breath through my nose.

When I get home, Mary is sprawled across the couch in his pjs with various limbs hanging over sides and edges as he watches some extreme sport show on my laptop.

I wonder if he just got up, but I see the start of dinner on the stove, so I decide not to snark at him.

"Hey," he says without looking up.

I am, however, gonna need some answers on "Heroes."

I gently close the laptop, and he meets my eyes.

"What?"

I climb onto the couch, and Mary’s limbs recede like vines to make room for me as I scroll through my phone to my photo app where I’ve saved screenshots.

"Lucy," I say in a terrible accent, "you have some ‘splaining to do!"

Mary squints at me and takes my phone, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"Shit, babe. Where’d ya find these??"

"So they are you!"

He chuckles.

"Christ…I haven't thought about these in fucking years."

"Mind telling me what the fuck?" I ask, my hands on my hips.

I'm only half joking.

Mary grimaces at me.

"Ah."

"I'm gonna need more than that, mister."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you know those were hard times for me."

I know about his family, the homelessness. I know he tried out a lot until he found a life that fit. He'd given me the overviews with occasional anecdotes filled with names I never remembered.

But none of them included naughty pictures.

I worm my way under his arm.

"Yeah, I know, Mare."

His hand strokes down my arm.

"I mean, shit. I was kinda an asshole, you know?"

I wrap an arm around his chest.

"You're still kind of an asshole, Goore."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

When he doesn't say more, I poke him hard in the side.

"I’m literally dying here."

He laughs a little.

"Fine. But you gotta remember you asked."

Model Behavior

One day, Mary was walking down the street on his way to drinks with the new friends he'd made the weekend before. It was a good day. He wasn’t hungover as fuck, his makeup was only smudged artfully, and he was pretty sure he was going to get laid.

A guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans maybe a few years older than Mary stopped him on the street.

"Hey, man! I love your style."

Mary batted his eyelashes at him. "Thanks, dude."

"You ever think of dark modeling?"

Mary squinted his eyes at him.

"Dark what now?"

"You know—modeling but like," he gestured up and down Mary’s form, "for dark beauties. Show the world beauty isn’t cookie cutter."

"For like what? A website or some shit?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a card case, and handed one to Mary.

Heroes Greg Karson, Photographer/Web Design Butera School of Art

Actually, Mary had heard of this. It was a zine about the local happenings around town—concerts, art shows, parties, etc. There was a stack of them next to "Rrriot!" in the record shop. He’d flipped through one occasionally, mostly interested in the band reviews.

"We’re really on the lookout for anyone with the right look. You know, wear stuff you already own."

"So like a street fashion spread?"

"Well, we might do a little more with it, but—you know how it is. Most of the budget goes toward printing costs."

Mary perked up.

"Would I be paid?"

Greg laughed.

"Peanuts, my dude. But yeah. Even if it’s a T token. You interested, then?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Mind if I take a few test shots."

Mary smirked at Greg.

"How do you want me?"

"Just natural."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mary arched his back and gave Greg his best snotty hipster face.

Greg dug out a digital camera from his carrying case and took a dozen or so pictures of Mary from different angles while telling him to turn this way or that.

Afterwards, the two of them huddled over the camera and scrolled through the shots.

"Aw yeah, this one. I love the attitude. The guys are gonna love it. You have a number where we can reach you?"

Mary gave him the number of the record shop. (His apartment had a phone, but he’d never gotten around to wanting to pay for service.)

Later, he and Amber looked up the Angelfire website on the back of the card. It was one page that contained the mission statement, bios of the creators, and locations to pick up the zine.

"Omigod—you’re gonna become a famous model, Mare!"

"Yeah, right. You know most of it ends up in the trash, right?"

But when Ben called, Mary said he was game. He directed Mary to a co-op in a converted warehouse in Dorchester, and Mary brought his favorite clothes in a borrowed duffle.

A girl in cat pajamas opened the door and pointed at a set of metal stairs with her cereal spoon.

On the second floor, Mary found Greg setting up a makeshift studio. A girl with multiple piercings and yarn dreads leaned against the wall in her black babydoll dress.

Mary sidled up to her.

"You here to model, too?"

She gave him an unimpressed once-over.

"I’m the art director, asshole."

Mary flushed hard as she turned to Greg.

"Couldn’t find one with brains?"

She turned back to Mary.

"I don’t know if you thought this would be a good way to meet chicks or what, dude. But I’m letting you know right now that I’m here on my day off to make sure this adheres to our aesthetic, so if you're not serious, fuck off."

Mary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shit, sorry. I was expecting a dude named Ben."

She waved her hand in the air as if dispelling Ben.

"The Bens are morons. Good idea, terrible execution. I’m here to make sure we remain true to the idea of 'Heroes,' so don’t fuck up my shoot." She gave him a once over. "Christ. You have any experience?"

Greg turned from where he was testing the white balance.

"Angelique, stop harassing the talent. We get it, you have a degree from RISD."

Angelique snorted.

"As if I don't hear you going on and on about being a professional photographer. 'Hey, lemme shoot your portfolio, baby.' Whatever. As if we're not your only professional credit."

"Hey—you wanted a photographer for peanuts? You got me. You wanted models for peanuts? You got him."

Mary gave her his full snaggle-toothed grin.

"I take T tokens."

Angelique sighed, then pasted on a smile.

"Hi! So happy you’re here!" Her smile drooped. "You got your wardrobe in there?"

"Yeah."

Mary handed her the duffle, and she handed him release forms.

"Here: sign these"

She pawed through his offerings.

"Not bad, not bad." She pulled out a corset and his heeled boots. "We'll keep you in your jeans and have you wear your jacket over your corset. Cool?"

Cool.

The shoot was as professional as a shoot in a warehouse in what Mary was taking to usually be a living room could be. Angelique directed Greg with what she wanted. Greg called out positions and expressions for Mary to pose in.

It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of a solid hour, his smirking lip was getting tired. Angelique and Greg scrolled through the shots, murmuring to themselves and nodding.

Mary waited—greeting at the other inhabitants as they squeezed by on their way either up or down—until Angelique approached him.

"That’ll do. You mind if we post on our website?"

Mary preened.

"Yeah, that’s kosher."

She handed him a pen and pocket notebook.

"Write down a quick bio."

He scribbled down a quick elevator pitch

Into general skulking and metal \m/

and handed the notebook back to her.

"Great, thanks."

She handed him a $20 bill, her eyes skimming him up and down.

"Next time we should show off those hip bones. Just jeans, I think."

Mary perked up. "Next time?"

"We’ll call you."

***

"Omigod, omigod!"

Amber perched on the record store counter, flipping through "Heroes," as Jon peered over her shoulder.

"Mary…look at you!"

Mary tried to swallow his smug smile.

Failed.

"Yeah. I’m hot shit, ain’t I?"

She bopped him on the nose with the newsprint.

"Don’t be vain."

He showed her his toothy smile.

"I like to think of it as confidence."

"So did Icarus."

Mary snorted and went back to putting prices on the new CDs.

"The camera loves you," said Jon, who was always quiet and reserved as you please…until he put on Frank’s corset and heels.

Mary had tried flirting with him, but Jon always ducked his head and played it off.

"Thanks, man," said Mary, giving him a softer smile.

"So??"

"So what, Amber?"

"Are you gonna do it again?"

Mary shrugged.

"I mean, if they call me, sure."

But he was kind of hoping they would.

When the next issue came out weeks later, Mary stared at the cybergoth on the pages and felt himself deflate. Listlessly, he thumbed through the delicate print, barely skimming the section devoted to the World/Inferno Friendship Society’s set he’d been at the week before.

He set it down with a sigh before he picked up his guitar and plucked out a tune he was trying to coax into a riff.

By the time a Ben called again, Mary had given up the modeling thing as a one-off.

"Hey, dude—thought maybe you guys forgot about me," Mary said in a teasing tone.

The Ben on the other end chuckled.

"It’s like herding cats to get shit out. Nah, dude—we definitely want you to be one of our regulars. You in for next Saturday?"

He was.

***

Over the course of a year, "Heroes" had Mary come out multiple times for shoots. Mainly, Mary wore his own clothes and did his own makeup, but occasionally, Angelique wanted something specific.

"How comfortable are you with boudoir shots?"

"With what?"

"Like a pinup, but more…saucy than sexy."

I'd pose nude if you paid me enough.

(Sure, he was a noodle boy, but he knew he had the goods.)

"Yeah, I’m cool with that."

Angelique brightened at him.

"Great!"

She picked up a set of complicated leather garters and thrust them at him.

"Put these on."

Mary had only ever worn lace garters—mostly out to clubs, but occasionally under his ripped jeans for an extra pop—but he found he liked these even more, liked the way they emphasized his thighs.

"Hey—where’d you get these…?"

(He was already thinking of what he could pair them with for goth night.)

"Local leatherworker. He mostly does pieces for Renn Fairs, but he'll also do custom. I can give you his info."

She led Mary into what was clearly someone's bedroom.

"Don't fuck anything up, or Joye will never let us use this again."

Mary shot her his best shark smile.

"Hey, I only mess up the sheets if someone asks."

Angelique gave him a flat look and called for Greg.

(But when he draped himself over the bed and told Greg to "Paint me like one of your French girls," Mary could have sworn she almost smiled.)

On one memorable occasion, she brought in a guy whose rope bondage demo she watched at a sex convention.

"Put on some of that lingerie and we'll truss you up. You ok with that, Goore?"

Mary ran his fingers over the coils and gave her a wolfish smile.

"You know I'm game for anything."

She gave him a vulpine smile of her own then, and she looked down at him from the height of her platformed boots.

"Good. I thought you should be submissive for once."

Mary had no witty rejoinder for that.

He listened with interest as the guy carefully explained what he was going to do, complete with pictures, and he relaxed easily into the process. (They put bunny ears on him, and it would be much, much later that he got that particular joke. Well played, Angelique.)

The ropes hadn’t let him do much posing, but Mary had kind of liked the constriction, and his thoughts were already on asking Amber to help him create a more versatile version for fetish night.

He’d left that day with a new kink…and the guy’s number.

"Why not just do one big shoot?" he asked another time. "Get it all done in one big bang!"

Angelique held up his garments to eyeball over him.

"Honey, we never even know if there's gonna be a next issue. The Bens spend most of the time arguing. My god you should hear them—Ben bankrolls the whole thing, so he says he should get final say on shit, and Benji wants total artistic control because it was his idea, because 'he's the graphic designer', and because it's his Kinko's employee discount they use."

She gave Mary a curled-lip smile as she tossed a few items at him.

"In the end it's this bitch you're looking at who gets shit done."

Mary began to change (they were long past modesty).

"How'd you get involved?"

"Went to school with Benji."

"Ben too?"

"Neg. The Bens are childhood friends. Ben works some cushy start-up job, so Benji lets him bankroll them both. Rent, utilities—everything. I love Benji to death, but he's a giant mooch."

"Shit, that must be nice."

Angelique shrugged. She stood back to appraise Mary's look.

"It's fucking lame. But it least it gets us fucking paid."

Mary didn't say I'd do this for free. Instead, he struck a pose and said, "I'm just happy for the exposure."

Angelique rolled her eyes and went to fetch Greg.

***

That year and a half would become a nonstop party with Mary as one of the VIPs; he wouldn't say no to anything—be it casual sex, club appearances, or whatever drug the current pretty thing was offering him in the bathroom.

But recognition started slow.

At first, it was customers who would leaf through the zine and recognize Mary.

Then, it was the occasional scenester who’d stop him on the street in JP as he walked about, and Mary would pose for grainy cell phone pics.

Soon, he was being approached at shows and clubs. The first time it happened, Mary was high off his new infamy and ready to please. A woman in a black bandage bra and pleated skirt with bondage straps approached him, and Mary was already thinking of what he could do with those.

"You look like that guy in ‘Heroes’!" she'd shouted to him over the music.

Mary had flashed her a crooked smile and leaned in.

"Maybe I am the guy in ‘Heroes’."

She'd given him an exaggerated once over before sidling closer with hooded eyes.

"I dunno…you're wearing way more clothes."

Mary had pulled his mesh top down by the collar in a tease as he'd curled over her.

"Take me somewhere more private and I’ll let you do a comparison."

She'd compared him all night.

And that was before he and the other "Heroes" models formed their own posse.

The Bens had thrown a BBQ and had invited everyone they'd ever met. There were people packed into their little 2 bedroom in Brighton, spilling down the back stairs, and equally packed into the little square of shared backyard. Ben had taken the 12-pack of 'Gansett beers Mary had brought, then introduced him to the other dark models.

"Now you're all here!" said Ben. He slung his arm around Mary. "Guys, this is Mary. Mary this is Mayhem, Lesley, Lola, and Bryan."

Mayhem was a rivethead, and Mary took to him instantly, but he was wary of the others. Lesley was the cybergoth who'd been in the first issue after him, and Mary still felt a bit salty at them, even though Mary knew by now the Bens rotated the models. Lola, the romantic goth, reminded him enough of Vanity that he felt guilty for losing touch with her and had him projecting a little. Bryan was a metalhead, so: competition.

Mary had thought they'd get along like cats and water, but weed, booze, and "Never Have I Ever" went a long way to creating a shared bond.

And there it was again. That pull. The magnetic force telling him that he'd found the place he was supposed to be. They quickly coalesced into their own pack, calling themselves the "Deathbutantes" (because they always killed it when they debuted for the night).

It had been rare for Mary to miss Friday and Saturday night shenanigans with the Rocky crew, but now, every night was Friday night. There was always a show or a concert or club that one of them knew about—and if they couldn't get lucky with the local color, they'd just go home with each other.

Mayhem taught Mary what Lola jokingly called the "grab a bat" dance, and the two of them cut quite the picture on the dance floors.

Lesley took to Lola, and the two of them could always be counted on for scintillating conversation in dark corners when Mary's limbst needed a break from flailing about.

The clubs weren't really Bryan's scene—take him to a sticky hole in the wall with concrete floors and a stage close enough to feel the sweat from the bands, and he was in heaven—but he liked to come along to hang. He'd drink PBRs, rub Lola's feet when she invariably abandoned her heels for the evening, and argue with Mary about the purity of death metal.

Mayhem and Lola weren't really into live music of the screaming kind, so—while Lesley, Bryan, and Mary bounced off each other in the mosh pits—they'd save a "home" base at one the bartops.

Amber noticed Mary's diminishing presence and stopped by the record shop to call him out.

"So you're not dead! Could've fooled me."

Mary was organizing the albums into order, and he grunted at her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a cad. I'll make it up to you."

"You missed game night."

"Sorry. Jethro Tull played some tiny venue in nowhere Mass, and Bryan was salivating. I mean, Jethro Tull. Can you blame me?"

He looked at her, arms out wide in supplication. But she just blinked at him.

"You have no idea who Jethro Tull is, do you?"

"Sorry, dude. But christ, Mare. You should have invited me. I'd've gone. Maybe I would have even liked them. Now you'll never know."

"I could just lend you an album."

"Nope! The moment passed. Too late!"

Mary riffled through the stock and shoved a Jethro Tull CD into her hands.

She tapped it against her thigh.

"So, when do I get to hang?"

"I can get us into 80s night free."

"No, I mean, with your cooler friends. Your 'murder models', or whatever."

"You wanna hang out with the Deathbutantes?"

Amber scrunched her nose.

"That's so fucking pretentious."

Mary kind of liked it.

"Dunno if they're really your scene."

"Oh? And what's my scene?"

"Musical theater on crack."

She mock gasped at him, "Called out!" before smacking him with the CD. "Whatever. You love musical theater on crack."

Mary draped his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't live it, you know? You guys have your niche—and fuck…I love to visit—but it's not mine."

Amber looked up at him, her expression serious.

"So the Dumbutantes are your niche?"

Mary shrugged and went back to shelving.

The Rocky crew had been good to him. They'd taken him under their wing, no questions asked, and helped him realize things about himself. Tim had taken him to the ER when Mary had come down with a serious case of the flu. Matty had taught him the basics of sewing. Gretchen had held him after a bad trip. Omar and he had had many drunken heart-to-hearts about their shitty home lives.

And Amber was his best friend. She'd been his #1 cheerleader for years and had never been afraid to call him out on his shit.

So yeah, he loved the Rocky crew…but they laughed at anyone who took anything too seriously. Mary would show up to game nights in his latest creation—with everyone else in pjs or jeans & hoodies—and they'd tease him about trying to impress the wrong people. He'd try to talk about the newest guitar god he'd been mainlining, and they'd make snoring noises at him.

How could he explain the kinship he felt with the Deathbutantes? That they were as serious about music as he was, that they just…got why he felt the need to dress the way he did to express the way he felt inside on his outside.

Instead, he said, "I'm just trying shit out, Ambs." He quirked his eyebrow at her. "I gotta do something while you guys do your real-person jobs."

(Amber had recently started as a junior marketing assistant at the American Repertory Theater. "Purely mercenary," she'd said. "Maybe it'll give me a leg up during auditions.")

She made a disgruntled scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck, don't remind me. I actually gotta go to bed a reasonable hour now."

"Don't worry." Mary winked at her. "I'll keep ya honest."

"That sounds a lot like my head in a toilet, Mare."

"I'll hold your hair back."

She gave him a good-natured shove, and he pretended to cower.

If she wanted to cross pollinate, who was Mary to stand in her way? So, he invited her out the next time the Deathbutantes went to a show, and it went exactly like he thought it would.

They disliked her, and she was equally unimpressed. They thought she was too loud and frenetic, and she thought they had no sense of humor.

"I fucking told you," Mary had snorted as they sat on the curb sharing a clove.

"Shut the fuck up, Mare."

But she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"They make you happy, though. So I guess I approve. Just as long as I don't have to play nice."

Mary still hung out with the Rocky crew—there were still game nights and drug-fueled sex parties and theater games—but the Deathbutantes introduced him to the underground scene. They always seemed to have insider knowledge about the best up-in-coming bands and the secret shows. Theme nights at the goth clubs were always a must, and they rarely missed one. Sometimes, Angelique would crash, and they'd take the commuter rail to Providence to party at Club Hell before collapsing in a sweaty, smeary pile at a friend of a friend's hole in the wall.

As a bit player in the Rocky crew, Mary had been another made-up face in the crowd. As a certified member of the Deathbutantes, Mary became the face.

They all did.

The owners loved them because they bought round after round at the bar, and if word got out that the Deathbutantes were there, their admirers came to spend money as well. The employees loved them because they were fun and talked to them as equals. The clientele loved them because they were pretty young things.

Sometimes, though, Mary wasn't in the mood to party or get laid, so he talked to the DJs instead. He'd buy them rounds and stay past closing to help them pack up while they talked about the history of punk and 80s new wave and nu metal. There was one in particular, Dave, that Mary even considered a friend.

The two of them would sit in the club past closing, sharing a whiskey and talking about life while the bartenders closed down and cashed out. Occasionally, Dave's other friends would be around, and they'd all walk back to his place; he'd fool around spinning in his home studio, and they'd drink box wine as they danced and laughed before Mary would have to sit on the ground in an intoxicated exhaustion, good for only thumbing through Dave's vinyl collection.

Mary was just happy to talk shop with another music aficionado, but Angelique had pointed out that he should leverage his minor clout.

They'd been waiting for Greg to finish setting up, and Mary had been struggle city after a particularly hard night out. It was all he could manage to sit there quietly and hope some god would put him out of his misery.

"You need to get your shit together," Angelique had said out of nowhere.

Mary had cracked a puffy eye and had slowly (as to not bring the nothing in his stomach back up) turned his head to her.

"As if I haven't seen your melted ass on the floor wanting to die."

"Fuck, Mary. You've turned it into an art form."

He'd closed his eyes and given her the finger, but that hadn't stopped her.

"You wanna be a rockstar, boy? You can't just sit on your ass and hope the right person on the right night hears you. You're effervescent and charismatic—heads turn when you walk into a room and not just because of your skinny jeans—but you need more than air, Mary, which is all you are right now."

"Fuck you, Angela."

She'd clapped in front of his face, and she was lucky he didn't Exorcist bile all over her.

"You're a fucking pain in my ass, Goore. I'm doling out the good stuff, try not to bite my hand off, k?"

"All right, all right!"

"You wanna start that band? You wanna get play and amass fans? Well, make that demo you're always droning on about and give it to those DJs you're alway fanboying over. Fucking network, Goore."

At the time, Mary had been too hungover to care, but her advice would sink in…

Eventually.

For the time being, Mary was content. He loved the attention, and it made him feel invincible, made him feel like it was finally His Time. And he was going to make up for every slight, every unfair situation, and every beat down with sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

With his newfound nightlife, Mary's day job had become an afterthought. He started sleeping through opening shifts, but with the extra foot traffic Mary brought to the store, his boss seemed resigned to let Mary slide (after a stern talking to and a pay docking).

The shadow cast had started using him as a mascot of sorts, and he was happy to show up on Saturday nights and hype up the waiting line with a pseudo striptease. (Even if it was sometimes to kick off his evening with the Deathbutantes and not hang with the cast after.)

Mary started a band ("auditioning" any and all of the many admirers who said they’d be more than happy to join it), and after a few false starts and a couple of lineup changes, they began working on an EP. (At least, when Mary showed up to rehearsal, they did.)

A Boston Phoenix reporter got wind of the Deathbutantes and called around about doing a story on them. The Bens were excited about the exposure that meant for their zine, and Angelique and Greg were excited about what it could mean for their careers. Mary did a brief interview over the phone where he answered questions about his style and talked about his dream of making his band a household name.

Mary saw his name up in lights, and he was reaching for it, full speed ahead.

But then things turned.

The story fell through at the last minute with no further explanation or contact by the reporter.

His boss finally fired him after Mary showed up too high to function too many times—or not at all.

The shadow cast had a turnover, and suddenly he was old news—a cringey hanger-on.

A trip to the clinic and a round of antibiotics for an STI had him way more wary of who he hooked up with.

"Heroes" lost momentum when imitators popped up and Ben cut off the gravy train.

Angelique moved to NYC for "better opportunities," and the Bens took their brand of counterculture to Portland, OR.

Greg took down the website when he got offered a legit job as an apprentice at a food magazine, and that was that.

The physical zines were cheap things, most ending up papering the sidewalk after trash day or lining the bottom of cages. Without the online presence, did Mary's "modeling career" even exist?

Mary was a little sad to see the era go, but when he woke up in Maine on the hood of some girl's car and only a hazy recollection of how they'd gotten there, he was beginning to see Angelique's point. He needed to get his shit together if he was ever going to become a rockstar. And frankly, he kind of felt like he needed to spend an entire month eating carrots and hydrating.

The 24/7 party had always been an ephemeral thing; it had been sand passing through his hands in a finite amount as he'd tried to hold onto it

He put himself on detox, and waking up sober for the first time in months felt like a revelation. And as it turned out, playing the guitar without badly shaking hands was way, way easier.

He found another job in another music store, and his starter!band was bringing butts into the smaller venues, like Toad.

He still had his old Rocky friends and the Deathbutantes. The club and venue owners still let him in for free, and Dave was always happy to give his demos a spin. By anyone's else's measure, he was steal one of the scene's darlings.

But Mary was beginning to realize that he needed to stop seeing himself as that scared kid who’d arrived in Boston 4 years ago with only a backpack, $72.57 to his name, and void where his family should be.

He needed to stop finding people to please into loving him.

Instead, he needed to live for himself and let them love him for who he was—fuck ups and all.

@slimylayne

Epilogue

"Honestly, that’s probably the reason I even got a band together," he says. "I was still kind of shit at guitar, but people came to see ‘Model Mary’ perform in his underwear."

He shoots me a smirk.

"I’m sure there’re pictures out there of me looking more glam than metal. I kind of played up the whole pinup thing for a while."

"Fuck, I would kill, literally kill to see that."

He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him.

"I could open up my underwear drawer and show you right now."

"Goore, you temptress."

I lean down to kiss him, and his hands sneak under my shirt, but I pull away again.

"I kinda thought I knew all your torrid secrets by now. Shit, how come Dave's never needled you about it?"

After 2 years with him, I’m surprised I hadn't even heard a peep from his oldest friend.

Mary snorts.

"Dave would miss shit hanging off his nose. Great dude, amiable as fuck, but he's always had fucking tunnel vision for his music."

I smirk at him.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Mary pulls a face at me, and I apply kisses to every line until he laughs and bats me away.

"But really, Mare—how come you never told me about your brief career in blue steel?"

He blows out a breath, his hands smoothing up my thighs.

"Fuck. Cuz maybe I was a little embarrassed at how off the rails I was then, ok? Didn't want you to know what I fuck up I was." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "And even I know it's a shit move to pitch woo at someone by telling them about banging half of Boston."

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

His hands rest on my waist.

"Christ, everything about that year's a bit fuzzy, and it was like 10 years ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else, honestly. And shit—most of those people aren’t even around anymore. College kids who moved on and 20-somethings that grew up and moved who knows where. I used to watch Amber have—what is it when it’s four people?—and now she lives in bumblefuck Pennsylvania with 3 kids. After she left, I just kinda drifted away from all that."

He shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"I’m sorry, Mare," I say as I smooth his eyebrows.

He shrugs again.

"I mean, we all kinda keep in touch. It's like the only reason I have Facebook."

"When was the last time you even signed into that?"

Mary grins at me.

"Lola's birthday."

"One of the models? What happened with them?"

Mary bites his lip and thinks.

"Mayhem found religion after an OD and kinda ghosted everyone. Lesley followed a girl to New Hampshire. Uh…Lola pursued a PhD for something sciencey involving renewable energy with sugar beets in Idaho, and Bryan moved back to Florida to care for his grandma, who raised him."

Mary leans his head back on the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I mean, shit. We were fucking babies back then. Head empty except for a good time and unlimited potential."

I run my fingers through his hair.

"You miss it?"

His eyes pop open to look at me.

"Fuck no. Not for a million dollars. Too many question marks." His eyes glint as he runs his hands down me. "I like what I got going on right here."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. The fucking sap.

Mary picks up my phone and scrolls through the pictures again.

"Fuck. I used to be goddamn adorable, though. Half this shit wouldn’t even fit me anymore."

I squish his little potbelly, and he grunts at me indignantly.

"Do you still have any originals?" I ask.

He shakes his head, his eyes wistful and his smile sad.

"Nah. Got destroyed when my roof collapsed and leaked everywhere. Fuck, landlords are useless. Glad we fucking own now, babe."

He scrolls up, scrolls back down.

"Just these four?"

I nod.

"Yeah. They were the only ones I found—and I did a lot of searching."

"Christ, I think there were at least 10."

I smile ruefully at him. "It’s not gonna be long anyway before they make their way into the popular tags and shit starts coming out of the woodwork."

He tosses my phone onto the table.

"Whatever. Just shows that I’ve always been cool."

And then he’s kissing me again, his hand tangling in my hair.

"You know, I’m your family now, Mare. Just for you."

He brings my hand up and kisses it.

"Fuck, I know that. Why’dja think I put a ring on it?"

#mary goore #longfic #gender neutral insert #aurelio voltaire

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fallout4reactsblog · 4 years ago

Note

companions react to news of the institute christmas party courser revolution and the fact that the institute is now apparently populated entirely by festive rogue coursers in elf costumes and also what ramifications this has on the politics of the commonwealth as a whole. father's drowned corpse, still in his silly santa hat, is now impaled on the antlers of the fake reindeer on the sleigh prop by the institute's metaphorical front door as a warning and a symbol of their casting off chains.

Cait: “You have to at least give them some points for creativity.”

Cait pulls a face, but says, “I guess.”

“Come on, Cait. You could at least admit it’s a little funny. I’d have paid good money to be a fly on the wall that day.”

“It’s fucked up, is what it is. How are you so calm?”

“How are you so stressed?” They lean back in their chair, folding their arms contentedly. “They basically did our job for us. No more Institute.”

She sighs. “You’re nuts.”

“Maybe. I guess all we can do is wait and see what happens, huh? Maybe they’ll retreat to their underground hidey-hole and leave the Commonwealth alone.”

“Not countin’ on it.”

“You can be as pessimistic as you like. The way I see it, this is a good thing both ways. Either the Institute collapses without strict management- which would be good- the coursers decide they don’t believe in what the Institute was doing before and stop- also good- or we go in there and only have to kill half of what was there. A win-win-win situation.”

She shakes her head. “Whatever you say. I’m not buyin’ it.”

Curie: “The absurdity of the situation is certainly not lost on me, Madam/Monsieur, but surely there are still, ah, consequences for this?”

“Oh, sure, yeah, definitely. I mean, they’ve basically got my son on a pike on the CIT lawn. But, you know, don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things, as the old saying goes.”

“I... do not think this is a ‘petty thing’ anymore.”

They wave a hand dismissively. “We’ll wait for the dust to settle, then go check it out. Until then, I’m not jumping to any conclusions.”

“I am merely saying that, given the evidence, this seems quite disastrous, especially in terms of political instability.”

“Ah, who cares about politics? Unless they or someone else starts a war, it’ll be fine. Let ‘em live a little. Everybody’s gotta have a rebellious teenager phase at some point.”

Curie wasn’t sure this counted as being a rebellious teen, but if that was what brought sole comfort, she would let them have it.

Danse: Listening Post Bravo is quiet. That’s how he likes it, and how it’s going to stay.

Courser uprising. Of course, it was a courser uprising. What else could it have been? Those things are killing machines; death is everything they were designed for, and now they’ve taken the reigns and can do as they see fit across the Commonwealth with no masters to keep them in check.

He pulls himself a little tighter into his corner. God, what a mess. This is over. They needed to go back to DC and forget they had ever heard of the Institute. Tactical retreat. If Arthur wasn’t so far on his warpath, he might have even suggested it, but he was six feet deep in his “now’s the time to strike” speech with no sign of stopping to think about the hole he was digging.

Well, Arthur could do what he wanted. Danse has had enough of this, enough of the goddamn Commonwealth, enough of the synths, enough of it all. This was his home, now, and he was going to sit here and plant potatoes and forget anything that happened outside. Especially the fact that coursers even existed and could, presumably, come knocking on his door at any moment.

He was going to make an effort to forget that first.

Deacon: He lets out a long, low, whistle, then turns to Dez. “We should’ve thought of that one first, Boss. It’s genius.”

“It’s madness.” Desdemona pinches the bridge of her nose. “But I suppose it works in our favor, at least for now. There should be chaos in the Institute right about now.”

“Other synths probably saw the carnage.” Glory pipes up. “They might be getting some similar ideas. This could be our moment.”

“Who would’ve predicted this, though?” Deacon grins. “It’s so out there that I can’t even be surprised that it happened. I mean, tell me “Holiday Office Party Leads to Destruction of Commonwealth Boogeyman” doesn’t sound like a headline you’d see in the Publick these days. It’s the perfect brand of Commonwealth crazy.”

“The Brotherhood is going to want to get on this,” Carrington says, shooting a glare Deacon’s direction. “We need to act before they can get there.”

“I’ve reached out to our man on the inside,” Deacon replies, glaring back. “But until we hear back, we might as well enjoy the show.”

Dez shakes her head. “I suppose so.”

Gage: “Honestly? Can’t blame ‘em. That holiday party sounds like an actual nightmare. I’d kill someone if they stuck elf ears on me, too.”

“Damn. There go my plans for next Christmas.”

Sole’s tone is dry enough he can’t tell if they’re joking. “I’m serious, Overboss. You even look at me with a costume-”

“I value my life, thanks.”

“Just providin’ fair warning. I don’t think any of the others would take kindly to it, either.”

They shake their head. “Mason wouldn’t mind. He practically dresses up in a costume every day.”

“Are you shitting me? He’d be the one that hated it the most.”

“Absolutely not. Mags would hate it the most.”

He thinks about it a moment, then replies, “Fair point, but what about Nisha?”

Sole sucks in a tense breath. “Oh, that’d be a mess. A bloody, ugly mess. Moral of the story: no holiday parties.”

“Good advice.”

Hancock: “I mean, good for them?” He stares at the ceiling, still a little baffled. “I guess?”

“But what does this mean, John?” Fahrenheit lights up a cigarette across from him.

“Well, we’ll be fine. I have that on good authority. Everybody else...” He makes a face.

“Exactly. No one knows.”

“No one even knew this was an option.” Smoke hisses between his teeth. “I mean, it’s fitting that they’d go up in smoke because of their own arrogance, but still.”

“People are losing it.”

He snorts. “Think of the Brotherhood. They must be havin’ a real heyday over there. But us? We’ll be fine. That’s what matters, right?”

“That’s what matters.”

MacCready: “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

Sole shrugs. “Then don’t say anything. I’m still not sure how I feel about it myself.”

“This is a good thing, right?” He looks to them for some explanation. “Right?”

“It’s too early to say, yet.”

“’Too early to say’? It’s a courser uprising for crying out loud. Forget what I said. This is bad.”

“Could turn out to be good, though.”

“Okay, it could, but...” he shakes his head. “What the heck. You’re right. We’ll see.”

Still, it’s a messed-up way to go. The only thing worse than being killed by a courser, he imagines, is being killed by a courser dressed up as a holiday elf.

Nick: He blinks slowly, purses his lips, then carefully folds his newspaper and puts it to the side.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know. Crazy, huh?” Sole pops the cap off a Nuka-Cola and takes a seat on his desk. “All it took was a Christmas party.”

“I gotta say, this wasn’t among the ways I thought the Institute would go. Up in a firey ball, sure, but at the hands of killing machines dressed as Santa’s elves?”

“That’s what makes it so great! No one saw this coming, the Institute least of all, I assume. Can you imagine the mess that must be happening at Boston Airport right now? The Brotherhood is shitting their pants as we speak.”

He just shakes his head. “We can close that case, I guess. I’m not sure if I should be happy for them or horrified at the circumstances. Still, we should be careful; it’ll be hard to know what a change in leadership means for us.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’ll give ‘em credit for creativity, though.”

Piper: This is the best thing to happen all year.

For once, papers are flying off the shelves. She’s selling copies right off the press, selling them before they’re even printed. She’s on backorder for the story of the festive courser rebellion, which she’d heard all the details about from a Diamond City guard wearing suspiciously Deacon-like sunglasses. But forget him.

People have traveled to get here and get their hands on the Publick. There’s someone from Bunker Hill sitting next to someone from Cambridge next to someone who said they came from the Glowing Sea, of all places. The caps she’s making is more than she could have ever imagined, and she’s glad she faced sleep deprivation to make this one a Publick Occurrences exclusive. It’s been well worth it so far. Nat doesn’t even have to stand on the street to hawk the paper, people are coming right up to her door and knocking, no joke.

She knew the war would be profitable, but it’s made even better by the way it all went down. A holiday party gone wrong is the perfect headline, and if she could find a courser, she’d kiss them for their genius. Because this is the best thing to happen to her since she not-so-subtly implied McDonough was a synth.

Bless the coursers of the Institute for their impeccable sense of style.

Preston: “I have to say, I didn’t expect to be crossing ‘take care of the Institute’ off of my to-do list so quickly.”

Sole cocks their head to the side. “I mean, it’s not gone yet. Just... under new management.”

“New management, new threat in my opinion. You can’t really believe everything is going to stay the same after this. The Institute is going to change in at least a couple of ways.”

“Fair.” They lean up against the workbench. “Kinda crazy how it all went down, though.”

He chuckles. “I’d call that an understatement, General. No one could’ve seen this one coming. Trigger-happy Brotherhood goes on the warpath? I thought we might see that one, but blowing up from the inside?” He shakes his head. “That’s a new one.”

“They kinda had it coming, though. Who thought making killing machines play Barbie was a good idea?”

“Someone who came to regret it, no doubt.”

60 notes · View notes

eleanorbloom · 4 years ago

Text

When You’re Ready Ch. 10

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f! MC (Eleanor Bloom) x Ethan Ramsey.

Word Count: 5.3k (Sorry!!!)

Warning: Innuendos at the beginning, then, just angst and a bit of cursing.

A/N: Yes, I’m sorry. Today’s chapter is the longest I’ve done so far, but it’s worth it (at least to me) because is about my babyyyy. Things are going to get harder from now on, so I’m excited for the upcoming chapters!! I hope you enjoy the angst because there’s more to come. Hehe.

A/N2: I’m gonna post some One Shots for Kinktober, so I was wondering if anyone wants to be tagged? It will be BrycexEleanor and DrakexMC from The Royal Romance. I’ve never published anything for TRR but I’m planning to write something in the future. Meanwhile, I’ll exercise with some smut muahaha. So let me know if you wanna be tagged 😏

Taglist @utterlyinevitable @binny1985 @shanzay44 @choicesficwriterscreations @laiba-the-person @starrystarrytrouble @lahellacute @lucy-268 @aylamreads @cinnamonspongecake @romewritingshop @angela8756

_______

Chapter 10: Stay.

Funny you’re the broken one

But I’m the only one who needed saving.

“Is that Raf?”—Eleanor raised her head from Bryce’s chest and stared at the ceiling, trying to prick up her ear.

At the distance, it was heard a deep voice in the middle of a mix of laughter.

“Yeah, that’s totally him.”

“What is he doing here so early?”

“Early?”—He chuckled—"It’s midday, babe.”

“Midday?!”—She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and checked. It was 12.10.—"And how we slept through all morning?”

“We stayed up late, don’t you remember? I think we got here like 3 am and then you just couldn’t shut up about how mad you were because Ramsey is being irrational about the influencer girl.”

“Oh, right. Drunken rant.”—Her cheeks blushed—“I’m sorry”

“Why are you sorry?”

“For making you hear all this crap when probably I ranted all night at Donahue’s about it.”

“Actually, you were just pissed off that Ramsey was mad at you, but when we got here you said the real stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think that Ramsey is suspecting about your relationship with me and he’s taking it on you. He’s mad because you went behind his back with the Gwyneth thing, obviously, but he has contained his rage for weeks, and now he’s just… exploding.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re right, I did say that—She covered her face with both hands—"God, I’m so stupid.”

“Why? I think you’re right. He’s been acting like an ass with me this whole time too, he looks at me like I’m a piece of garbage or something.”

“But it’s really unprofessional that he is taking a work issue to an extreme just because he is what? Jealous? Mad that I’m getting over him? It’s very inconsistent of him.”

“Yes, it is. Are you going to do something about it?”

“Like what?”

“Like talk to him, tell him to stop,, that he shouldn’t take it on you at work just because he’s jealous.”

“I… I don’t know, I wouldn’t like to mix things, maybe I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, Elle. You can’t let him be this ass with you, much less affect your work.”

Bryce saw how her head inside was spinning around, and her hands tensed over his rib cage.

“Just think about it.”—He added, stroking her hair comfortingly—"Don’t think for a second this is your fault, ‘cause it’s not. He made his choice in the first place.”

“I know…”

Eleanor leaned on her elbow to look at him in the eyes, smiling faintly at him.

“Thank you for being so understanding”

Bryce smiled back and then caressed her cheek while his eyes were expressing tenderness and protection.

She nuzzled into his soft chest losing herself into the sweet scent from his neck.

“Let’s focus on something less stressing and boring instead”—She whispered, lovingly.

“Like what?”—He asked tantalizingly roaming his hands through her back.

“Like the fact that I’m finally waking up with you.”

“Aw, you woke up really sugary today, uh?”

“Don’t you like it?”—She asked seriously.

“I have sweet tooth just because of you.”

“Awwww”—Eleanor encircled her arms around his neck pulling him down to her lips.—“You’re saying I’m sugary, but you just gave me a diabetic coma.”

“And I am having constipation ‘cause you, Eleanor Bloom, are being too cheesy.”

She burst out laughing, resonating in the whole apartment.

“Bryce! You’re impossible.”

“And you are impopsicle, babe.”—Before she could retort anything, he caught her lips into his, his hands travelling slowly down her bum. He deepened the kiss the moment she opened her mouth in a sigh.

“Do we have time for a quickie before getting ready for the concert?”

“Is it me or you’re doubting about your timing skills?”

“No, I’m just asking for consent.”

“We are wasting precious seconds, Dr. Lahela.”

Both chuckled before Eleanor pushed him against the bed and climbed on top of him, the sheets falling and pooling behind her, exposing her bare body.

“Sweet, sweet cowgirl ride me till the end of the world if you want”

Eleanor laughed hard again.

“Yeehaw!”—She joked between laughs.

This time it took like two minutes to make her stop. It would have been more if it weren’t for Bryce, who replaced her laughs for other more improper exclamations that soon had to be hushed too.

By the time Bryce and Eleanor appeared in the living room, all their friends were ready for the Music Festival Eleanor had invited them, courtesy of her patient, Gwyneth Monroe. After a quick chat, they all headed to Cambridge, excited for the new adventure.

The group spent the afternoon eating, drinking, playing lawn games and, of course, enjoying the music. At some point, they split when Eleanor, Kyra, and Aurora decided to see an art exposition while Bryce, Elijah, and Jackie joined Sienna to see an indie band she had been fangirling all afternoon.

Once the group met again, an hour later, it didn’t take long for Bryce and Eleanor to get lost in the crowd, enjoying the music while savoring the moment alone in the open air.

The sun was about to set when Bryce felt his phone buzzing. As he pulled it out of his pocket the letters froze him. He ended the call and saw 10 missing calls and a lot of messages in the notification bar.

“Bryce, where are you?”

“I’m outside your apartment.”

“Bryce, please answer me! Are you at work?”

Eleanor stared at him worried, sensing his nervousness.

“Is everything alright?”

“I… I have to go.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing, I just remembered tomorrow I have a really difficult surgery and I need to study up.”

“Okay.”—Her brows knitted, suspicious.

He kissed her quickly and turned to leave, but she caught his wrist before he could get lost in the crowd.

“Bryce!”

“What?”—He replied, trying to hide the fear that was invading him just right.

“If something wrong you can tell me, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled faintly and gave her one last kiss before walking out of the crowd.

He didn’t know how he reached the parking lot and got in the car, his hands were trembling and a knot of anxious had settled in his stomach. He pulled the phone out and called back.

“Bryce!”—He heard on the other end of the line—"God, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, where are you?!”

“Keiki, what’s going on? How is that that you’re in Boston?”

“I’ll explain later, are you coming?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in forty.”

“Hurry up, I’m bored to death here.”

When he got to his floor, she found a tall girl in a red leather jacket sitting against his door, a backpack between her legs. He barely recognized her, even if he had seen dozens of pictures of her on her social networks. She was a teenager now, not the little girl that said goodbye to him with tears in her eyes when he left for college.

“Keiki”

“Bryce”—She said getting up from the floor. He opened the door a few moments later and both got in.

“Can you explain to me now what you are doing here?”

“Hey, bro, I’m glad to see you too.”—She ironized—“Thanks for the kind welcoming.”

“Keiki, please.”

“I ran away from home, okay?”

“You what?”

“I don’t wanna live there anymore.”

“Keiki, you can’t do that”

“Why not? You did it.”

“I went for college…”—He replied, feeling the guilt sharpening inside him.

“Yes, and then you never came back because you couldn’t stand our parents. It’s the same with me.”

“That doesn’t excuse that you escaped from home and underage. Do you have a plan? Or you’ll just wait until they come here to take you back and maybe they will report me for child kidnap?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bryce. They wouldn’t that.”

“Still this isn’t right, Keiki. It could’ve happened something to you on your way here.”

“Yeah, but it would have been worth it if it means not spend another second in Maui.”

Bryce looked at her, intrigued. He couldn’t understand how things were bad for her if she had everything she wanted back in Hawai. A room the size of his apartment, all the clothes she wanted, and millions of things to do. But that was enough? He knew well it wasn’t.

“Can I stay with you?”

“Of course, Keiki, but you’ll go back tomorrow. Call mom to know if she can buy you a ticket flight back, I’m not sure I have the money for that.”

“Don’t you understand? I’m not coming back there, Bryce. Period.”

He shook his head and sighed. It was impossible to reason with her, and he knew it wouldn’t get anything by pushing her even more.

“Call her to let her know you’re here, then.”

“I bet she already knows.”

She seated on the couch, looking at him defiantly. He just ignored her act.

“Have you eaten something?”

“Some Doritos I bought around the corner.”

“What do you want to eat? I’m calling a delivery.”

“You don’t cook? I want real food, Bryce.”

“I’m a surgeon, not a chef, Keiki”

“Either way, you should know how to feed yourself by now, how you have survived all these years?”

“Take out.”

“Unbelievable”

Bryce didn’t know what to do. Maybe he could just watch a video on Youtube and cook something basic to save the day. Eleanor’s face popped in his mind, but he shook off the idea as soon as it emerged. Calling her would implicate to tell her the truth about his family and he wasn’t ready for that.

“Okay.”—He said after some deliberation—"I’ll go to the grocery store, so you have food for breakfast tomorrow and all that. Do you wanna go with me?”

“Nah, I’m tired, I think I’m gonna lay down a bit.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be back in a bit.”

The moment he was out of the apartment, Bryce rubbed his hand across his face in exasperation. He didn’t know what to do, how to deal with his sister, and with the mistake he had been making all those years.

He always knew he shouldn’t have left her sister just like he did; never go back to Maui; call her just once in a while to finally only for her birthday. The guilt that has been accompanying him for ten years was materializing now in one of his worst fears: face his sister and deal with the consequences of his abandonment, the rage and the loneliness she might be feeling, all without prior notice.

He tried to clear his mind. At that moment he needed to stay calm to give Keiki the stability she had come to look for with him. He was the adult there, so he couldn’t let the feelings overwhelm him and make Keiki feel worse than she already was.

Once he regained calmness, Bryce made his way to the grocery store where he collected all the ingredients for a spaghetti recipe he read on the internet, plus some vegetables, fruits, bread, butter, bacon, eggs, cookies, Doritos, so Keiki would have something to have breakfast and eat while she was at his place.

When the doors of the elevator opened again on his floor, she found the silhouette of a woman with a black and golden dress on, talking to Keiki. He froze for a moment until both directed to him.

“Elle”

“Hi Bryce”—She looked at him surprised, while Keiki just eyed them, leaning in the door frame, arms crossed.—“What’s happening?”

“Let’s get inside and talk, okay?”

Keiki moved backwars to let Bryce and Eleanor in. He went straight to the kitchen and set the bags over the counter meticulously, like trying to gain some time before facing her. After a few moments, Bryce turned to Eleanor.

“Elle, this is my sister Keiki. She arrived today from Maui. She’s visiting.”

“Like hell. I told you I’m not planning to go back there, Bryce.”—She barked while she was flopping on the couch with the remote control in her hand.

“Hi Keiki, I’m Eleanor, nice to meet you”—She replied, giving a smile, even if she wasn’t looking at her.

“Yeah”—The girl just said, her eyes not moving from the TV.

Bryce just sighed, making evident his frustration. Eleanor looked at him worried and then pulled him to the kitchen.

“Can you explain to me now what’s happening? Why your sister ran away from home? Hell, I didn’t even know you had a sister, Bryce.”

Even if he wasn’t ready to talk about it, Bryce knew it wasn’t fair Eleanor didn’t know he had a sister, while she had talked about her family countless times.

“Elle, I…”—Now another fear was materializing: telling the truth about his family to someone from Boston. To the woman he loved, no less.—“To make a long story short, my family was a big deal in Hawaii. When I was in high school my dad went to jail for insider trading, and my mom only got off by testifying against him even though she was right there helping him the whole time.”

Eleanor gazed thoughtfully at him until she realized.

“Oh my god, Bryce… Your parents are The Lahelas? As in property tycoons turned white collars criminals The Lahelas?”

“That’s my family, and Keiki lives with them back in Hawaii. Dad got paroled a while ago for good behavior.”

Bryce saw as she remained in silence, surprise in her eyes. He couldn’t help but wince, waiting for the disappointed look, the disgust, the judgment. But nothing of it came. She instead tried to understand why Keiki was running away from home, what could have triggered that. She tried to convince him that this was not a simple rebellion as he was thinking. There was no judgment in her eyes or words. She just focused on Keiki and how to help him to deal with her.

Once Bryce felt less tense, he asked Eleanor to help him with dinner, which she accepted gladly. Half an hour later, the three of them enjoyed a plate of pasta that felt tastier as it was a result of collaborative work.

Even if Keiki was hesitant to talk at first, the food put her in such a good mood that Eleanor got her to chat a bit with her, Bryce observing the exchange with admiration. From the answers, Eleanor could tell Keiki was a smart girl and mature for her age; she had a hot temper but the same self-assurance Bryce had, even the same smirks and looks.

“Thanks for dinner, Eleanor. .”—Keiki said before going to sleep.—"Good to know I won’t starve to death my first night here.”

“You’re welcome. It was nice to meet you, Keiki.”

She smiled at her and then got to the room.

Eleanor and Bryce stood in silence for a bit, none of then sure who had to speak first.

“Bryce, why you never told me? This is big.”—Eleanor finally said, standing in front of him, concerned.

“I know… I just…I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of you judging me.”

“Judge you? How could I judge you, Bryce?”

“Because it has always been like this. People know me and it’s okay at first, but then, when they know that I’m the son of a criminal, they assure me it’s okay but they never look at me the same, never treat me the same. They look at me like I’m about to do something, or like I’m a professional liar and I’m trying to cheat on them.”

“Bryce..”—She whispered, cupping his cheeks, her eyes full of sadness.

“I wanted to start from scratch here, no one knowing about my parents, no one judging me for that, just focusing on what I am, on how hard I worked to be at Edenbrook and be known for that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”—She said as he took him in her arms, embracing him tightly.

They stayed in silence for a while.

“How could you ever think that I would judge you, that I would treat you like that? I would never, Bryce. Never.”

“I know but some part of me thought you would.”

“Now I understand why you always changed the topic when I asked you.”

He nodded.

“But now you know you can trust me, right? Whatever you need, I’ll have your back.”

“I know, but… it’s not that simple, Eleanor. Since high school, people have seen me as a disease the moment they know I’m a Lahela, so I’ve never had anyone to trust about what I felt or just tell…stuff… the stress, the sadness… the things friends share. I never needed anyone to deal with problems, I could do it on my own until… until I met you, but I’ve ignored the feeling because I don’t wanna hold on to you, I’m scared that you’ll go away and I’ll lose the one person I trusted.”

“Why would I go?”

“Because nothing’s settled between us. There’s still the possibility that you’ll go with Ramsey or simply break up with me because you don’t want me anymore.”

“Bryce, we’ve been together for two whole months, I’m not planning to go anywhere.”

“Yeah, that’s what you say now, but you still want our relationship to be a secret because you don’t want Ramsey to know and make it a reality, because some part of you don’t want it to be true.”

“How can you say that?”

“Don’t be hypocrite Eleanor, please. I’m not stupid.”—Bryce retorted, hurt. She had never seen him this serious and cold.

“It’s not like that. And I don’t get where you’re going with this.”

“My point is, Eleanor, that I want to trust you, I really do want to tell you what is happening inside my head, but I can’t if the one person I can trust maybe won’t be here with me in two months or in a year. It doesn’t work like that with me. I have to keep on my own as always.”

“Bryce, no matter what, I’ll always be here for you, even if things turn out different-”

“No, Eleanor”—He interrupted—“Please don’t do this. Don’t be this selfish, thinking that if we end up things, we could go back to what we were. If I hold on you, I don’t know how I’ll deal with losing you or be away from you while I heal.”

“Bryce… Don’t be afraid, sometimes you have to take a leap of faith…”

“Don’t you think I haven’t taken enough leaps, Eleanor? I showed my feelings for you, I told you I loved you even before we were dating. You’re the only person I’ve done that with, and yet there is always a possibility that you won’t feel the same ever. And what about you? Yeah, you took a leap when you started dating me, but you can’t take a leap in leaving Ramsey in the past, tell him the truth, scrub all over his face that you moved on, because your ego is terrified that you weren’t enough to heal him. So, don’t dare to tell me that I should take a leap.”

He turned around and sat on the couch, both hands over his hair.

Eleanor looked at him, seeing the real Bryce for the first time. The Bryce that feels in pain, angry, annoyed, frustrated. Vulnerable. Human. The side she had never seen in him and she always wanted to know.

She took a few steps towards him and squatted down to face him.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to push you —She murmured—”I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you need me, okay?”

“I know, but I don’t think I’m ready for this, Eleanor. This is too much, and I need to deal with this on my own, that’s how I know best.”

“I understand.—She said softly, while taking his hands on hers.

The moment he felt his touch, his eyes threatened with tears and a knot ached in his throat. He pulled away from her grip.

“I… uh… I need you to go, Eleanor. I want to be alone.”

“Of course”—She replied, standing up.

Once she collected her things she went to the door.

“Whatever you decide, just remember that I want the best for you, Bryce. I know we are in a complicated situation right now, but I’m doing my best to end this hell soon.”

And she left.

Bryce stood unmoved on the couch recounting the events of the past hours as the tears streamed down his face.

His biggest fears had occurred, and now he was feeling the incessant need of trusting Eleanor, tell her all the pain that was buried in his heart, but he just couldn’t. Just like his issues about his parents, he had been burying the thoughts about Eleanor not wanting to confront Ethan about their relationship. He knew she still loved him and couldn’t blame her for that, but it was hurting him more than he thought, and he had just ignored his feelings and not said anything to her because if he opened up to Eleanor, even for one single thing, it would be like to open the pandora box, and he wasn’t ready to let all go.

Things were difficult in the next days. Keiki was absolutely decided to stay with him, especially since his parents didn’t reach him or Keiki to make her come back to Maui, and he still didn’t know how to deal with Keiki, because at any try of conversation, they ended up fighting or she ignoring his tries to be friendly.

The frustration and guilty were getting bigger and bigger.

He didn’t speak to Eleanor, and barely spend time with the rest of his friends. He just locked in on himself, focusing on working hard, and go straight home to be with Keiki even if they didn’t say anything or just argued. She was alone all day so she needed some company, and he really wanted to understand her, bonding with her and be like they were before, o maybe not like before, but he wanted to be her brother again.

However, soon he realized that he had been too harsh with Eleanor. Even if she was still in love with Ethan and didn’t want to make it official, it was all within their agreement. And more importantly, she had always been very respectful of their relationship, because she had only eyes and time for Bryce, and even if she wasn’t ready to commit, to tell the truth to Ethan and stop loving him, she was all in the relationship with him. He was her priority, he sensed that. He knew it. Because she had been refusing any contact with Ethan since he was back. When Bryce assumed that Eleanor had kissed him the night she stayed at Donahue’s, the reality was different. And Ethan’s behavior the past weeks was proof of that. So, he felt bad for reacting that way. She didn’t deserve it when she only wanted to help.

Bryce was walking by the fourth floor, expecting to find Eleanor there, when he heard heated voices inside an empty room.

“This anger you have against me is about something else and I won’t allow it, Ethan.”

“What do you mean by ‘something else’?”

“Not work-related. You have been an ass to me for weeks, and whatever might be your reason, you’re being unprofessional and you’re exactly what you wanted to avoid.”

Then, absolute silence.

If Bryce was right, Eleanor was confronting Ethan about his behavior in the past weeks. She didn’t address the problem openly, but it was clearly a step he thought she wouldn’t take so soon.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”—She said when she ran into him, not cathing it was him at first.—"Bryce? Hi”

“Eleanor”—They stared in silence for a moment—"I was looking for you. What time does your shift end?”

Bryce saw the brief moment Ethan passed behind Eleanor, his face impassive and cold as steel, ignoring their existence completely.

“Half an hour, I’m doing my final round. Why?”

“I need to speak to you, meet me in the atrium as always?”

“Okay, yeah.”—Her cheeks flushed and couldn’t help but look at him with hope.

“See ya later, then.”

He waited in their usual spot and finally, fifteen minutes later, she appeared.

“I’m so sorry, I had to run new tests for a patient, and it took me ages.”

“Don’t worry, I’m glad you’re here.”

“So…”

“Let’s go to my car, we can talk there.”

“Okay.

Once both got in the car, they looked at each other until Bryce broke the silence.

“Elle, I want to apologize. I realized I was too unfair with you the other day. I know you were trying to help and I just took it on you, because I was frustrated with the situation and I didn’t know how to deal with it, let alone with another person offering help.”

“It’s okay, Bryce, it’s me who should apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

“No, you were trying to help me, and I thank you for that. But I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that about Ramsey. You have been very respectful to our relationship, I want you to know that. I really appreciate it, babe. It’s just that sometimes this is… hard.”

“Bryce, listen, you were right, you don’t have to apologize for telling me the truth. I am afraid, and sadly I still have feelings for Ethan and I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want to hurt you either, so it’s all so complicated.”

“I know, Elle, I know, that’s why I shouldn’t have been so rude. By no means you have been unfair or mean to me. It’s just that this is getting a bit hard for me, that’s all, especially now that I’m dealing with something big in my life and I want to hold on to you… But I’m terrified to do so.”

Eleanor rested her hands over his.

“Look, I know I can’t promise you we will be together forever, but I want you to know that our relationship it’s the most important thing to me now, and I’ll do whatever I can to take care of us. We are still in this difficult process until things are clear inside my head, but right now I want to be here for you, I want to help you with your sister and with whatever you need. Just say the word, okay?”

He smiled thankfully and then nodded.

“Truce?”—She said, offering her hand.

“Truce”—He agreed, but instead of taking her hand, he kissed her sweetly in the lips.

Eleanor giggled against him.

“God, I missed you so much.”—He sighed, parting from her just a brief moment, to keep kissing her for another couple of seconds.

“Me too. These days have been a real nightmare without you. How are you dealing with Keiki?”

“Not so well, actually. That’s why I wanted to ask you if you would like to go home with me tonight. I haven’t been able to talk with Keiki, and if you there with me, maybe I’ll understand her better. I don’t wanna fight with her anymore.”

Eleanor smiled warmly at him.

“This means that you’re letting me in?”

Bryce had made his decision but couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous.

“Yes. I want you with me in all this, Elle.”

“You won’t regret it. I promise.”

When they get home a delicious smell invaded their nostrils. Keiki was in the kitchen apparently frying some beef.

“Hey Keiki”—They both greeted.

“Hey. Eleanor, I didn’t know you were coming. I hope I’m doing enough food for the three of us.”

“We’ll make it work”—Bryce said, hopeful.

“If not, Bryce, you can call a delivery just as you like.”

“Haha, always so loving, sis. Whatcha doing?”

“Mongolian beef, I found an easy recipe on Instagram and here I am.”

“You need any help?”

“Umh, maybe with the rice, I have to chop the scallions and then have an eye on the beef.”

“Sure.”

They both washed their hands and then Eleanor taught Bryce how to cook rice while suggesting topics to talk. Some were delicate and Keiki reacted badly, but after every scowl Eleanor gave to Bryce, he tried to act more empathetic, listening to her before judging.

Once the dinner was served, the three seated with smiled on her faces.

“Keiki, this is great!”—Eleanor praised after giving the first taste to her plate.—“You had cooked before?”

“Yeah, a couple of times, but it’s not that I have the chance to do it often when you have people who cook for you”—She replied, a bit embarrassed.

“And what do you like to do? Reading? Singing? Playing an instrument? Skateboarding?”

“I like drawing, reading, and sometimes taking pictures.”

“That’s great. Boston has such beautiful places to do it.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I’ve took some really nice. ”

“You must show me them after dinner, okay?”

“Sure”

“ And what about your friends? You are not missing them now that you’re here?”

“Nah, I don’t have actual friends there, they all hate me.”

“Why they hate you?”—Bryce asked, brows furrowed.

That was the moment Bryce had been waiting since her sister got there, because with that question, Keiki let everything out.

Bryce finally knew the motives that made her leave home and fly all over the Pacific Ocean and to the other side of the country to be with him, even if they hadn’t seen each other in ten years.

And it happened that her sister was living the same hell he lived. Her classmates hated her for what his parents did, and of course, they hadn’t done anything to protect her. They only cared about their reputation.

The mistake he kept making for ten years had led to this. Her sister suffering from loneliness, abandonment, bullying. Just like he did.

“Keiki I’m …. I’m sorry I didn’t call more. I should have been looking out for you.”—Bryce finally said.

“It’s not like you could have done anything from all the way over here.”

“I could, Keiki. I should have tried, I should have done better, I should have stood in front of mom and dad if you needed me to. And I didn’t. I let this happened. But I’m gonna do better, starting from today.”

Bryce got up from the chair and opened his arms, inviting her sister to do the same. After a few moments of staring at him, she finally stood up and threw herself into his arms.

“I’m sorry I was a jerk when I turned up. And like… every day since.”—She apologized, complete sincerity in her eyes.

“The only jerk here is me. You can stay with me for as long as you need, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks, Bryce.”

“I’m sorry, Keiki. Truly.”

“Bryce, it’s okay. I’m happy that I can count on you.”

“Always.”

The three chatted on the couch until Eleanor started to feel sleepy. She and Bryce said goodnight to Keiki, who had given his bed back a couple days ago as she found out the couch really comfy and his brother needed proper rest more than her. When they locked in the room, Bryce pulled Eleanor to his chest gently, resting his forehead into hers.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“All the right questions, and all those scowls and deadly glares that meant ‘stop screwing it up, Bryce’ is doing nothing? Really?”

“Ah, well. It was minimal. You did the hard job here, you get your sister to talk, and you listened to her and empathized with her. You apologized. You were the support she was looking for. You did it amazing, Bryce. Not me. I’m so proud of you.”

“This wouldn’t have been possible without you.”—He kissed her in the lips, giving her the sweetest smile she had even seen in him, it made her stomach flutter.

“Good things happen when you trust people, you see?”

“Only with you.”

“I know. And I won’t let you down.”

___

#bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #choices #playchoices #open heart #bryce x mc #bryce x casey #choices fanfiction #open heart choices #open heart fanfiction #oh choices #choices stories you play #oh fanfic #fanfic #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #ethan x casey #ethan x f!mc

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cc-pdf · 4 years ago

Text

What’s It Like In New York City?

Katsuki Bakugou x reader

Quirkless rock band au

Based off of the song, Hey There Delilah

Word count: 2913

Warnings: Slight alcohol use. Nothing to be worried about though.

After a long day at university you decided you deserved a night out on the town. Although you had piles of homework to do, you decided to put that all aside and just relax and have a few drinks. You grabbed your big winter coat and stepped out of campus into the swirling cold winter outside. L Street Tavern was one of the closest bars to your campus, so you decided to settle down there. Plus, they always have live music there, even better.

After a short walk through the blistering cold air you had finally arrived at the historic bar. You noticed a flyer on the window it read,

"Sex Bob Omb playing tonight."

You had never heard of them before. It was probably just some local band. You stepped through the bars creaking door and took a seat on one of the oak stools. There were only a few other people at the bar. Most of them were probably in their mid 40s or 50s. You had given them a slight wave when you sat down just to be friendly. They had waved back, but then quickly returned back to their conversations. You weren't really looking for people to talk to, you just wanted to relax after the stressful day.

After a couple of drinks you heard the tuning of a guitar in the corner. You looked over to see a couple people in the corner. They were dressed like classic teenage band members. Black jeans, skate shoes, a random t-shirt they found in the back of their closet. You examined each member. A spiky blond seemed to be the lead. He was tuning his guitar and had a microphone stood in front of him. Behind him was a short black haired girl behind a microphone. She seemed to be the backup singer. The last person was a crazy red haired boy at the drums. It seemed like your typical band that probably practices in the garage. You loved those types of bands. Something about them just seemed so raw and authentic.

A few moments later you jumped to the sound of the red hair banging his drum sticks together.

"ONE TWO THREE GO!" He yelled signaling the band to start.

You never really thought a band like this would be playing at a historic bar in the middle of a harsh Boston winter. But, bands really will play wherever they can nowadays. They have to try and get any recognition they can.

"This is the beginning of the song." The blond muttered into the microphone with his raspy voice. "I'm hearing voices, animal voices. The creme da la creme. the feminine abyss. And I'm reaching my threshold. Staring at the truth till i'm blind." He began lazily singing with the sound of a rough, badly tuned guitar.

The lyrics weren't too bad for just some random band. You actually thoroughly enjoyed the sound of such a band like this. You could see the the crazy red hair banging at the broken down set of drums releasing all of his anger. It made you giggle a bit.

"My body's stupid, stereo putrid. Spilling out music into raw sewage." The girl jumped into sing. She surprisingly had a pretty good voice, although it didn't really suit the vibe of the band.

"Reaching my threshold. Staring at the truth till I'm blind." They all sang together. They repeated the same verses a couple more times. When the song had ended you could tell they were all out of breath from the loud performance. They were panting like dogs on a hot summer day.

"WE ARE SEX BOB OMB!!!" The girl yelled out to the bar while raising her hands in the air.

"I hope you guys enjoyed, but we've lost all of our breath for tonight, peace." The blond said while walking into the back room. Most people started clapping and cheering, some people were booing them at the fact they only played one song, but you just returned to your bitter cold beer in front of you. The cold alcohol entering your stomach calmed you from your hard day.

A few moments later the band members took a seat at the bar near you. It seemed they just wanted a few drinks after that harsh performance.

"Miller Lite, please." The spiky blond said to the bar tender under his raspy tone.

"Same here." The other two members said. The bar tender poured the three drinks and slid them across the bar to them.

"You like the show?" The blond looked over and asked to you, as you sipped your cold drink.

"Yeah, wasn't expecting such a lame band to go this hard." You said looking over to him.

"Hey, we try our best to look professional here." He snapped back at you.

"I'm just teasing." You said focusing back on your drink.

"So, you from around here?" He said with his masculine tone.

"I go to university near here, but I'm originally from New York City." You said fiddling with the rim of your drink.

"The big apple, huh? Must've been rough living there." He responded.

"Not really..." You said taking a sip of your beer.

"We're from around here. Cambridge to be exact. We spend a lot of time over in Boston though. Trying to get a good gig." He explained while taking another sip of his Miller Lite.

"I'm sure you'll get a gig. You're pretty good." You said trying to sound nice.

"Thanks. Maybe you can come watch us here again sometime." He said passing you a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket with their schedule printed on it.

"Thanks, but I'm leaving the city for a few weeks to visit family back in New York. Maybe I'll see you after. My names y/n, by the way." You said looking into his bright crimson eyes while grabbing the schedule. You could see the disappointment in his eyes.

"Oh, well that's a downer. You must be pretty busy with school too..." He said trailing off.

"Damnit Bakugou, stop flirting with the poor girl." The red hair chipped in. The girl laughed along.

"Shut up you prick, at least she's not a whore. I'm not even flirting." He snapped at them while getting up to go to the bathroom.

After he had came back things were pretty quiet after the remark the red hair had made.

About a half hour later you decided you should start heading back to campus. It was 12:30 and you needed some rest.

"Hey, I'll try and come see your band when I come back." You said waving to them as you walked out the door.

"See ya!" The blond said with that tired voice of his.

"Yeah, see ya." The other two trailed along.

You knew you probably wouldn't see them again because you're always so hung up with school. It didn't really matter to you anyways, they were just some random band at the bar.

Little did you know, the ash blond, Katsuki Bakugou, thought you were absolutely stunning. With that perfect h/l, h/c hair of yours, your big, e/c eyes, and your little smile, you were nothing but perfect to him. You were stuck in his mind for the next few weeks. You weren't some crazy little fake fan girl looking to fuck for once. You seemed genuine.

You had pinned the schedule he gave you onto the cork board in your dorm. Although you didn't really care too much to go and see them again, maybe it would be nice to check and see if they're still playing at L Street Tavern when you get back.

Only a couple days later you got on the bus to New York. It was a long ride, but it was worth it all in the end. You desperately wanted to see your family after 4 long months of living alone at school.

A couple weeks after your encounter with Katsuki Bakugou you still hadn't left his mind. Your beautiful name was glued to his brain. He decided to tune up his guitar and start a song about you. He liked to get his thoughts out by writing songs. It calmed him. He started with a simple,

"Hey there y/n, what's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away, but, girl, tonight you look so pretty." He thought it sounded cheesy, but he continued writing it anyways. He enjoyed the sound of a rough acoustic guitar against a sweet love song. He had never written a song like this before, it was all so new to him. He usually wrote songs about his anger or hate for people, usually engaging in more of a hard rock, or head bangers.

A couple days later he decided to find an open mic to play the song at. He was pretty proud of the new tune and couldn't help but share it. He found an open mic session at a small family owned restaurant right around the corner from L Street Tavern. He was worried you might show up and hear the song, but he remembered, you were staying in New York for a pretty long time.

The night of the open mic had come. He stepped into the tiny restaurant and sat down at a table with his guitar. There was quite a few people at the restaurant that night. He hoped they would like his newly crafted love song.

Eventually, he stepped into the space with the cheap microphone and pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder.

"I wrote this song for a girl that's been stuck in my mind for the past few weeks. I hope you enjoy." He said into the microphone.

Authors note - Hey, I would suggest maybe listening to Hey There Delilah by Plain White Ts during this part :) okay back to the story.

He started gently strumming his guitar to a rhythm.

"Hey there y/n what's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away, but, girl, tonight you look so pretty. Yes you do. Times square can't shine as bright as you. I swear, it's true." He began the song with his lazy guitar playing. He continued the song. He could tell most of the people in the restaurant enjoyed the honesty behind the lyrics. It made him happy someone was enjoying his work.

"Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. What you do to me." He led on with the catchy bridge.

"Hey there, y/n. I know times are gettin' hard. But just believe me, girl. Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar. We'll have it good. We'll have the life we knew we would. My word is good." Bakugou carried on.

"Hey there, y/n. I've got so much left to say. If every simple song I wrote to you. Would take your breath away. I'd write it all. Even more in love with me you'd fall. We'd have it all." He went on, after that singing the bridge again.

"A thousand miles seems pretty far. But they've got planes and trains and cars. I'd walk to you if I had no other way. Our friends would all make fun of us. And we'll just laugh along because we'd know. That none of them have felt this way. Y/n, I can promise you. That by the time that we get through. The world will never ever be the same. And you're to blame." He sang emotionally while strumming along.

"Hey there, y/n. You be good, and don't you miss me. Two more years and you'll be done with school. And I'll be makin' history like I do. You know it's all because of you. We can do whatever we want to. Hey there, y/n, here's to you. This one's for you." After this he slowly ended the lovely song with the bridge,

"Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. Oh, it's what you do to me. What you do to me, oh oh, woah, woah. Oh woah, oh. Oh." He sang softly, ending the song by strumming all of the strings on his beat up guitar.

After he had finished the sweet tune someone came up to him.

"Hey kid, that song you played was actually pretty good. The lyrics and rhythm were amazingly catchy. No one can ever go wrong with a classic love song. Maybe I can help you get big. I know some people in the industry. I came here to find some new musicians, actually." The mysterious figure said to him.

Bakugou was in shock. He knew people liked his music. But not to the point where somebody like this would notice him. Especially this song. It was just some overly cheesy love song.

"Thanks." He said not knowing what to say. He was speechless.

"Here, give me a call." He said while slipping his business card over to the blond.

Of course later that night he couldn't help but call the guy. He had never heard anything like this from someone.

Y/n was nearing the end of her trip. She was sitting in her Mother's car on the way to the bus station back to Boston. She couldn't help but over hear the radio.

"Hey we have a new love song from this band called Sex Bob Omb. I thought it was pretty good, how about we give it a play." You couldn't believe what you just heard, so you immediately turned up the volume on the radio. You could hear that spiky blond's classic voice over the sound of a relaxed, acoustic guitar. It seemed very unlike the band to have a song like this, or even be on the radio.

"Hey there y/n, what's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away, but, girl, tonight you look so pretty. Yes you do." The song started out gently. You jumped at these lyrics. You thought you were dreaming. But you weren't...

"Mom, I think this song is about me..." You said trying not to sound insane.

"Sweetie, it's just some song on the radio I'm sure you're over thinking it." She said calmly.

"No, Mom, I saw this band at the tavern a few weeks ago. The lead singer was talking to me at the bar." You denied her.

"I'm sure it's just a coincidence." She said keeping her eye on the road.

"Times Square can't shine as bright as you. I swear, it's true." You softened at these lyrics. The way he wrote them... It made you feel like you were the only girl in the world that mattered.

"Hey there, y/n. Don't you worry about the distance. I'm right there if you get lonely. Give this song another listen. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice, it's my disguise. I'm by your side." You couldn't help but feel like he was actually by your side, like he stated. You wished he could sing this to you, with that guitar of his, while looking you in the eyes. You really were falling for some mysterious guy. You would have never thought you would fall for some rebellious band member... or someone that you barely even knew. Music had never moved you in a way like this, it was so connecting, yet unexpected.

Finally, You had made it back to your campus. You rushed up to your dorm to see that schedule he gave you. You wanted to see him again. The lyrics of the song made you melt. It warmed your heart. Making you fall for the random blond even more. Thankfully, the band was booked pretty far ahead on the schedule.

A few nights later you caught yourself back at L Street Tavern hoping to see them there. You were sure they wouldn't be there now that they had made it on the radio. But it didn't hurt to try and see if they would be there.

Unexpectedly you heard the sweet voice of the girl scream,

"WE ARE SEX BOB OMB!"

You turned around and made eye contact with the blond. His face flourished red. You couldn't stop staring into his glistening crimson eyes.

"Wait, it's y/n." He said walking over to you, stopping the other band members.

"The girl you wrote the song about? I thought that was just a made up name." The red hair said furrowing his eyebrows.

"You came..." He said looking into your love struck eyes.

I really wanted to make a story inspired by this song so I hope you liked it. :)

Please comment some more songs you would like me to write stories about.

Also yes I got the name Sex Bob Omb and the song they sang is from Scott Pilgrim vs. The World hehe. Also, L Street Tavern is a real bar in Boston!

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aboutcaseyaffleck · 4 years ago

Text

BOSTON BY CASEY AFFLECK

October 25, 2020 For the record, what follows is nostalgia, false memories, and generalizations. But it’s all true. I grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, across the Charles River from Boston proper. Cambridge was one of the most diverse, multicultural cities in America. It was a beautiful, colorful, vibrant place. People from all over the world lived there, all mixed-up together. It is the place I was born and will return to, God willing. It is the city with the smells and sounds and tastes and people I love the most. Despite how much I loved it, when I look at old photos, I often look like this:

I’m in the front in the blue shirt. My best friend was Michael, the tall kid in the red shirt, whose family came from Barbados. Through the middle school years, anytime we weren’t in school we were roaming the streets like Dickensian urchins.

In the ‘90s, Cambridge got rid of rent control. Families who had lived there for four or five generations were squeezed out. Now the city is gentrified; but when I was growing up there, it was scrappy and beautiful. It was mostly working people, except for West Cambridge—where wealthy families lived, where professors lived. Where Cornel West, Yo-Yo Ma, and the Governor lived. East Cambridge was working-class Portuguese families, butcher shops, funeral parlors, and tow yards. Cambridgeport, where I lived, was mostly poor, Italian, Black, Greek, and Irish families. North Cambridge had some big housing projects and the school where my mom taught fifth grade—in a gigantic cement structure called The Tobin School that felt like it was far away because I would have to take a train AND a bus to get there. In reality, it’s like three miles from where we lived.

This is me hanging out in her classroom:

As people and places evolve, the past always reveals blemishes unseen at the time. However, Massachusetts manages, as time unfolds, to be a place that was so often on the right side. Not always, but often enough that I am proud to be from Cambridge, Massachusetts, no matter what.

From Massachusetts came the first national publication denouncing slavery, America’s “first feminist”, and The Cambridge Woman’s Suffrage League, which formed in 1886. My high school had the first girl to play tackle football in that division. Cambridge voted-in the first openly gay African-American mayor in our country. Right now our mayor is a very popular and forward-thinking Muslim woman who immigrated from Pakistan named Sumbul Siddiqui. We have marvels of architecture, science, and tech. It was in Cambridge that the very first email was ever sent (and received). And every year the Red Sox stand up to the wealthier bullies from the Bronx. These are all things we are immensely proud of, but nobody is resting on these laurels.

I am going to tell you about the places I remember fondly, whether they are still there or not.

Luckily, the city’s history isn’t going anywhere, and it hasn’t lost all of its charms. It is a place best seen by walking. So just walk. It’s also seasonal. Different activities for different seasons. But if you can hoof it for a few miles do this: start at the Old North Church and go by Paul Revere House, through Faneuil Hall, by The Old State House through Boston Common, through the Back Bay, go left and pass through Roxbury, another left, and go through South Boston till you hit the water and go left till you hit the Children’s Museum. Sit down and relax. If you just want a path, walk that. Map it or wander around. The city is full of little back streets with lots of character.

MY BOSTON FAVORITES

When looking for things to do and see in the area, you can ask ten people and get ten different answers. You will get a long list of historical buildings, or you will get names of some of the country’s prettiest parks, or you will get pointed toward the campuses of some of the very best schools in the world. But for every Bunker Hill, there are ten other places you haven’t heard of. So I am going to tell you about the places I remember fondly, whether they are still there or not. The thing about Boston is you can miss all the best stuff, and you will still leave thinking it is one of the best cities on Earth. Have fun.

Pinocchio Pizza, Harvard Square. I asked my son to describe it. He says, “the food is good but the vibe is fire, old school; whatever, just get a slice and sit on the ground. That’s why I like it.” I have no idea why he wants to sit on the ground, but I guess that’s part of the charm of the place. We’re both vegan so we both scrape the cheese off and eat bread and sauce. That should tell you something.

Oleana Restaurant on Hampshire Street in Cambridge. Chef Ana Sortun is a baller. The food is Turkish inspired, and it is delicious. Always. Friendly people, pretty inside, and it is in a nice residential neighborhood. My dad lived in an apartment a few blocks away behind a Store 24 until he was evicted back in 1989.

Maharaja, Harvard Square. Incredible Indian food. And it has one of the only third-story views of Harvard Square.

Veggie Galaxy is great diner food. It is vegan. It has breakfast, lunch, dinner, milkshakes and other deserts. All day and all night food that is filling and really good.

Life Alive Organic will serve you the healthiest and heartiest meal you can find anywhere. It’s across the street from City Hall, the post office, and the oldest YMCA in the country.

Cantab Lounge, where my dad was a bartender, and then a janitor when he was too drunk to be a bartender. I drank six thousand ginger ales, sitting in the corner at a sticky table while he worked. Forever it was a bar for postal workers that opened at 10 am, where alcoholics ate hard-boiled eggs from jars that had been sitting on the bar top for two weeks. A couple of days after initially writing this, I got an email from the owner. It is being sold after tens of thousands of years. I don’t know why I care because I don’t exactly have any fond memories from the place, but seeing the brick-and-mortar of your childhood torn down is a kind of mid-life, coming-of-age moment. Life is change.

Darwins Ltd coffee shop and attached mini-grocer and sandwich spot. If you get a coffee and then walk west two blocks on Mt. Auburn St. you will discover on your right a nice little park with a fountain to hang out. It is called Longfellow Park. Or you can look to your left and you will see the Charles River, and you can stroll there.

Fomu for dessert.

Zhu Pan Asian Cuisine and True Bistro for good vegan food.

Newbury Comics is famous and cool.

Million Year Picnic is for comic connoisseurs. They are both great. And they were both plagued by roving bands of middle school thieves in my day. The most notorious was named Mathew Maher. He is now a well-known theater actor on Broadway and appeared in the comic book movie Captain Marvel. But back then he stole shit.

Harvard Coop is the best place to browse for books. Especially the kids section. We spend hours there and nobody kicks us out.

After the game ended everyone would come out and buy sausages [from me] on their way home, then I would clean up and go into a bar outside the park, where my boss was drinking and I’d wait till he was done so I could get a ride home. I was 12 years old. A couple of years ago I threw out the first pitch. Life is change.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is my favorite museum in town, maybe anywhere. It was once her home and it features an indoor garden that is perfect. It also has a great collection of art from around the world. Back on March 18, 1990, two famous paintings were stolen from the museum. As I remember it, a couple of guys showed up in the morning in police uniforms and the guard let them in. They tied the guard up and took a dozen paintings—Vermeer, Rembrandt, Degas—and vanished. The FBI never found them and never found the art. There are two plaques below two empty spaces on the walls to this day. On some days, classical musicians perform in random rooms while you walk around. You won’t want to leave.

Fenway Park. Greatest professional sports arena of any kind. I used to sell sausages in front of the Cask ‘N Flagon, a bar behind The Green Monster.

It is the best baseball bar in the country. When everyone was in the park watching the game, and there was nobody buying food, I would go in and find a seat and watch the game with whoever I was working with; I have seen hundreds of games from every part of the park. After the game ended everyone would come out and buy sausages on their way home, then I would clean up and go into a bar outside the park, where my boss was drinking and I’d wait till he was done so I could get a ride home. I was 12 years old. A couple of years ago I threw out the first pitch. Life is change.

Plimoth Plantation is a living museum in Plymouth, which is 40 minutes from Boston. It is amazing. The actors working there are some of the best I have seen anywhere. If you are even mildly interested in history you have to go there.

Fresh Pond is where you can go running or biking. Two and a half-mile loop.

Or you could hit The Emerald Necklace which is a great run that hits many of the best green areas, Franklin Park included. When we were young we would hop the fence and swim in the water. That isn’t done anymore ever, and everyone has grown up and leading better, more responsible lives.

John Weeks Footbridge is a very pretty, very old, brick walking bridge that spans the Charles River. Watching the Charles Regatta from here is awesome. That is in the Fall. But it’s also great any night.

The King School is a grade school not too far from there. It has maybe the best playground in the city. If you are there in the summer you can just walk on. When I was a kid, the King School is where a girl went who I was head over heels in love with. I finally got a shot at winning her heart in my early twenties and blew it.

Mount Auburn Cemetery is beautiful if you like that kind of thing. Lots of cool people are buried there, and the trees and stones are really nice. It’s a maze but just walk uphill. You will reach a monument with a great view of the city.

The American Repertory Theater puts on good plays. I grew up going there cause a friend of my mother’s directed many of the shows and could sneak us in the back. I wasn’t the adult making that decision; had I known better I would have scraped together the ticket price and supported the arts.

Boston Common is beautiful but you have to avoid all the shopping around it. If you have to shop go to:

NOMAD on Mass Ave in Cambridge is a store that you shouldn’t miss. In a world lost to chain stores and general homogenization of everything, Nomad is the real deal. Deb Colburn has been curating this place since I was ten. It is her store, and she has been trying to wake people up to folk art from around the world since Reagan was in office.

Bodega is a hidden high-end sneaker and casual wear store that must be entered through an unmarked door inside a bodega on a nearby side street. It’s cool how they have done it. Great presentation. Kids will like it.

KIDS ACTIVITIES

There are lots of things you can force your kids to do—things they won’t like the sound of at first, but will ultimately enjoy.

IMAGE CAPTIONS, LEFT TO RIGHT

On a rainy day, hop on the T and ride around town all day reading comics. Then stand outside in the warm rain (kids from LA don’t get this much).

Looking at murals. Cambridge has great murals everywhere. They are old and, incredibly, not vandalized. This one has been on this wall near the river since I was a kid. The child is mine and he is sick of walking around Cambridge.

If you feel like a pilgrim hit the gift shop at Plimoth Plantation.

Playing chess at Leavitt & Pierce Tobacco. You can inhale the scent of pipe tobacco without smoking it, and rent a chess set, clock, and table for $2 an hour in a beautiful old, wood-paneled shop with great ambiance.

Going to the oldest YMCA in the country.

Kayaking on the Charles River. You can get your kayak on Soldiers Field Rd. Take it east under all the bridges until you get to the inlet at Kendell Sq. It will all be clear. It will take about an hour.

Climbing the stairs at Harvard Football Stadium.

Reading books at the Harvard Coop.

NEARBY BOSTON

If you wanna go a little farther, go out to Gloucester for the day. Swim, eat, walk around, go back.

Whale watching sounds like a lame tourist trap but seeing whales up close will change the way you think about life on Earth.

You can take the ferry from Downtown Boston to Provincetown. It is a great place to visit or stay a few days while in town. Ptown is the eastern-most point on the continent. I might be making that up, but it’s close. It’s an arm that sticks out into the Atlantic. It’s really lovely there with a great vibe all around. You can’t have a bad time and everyone is super happy to be there. The beaches are all beautiful. Sharks mostly only eat the seals and won’t come any closer to shore than two feet—but if you want to see a great white up close, we can make that happen.

Cape Cod has some great flea markets. If you plan on spending time on vacation with your family you can find some essentials, like a medieval battle helmet, at the flea market.

SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS

30 minutes on the local train line from downtown. Made famous by the Salem witch trials; a fun place to visit and walk around for about 128 minutes. Newburyport and Rockport lines, which depart from Boston’s North Station, stop at the Salem station. You can go into the homes of people who lived during the witch hunt.

The House of the Seven Gables, made famous by American author Nathaniel Hawthorne‘s novel The House of the Seven Gables, is a 1668 colonial mansion in Salem, Massachusetts named for its gables. The house is now a non-profit museum, with an admission fee charged for tours, as well as an active settlement house with programs for children. It was built for Captain John Turner and stayed with the family for three generations.

The Jonathan Corwin House in Salem, Massachusetts, known as The Witch House, was the home of Judge Jonathan Corwin. It is the only structure still standing in Salem with direct ties to the Salem witch trials of 1692, thought to be built between 1620 and 1642. Corwin bought it in 1675 when he was 35, and he lived there for more than 40 years. The house remained in the Corwin family until the mid-19th century and is located in the McIntire Historic District.

A MECCA FOR ARTISTS

Lastly, for centuries, Cambridge has been a mecca for artists, especially writers. Here are some spots to see if you like that kind of thing:

The corner of JFK Street and 1390 Massachusetts Avenue. This is a good spot. Here is why: America’s FIRST PUBLISHED POET was a woman named Anne Bradstreet who died in 1672 and lived on this spot! It went through lots of changes, and 300 years later, by the time I was walking around, it became a great burger place called THE TASTY. In 1996 or whatever, The Tasty appears in the movie Good Will Hunting in the scene when Matt Damon kisses Minnie Driver. It might have also appeared in the film Love Story back in the 70s. I mix them up. Now it is a CVS. God help us.

The Longfellow House. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived at 105 Brattle Street. The great poet taught at Harvard and lived in the Georgian mansion from 1837 until his death in 1882. Before the author, George Washington used the house as his headquarters during the Siege of Boston. The house is open to the public, and it is where I had my eighth-grade graduation ceremony. The mayor attended and forgot the name of our school in his address to the kids. I heard people mutter that he was drunk. I can’t blame him. I had my first drinks hours before that ceremony.

71 Cherry Street, Cambridge. The woman considered to be American’s FIRST feminist, Margaret Fuller, was born and lived here.

Henry and Alice James lived at 20 Quincy Street. The house was knocked down in 1930 and the Harvard Faculty Club was erected there.

W.E.B. DuBois lived at 20 Flagg Street. The writer and pioneer of civil rights rented a room in this Cambridgeport home from 1890 to 1893. This is blocks from my childhood home. He was the first African American to receive a degree from Harvard.

Robert Frost lived at 35 Brewster Street. Frost, who attended high school in Lawrence, Massachusetts, lived in the West Cambridge home from 1943 to 1963.

T.S. Eliot lived at 16 Ash Street.

E.E. Cummings lived at 104 Irving Street. He was an innovator. He also wrote a poem about “Cambridge Women”. He lived at the Irving Street home from 1892 until about 1917.

Also you can find homes of the genius Nabokov and the great and beloved Julia Childs if you look around.

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#casey affleck #quote #feature #boston

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potatocrab · 5 years ago

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (17/18)

Chapter 17: Lose More Slowly

The wide network of Valentine Detective Agency’s allies meet to perfect the plan to infiltrate MIT. On the eve of ‘battle’, Madelyn is apprehensive about one last confession from Deacon. With no time to waste, the fight is taken to Cambridge where the Institute can be exposed once and for all.

“That’s not the way to win.”—Jeff, as played by Robert Mitchum

“Is there a way to win?”—Kathie, as played by Jane Greer

“There’s a way to lose more slowly.” (Out of the Past, 1947)

[read on Ao3] | [chapter masterpost]

June 16th, 1958

It took just over two weeks to solidify the plan to infiltrate the Institute. It hardly mattered that Madelyn and Nick—with Deacon and the Railroad’s help—had previously breached Fort Hagen. This operation was an entirely different beast, that required an entirely different set of skills and resources. There would be no undercover sneaking, or witty aliases this time—just a dangerous game of cat and mouse—a game they all hoped to survive.

After weeks of organizing, Nick decided there was no point in waiting any longer and called a meeting at the agency to be held the evening before their planned attack. The usual group had increased exponentially, with the allies they had gained in the last several months joining them, each with their own part to play. It was remarkable to see everyone in one place, spread out in the lobby (because there was no logistical way to fit so many people in Nick’s tiny office), and it made Madelyn think that maybe—just maybe—they had a shot at finding out the truth behind the Institute’s schemes.

She sat, perched on the edge of Ellie’s receptionist desk so that she could have a clear view of the room, scribbling down the summarized events of what was to occur the following morning. The plan was carefully detailed and outlined in a series of reports and dictated memos, but there was no harm in writing it out one last time. The secretary was working overtime—literally—bouncing from one cluster of people to the next, offering refills of strong coffee or spirits. But nearly everyone was focused on Nick and his giant, wheeled chalkboard of information, and the way it outlined the case’s timeline, all the way back to 1947. The detective was in rare form—sharp, focused, and with a fiery determination Madelyn hadn’t seen in months, or maybe years. Coat discarded and sleeves rolled up, he talked through the details, and didn’t stop for a drink or cigarette.

“…which brings us to the incident at city hall,” Nick gestured to the Publick Occurrences newspaper clipping before stepping away to finally grab a quick sip of his whiskey that sat next to Madelyn. “Did you ever find out why the Boston P.D. were a no-show?”

Sergeant Danny Sullivan, fresh out from the hospital after recovering from his injuries sustained at said incident, sat in a nearby chair. He nodded, looking displeased with the information he was about to share. “It was all Mayor McDonough’s fault, buying off officers. Which means, by proxy, they were paid off by MIT, if we’re still in agreement about who was—is—pulling the strings.”

“Not for very much longer,” Nick replied.

“I’ve had to spend the last two weeks cooped up at New England sending a courier back and forth to the courthouse to perform background checks on my entire squad to make sure none of them have connections to the university,” Sullivan described, shaking his head with a deep scowl.

“Cheer up, Danny Boy,” Hancock quipped, leaned back in the chair at the Sergeant’s side. “At least there’s some good news.”

“Please John,” Nick groused, maybe wishing the younger McDonough brother was still recuperating from his own gunshot wound. “Enlighten us.”

“Made a house call with Bobby to the deputy district attorney last night,” Hancock explained, motioning over to where the former mercenary was fixing his own cup of coffee at the kitchenette. “Did you know that his kid and little Duncan go to preschool together?”

Nick wasn’t amused, and his patience was wearing thin. Though, it always did with the would-be politician. “How cute.”

“Right? And there I was, thinking I’d have to resort to blackmail,” the other man replied.

MacCready laughed as he leaned against the galley, taking a sip from his cup before wincing at whatever he’d poured into the porcelain. “You still blackmailed him.”

“Mild blackmail,” Hancock contended with a shrug, ignoring the way Nick and Madelyn shot him double looks of disappointment and concern. “Agree to disagree. The good news is we sweet talked that stiff into signing a genuine warrant. With somethin’ like that, we’re made in the shade.”

He handed the folded document from his jacket pocket to Sergeant Sullivan, who took his time in reading it over. Nick was still skeptical, leaning against the desk near Madelyn while he slowly nursed his drink.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the detective urged. “Does it look legitimate?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sullivan affirmed, passing the warrant to Nick to read.

Madelyn glanced over his shoulder, glossing over the familiar legal jargon before focusing on the signature at the bottom—it surely looked like the deputy district attorney’s scrawl. She didn’t think either Hancock or MacCready would jeopardize the case with a little bit of forgery. Not that blackmail was any better, but she could sooth it over with the man who was technically her boss later.

“Well, at least now we have a valid reason to get into the building,” Nick spoke, handing the document back to the Sergeant for safekeeping. “Wouldn’t hurt to have backup on standby, just in case.”

The focus shifted to Preston Garvey who was smiling his thanks as Ellie poured him a new cup of coffee. Standing next to him was Lieutenant Danse—ever the reluctant participant—who had refused a seat and a drink. The only reason why he agreed to assist was for ‘the greater good’. The Institute and their experiments had no place in the United States military, and he was determined to see them exposed for what they truly were.

“The Minutemen are already in position throughout Cambridge,” Preston explained. “Just give me the word, and they can be ready in a minute’s notice.”

The Lieutenant sneered. “We’ll root out those Institute bastards, one way or another.”

“That’s the spirit,” Piper remarked from her spot near the front door. “I’ve done my own reconnaissance around Cambridge and the campus with Mister Neurotic here.”

Tinker Tom sat in a nearby seat, spinning his body in increasingly faster circles until the reporter reached out to stop him. He gazed up at her with wide eyes. “Is that me?”

Piper looked as though she could snap his neck but relaxed with a deep sigh. “Based on his readouts, and those blueprints, we were able to find an unmarked sewer entrance near the eastern banks of the Charles River.”

“Why does it always have to be a sewer?” Madelyn mumbled under her breath, causing Nick to smirk.

“Good work, Piper,” he remarked, the closest he’d gotten to happy all evening. “This means we can go ahead with splitting up into smaller teams.”

“Better if you and Blue take the sneaky route while the rest of us cover your tails,” she gestured to the circle of people, her eyes lingering on the figure leaning against the far corner of the room. “That is, if we can trust these blueprints in the first place, and we aren’t about to send you into a trap.”

Madelyn frowned at Piper, wishing that after all this time her friend could be less cynical about the Railroad and their resources. Sure, their actions were still largely shrouded in mystery, but that didn’t equate to nefariousness. It was important to remember who the real enemy was. She let her eyes drift to where Deacon was standing near the doorway to her office—where he’d been standing all night, just silently listening and watching from behind his darkened shades. A slight shiver ran up her spine and intuition told her his attention was focused on her rather than the other occupants of the room.

“You can trust me,” he finally said, the weight of his words lost on everyone except her. Piper shrugged but didn’t make to argue any further. Madelyn smiled to herself as she broke her gaze away from his face, looking down at the writing on her notepad instead.

Nick stood, bringing the attention back to the timeline. “Let’s not get blind-sighted by the Institute.”

“We have a man to find. Kellogg,” he reminded the group, tapping the chalkboard where the scarred man’s picture hung. “More than that, we have a child to bring home to his parents. Shaun Perlman. I’d like to solve this, once and for all.”

Silent understanding fell over the room, but it didn’t last.

“A toast,” Hancock suddenly declared, raising his glass. “To the best damn detective this city’s ever seen,” he nodded towards Madelyn, grinning like he’d gone mad—maybe he had. “And behind every great man, is an even greater woman. To Valentine and Hardy!”

As it grew closer to midnight, the plans for the following day were solidified and the agency gradually emptied out. The participants would need a good night’s rest—if it were even possible—before they infiltrated the Institute in the morning. Nick and Madelyn saw their guests out, though the detective left her to walk with Deacon outside so they might have some privacy. Even then, she noted Drummer Boy waiting by a parked car with Tinker Tom inside, the two doing everything they could to pretend they weren’t watching the two.

“We’re heading back to the church for a rendezvous,” he explained, positioning himself so the others couldn’t necessarily see their exchange. “Somebody has to fill Desdemona and Glory in on all the nitty-gritty.”

“Is it safe for you all to travel in the same car?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. Call it paranoia, but she’d had enough close calls in the last six months to last a lifetime.

Deacon softly chuckled, reaching out to gently wrap his fingers through the curls along the side of her face. “You’ve been spending too much time reading those detective novels, Charmer.”

“Or living in one.”

He looked at her, and there was the unspoken question—will I see you tonight? She frowned a little and sensed his disappointment, even behind his shades. She grasped the hand at his side and brushed her thumbs across his knuckles in affectionate sweeps.

“I’m staying with Nick tonight,” Madelyn said, trying not to sound too sad about it. She mimicked his speech pattern. “Somebody has to make sure he actually sleeps tonight.”

Deacon offered a barely-there smile, which sent her thoughts into a tailspin. He moved his hand so he was softly cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb ghosting down towards her lips. “What if I said that I had a secret to tell you?”

“What kind of secret?” Madelyn asked in response, her heartrate suddenly increasing at the possibilities. Slowly, the world around her started to fade away, and the only thing keeping her grounded was his touch.

“An important secret,” he answered, breath hot against her mouth.

It was very likely that he was playing some kind of game, all part of an elaborate ruse to get her to come home with him. What could possibly be more important than what she’d already learned about him—his appearance, his home, his name. Unless it was all a lie. Madelyn doubted that, even as a momentary pang shot through her heart. Deacon must’ve noticed the subtle change in her expression because he pulled away just enough, and quickly pushed up his glasses so that she could see his eyes. Their stormy grey-blue color were vibrant with emotion, so striking and intense that she felt overwhelmed. Secret immediately translated in her mind to confession.

Deacon drew her closer again, hand cradling the side of her face. “Madelyn, I—”

Her heart nearly stopped at the sound of her name—her real name—and she had to fight to stay standing as her knees wobbled. Then, she kissed him, if only to stop him from saying anything. Call it fear, call her a coward—she just couldn’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence, even if she was dying to scream it from the rooftops herself. He was surprised for a half-second before returning the kiss, angling them even more out of eyeshot from the loitering Railroad agents. Couldn’t see the boss-man (because face it, she knew the truth about that too) sharing a tender moment with his lady.

Madelyn pulled away just a fraction before they could get carried away in such a public setting and gripped his hand tight. “Cliché confessions spoken in the calm before the storm are a bad omen, don’t you think?”

Deacon blinked, temporarily stunned, but recovered well enough to flash a sideways smirk, one she couldn’t tell was forced or not. The last thing she wanted was to cause a rift between them when they needed each other’s support the most.

“You’re right,” he sighed wistfully, bordering on playing his emotions too thick. He readjusted his shades so they were where they belonged—at least for him. “Wouldn’t want to jinx it.”

The car horn behind them blared into the night and he turned, hand still clasped in hers to see Drummer Boy leaning into the driver’s car window with his arm poised to repeat the action. Tinker Tom was snickering, daring him to do it again. Despite her unease, Madelyn smiled. “Shouldn’t keep the boys waiting.”

He shook his head and brought her hand up so he could press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Je t’adore.”

Madelyn knew that wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but it would have to do, for now. She kept her eyes on him the entire time as he walked away, shooing Drummer Boy away from the driver’s side door of their vehicle before getting in. Deacon regarded her for one last lingering moment as he started the car before slowly driving away. Within moments, Nick rejoined her on the sidewalk, following her line of sight down the stretch of road.

“Ready to go?”

She turned to face him as a wash of remorse came over her heart. Had she done the right thing? Madelyn studied her partner’s face and his bemused expression, eyebrow raised as he looked back at her with mild concern.

“Nick, have I ever told you that I love you?” she asked, just to see if she could say the words. Easy enough—now why couldn’t she say them to Deacon? Or have them spoken to her?

“Sure you’re saying that to the right fella?” Nick’s laughter died as soon as he noticed her melancholy state and drew closer to her, wrapping her up in a loose hug. He held her long enough, uncaring that they had somewhere to be. When he pulled away, he tilted her chin up with a few fingers and offered a fleeting smile. “Love you too, doll.”

June 17th, 1958

“Have I ever mentioned how much I love wet socks?”

Deacon’s hushed voice echoed through the underground tunnel, barely audible over the rushing sound of water that flowed around them and beneath their feet. He was walking a few paces behind Madelyn while Nick advanced ahead, trying his best to ignore the spy’s outburst as he focused on following the makeshift map in his hand.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, narrowing her eyes at the shine from the flashlight he carried. “Once or twice, yes.”

“Wish I had the same idea as you, Charmer,” he sneered, flicking the light across her outfit. She had the foresight to wear the shoes that had already been damaged the last time she went walking through a sewer, and one of her older dresses that despite Codsworth’s cleanings, was still stained with questionable material. “Or is that some kind of bad omen?”

She instantly whipped back around so he wouldn’t see her disappointed frown, though judging by his silence, he knew he’d crossed a line by using those words. Madelyn knew she’d come to regret not letting him say what he wanted to—needed to—but did he have to be so cruel? At first, she was grateful for him to be at her side in this so-called final fight, relying on him for that extra bit of emotional strength and comfort he could provide so well. But now, she almost wished he had stayed topside with Piper and the others or gone with Sergeant Sullivan through the main entrance. His presence was only causing her emotional turmoil, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

This time, Nick was the one to turn back to look at her, his scowl indicating that he’d heard their conversation. Madelyn knew he likely had a litany of strongly worded advice for the other man, but she shook her head, silencing him before he could even start. This was neither the time or place—not when they were quite literally in the belly of the beast.

“Should be a latch up ahead,” he said instead, turning back to lead the two down the dark passageway. It took a few more yards before they reached a ladder that led to a metal door, and if the map layouts were accurate as they had been so far, it would take them to a larger, less water-logged room. “Into the unknown.”

Nick didn’t wait for anyone to volunteer before climbing the metal rungs first, pausing at the latch to fiddle with the lock. “Watch your heads!”

Madelyn and Deacon sidestepped the padlock as it crashed into the shallow water at their feet, craning their heads upwards to watch as the detective disappeared through the newly opened hole. She anxiously looked to her Railroad partner, motioning for him to climb first, and he hesitated, passing her the flashlight before finally moving. There was some disappointment as she watched him ascend, secretly hoping there would be some teasing remark about insisting she go first so that he might sneak a peak up her skirt. Instead, the persistent silence between them started to break her heart. Madelyn thought about blurting out how she felt, but it hardly felt romantic. Rather, it felt stupid. Maybe she’d missed her chance. After how many missed opportunities over the last several weeks to tell him, now was when she desperately wanted to say those three little words.

I love you.

Okay, not so little. Talk about timing.

Nick’s face peered over the ledge and only then did she realize she’d been standing frozen, stuck in her thoughts. “What did I say about standing pretty?”

She forced a laugh and climbed up to meet them, allowing Deacon to hoist her up the rest of the way despite the fact his touch was like fire against her skin. His hand squeezed against her arm, thumb brushing along the soft underside of her wrist as he stared at her. It was delicate, as if she’d shatter if he pressed too hard. Madelyn lingered until she was sure he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse and slowly pulled away.

Nick pretended to have not seen the exchange, focused on the set of locked doors that led to various parts of the underground system. At the back of the storage room was a freight elevator—where it led was anybody’s guess. The detective consulted the folded-up blueprints again, twisting them around in his hands and tapping the sheet to signify where they were.

“If we take...this door,” he pointed west. “We’ll head further down into some kind of storage complex, and…”

“And what?” Madelyn asked, stepping further away from Deacon so she could peer at the carefully drawn diagrams on the paper.

Nick shrugged, clearly puzzled. “Not sure. Just looks like one big empty room according to this.”

She looked back to Deacon to see if he had anything to add, but he remained silent, doing nothing to help her nerves. She sighed. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

The hallway beyond the western door smelt sterile, reminiscent of a hospital, the lingering scent of alcohol threatening to burn her nostrils if she breathed in too deep. As they descended a narrow staircase, the stench intensified as their surroundings shifted from the drab to the pristine. For being underground, it felt like walking into a museum. It felt otherworldly, untouched by time.

“Damn,” Deacon finally spoke—breathed—as they stepped out onto the landing, which overlooked a seemingly never-ending room of storage containers, computers and other technology.

There were metal platforms connected to more observation stations, with staircases that led further into the depths of the underground bunker. The possibilities of what they might find were endless. Near the back, shadowed in darkness, was the faint glow of a reactor core—no wonder the Institute had been become so powerful, so quickly, all while boasting the use of clean energy.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Madelyn asked, perturbed by the slight humming that echoed through the large room.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” Deacon asked, and she glanced at him, unsure if he was joking or not. He frowned. “Won’t be able to tell until we take a closer look.”

“Of course,” Nick grumbled. “Let’s split up, see what we can find in those rooms on the way over.”

Madelyn’s only comfort was that they could easily see each other as they walked along the platforms, but was still apprehensive, especially when both men removed their holstered weapons. It was more alarming to see Deacon armed, the pistol an unusual sight. Even in their most dangerous of operations, he’d relied on wits rather than steel. She had her own revolver, and quickly pulled it from underneath her skirts with a small flourish. With a silent nod, they each took a different path.

Madelyn reached a small alcove before the others, the tiny windowed room filled with filing cabinets and scattered paperwork across two desks. There was a stack of files that she idly flipped through, the words on the page confirming that the Institute had been performing or had been attempting to perform brain augmentations for years. As far as she could discern, the files contained information on potential targets—if the college had been successful in capturing them, or if something else had occurred. Many had been ultimately passed over for frivolous reasons, and the reports read like rejected job applicants rather than candidates for brainwashing. Her absentminded browsing stopped dead-cold when she came across an all too familiar name.

Madelyn nearly fainted at the picture pinned to the inside of the file. “Nate?”

“Now, isn’t this precious?”

She knew that voice without needing to turn around. It had been nearly two years, but she was instantly transported to Christmas Eve, 1946 and that dark, snowy, Boston Common alley where her husband was murdered. That same electric chill ran through her body—head to toe—rooting her to the spot. No amount of fear she’d experienced in the last six months could compare to the sensation crawling across her skin, threatening to close off her windpipe without so much as a gasp.

His footsteps slowly echoed against the metal flooring, drawing closer until she could feel his body heat radiating, circling around her form until he was in perfect view.

“Kellogg,” she forced herself to say, gripping the gun at her side.

He grinned in that hauntingly familiar, devilish way, not surprised that she knew his name. “In the flesh.”

There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask—about Nate’s murder, about Shaun Perlman’s kidnapping, about all the other unsolved cases he was supposedly linked to. Was he really an Institute experiment gone wrong, or some kind of pawn? His very presence seemed to answer that last one loud and clear. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was reprimanding herself for not shooting first, and asking questions later. She’d made that mistake before and it nearly cost Nick his life—and had ended Jenny’s. That couldn’t happen now. Just as her hand twitched and she made to raise her revolver, he advanced towards her, pinning her against the glass window. The sound was loud enough to alert her partners where they stood yards away on sperate platforms.

“Charmer!”

“Madelyn!”

“How cute,” Kellogg taunted, the phrase familiar and gut wrenching all the same. “Who should I kill this time?”

He roughly pushed her aside so that she collapsed against one of the desks. As he left, he tossed a device over his shoulder that immediately filled the room with smoke, grey plumes billowing out into the main area. Madelyn clamped her eyes shut as she spluttered and coughed, struggling to pull herself to stand after smacking her head against the edge of the desk. She blindly reached for her gun and resigned herself to crawl to the doorway before using the railings to drag her body upright. To the left, she could see the faint outline of Nick’s trench coat but to the right, she could see two bodies—Kellogg and Deacon—scuffling along the walkway.

Without a second thought she forced herself to go—to run—back the way she came and to where they were. The smoke made it difficult to see clearly, but Deacon’s gun was gone—they were now fighting for Kellogg’s, swapping positions when one would gain the upper hand to pin the other to the guard railing. In the time it took Madelyn to rush over, Deacon found enough leverage to push the other man over the ledge, but Kellogg wouldn’t give up so easily. He held onto the railing with one hand and swung his other arm up to shoot. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, giving Madelyn little time to act.

“Deacon!” she shouted for him to move out of the way, raising her pistol so her sights were aimed directly on Kellogg’s scar. When he didn’t move, her mind went blank save for one thing. “Johnathan!”

He immediately turned to her, the momentary shock fading away as he finally dove for cover. Kellogg could only laugh, and even Madelyn wondered why he hadn’t taken the opportunity to shoot Deacon—or them both—dead. His grip on the railing tightened as he attempted to pull himself up, to no avail.

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he spat. “You won’t kill me.”

Eddie Winter had said the same thing, before running away. From where she stood, there wasn’t anywhere for Kellogg to run. Madelyn didn’t feel like hesitating anymore, not after what he’d taken from her. The smug smile slowly returned to his face as he trained the same gun he’d used all those years ago at her—but she was faster—pulling the trigger just once.

Bullseye.

The sound was deafening and shook her to the core. She watched, shaking as Kellogg’s death-grip slowly loosened until he finally slipped from the ledge and down to the chasm below, the thump of his body against the floor a chilling indication that part of their mission was over. Tears instantly clouded her vision, and she sucked in as much air as she could, blindly reaching out for the nearest railing with her free hand as her knees gave out. Deacon was at her side in an instant, scrambling to collect her in his arms as he took the gun from her trembling hand before wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“Shh,” he hushed, pressing soft but urgent kisses against her temple as he combed his fingers through her hair. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, Deacon whispering incoherent, comforting words into the shell of her, but it was what she desperately needed as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. They both whipped around at the sudden sound of rushing footsteps against the walkway, breathing a sigh of relief when they saw it was only Nick, looking just as disheveled as they did.

“Whoa, whoa,” he raised his hands in defense, carefully observing the scene before him. “It’s just me. Had to take care of two crazed androids. Makes sense now that I see who they showed up with.”

“Yeah,” Madelyn answered, still clutching Deacon’s arm in the fear she might topple over out of shock. Nick didn’t bother asking her if she was—or would be—alright as he silently peered over the ledge with a grim expression. He’d been in her shoes—revenge wasn’t as sweet as people claimed it to be. She pinched the bridge of her nose and found her voice.

“They—they were looking for candidates,” she began, pointing back to the room where she’d found the files before she’d been rudely interrupted. “For brain augmentation, for—” she broke off, unable to stand the thought. “Nick, they had a file on Nate.”

His eyebrows jumped up in surprise before furrowing in anger, but to her surprise, his fury was calmer than hers. He gestured to a databank further back. “Come on, let’s find out what these bastards are hiding.”

The computer was surrounded by towering processors—technology that Madelyn had never seen, even when she’d been to the Switchboard. Nick didn’t seem daunted, at least by the screen and output, immediately leaning over to type commands like it was his job. Deacon only slipped away when she assured him she would be okay, and she watched as he carefully approached the reactor they’d seen before.

“We weren’t wrong,” Nick muttered, sounding not entirely confident. Madelyn studied his profile, attempting to decipher the information flashing before her eyes on the tiny screen. “But we were wrong about a lot of things, too.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Nick pressed his fingers against a few more keys. “It’s not just brain surgery, or brainwashing we’re looking at, here.”

“Those candidates you were looking at?” he tapped his prosthetic fingers against his screen, creating an eerie kind of sound. “If they didn’t work out for procedure one, they were used for procedure two.”

“Being?”

“DNA harvesting,” Nick said bleakly. “To be used in the production of new androids. To make them...as close to human as possible.”

Madelyn was already connecting the dots in her mind, her chest tightening in dread. “Nate?”

Nick didn’t say anything at first, nervous as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Close. You.”

“Hair sample, 1956,” he continued, explaining before she had a chance to react. Still, she nearly collapsed in disbelief. He looked at her face-on, his sympathetic expression not doing much to quell her fears. “How’d—”

“He—that bastard,” she answered, refusing to use Kellogg’s name. “He tore some from my scalp.”

I prefer brunettes—his voice still echoed in her mind, causing a chill to run through her.

“Always thought it was as a trophy. Never thought it would be for some sick experiment.”

Her partner studied the screen, clicking through more pages. “I don’t think they were successful with sequencing anything, if that gives you any piece of mind.”

“Hardly,” she mumbled, wondering if there was still the slim possibility that somewhere in the facility—or even out on the streets of Boston—there was a rogue synth with her DNA. It was petrifying to even consider.

“God damn,” Nick suddenly cursed, his hands shaking. “They have Shaun Pearlman’s DNA!”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised by that. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? He was essentially kidnapped by the Institute.”

The detective shook his head, and dared to smile, even if it quickly disappeared from his face. “It says here he’s alive. Just as it says you are.”

Now she was as alarmed as he was. “What else does it say?”

“It has a location and—” he frantically patted at his coat pockets for a notepad and pen, passing off to Madelyn so she could scribble down the information. “He’s been right under our noses this entire time!”

“So,” Deacon’s voice interrupted their shared excitement. “Remember when you asked if we’d have a problem?”

Madelyn looked over to where the Railroad spy was bent over, inspecting an exposed panel of wiring in front of the reactor. Her enthusiasm started to fade. “Vaguely.”

“Do you also remember somebody mentioning that the Institute might be hiding a bomb?”

“I distinctly remember that somebody being you, Deacon,” she answered, struggling to swallow down her growing anxiety.

He nervously chuckled. “Just had to go and jinx us, didn’t I?”

“Why the hell does the Institute have a bomb?” Nick asked, more angry than anything. He pointed an accusatory finger at Deacon. “I know about you and your Railroad mole. Whose to say they didn’t plant it there just to screw with us?”

Deacon didn’t seem surprised that Madelyn had let that information slip to the detective and didn’t seem upset by the accusations either. That, or he was a little preoccupied with not blowing up. “What, ol’ Doc Rendezvous? Never.”

“More plausible that Scarface down there,” he pointed to where Kellogg had met his demise. “Had this as a backup plan. Last minute gambit to get his way. Nasty, but effective. Take down everybody in…I’d say a half-mile radius with him.”

Madelyn finally asked the obvious. “How long do we have?”

Deacon wasn’t the one to answer.

“I’d say approximately twenty minutes.”

The man had appeared on the platform behind them as if he had materialized from thin air. Madelyn recognized him instantly as the Institute’s Director—the same nameless, silver haired man who had appeared at the university’s demonstration in early May. The man who had calmed Mayor McDonough and the crowd with five easy words—everything will be alright. He didn’t make an appearance unless it was absolutely necessary.

“What are you doing here?” she questioned.

“I’ve come to stop you, of course,” he answered, folding his hands together. “I am aware of your investigation, and that you know who I am—who we are.”

Instead of getting angry, like she knew she was capable of becoming, and how she knew Nick wanted to react, Madelyn tried a little civility. She wanted desperately to understand. “Why are you doing this?”

The Director appeared pleased for the time being and stepped closer. “To advance the Commonwealth into a new age, of course. Here at the Institute, we aren’t simply trying to better life, we are trying to create it.”

“Nobody should be able to play God,” Nick argued.

“No, no,” he shook his head in disagreement. “Think of me instead as…a father.”

Madelyn didn’t know which was worse. Her skin crawled and in such a short timespan she decided that this man didn’t deserve her respect. “One of your experiments killed my husband. Kidnapped an innocent baby boy. Murdered countless others. How can you explain that?”

“It is unfortunate that Mister Kellogg turned out the way he did,” the Director said, showing little signs of remorse. “As with the others like him. Rest assured, we have rectified that issue.”

“Oh no,” Nick waved his hands, disgusted by the very thought. “You aren’t going to be sending any synths to infiltrate Boston, or anywhere else. The jig is up, and we’re here to expose your little party for all it’s worth.”

The other man was not phased. “Is that so?”

“The Institute’s days of experimenting is over,” Madelyn clarified. “And you can kiss your military contracts goodbye too. While you’re down here, buttering us up with false bravado, the campus is crawling with our good men, Boston P.D. that haven’t been swayed by your dirty money.”

“Between the evidence collected here and what we have stored away at the agency? Once it’s all been handed over to the Feds, I wouldn’t be surprised if they cooked you alive on the grounds for treason,” she elaborated.

A heavy pause filled the space between them.

“Not if that bomb destroys us all,” the Director countered in a calm voice. It seemed it would take a lot more to crack his thick veneer. “There’d be no evidence left. Just dust and rumors.”

Deacon was suddenly skeptical. “Now that you mention it Nick, do you mind if I ask you who rigged this thing, oh mighty father?”

The Director shifted uncomfortably before answering. “A freshman student by the name of—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Deacon stopped him with a wave of his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Did they happen to use special blueprints? Maybe got some advice from an old friend at the ‘mechanic’s shop’?”

Madelyn snapped her hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh at his exaggerated use of air quotes. Still, the Director seemed baffled, and ultimately nodded. “I—he, yes. Yes, he did.”

“Ha!” Deacon clapped his hands together and kicked his foot against the exposed wiring, which caused everyone else to flinch backward in distress. “This thing is a dud! It might destroy the bunker, sure, but all of Cambridge? You’re out of your damn mind.”

Nick was amused, and this time the grin stuck to his face. “Maybe it’s you who needs the brain augmentation.”

The Director floundered, unexpecting to be outwitted in his own home, in his own Institute. He looked about ready to rant and rave until he was red in the face, pausing only when there was a commotion at the front of the large corridor. The calvary had arrived—just in time.

“Valentine! Hardy!” Sergeant Sullivan rushed across the metal walkway, a few of his officers and Preston Garvey following closely behind. He slowed upon approach, nervously eyeing the stand-off before him with his weapon half-raised. “The situation upstairs is contained. The department heads started singing like canaries the moment we floated treason as a possible charge.”

“What?” The Director huffed, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”

“What did she tell ya’?” Nick sneered at the man, tilting his head at Madelyn.

A piecing sound rang through the large room that continued on every beat of a second, the confusion falling away from everyone’s faces as they all looked to the bomb and its timer. Deacon took three measured steps away from the platform before scurrying away, practically wrapping his arms around Madelyn in and effort to get her to move with him as quickly as they could to safety.

“Is that—”

“Yes,” Nick answered, interrupting Preston’s question. “A bomb. And we’ve got less than five minutes to get back to the surface. So let’s cut the chatter and get moving!”

The Sergeant made to grab the Director so that he could handcuff the man first, even if it would make escorting him topside a difficult task.

“You’ll never take me alive!” he shouted, rushing away from the group and towards the bomb as it continued beeping.

Sullivan shook his head, withdrawing immediately with his arms raised in defeat. “Suit yourself.”

Madelyn almost suggested that Deacon toss her over his shoulder the way he sprinted along the walkway with her at his side, causing her to almost trip on the stairs. She took one last glance at the underground bunker and the lone Director before they made their ascent up the narrow staircase. With less than five minutes to navigate the tunnels back to the surface, there wasn’t time to talk, or hesitate, so she focused on nothing but the next step forward, barely remembering to breathe until her lungs screamed for air.

It wasn’t until somebody—Lieutenant Danse—was helping her from the manhole that she realized she’d blocked out their escape, stumbling off in a daze and pressing a hand to her head—did she have a concussion? Was she going into shock?

“We’re evacuating the building,” a deep voice, maybe it belonged to the soldier, or one of Sullivan’s men, she couldn’t tell. “Get her out of here!”

Familiar arms encircled her. “Madelyn? Charmer?”

She blinked, focusing on Deacon’s worried expression, even though she couldn’t see most of his face. “You said…my name.”

He smiled. “Well that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

She smiled too.

“Come on,” grabbed her hand, leading her into a light jog towards a small gathering of people on the banks of the Charles River. Piper and some of Preston’s Minutemen were standing with evacuees from the campus, looking on as more people rushed out to look on.

While their backs were still turned to the building, there was a rumbling, not unlike an earthquake, followed by what Madelyn knew to be a series of explosions, people tumbling to the ground as the world around them shook. Despite the bomb setting off underground, the destruction was still felt and seen above ground. When the dust settled, a deep crevice appeared in the center of the campus courtyard, a few stone columns were toppled over, and a fire had broken out in the inside rotunda. So much for a dud.

Deacon wrapped his arm around Madelyn’s shoulder, tucking her close as smoke billowed to the sky, the haunting sign that the Institute’s hold on Boston was no more.

It was all over.

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #deacon #madelyn hardy #nick valentine #+the entire GD cast okay #spoiler characters too #the grand finale is here folks with just the epilogue to follow #;____;#fallout fanfic

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third-rail-vip · 4 years ago

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6 and 7 for the Fic Writer Mem? :D

Thank you so much for asking!

6 What’s your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote this year?

Oh this is really hard to choose. Dialogue is still a skill i’m honing, but I definitely feel like I’m getting a lot more comfortable with it. I don’t think I have a specific piece of dialogue that really stands out from the rest, but Mac and Ivy banter a lot and that’s always really fun to write. Special shoutout to Piper and Ivy getting drunk at the dugout in Unexpected Guests though, because that was really fun to write.

I’ll go with this bit from Gunners & Grudges, got some flirty banter and Mac being more perceptive than Ivy appreciates in this moment.

“Hey, where’s that medkit of yours?”

He squatted down to rifle through her pack, pulling out gumdrops—which he pocketed—the Grognak she’d liberated from the Gunners’ bathroom—which he nodded at approvingly before throwing it over to the mattress, and a couple of Nuka Colas.

“Are you hurt?” Ivy turned, attention drawn temporarily from the storm.

She had her answer just from looking at his blackeye and bruised throat—the husky rasp was still raw in his voice—but the oblivious question had tripped off her tongue before she could stop it.

“No, but you are.” MacCready caught her off guard, reaching out and placing the flat of his hand against her stomach—right on the bruise—drawing a gasp from her lips. “Knew I felt you flinch out there.”

“You were supposed to be looking for shelter,” she blanched.

Folding her arms, she leant back against the window—suddenly concerned how many other tells she gave away with just a moment’s contact.

“It’s called multitasking, sweetheart,” he scolded dryly. “I was looking at you too.”

“It was just a kick. A bruise. It’s nothing major.”

“You gonna let me take a look at it?”

“Robert Joseph MacCready, you’re going to have to buy me dinner before you get me out of this vault suit.”

“How does cold noodles sound?” His scolding cracked into a smirk as he waved a single tub of pre-cooked noodles up at her.

“Like you wouldn’t even make it to first base.”

Ok, you know the silly thing is, my actual favourite tiny pieces of dialogue was adding "stay close" right towards the end of Complicated. It was possibly the very last thing i added to that fic. It’s just two words but there’s a lot wrapped up in them. It kind of says "i love care about you and if anything happened to you I don't know what i'd do, so please stay near to me so i can keep you safe" all crammed into a worried offhand remark.

7 What’s your favourite piece of description or narration:

I’ve a feeling that all my favourite bits of description this year cropped up in Blood & Rain. It was the first time I’d written a proper chunky bit of fic in maybe a year and I’ve always been mad about description. I just let myself go all out in bits and let them the scenery drive the mood. This piece is from the end of the fic and it’s a real contrast to the mood of the previous day, and it’s very Ivy in the way that when she’s in a good place she has a real talent for seeing beauty and hope in the world.

Across the river to the south of Taffington lay the memorial bridge and the freeway, beyond the water were the townhouse rooftops and churches of Charlestown and Cambridge, and dominating the skyline behind them, the skyscrapers of Boston. A vista of everything that had been lost to the war. But that morning, with everything bathed in golden light, glittering like stars on fragments of shattered glass, it felt like there was still life in the world.

#thank you so much for asking!!#adventuresofmeghatron #fic writer asks #answered #then i met you #mac x ivy

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ryanhamiltonwalsh · 4 years ago

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The Boston Poet Who Wrote ��Return of the Grievous Angel’

This is filed under something you’d think I had known about for a long time but had never heard until this week.

I’ve long considered “Return of the Grievous Angel” to be the quintessential Gram Parson song, evocative of his entire life and career, recorded shortly before his death and released posthumously. A few days ago, my friend Thom casually delivered some shocking information to me on Facebook: the lyrics were not penned by Parsons, but rather a poet from Boston who handed him the lyrics at a concert in 1973 and was not credited until much, much later.

What.

As someone who spent years completely lost in the world of Boston rock n roll minutiae, this is precisely the kind of stray story that would have landed on my desk and captured my attention. But it’s better late than never to let you step into my parlor and tell me how it all went down.

Oliver’s was a Lansdowne St rock club next to Fenway Park. It’s the spot where the Cask N Flagon now resides. One of the final Velvet Underground shows—the last gasp version with Doug Yule and some fellas who had never shared a stage with Lou Reed—would get booked at Oliver’s a few months after this Parsons residency.

Parsons, of course, had plenty of Boston connections at this point—his mid-60′s stint at Harvard (giddily covered by the Boston Globe), forming the International Submarine Band in Cambridge, and reappearing triumphantly a few years later on tour with his Flying Burrito Brothers at the original Boston Tea Party club in 1969. [Side note: this letter Gram wrote to a friend about having to be associated with Dylan “like it or not” is very funny to me.]

There wasn’t much about the Boston poet in David N. Meyer’s excellent book about Parsons and I didn’t have access to any of the other GP bios; eventually I was tipped off to two excellent posts about the story, this Night Flight piece and this excellent account where the author tracked down the poet himself. I recommend reading those both because everything below is going to be a reaction the information found within them.

The essentials are that a young poet named Thomas Stanley Brown wrote the lyrics in about 20 minutes thinking both of his own life and Parsons, went to one of the shows at Oliver’s, chatted with Emmy Lou Harris, got the lyrics to Parsons road manager, and then never saw or heard from Parsons ever again.

After those Boston shows Parsons and his wife went home to California. In July, their house burned down. Around August, Parsons recorded some songs for an album in Los Angeles. In September, he overdosed. The following January his last solo album, consisting of those August songs, was released. No one could have been more surprised to hear the album’s first song than Thomas Stanley Brown. - Twelve Stories

Brown wrote letters trying to get credited for the lyrics with no luck. Different sources say his name was lost in a fire at the Parsons’ Topanga home or that Gram had intended to claim it as his own all along. Eventually, in 1982 a letter to Emmy Lou Harris did the trick and a writing credit—as well as royalties—was bestowed to Brown. As the Twelve Story piece so wisely points out, this is a collaboration between an artist whose infamous life story is always threatening to overshadow his work and a poet we know literally almost nothing about.

What I love about this strange saga—beyond the Boston connection—is how unlikely it all is. You’d be lucky to get a reply to a letter you handed a performer at a concert, never mind expect to hear your unsolicited lyrics turned into one of the performer’s final and best songs. But there’s another layer of surrealness I didn’t see addressed in any of the writing about the song (yet) that I’d like to point out as well.

Because Brown was writing both about himself and thinking about Gram possibly singing it (even noting "the king” with an “amphetamine crown" was an explicit reference to Gram, according to Ben Fong-Torres), there's a few lines that become really eerie here.

"The news I could bring I met up with the king, On his head an amphetamine crown. He talked about unbucklin’ that ol’ bible belt, And lightin’ out for some desert town."

In light of Brown’s intent—to reflect his own experiences but with Gram in mind too—one way to read these lines is that it’s an account of Brown meeting Parsons that night followed by a kind of premonition of where the singer was headed—i.e. Parsons ending up Joshua Tree (a desert town if there ever was one) where his life would sadly end. To think that Parsons sang those lyrics a few months later, probably completely unaware that he was singing from the POV of the poet in the bar writing about imagining meeting Gram Parsons, is just mind boggling. I can’t think of another collaboration quite like it. There are so many levels of awareness here; it’s a meta-recursive-loop-spiral set to a beautiful melody—a modern country standard with a postmodern past it doesn’t like to say much about.

As the Twelve Stories piece notes, not much is known about Brown due to his preference for privacy; “All the essentials regarding Return of the Grievous Angel have already been made public,” he replied to one query. However, someone named Thomas Stanley Brown does have a Twitter account. It doesn’t look like he’s ever tweeted his own words, preferring to retweet messages from various country music performers instead. In his profile photo he’s standing with Lucinda Williams—who presented her own powerful version of “Return of the Grievous Angel” in 1999. This Thomas Brown is wearing a Sweetheart of the Rodeo t-shirt, the lone Byrds LP to feature Parsons.

That’s gotta be him.

There’s the Boston poet who authored a giant puzzle piece of the myth of Gram Parsons in 20 minutes.

#Gram Parsons #Thomas Brown #Lucinda Williams #The Byrds #Harvard #Boston #Cambridge

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malereader-inserts · 5 years ago

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Andante, Andante | Ch.I

“I’ll make you a deal,” Peter says, you tilted your head as he continues, “If I can make you fall in love with me by the end of the summer, then you don’t move countries.”

Word Count: 1,638

A/n: I forgot how hard it is when to start a story because I have the urge to start with, “Hi, my name is Peter Parker and I am eighteen years old...” Also, Why hasn’t Tumblr made a setting to put text in the centre? Feedback will be appreciated!

Next>

New York City.

It is a place you only know your life to be in. A place that you and some of the Avengers have ever know, you weren’t like Tony Stark who could hop on a jet and fly wherever his heart desired. You were just average, a man of eighteen who was struck by lightning and now is on the Avengers team.

And you can’t complain, you were welcomed to the team as if you were just adopted. They were welcoming, you had each other’s back.

But, there was just something that was nagging in the back of your head, you had to get out of the Big Apple. New York was great, but you didn’t want to be confined to the superhero life, no matter how selfish that sounds. There’s more to life than to risk it.

That’s why Peter Parker just fails to understand, sure, he’s heard it too much that with great power comes great responsibility, but who doesn’t want that serotonin feeling when you did a good deed? He just doesn't get it, you wanting to fly and travel the world, he even freaked out when he heard you apply to University at Cambridge in England, not Cambridge Boston at M.I.T.

“But, it’s New York, (L/n)!” Peter exclaims as you scoffed as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“So what?” You feigned annoyance, “If I recall, Parker, you’re going to M.I.T! That’s not exactly in New York.”

“O-okay!” Peter stutters as he throws his arms in the air, “That’s beside the point!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, “I don’t know why you’re so angered by this, it’s not like you care about me.”

This was a fact that you were wrong about, god, if you only knew. Peter Parker was head over heels for you, that’s a fact, there are a few reasons to why he’s hasn’t acted upon it.

You’re grumpy as hell, not the most approachable person on the team

You’re closed off, there’s not much you allow a person to know about you.

You’re so god damn pretty that Peter believes you are the sun, vibrant, and everyone knows the story of Icarus.

He wouldn’t consider each other as friends, more than strangers but less than friends.

So, Peter has resorted to staring at you, he tries not to be a creep about it. But, he can’t help to linger on your drawl of certain words. He can’t help but stare a second longer and he’s unable to stop the stomach acid from rising from his stomach to his throat. In conclusion, Peter is in love with you, as many would say, and he was pretty good at hiding it away since he’s always in Stark’s lab, out of sight.

You don’t know much about Stark’s kid, Peter. Other than you like how Parker sounded when you say it, that Peter is a hyperactive puppy who you can’t help but just adore, though feelings come hard to you and to express, and that Peter Parker was a ball of sunshine, that if you were to stare at him for too long you would go blind. Not that you would stare at him, in fact, you barely register his existence. You like knowing about him, he’s a Queen’s boy, smart like Stark, and absolute dork whilst he knows the bare minimum of you.

Keeps you safe.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, you know?

You were questioning yourself, why did Peter care so much about you leaving? No one in the team would tell you, as if they were sworn to secrecy, either that or they know something that isn’t for them to tell you. As soon as the summer break started, you noticed how Peter was becoming all close to you, wanting to know more of you.

You brushed him off as best as you could, glaring him away or giving him no attention. But, he was persistent, you admit, there was some underlying determination in whatever challenge he had set himself. So, just this once, as you sat by the pond, your feet hanging off the wooden decking, just barely over the water.

“I wondered how long it would take you to find me,” You says, looking over your shoulder to see Peter carrying lunch for the pair of you, “Why are you so determined in getting to know me?”

“Well, you’re part of the team and I feel like everyone is supposed to know everyone,” Peter says, timidly placing the tray of plates of lunch in between you and him, “Steve cooked, says it’s your favourite.”

Bastard, you thought, Steve and Natasha were really the only ones you were closed to and they promised to give anything away about you even the smallest of things such as favourite food, favourite colour, etc…

“Well, thanks…” You answered, hoping that Peter would just leave you alone but you had noticed he placed his platter of lunch on his lap.

“Also, you seem like you needed a friend.”

If you could be any meme, you would be that open mouth Pikachu meme as you wondered why you entertained Peter’s curiosity with you. Steve tells you to play nice, Nat says Peter is a wonderful boy. They both expressed that you needed more friends.

“You’re setting off on the right foot,” You say, sarcastically as you shove some food into your mouth, “Do you have many friends?”

“Okay-” Peter looked embarrassed, as you waited for his answer, “That sounded so rude, didn’t it?”

“Trust me, Parker, you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

“Oh,” Peter says, trying to lighten up the mood, “Idiot then?”

“It was Steve and Nat,” You informed him, there was a tinge of amusement when you see Peter stop chewing, alarmed, “But, idiots? More like, functional morons at best.”

Peter’s eyes widen, “You have a sense of humour!”

You almost choked on your own spit as you were lost for words, looking at the boy, with a mouth gaping open at him. You become a stuttering mess as you just couldn’t comprehend what this boy was on.

“I am a human being, Parker!” You exclaimed, “You’ve just given me lunch!”

Peter shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t know, man, you could have easily convinced me that you’re an Andriod, you know from that video game…”

You watched him slowly go off on a tangent, you tilted your head as you knitted your eyebrows together.

“Has anyone told you that you talk too much?” You asked, interrupting him as he flushed red, “Because you do.”

Peter gives you a goofy smile as you huffed out an amused breath, your lips curving upwards as you look away from him. Peter almost forgets how to breathe because you’re natural state was glaring at everything but this was the first time he had seen you smile.

And my god, Peter thought, he would do anything to see that glorious smile of yours. You fall into silence as you finish your plate, Peter quickly turning his attention away from you - hoping that he wasn’t caught staring as he quickly cleans the last of his food.

“So,” Peter clears his throat as you look at him with a raised eyebrow, “England.”

“Ah, so we’re back to this conversation…” You mused out, at first, Peter was irking you with this topic but you convinced yourself to have patience with him, he was simply curious.

“That’s a long way from home,” Peter continues, placing his plate onto of yours on the tray, “Why?”

“Why what?” You questioned.

“Why so far away?”

Your shoulders tense, you hate talking about yourself, before you resorted to shrugging, “A new beginning? There’s a whole world out there, Parker, why confine yourself to one place?”

“Well, I think it’s stupid,”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “That’s not the only reason why I want to get away but thanks for your considering opinion that I did not ask for.”

Peter doesn’t miss the sarcasm in your voice as his cheeks turn red, now, you two were back to square one where you rather close yourself off.

“Listen, we better get back in before Steve calls us in,” You continue as Peter was about to apologise.

You stood up, patting away the dirt from your legs as Peter slowly nods and gets up too. You both stood in front of each other, just staring at each other.

Peter shifted his weight between the heels to his toes, looking at you awkwardly as he scratched the back of his neck. You stared at him, his silence was unsettling, not once have you seen the hyperactive puppy just paused for a moment.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Peter says, you tilted your head as he continues, “If I can make you fall in love with me by the end of the summer, then you don’t move countries.”

You straighten your back, “And if I don’t fall in love with you?”

“Then, you get to leave, leave the life you started here. Leave the people who consider you like family, I’m not going to stop you,” Peter licks his lips, his bitter tone goes unnoticed.

However, he stands proudly and for once he wasn’t just a teenager, he was a young man coming to a new stage of life. You lock your jaw and let out an unbelievable huff.

“So? Do we have a deal?” He lifts a hand out in between you two.

You stared at it before clasping it, giving him a firm handshake, “You got yourself a deal, Parker.”

He smiles at you, picking up the tray and dashing it back to the compound. You stayed by the wooden pier as you stare at the hand you shook with.

What have you got yourself into?

Tagged: @locke-writes @yesthetrashbin @blackirisposts @idwithoutthesuperego @screamingmuffinsunite @fifi550 @vydante @batfam16 @kpopchangedmylifesstuff @chaotictyler @delphicillusion

Wanna be tagged for the next parts, message me! I just tagged the people who responded their interest, want your name off, again, just message me!

#peter parker #peter parker x male!reader #x male reader #peter parker imagine #andante andante #Avengers #avenger imagines

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drfate · 4 years ago

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Dr. Fate: In the Dungeon of the Damned

An old school Dr. Fate novel by Rex F Dorgan

Chapter 1 – Salem Tower

The tall blond man stepped from the train onto the platform at Salem Station. It was only 5 p.m., but the sun had already moved behind the train-and-bus depot building, leaving the platform and track in shade. He glanced down the track at the tunnel from which he had just emerged, and then began the climb up the stairs, to street level, with the mob of commuters and tourists departing the train with him. It occurred to him that much of his life had been spent on journeys through various underworlds followed by ascents back into the light. He smiled and laughed quietly at himself; he really needed to curb his habit of finding portentous metaphors in every little activity.

He normally used much faster modes of transport, but today he felt like taking things at a slower, more human pace, especially after all the inhuman things he had witnessed recently while working on site in Iraq. He was returning home now, having stopped first to deliver a guest lecture about this expedition in the city of his birth – Cambridge, where he had spoken before a packed room at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology at Harvard. He now began the final, happiest part of his journey, back among the familiar vistas of his adopted hometown of many years, Salem, Massachusetts.

“Witch-haunted” Salem, as it was so often called, an epithet confirmed commercially, and somewhat comically, as he strolled down Washington Street on his way home. In every direction, the town was overrun with reminders of its claim to infamy. To his right was the Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street and to his left the Salem Witch Museum off Church Street. There was the Witch House and the Gallows Hill Museum, the Witch Village and the Salem Wax Museum. There was even the Bewitched Sculpture in Lappin Park, depicting television’s favourite housewife-witch, which he spotted as he passed Essex Street.

But then he came to Front Street, which led to Charles Street and the Witch Trials Memorial, and the true, sombre reality of the town’s supernatural past asserted itself. If they only knew, the man thought to himself with morbid amusement as he glanced back toward the ridiculous Bewitched statue, if they only knew. Salem had in fact truly been haunted by dark witchcraft in its colonial past (and since), but it was not the work of the young women who had been accused, tried, and executed at the Witch Trials, but by some of the very men who had sat in judgment of them. Isn’t it always the case, the man thought to himself, that great evil resorts to even greater evil – the greatest evil – when it sacrifices innocents to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of its own dark deeds?

His grim reverie was broken by someone shouting at him.

“Kent Nelson!” A very old man teetered on a walker directly in front of the tall blond man, pointing at him and accosting him loudly.

“Yes?” the tall blond man asked, a little confused. The old man seemed vaguely familiar.

“You’re the spitting image! Of him. Kent Nelson, that is. Except for the beard, of course. Kent Nelson was a clean-cut man, he was. A gentleman.”

Kent Nelson understood now.

“My grandfather. I believe you’re thinking of my grandfather. ‘Kent Nelson’ is my name as well. I’m named for him, as was my father. Dad just never went by ‘Junior,’ and I don’t go by ‘the Third.’”

“Why, it’s like looking back in time when I look at you Mr Nelson! Or is it Dr Nelson, like him?”

Kent Nelson smiled. “Well, technically, I’m a doctor, too – but only a simple Ph.D. in Archaeology. Not a medical doctor like him. Although he had a Ph.D. in Archaeology, as well – and Physics, too!”

“Oh, I recall all about the archaeology! He was like Indiana Jones, he was! Better! The real McCoy. He was always in that bomber jacket and those khaki desert pants when we saw him walking these streets, and then later after the war always so smartly dressed, being a doctor and all, in his dark blue suit. Like the one you’re wearing now. And with a gold tie. Like yours. And his wife, what a beauty! We were all so smitten, you know, all us boys. What a face! And what a body!”

Kent Nelson smiled more broadly. “Yes, she was quite a looker, ol’ grandma. People tell me she was as pretty as Maureen O’Hara – and twice as feisty!” He and the old man shared a laugh.

“And you still do the digs? Like your gramps? Looking for pyramids and the like?”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve only just returned to the states on a mission in Northern Iraq, evaluating the damage done to the Ezida Temple – the Temple of Nabu – and the Nergal Gate – by ISIS. And trying to help the National Museum recover precious antiquities that were stolen in the wars from whatever black marketeers and crooked billionaires they made their way to.”

“Iraq? Worse than ever, I reckon?” the old man asked, arching an eyebrow in a manner that indicated a kind of general scepticism toward every story he’d heard about the place for the last two decades.

“Yes, in some ways worse than ever, sadly. The birthplace of Western civilization, and we’ve lost so much so quickly. The destruction of the Northwest Temple, the ‘mermen’ statues, much of Nimrud in fact…”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the old man grumbled.

“I flew into Logan and stayed in Boston for the night, and gave a talk at Harvard this afternoon to please my benefactors. A TED Talk, very au courant, I’m told. You’ve heard of them?”

The old man shrugged. Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, I hadn’t either before this one. My publicist,” he said, as if that explained everything. And it apparently did; the old man nodded knowingly. “But now I’m finally heading home – and I can’t wait to get there. It’s been too long!”

“Well I won’t keep you, then,” the old man said, shifting his walker to clear a path forward for the doctor. “No doubt you got a pretty wife of your own to run home to. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Mr – Dr – Nelson.”

“And it was a pleasure to meet you too, Mr...?”

“Moore. J.D. Moore.”

“A pleasure, Mr Moore.” Kent nodded his head in a slight bow toward the man and continued on his way. He remembered Mr Moore, all right. Or Little Jimmy Moore, as he had been called back then.

At Norman Street he turned right to head south to Margin Street, which led to Jefferson Avenue and the more prosaic part of his journey. Off the beaten tourist path, with architecture less enduring and much less quaint, he now entered a part of town that grew increasingly quotidian the farther south he travelled. He passed the Post Office, which sported a “ye olde” colonial brick façade on its otherwise prefab form, and then the police station, the red brick of which was even more utilitarian and bland. He passed parking lots and auto parts stores, and a nest of large, boxy buildings constructed primarily of sheet aluminium, which gave the impression of being the office-building equivalent of a mobile home park. He proceeded into an area where Jefferson Avenue was lined with old homes, some of which had businesses operating out of them. He stopped at one of these, a quaint little flower shop with the name “Rose Red and Snow Lily” hand-painted in a flowing script on a wooden sign above the porch.

He had known the shop’s proprietress, Eliza Grey, since the time he had first arrived in Salem, which seemed as if it were only yesterday – while at the same time, it seemed as if their acquaintance had spanned centuries. He supposed both impressions were true; he knew that for Lady Grey, as he called her with an odd mix of irony and respect and affection, it had seemed forever. Time, and the perception of it, was as personally relative as it was fleetingly elusive, even for him.

No sooner had the little bell atop the door jingled upon his entrance than he was greeted by a voice that was at once shrill and melodious, upper-crust British mixed with the sharp, flat edges acquired from too many years in Boston, “Kent Nelson! What a plez-zhah!” The old woman rushed over to him and hugged him, her head only reaching his belly. She released him and looked up, smiling. “And how is that lovely wife of yours?” she asked.

“When last we spoke, she was doing very well, thank you. But that was last night on a sketchy WhatsApp connection and we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I’m on my way back home now. In fact, she’s why I stopped in.”

“Well of course she is, dear! Who else would you ever be buying flowers for?”

“Oh, the occasional funeral – maybe my own if I don’t get moving a little faster,” Nelson quipped.

“Well, then – the usual?”

“You say that like I order them every day.”

“Every time I see you.”

“But what is that – every five years?”

“Three, four – but who’s counting?”

“Yes, two dozen of the Rosa Richardii.”

“The Rosa Sancta – the Holy Rose of Abyssinia?”

“The Holy Rose of the ancient Egyptians, too.”

“Oh, yes, that’s where you two met, isn’t it? Alexandria?”

Nelson smiled. “As well you know, Lady Grey.”

“And you only want two dozen? I hear that when you first met her, you bought out a vendor’s entire market stall and had her hotel room stuffed so full of them she couldn’t move without knocking over a bouquet. You might have asphyxiated her with perfume blooms.”

“I have no idea where you might have heard such a ridiculous slander, Lady Grey,” Nelson laughed.

“Oh, I heard it from the most trusted source, Dr Nelson, the beautiful woman herself.”

“Yes, only two dozen. I learned my lesson not to overdo my displays of affection. With flowers, anyway.”

The old woman laughed and pelted him in the chest with a large delphinium she had been holding. “You are ever a character, Dr Nelson,” she said as she assembled a pile of flowers from two different refrigerated cases.

“As are you, Lady Grey.”

The old woman placed the flowers on the counter, pecked daintily at her register, and announced a price that was clearly too low for the rare flowers that Nelson had picked up and organized into a bundle appropriate for carrying another mile or so.

He tossed a $100 bill on the counter and said, as he headed toward the door, “Thanks, Lady Grey. Wonderful seeing you again.”

“Stop by any time, Dr Nelson,” she said. “Always a plez-zhah dealing with a gentleman. And such a wicked handsome gentleman,” she added with an exaggerated South Boston accent, accompanied by a playful wink.

He laughed and turned to leave the store and saw his face reflected in the glass window of the shop door. He’d allowed crow’s feet to form at the corners of his deep blue eyes, and, mixed in with the gold that the desert sun had spun in his straw-coloured hair, there were here and there strands of silver, but he realized he had hardly changed in all the time Lady Grey had known him. Not bad for a man of 112, he thought to himself.

Before long, he had come to a collection of four gambrel-roofed houses, two red, one blue, and one white, that struck him as a playful bit of coincidental Americana, and which served as a sign that the last leg of his journey lay before him. He turned onto Willson Street and followed it until it led to the entrance to the Highland Park golf course – or, as the purposely anachronistic green and gold wooden sign referred to it, “Olde Salem Greens.” This park was part of the larger green space known as Salem Woods, where his home was located.

As the sun started to set, he crossed the parking lot to a little asphalt trail that led into the park, then crossed the golf course until it ended and the trees began, where he picked up a narrow dirt hiking trail that continued on into the woods. As he walked through the remaining forest of an area once sacred to Native Americans, he passed what he had long known to be three sites of intense spiritual energy. Powerful guardians still watched over this patch of woodland from the higher planes, and they bowed, and the birch trees that sensed their presence likewise bowed, as be passed.

At last he came to the base of Monument Hill, the tallest point in the woods. From the top of this hill you could reliably see the smokestacks of the power plant in Salem to the northeast, but on a clear day looking due east you could see over Swampscott all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

At the top of the hill there had once been an observation tower that had belonged to the Forestry Service and then to the local Boy Scouts. The tower had been mostly demolished by 1933, at which point a new owner had purchased the hill, and the land around it, from the town and built a large, two-tiered granite tower that one local wag had likened to a rook from God’s chess board. The tower had no windows and no doors; its builder, one Kent Nelson, had declared that it was not to be inhabited but was instead merely a monument to the town and to luminaries such as Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau, who had all reputedly derived spiritual sustenance, at one time or other in their lives, from visits to these woods. The town was perfectly fine with this construction, since the remains of the Boy Scout tower had been an eyesore, and this seemed to be a perfectly satisfactory memorial, along the lines of the obelisks that city fathers were forever erecting in plazas and traffic circles, but with a Northern European flavour that had greater appeal for the WASP city fathers of that era.

But whether because of or in spite of this tower’s vague function, the locals set about immediately creating legends about the tower and its alleged inhabitants. Ghosts, witches, the ghosts of witches, Mothman, aliens, vampires - even Bigfoot - had all allegedly been seen coming and going from this tower, which apparently could only be accessed by beings capable of passing through its walls as if they were mist.

Kent Nelson grinned and let out a quiet, satisfied sigh of excitement at seeing his home, then bounded up the hill until he stood by the tower wall that faced north, hidden from the view of the condos to the south and west of the woods. He raised his hand and touched the cool granite blocks of the tower wall, the tower he had built with his own hands, with his own craft. And then he walked right through the wall as if it were nothing more than mist.

The world inside Salem Tower was not a place the untrained human mind could easily apprehend, much less comprehend. Here the laws of physics did not strictly apply. As in Faerie, the four dimensions of spacetime, and the rules governing it, were violated here in ways that could be literally maddening. But unlike Faerie, which grew more disturbing the longer one lingered there, the interior of Salem Tower was ordered, logical even, something a mere human could adjust to, given time (or a magical facsimile thereof) and an easy-going imagination. While its bowels were vast, covering an area that seemed enormous at first glance and never-ending to one attempting to traverse it, and while its many staircases and rooms were set at Escehrian odds with one another in defiance of gravity and three-dimensional causality, it still had a lived-in humanity about it that made it, over time, knowable and even comfortable to those who dwelt there. Bookcases filled with ancient volumes, odd but beautiful artworks and artifacts stood in hallways or sat on tabletops, Persian rugs of great size and greater value (but none of them – any longer – capable of flight) covered floors of ancient hand-hewn oak, maple, and ash, and stone archways and hallways were so captivatingly constructed that one could walk through them for hours and never feel fatigued, or see the same place twice. This fantastical homescape was where Kent Nelson and his beloved wife Inza Cramer had lived the better part of their lives.

But entering Salem Tower now, this is not what Kent Nelson saw.

He saw, instead, a scene that reminded him of the Coventry Blitz: splintered walls, broken staircases, carpets ripped to shreds and stained with something resembling viscous bloody ink that seemed to be spreading even now before his eyes, the loose leaves of books scattered everywhere, their gutted hardcover carcasses lying spread apart like dead soldiers on a field of slaughter. Statuettes and ancient musical instruments lay in pieces on the tables they had rested on, or on the floors they had fallen on.

And in his right hand, two dozen roses drooped, withered, shrivelled, turned a sickening ashen grey, and then flaked into dust before his eyes.

But while all this registered, none of it mattered. Only one concern came to mind.

“Inza!”

He rushed from room to room with inhuman speed. “Inza!” Up and down broken staircases. In and out of crumbling archways. In every room, it was the same. Devastation. Desolation. And no Inza. He knew without a doubt that whatever had come here, whatever had worked its evil will here, had made her a captive pawn in its deadly game.

He fell to one knee, head in one hand. He felt the closest thing to panic he had felt in years. It was not that his many years labouring in the supernatural had rendered him any less a natural being, or that his many journeys among the superhuman, the inhuman, the dead, the demonic, the angelic, and even the godly had left him in some way less capable of emotion. Or that his own superhuman powers rendered him any less human at his core. It was simply that his many years of training had taught him discipline and calm in the face of adversity, and his experience and triumphs had given him confidence facing the most powerful of foes. But being attacked like this in his own home, in his heretofore impregnable fortress, and to have had the one most dear to him apparently abducted, held hostage, or, the unthinkable, dead – this shook him as nothing in many years had. And… there was something else. A dark grey shadowy pall hung over everything – less substantial than mist, almost as if a kind of veil had been cast over his vision, or a scentless smoke were choking the very light. It seemed to instil in him – even in him! He considered, amazed – a kind of irrational fear. It reminded him of what the ancient Sumerians had called puluhtu, an almost physical dread of the divine, the twisted opposite of ni, the awe one experienced in the presence of melammu, the aura or garment making manifest the glory of a god.

“No! It can’t be!” he said to himself, but the thought caused him to spring up and race to his watchtower room, from which twelve “windows” – mystical mirrors, in fact - looked out onto various planes of existence from the windowless tower. As he expected, these were all cracked and filled with a hideous grey film. In the centre of the room, in a pile of shattered glass below the wrought-iron stand where it had nested in its centuries-old circular oak frame, was the remains of the Eye of Merlin, an orb that had been the scrying glass of the famous magician, given as a gift to his friend and peer after the two had defeated the chthonic demon trio of Abnegazar, Rath, and Ghast. What power on Earth was great enough to destroy this supremely potent magical engine? He gestured to the pile of broken glass and willed an unspoken command at the glistening shards. A flash of golden light, a radiance halfway between a blast of lightning and the glow of a saint’s halo, flew from his fingertips to the pile of glittery rubble. The light subsided; the pile of rubble remained.

Once again, he made the mystic healing gesture, but more forcefully this time, exerting himself with such grim determination that every muscle in his body tensed and strained. The pieces of glass slowly, ever so slowly, began to rise and reassemble into the shape of a crystal globe, but he could see black fracture lines where the shards joined, and realized that these dark lines represented a destructive force repelling the shards from each other, preventing an undoing of the globe’s destruction. He struggled with this force for several minutes, contesting with it, his raw will against this nameless, mindless force. At last the black lines faded and the orb seemed to settle into a restoration of its whole, intact state. Nelson let out a long sigh of relief. But no sooner had he done so than the black lines swiftly reappeared, seemed to quickly expand, and the globe shattered into a pile of shiny debris once more.

Nelson let out an angry epithet, then cast a summoning spell. His form was quickly enveloped in golden light until it became a blinding blur. When the light slowly faded, in Nelson’s place stood a form clothed in a golden cloak, gauntlets, boots; a blue body suit covering his body from his torso to his legs; a golden amulet on his chest, and on his head a golden helmet. This quiet, private man now stood revealed as a figure known around the world – and on many other worlds, as well – as the master mage and supreme sorcerer, Doctor Fate.

Something had declared war on him, and likely had also declared war on the entire world. Doctor Fate would answer it.

He gestured toward the broken globe again, but this time with his left hand; his right hand pressed the golden jewel set in the centre of the golden metallic disk on his chest: the Amulet of Anutu. The power of the greatest of the ancient gods, Anu, the Creator of All, the Lord of Heaven, transmitted through the sigil of his scion, Utu, god of the sun. He rarely used the amulet’s power; it was too great, too unwieldy for anything but the most extreme situation. But he knew such an occasion was upon him now. Power flowed into him from the wellsprings of creation itself, until he knew he could barely contain it. Dropping his right hand to his side, he expelled the tremendous force from himself through his outstretched left arm.

The tower shook and for a split second all the familiar reality of it seemed to blink into something else entirely; for a split second, time and space, even such as they were in the Salem Tower, were rendered entirely irrelevant. Everything was something entirely other. But then reality reasserted itself, as did the Eye of Merlin, for when Kent Nelson – Doctor Fate – had recovered his sense of reality, the globe was fully restored. Holding his breath for a few seconds, he let out a sigh of relief. The restoration spell held; the dark force had been completely expelled.

But at such a cost. Despite possessing superhuman strength and stamina, he was exhausted. But there was no time to rest. Inza’s life was at stake. Certainly, he knew that some unknown enemy was setting a trap, that he was the prey and she was the bait. But that hardly mattered. He would rescue Inza or, immortal or not, perish trying.

Taking a deep breath and concentrating, he muttered an invocation to the spirit of the Annunaki and a supplication to Anu, to Enlil and Enki, and to his former mentor, Nabu. Give me strength, and more, give me wisdom, he spoke in the ancient, forgotten, forbidden tongue of the original Ubaidian sorcerers. He then laid his palm over the Eye of Merlin and exerted his will upon the orb, directing it to locate Inza.

The globe seemed to come alive with a golden light that radiated from it as if it were a warm electric bulb, but this glow dimmed and lost its lustre until it was a smoggy yellow-grey, and inside the scrying glass grey mists swirled and grew darker, until they appeared to form a grim shape.

The shape became the shadow of a misshapen head, and then in an instant it resolved into a hideous face, one that clearly had once been human long ago, but had become so corrupted as to appear demonic. It was completed bald, and its pale, bluish-grey skin appeared to be ravaged by some disease that had left it pocked and mottled with dark pits and patches. Its ears were of differing sizes; one seemed to have been partially eaten. Its teeth were long and yellowish and appeared to have been purposely filed to points; its tongue was long and appeared to have been similarly altered by surgical means: it was forked, like that of a snake.

But the most disturbing aspect of this creature’s face was its eyes: the whites were a cirrhotic snot-yellow, the irises a chthonic fiery red.

It couldn’t be, Fate muttered to himself. The demonic face laughed as if to answer, But it is!

“Nergal!” Fate exclaimed. The word sounded half curse, half question. The creature laughed again.

“What have you done with Inza?” the distraught sorcerer demanded.

The face grinned widely, exposing all the pointed yellow spikes in its hideous mouth., then turned and gestured to the form of a woman, floating in the middle of the great hall of a stone temple. The image grew closer to him until he could see that it was Inza, stiff as a board, pale white, and dressed in sombre sheer black silks with a grey rose and a grey viper perched on her breast – in the manner of ritual sacrifice to a dark god.

“NO!” Fate shouted. But then the face appeared again. Its mocking laughter filled the orb, and evil emanated from it like the wicked gravity of a black hole, depleting all heavenly light in its vicinity. The black veins again appeared in the orb, and it threatened to shatter, but it held firm. A look of surprise appeared briefly on the hideous face, but then it just smiled again, and pointed again to the floating form of Inza. Then the view inside the globe seemed to scan the room, so that Fate would be certain where his beloved was being held captive. But he had known that room from the first second the face had ceased to fill up the entire orb. It had once been home to him, after all.

Then the face vanished completely, the darkness drained from the globe, and it was once again no more than a large crystal ball.

Fate shuddered. He was shaken by unreasoning fear, as if under the spell of the fear-inducing Mask of Medusa. He had faced some of the most powerful beings in the cosmos – Darkseid, the Anti-Monitor, Mordru, even the Spectre – and never felt fear like this. He knew it must be the primal power of the creature’s aura, powerful enough to induce extreme puluhtu, even in him. And for the first time in his life, Nelson – Fate – experienced the sensation of his life flashing before his eyes, his life compressed into an infinitely faceted, self-reflective crystal. Under pressure like the grip of a collapsing star, he saw his life reduced to an atom of time upon staring into the face of the god of death.

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