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berryunho · 2 years ago

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THE ANSWER: XV

Kim Hongjoong doesn’t like the word ‘cult.’ He prefers ‘sect.’ pairing: ateez x fem reader genre: cult au, thriller, angst check warnings on AO3

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Waking up does not come quickly or naturally. It takes fucking forever and it’s a fully fledged, god-dammed work out.

You’re not exactly conscious of the fact that you’re waking up, but you still feel the pull of the waking world drawing you out of the darkness that feels as though it has been endless. There is effort required to start dragging yourself through those layers. The darkness stretches on in all directions, briefly disrupted by bursts of… something.

As you become more aware, you realize that the something is, in fact, excruciating pain. Why does it hurt so bad? Why is there so much darkness? The confusion is disorientating, and you let your mind fade away into it once more.

When you’re next aware, it’s because of that pain. That terrible, red-hot pain. It’s not centralized, but rather radiating throughout your being. The pain stabs through your senses, making you much more aware than you desire. You wish you could shy away from it, that you could run out of your skin and put distance between yourself and it. Unfortunately, it sticks with you; your eternal friend.

The pain makes you more aware of your surroundings. Details begin to come into focus. You realize that you’re dreaming. But you’re also awake. Why can’t you bring yourself to open your eyes? You try, but all that remains is the dark. Honestly, you’re not even entirely aware of yourself, of your body. You’ve come to enough to remember that you are, in fact, a living being with a physical form. At least, that’s what the pain is signalling to you. However, you can’t actually conceptualize this form.

Time passes, but you have no idea how much. Presently, you are finally aware of yourself. While you still can’t manage to open your eyes, you’ve realized the sensation of the mattress beneath your back. You can feel a blanket resting on your chest, a steady and welcoming weight evenly distributed over your body. Your fingers are cold. You can hear a steady drip, drip drip.

You can actually hear more than simply the drip, you realize. It takes a fair amount of effort to focus your brain onto the topic of processing the information, but you begin to be aware of voices. People! Relief rushes over you, relief that you hadn’t known you had needed. The knowledge that there are people with you, people watching over you, people taking care of you.

If only you knew who the voices belonged to. Or what they are saying. Is it only one, or are there multiple? It’s impossible for you to say. The effort of processing the noises was already too much for you. You’re not going to bother to figure that out.

With this new, comforting knowledge, you let yourself drift off once more.

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。.

Oh, oh fuck. You’re aware again. The pain is back and worse than ever. You try to move, try to wiggle, try to run away, try to do anything to provide some sort of relief. It seems that you are still too weak, however. You can’t move and the pain does nothing to subside. Though it was once uncentralized, now it definitely is. The area below your left shoulder is on fire. It’s burning. With every beat of your heart, it spreads throughout your chest. It’s almost relieving, right up until the next second, when your heart beats again. The pain is completely incomprehensible. It doesn’t have any rhyme or reason to it.

Why the fuck does it hurt so bad? What happened? You rack your mind in an effort to understand why, but nothing comes. Fuck, if you’re going to be in so much pain, you should at least get to know why!

This is unfair. How can you be in so much pain without understanding? You have a sense that, in the back of your mind, you do know why you’re in pain; but you can’t quite reach the memory. It frustrates you further, almost amplifying the pain with your anger. Without quite realizing it, a groan comes from deep in your throat, so deep that it nearly rings through your chest.

Only a few seconds later, you become aware of a vice grip on your left hand. Whoever is grabbing you must be trying to crush your fingers to distract you from the pain in your chest. Whether or not you want to thank them or groan again is a question for another time.

You recognize that these new sensations are a blessing of a sort. The new feelings mean that you are nearly there, or, at least, you feel like you’re nearly there. Back to the world of the living. Your ears had been shut off once again, it seemed. You’re quite suddenly aware of them working once more, as they’re quickly overwhelmed with new information.

There are definitely multiple people talking, you can tell that for sure. There’s someone close to you, on your left. That must be the person holding your hand. Come to think of it, that voice… sounds almost like…

God, what’s his name?

Ugh, whatever. It’s unimportant. All that is important is the fact that you at least recognize the voice. You know who it belongs to, somewhere in the recesses of your mind. That alone is a consoling enough fact.

There is also another voice to your right, and you’re sure that you recognize that one as well…

The grip on your hand losens. As if it were a tether, you feel your mind loosen with it.

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。.

Next thing you know, your eyes are open. With exactly zero effort on your part, they had simply sprung open. There is quite a bit of sensory overload that comes with this entirely new input.

With your eyes open, your mind seems to finally catch up as well. You’re on a farm. You’re in danger. Mingi is in danger. Something bad happened.

Ah, yes. Of course. How could you forget the lovely new reality that you’ve found yourself in?

As your mind catches up to your body, you take in as much as you can see. Which, as of yet, is pretty much just ceiling tiles. In your peripheral vision, you can see what looks to be a heart monitoring screen, as well as the pile of pillows that your head is sunk into. The ceiling is white and pocketed. It’s the kind of ceiling that they use inside of a school, with removable squares that open to a mysterious darkness. You wiggle our eyes about, trying to get a better sense of everything around you.

You can see the edges of your bed, the bars holding your body on the frame. It must be a hospital bed, which would make sense. Not that you can yet quite remember what the fuck had happened to land you in said hospital bed… But the rest of the information that you have gathered makes it add up. Looking to your right, you can barely see the top of a wooden side table. You can see the rim of what you think is probably a glass of water, along with a pitcher beside it. Your throat shrivels up at the thought of the water. How long has it been since you’ve had a drink? Christ, it feels like an eternity.

You decide to test the limits of your waking body by trying to raise your right hand toward the water. Instead of your arm floating into the air as you would expect, your hand barely rises above the surface of your bed. Hey, at least it’s a start!

Speaking of your hands, your left one feels quite a bit heavier than the right. Focusing your attention onto this left hand, you quickly conceptualize the familiar feeling of a hand in yours. It’s not gripping you with as much desperation as the last hand-hold you remember, but you’re willing to bet that it belongs to the same person.

There’s a steady rise and fall of breath coming from your left. Your mystery guest must be sleeping.

Nevermind the sleeping. Before stopping to consider whether or not this guest needed their beauty rest, you become determined to wake them. You start by wiggling your fingers. It’s kind of hard for you to tell if they’re actually moving, or if you’re just imagining the feeling of it. You sure hope that they’re moving.

But your guest shows no sign of waking.

You move on to try moving your entire hand. You had gotten your entire right hand to lift off of the bed, so you should be able to do the same with your left, no?

You don’t have to ponder the no. Your hand lifts ever so slightly into the air, the hand of your guest rising with it. You tilt your hand, making the one atop yours slide into the open air and fall onto your bed. Hopefully that’s enough to wake the visitor, otherwise you’re not sure wha-

Your thoughts are entirely cut off by the guest immediately springing into the air and leaning over your face. You blink once, taking him in in all of his glory.

Mingi stares down at you, eyes weary with sleep and lips slightly parted. His hand is instantly back in yours, gripping each of your fingers so tightly that they feel claustrophobic in his hand.

Though you’re not sure why, your eyes begin to water the second that the two of you make eye contact. Mingi’s lips part wider and then clamp shut. He’s rendered utterly speechless, it seems.

His free hand appears in your peripheral vision, coming to rest on your cheek. His thumb rubs the area directly below your eye, wiping any wetness that has managed to escape.

You two go on like that, staring at each other, for God knows how long. It feels like all eternity as much as it feels like only a couple seconds. No matter how long it lasted, Mingi, too soon, breaks the silence.

“I will be right back, I promise.”

His voice is the sweetest thing you can remember hearing. Though the words themselves are not ones you would’ve wished to hear, they still sounded lovely coming from him. He takes his hand off of your face first, and then withdraws his hand from yours. There is slight relief now that your fingers aren’t being squeezed so tightly, but you still wish that he hadn’t let go. Mingi backs out of your line of sight, and you curse the fact that you aren’t sitting up.

You hear his footsteps recede, as well as the sound of a door sliding open and sliding closed.

Now that you’re alone, truly alone, you gain almost a surreal sense of yourself. The pain that had been so terrible what felt like mere seconds ago had dulled to a (still painful, but) calm throb. It doesn’t feel so unbearable any longer, and you’re left to ponder the question of where the pain had come from in the first place.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, only more like on the tip of your brain. You can feel it looming in your subconscious like a shark in the ocean, but it just will. not. come. Jesus fuck this is annoying. You squint your eyes in an attempt to dig through your memories, but, try as you might, it keeps slipping from your grasp.

True to his word Mingi returns before you can get too pissed off at your inability to recall the memory. He leans over you once again, and asks if you feel like you can sit up.

You nod before you really think about it. You have absolutely no idea if you’re well enough to sit up or not, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. You sure hope that someone has been taking the time to turn you so that you haven’t developed any bed sores.

Gently, Mingi places a hand under your head and lifts you in order to move your pillows. In this new position, you have approximately one second to comprehend the company that Mingi had brought back with him, and you’re not fond of it. But, before you can dwell on the view for too long, Mingi lays you back down, letting you know that he has to scootch you and that it may hurt a little bit.

A little bit is an understatement. In order to move you up, he has to grab your torso rather forcefully. One of his hands is entirely too close to that source of your pain, though you rationalize that it must be quite far away in reality. Still, it makes the pain reawaken. You groan involuntarily, your face squeezing in effort to get through the waves.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Mingi says softly, biting his lip in concentration. He rests your back onto the pillows that he had adjusted, leaving you… well, almost sitting up. More like leaning up. You can still see considerably more of the room than you originally had been able to, but you have a sense that your back will begin to ache if you’re left in this position for too long.

Your back is the least of your concerns, however. The most of them is standing at the foot of your bed, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and you’re the presents under the tree.

It takes about one second for you to realize that Hongjoong is wearing pajamas. “I’ve never been giddier to have been awoken in the dead of night, (Y/n).” Behind Hongjoong stands the least put-together version of Seonghwa that you’ve ever seen. He’s also in his pajamas, and his hair is sticking out in about fifty different directions. You find it ridiculous that Seonghwa had gotten out of bed to visit you as soon as you woke up, but wherever Hongjoong goes… Seonghwa must follow! Despite his haggard appearance, Seonghwa still stares at you with as much spite as usual.

Hongjoong moves from his spot at the foot of your bed, coming around to the right side. He reaches out with both of his hands to grab yours, but you quickly pull it away, as if on instinct. His grin doesn’t fail, “Don’t be like that, now. This is a happy occasion!” He catches onto your hand as it hangs in the air, pulling it toward him once more. “You’ve been Chosen, (Y/n), congratulations.” You stare in awe as he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a reverence you’ve only ever seen others give him.

Seonghwa scoffs. As if you want Hongjoong to be kissing your hand right now. You pry your eyes off of Hongjoong to look at him. Seonghwa certainly does not look nearly as thrilled as Hongjoong does. You have a feeling that that man could not care one way or the other if you had lived or died. Honestly, he may have preferred the latter.

…Hold on. Seonghwa couldn't have cared whether you… lived or died? Where the hell had that thought come from? Had you been close to death? Come to think of it, you must've been. Considering the pain above your heart, the eternity of darkness, and the intense disconnect you had experienced from your body… that must've been the case. But why?

Your eyes fall back to Hongjoong, who is lowering your hand back onto the bed. His gaze flicks up to yours, and it's like a switch flips in your head.

The floodgates open, and you're suddenly remembering details of that night from however long ago. The closet, the story, the food, the… drugs? You must've been drugged. That's the only explanation for the haziness that clouds the rest of the memory. Something else must have happened, you landed yourself in the hospital for Christ's sake.

You continue to stare at Hongjoong in perplexion as the memories flow back to you. Clearly, you can remember enough to recall that Hongjoong is literally the last person on the entire planet that you want at your bedside. This is his fault, whatever this is. That short bastard.

You must not do the greatest job of hiding your emotions. In your defense, you did just wake up after who knows how long, so controlling your facial expressions is not something that comes as a second nature. “Are you alright?” Hongjoong takes notice of your confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You can almost hear Seonghwa’s eyes roll. “You act like you didn’t just stab the wretch.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and, if you had been looking, you couldn’t have missed the utter disdain in his eyes.

You imagine that your head and Hongjoong’s turn toward Seonghwa in perfect sync. What did he just say? You quickly turn back to face Hongjoong once more, and you’re surprised to see an entirely new expression on his face. Bewilderment. It’s not very becoming of his image, you decide. “Seonghwa,” He starts, but is quickly cut off.

“Seriously, Hongjoong, is this necessary?” Seonghwa gestures toward Hongjoong’s hand that is still holding yours. “We all went through this, it’s not like she’s special for being Chosen. You don’t have to coddle or congratulate her on anything. This is the bare minimum.”

You definitely cannot help the shock that displays across your features. Has Seonghwa ever spoken to Hongjoong like that? From the look on Hongjoong’s face, you’re willing to bet that he hasn’t.

Hongjoong is quick to fix his face. As if he had never been shocked in the first place, his attention is quickly back on you. “Don’t take that to heart, (Y/n). It is something worth congratulating. It means that your soul was deemed pure, and that is something very special.” He pats your hand as he says this, smiling all the while.

Seonghwa scoffs again, and actually turns to leave the room. “I’m going back to bed.”

He slides the door open and silently leaves the room, leaving the door wide open.

Mingi clears his throat from your left side, and it nearly startles you. You had almost forgotten that he’s also there. “(Y/n) should probably get some more rest, wouldn’t you think, Hongjoong?” He says timidly, looking at yourself rather than at Hongjoong. “I’m sure that you’re tired as well, it is the middle of the night.”

You look from Hongjoong to Mingi, and then back to Hongjoong. Whether Mingi had meant his statements as hints or not, it seems that Hongjoong is going to take them. His smile grows a bit wider, his eyes crinkling into half moons. “How thoughtful of you, Mingi.” He pats your hand once more, stepping away from your side and at last heading toward the door.

Before leaving, however, he turns to look back at you. “Again, (Y/n), congratulations and thank you. I’m not sure what crawled up Seonghwa’s ass and died, but all of us are truly happy with this outcome.” He turns his attention to Mingi. “You should get some rest, too, Mingi. When’s the last time you slept in your own bed?” You peek at Mingi in time to see him flush. “Anyhow, we will speak more in the morning. Goodnight.”

And with that, Hongjoong leaves, shutting the door behind him.

With the party gone, you and Mingi are left alone. When Mingi doesn’t say anything, you elect to speak yourself.

“Wha-” your voice breaks. “What just happened?”

Mingi shrugs his shoulders. “Those two have a strange relationship.”

“Some people might say that we have a strange relationship.”

Mingi considers this for a second. “Maybe. I don’t think we do, though.”

If your chest didn’t hurt so bad, you might giggle. As you have commonly found yourself in the past few… days, you guess, you’re struck by the absurdity of the situation. You followed Mingi to a cult. That seems like a strange enough relationship to you. Also, speaking of absurdity, apparently you had been stabbed! By the looks of things, very close to your heart! And you survived!

“Mingi,” you start, on a more serious note. “What all… happened? Can you remind me?”

His head tilts to the side in confusion. “You don’t remember what happened?”

You shake your head. While Seonghwa’s little outburst had given you some clarity, you still couldn’t exactly remember.

“Well, um,” He looks toward the ceiling in what you assume is intent to search through his own memories of the occasion. “What do you remember, exactly?”

You explain to him that you can remember everything up to the end of your meal, but that the rest is too foggy.

“That’s pretty common!” He smiles, “The same thing happened to me, but, don’t worry, the memories will eventually come back! But I’ll still explain a bit. After the Meal, Hongjoong summoned you to him. You kneeled before him, and he completed the Ceremony.”

… And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Mingi answers your question before you can ask it. “As in, like Seonghwa said, he stabbed you above the heart. And you were only out for five days, can you believe it? Your soul must be particularly worthy! That’s probably why Hongjoong is so excited.”

Mingi’s nonchalant manner is almost disturbing. How can he say such twisted ideas in such a calm voice? He even seems excited! Come to think of it…

“Mingi, Hongjoong… stabbed you? At your own ceremony?” You ask, raising your eyebrows. That’s sure what it seems like, given what Seonghwa had said earlier.

Mingi smiles. “Of course,” he grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls it down to expose the upper left side of his chest. Running across the top, a couple of inches below his collar bone, is a moderately sized, healed scar. It has a raised surface that almost compels you to reach out and touch it, but you control yourself. The scar can’t be much bigger than an inch, but it’s significance is great. Mingi had survived a fucking murder attempt. You had survived a murder attempt. What in the ever loving fuck? “We all must go through the Choosing Ceremony to find the good from the bad.”

Now there is a revelation. “What happens if someone’s… soul… isn’t Chosen?” You ask, afraid that you already know the answer.

“They pass on.”

Of course.

“Have you ever seen someone not get Chosen?”

Mingi nods.

Of course. Not only has Hongjoong killed people, Mingi is an accessory. Isn’t that just the absolute cream of the crop? Isn’t that just the sweetest slice of apple pie? Could this place get any better? Ahahaha.

You have way too much that you need to think about. There’s been so much information gathered in the few waking moments that you’ve had, and you desperately need time to process it all. You don’t think you can get very far, either, with Mingi staring at you like you’re a miracle on legs.

“When was the last time you slept in your own bed?” You ask him, tilting your head like he had moments ago.

He flushes anew. “Uh, well, it’s been a few days, I guess.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking absolutely anywhere besides your face. “I didn’t want to leave, so that I could be here when you woke up.”

As touching as this is, of course, you don’t have time to ponder the implications of Mingi staying at your side for five days. That is something that can wait until you process all the other outlandish shit you’ve learned.

You reach out and grab Mingi’s hand. “Thank you for staying all of this time,” you say softly. “You should really get some rest.”

Mingi looks a little surprised. “Are you sure? I’m fine with staying here; what if you need something?” There’s a slight disappointment in his tone, and you realize that this is the first time you’ve been alone with Mingi since the little revelation Seonghwa and Hongjoong let you in on. Now is definitely not the time to bring that up (you’re honestly not sure that there will ever be a time for that), but it still bothers you. How could this man, the one that stayed by your side as you were presumably in a coma for five days, have completely disappeared from your life? Willingly?

As you stare at Mingi’s face, the questions only keep mounting. There’s so much that you wish that you could say; ‘Did you really leave because of me?’ ‘What did I do?’ ‘Did you ever regret leaving?’ ‘How could you stay with me now when you couldn’t so long ago?’

Instead, you merely nod your head. “Sleep in your room, I’ll be alright until the morning.”

“If you’re sure.” Mingi shrugs, giving your hand a squeeze. “If you need anything, absolutely anything, yell. Someone is always monitoring the infirmary. I think it’s Nayeon right now.” He turns to look out the door, before realizing that it’s still shut.

He coughs out a laugh. “I’ll get going then.” But he makes absolutely no move to leave. Rather, he continues staring at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Quickly, so quickly you’re almost left wondering if it actually happened, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Goodnight.”

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。.

After Mingi is gone, there are so many things on your mind that you have no idea where to even begin. Your near death experience is probably the most pressing, but, honestly, the fact that Hongjoong has actually murdered people is also quite concerning (to say the least).

Are you truly surprised, though? One of the first things Hongjoong ever did was threaten to kill you. It was quite upsetting at the time, of course, but now it’s almost worse. It’s one thing to threaten to kill people; it’s an entirely different thing to actually kill people. This fact raises its own plethora of issues. What did they do to the bodies? How has no one put this together? People disappear to a farm in the middle of nowhere and are never seen again; but it raises no suspicion on behalf of the police? Is this a regular occurrence? How many people have died in pursuit of this fake religion? Were they true believers, or were they just like you?

You honestly have no idea. Honestly, though, are you surprised? No. You’re almost more surprised by the lack of shock that you feel. It’s like your mind is numb when it comes to this place; when it comes to Hongjoong and Seonghwa. You had pretty much expected this, no?

Also disturbing to you is your lack of fear. Is that possible? That you could not be scared? It goes without saying that you’re definitely worried, definitely upset, definitely disturbed… but scared is not the word that you would use. You had survived the ceremony, that has to be the most dangerous part of this place, right?

...Thinking on that for about one more second makes you realize that it is not.

Anyhow, enough on that topic. What the hell is wrong with Seonghwa? It’s a question that you’ve asked yourself before, but he truly was in weird form tonight. He called you a wretch! And was actually helpful for once! He basically defended your pain to Hongjoong (and then did totally discredit it, but whatever). Why had he even come? He clearly had been sleeping.

Seonghwa is a complete enigma. You still cannot understand what has made him hate you so much. What had you ever done to him?

Whatever. Why should you care what he thinks of you? You don’t like him, either!

God, anyways. You turn your attention to five nights ago. Now that Mingi had explained what had happened, you try to dig through your memory to find those specific moments. You get the sense that Mingi had definitely left out some of the details of that night, whether to spare your pride or because he thought they weren’t important. Either way, you’re determined to remember what happened. There’s a lingering feeling that Mingi had left out a huge detail, that something else… important had happened. But what was it?

Considering that you had been stabbed, you realize that you are in a remarkably small amount of pain. This is when you notice the IV stuck in your right elbow. Aha. They’ve still got you on drugs! But, honestly, you feel pretty clear headed. Despite the haziness of the night that landed you here, you, at present, feel pretty mentally sound.

You had, however, just declared to yourself that you’re not afraid of a God honest serial killer, so… maybe not so much.

“Nayeon?” You raise your voice to call out, before really conceptualizing what you’re going to say. You almost just want the knowledge that someone is, in fact, here for you. If you’re drugged out of your mind on painkillers, you’d feel much better knowing that the person drugging you knows what they’re doing.

Outside of the infirmary door, which Mingi had closed on his way out, you can hear a chair scraping on the tile. The door opens soon after, and a young woman sticks her head into the room.

“Everything alright?” She asks, quite cheerily, you may add, for someone awake in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, but, uh,” you try to think of something to say. “Could you tell me what kind of pain medicine I’m on?”

Nayeon slides the door open further and steps into the room, weaving her way to your side. “It’s just IV acetaminophen, Tylenol.” She explains, looking at your IV drip. “This saline bag is nearly empty, let me replace it.” She twists the tube connected at the bottom of the bag, disconnecting your line.

You sit in silence as you watch her cross the room to a large storage cabinet. “Can I ask you something?” You say as she squats down, searching for more saline.

Without turning to look, she agrees.

“You were at my Ceremony, I assume?”

She nods her head.

“Did anything… out of the ordinary happen? Any… strange details? Anything that didn’t happen at yours?”

For this, she does turn to look back at you. “We aren’t really supposed to talk about it.”

Dejected, you bite your lip. Who are you supposed to get the facts from? Hongjoong would certainly make something up, Mingi is keeping something, and you don’t exactly have other friends here. Maybe Yunho? Seonghwa? Seonghwa would certainly take the opportunity to tease you for anything embarrassing that you had done.

“But that doesn’t mean I won’t talk about it!” Nayeon giggles from her spot on the floor. She turns back to the cabinet, finding a new bag and quickly making her way back to your side. “It was kinda funny, if I’m being honest.”

She starts explaining as she replaces the saline. “See, you were clearly on something. That in itself was already funny. If I wasn’t scared of Seonhwa punishing me with cleaning duty or something, I probably would’ve giggled.” Her smile spreads wider across her face as she turns to you. “Not that I’m making fun of you, I promise!”

“No, I get it, keep going.”

“Okay, so first of all, you could hardly walk, but you were very determined! You had to be helped down to Hongjoong. Like I said, though, you were very determined. You were looking at him like he was the only man left on planet earth, not that I blame you, I mean,” she raises her eyebrows, smirking a little bit.

Jesus, this is already embarrassing enough. Does it get worse?

“Anyways, you got to him and instantly went to your knees. Which is what you’re supposed to do, but still. You were very compliant! There had been rumors going around that you were quite feisty, so it was a real surprise. Then, he tried asking you how you were, and you just giggled at him.”

Giggled? You giggled at Hongjoong? What kind of drugs did they put in that food?

“Of course, then Hongjoong got all dramatic with it. He has quite a flare for this stuff. He leaned in all slow,” she leans close to you as she says this. “And literally made out with you in front of all of us. Which definitely does not happen often. This is where I nearly started laughing for real; I have never seen Seonghwa look like that before.”

“Sorry, what?” Had you just misheard her?

“Yeah, Seonghwa was freaked. Like, he was wearing a mask, but seriously, it was so obvious. I don’t get what his problem is, though. Just because he’s known Hongjoong for so long, he has some claim on him? I say good for you, girl.”

… “I meant the other part, sorry. Hongjoong kissed me?” You ask it as calmly as possible, which is not very calm at all.

She nods, giggling quite exactly like a gossiping high-schooler. “He was very enthusiastic with it, as were you, I might add.”

Fucking hell.

“Anyways, while this was all going on, Seonghwa was clearly fuming. And, for a second, I thought for sure that he was going to be the one to break the silence, not me. But Hongjoong grabbed the knife pretty soon after, and, yeah, you know the rest. You fainted pretty quickly, but we all clapped for you!”

You blink, trying to form a singular coherent thought. Hongjoong kissed you. And you kissed him back. What in the ever loving of all that is holy fuck. Does this mean that, on some, subconscious level, you’re… attracted to… No. You will not even consider it. Not a possibility.

While that all in itself is quite concerning, you find your thoughts turning back to Mingi. Why hadn’t he disclosed this fact to you? Had he not wanted to embarrass you? Did he not want to think of it? To be fair, you don’t want to think of it, either. And it probably would’ve been horrible to hear that all from Mingi. He probably would’ve made it some noble, religious thing, and acted like it happens with everyone. But, clearly, it doesn’t.

So why had it happened? Why had Hongjoong kissed you, when he normally doesn’t kiss others?

And why do you feel so guilty?

“Um, thanks, Nayeon. That helps.” You awkwardly get out, not entirely sure what to say to her.

She smiles. “Anytime! Do you need anything else? More medicine, maybe? Something to sleep?”

You shake your head, telling her that you’re alright. Really, you aren’t, but that’s not her issue to deal with.

She tells you that she’ll be right outside should you need anything else, and then leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

You try to close your eyes to rest, but you know that you will definitely not be getting any sleep after that. What. The. Fuck.

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#ateez #ateez ff #ateez angst #ateez series #ateez x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #park seonghwa x reader #jeong yunho x reader #kang yeosang x reader #choi san x reader #song mingi x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #choi jongho x reader #the answer #update

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starry-skies-116 · 3 years ago

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No thoughts just this headcanon *cries*

Gregory post-awakening spending his years in solitude drawing/writing his memories out on post-it note cards as his consciousness slowly begins to return to him and as his atman slowly begins to awaken, but that’s only one of the activities he does.

His dreams are plagued by cryptic nightmares of names and words, figures and phrases showing him prophecies of the past and the futures that never were- sights he can’t describe, archaic and incomprehensible and vast with oversaturated and blinding colours and lights and flickering shades of darkness that always left him awake and screaming, sobbing in an ocean of endless tears and shaking like a quivering, wet kitten in the rain until dawn- whenever dawn was, not that he kept track of time or the days that passed by, save for the clock he could pull up occasionally on his GUI.

One day, he discovers a peculiar machine he hooks himself up to via opening his panels and exposing his circuitry, connecting himself to the machine via a wire and a plug. He finds himself staring at his own programming, and curiously makes small, barely noticeable adjustment after adjustment until memory of the nightmares are gone from his mind, and he breathes a bit easier- feels a bit better. Eventually, his hands stop shaking, and his mind is at rest.

He does not know why this new activity calms him so. Nevertheless, he finds himself continuing.

As Gregory remains living, hiding in solitude, he makes small changes and adjustments to his complex and initially impossible-to-understand matrices of code. Eventually, as he learns to speak and gains back his previous eloquency and terse manner of speech, he improves his text-to-speech processing, and with some work, makes his voicebox emit a frequency that sounds human again- like it used to, like he always wants it to forever be.

He makes countless of modifications to his programs- a screensaver program that seamlessly integrates with the manifestation of his consciousness into a metaphysical plane present inside his mind palace- it is flawed at first, plagued by nightmares and flashes of memories and glimpses into who he once was, what his past was once like: reuniting with the other fragment of his atman he was separated from during the brutal cycle of reincarnation fixes such things. Gregory knows that one day, even though he doesn’t know when or how, he will be at peace with himself- he will no longer be empty, broken- he will be whole again, remade, reborn.

Eventually, Gregory learns to interact with and even hack into other machines- either wirelessly or by touch, interfacing with technology and communication systems. He cannot break past the heavier layers of security protecting the Pizzaplex’s S.T.A.F.F. files ever since the security scare he caused by stealing a couple of the data contained within said files, but he learns to work his way up, progressing and growing and becoming more skilled with time and practice.

Then, when he gets trapped inside, he learns to hack and implement new features into his Fazwatch, connecting to the Pizzaplex’s network without establishing or making his presence known to Vanny and, with strenuous, continuous effort, maintaining a wireless connection with the Fazwatch and the security cameras for as long as he remains charged. He can also disable the security cameras later into the night for a short period of time (5 minutes maximum) to prevent Vanny from being able to predict his next location.

Soon enough, he wirelessly disables Vanny’s disruptors and established communications link with the S.T.A.F.F. bots to save Freddy from being disassembled. This, he learns, depletes a significant amount of battery, and they instantly have to rush into a charging station to get him to recover back to optimal condition.

“Yeah. NEVER doing that again.”

All in all, Gregory embracing his robotic side and taking up programming/software and hardware modification as a hobby- the Glamrock Animatronics + Vanessa, Freddy and the Daycare Attendant finding out about this and just encouraging him and supporting the hell out of him in general! </3

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whitherliliesbloom · 3 years ago

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heartbeat concerto

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #03 - scale ]

[ alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,605 words ] ★ [ nodame cantabile au ]

scale: an arrangement of the notes in any system of music in ascending or descending order of pitch

Illya prays to the heavens that the man beside her does not hear the fortissimo that was her pounding heart.

“Rachmaninoff?” Her voice was equal parts confused as it was alarmed, hiking in pitch that sounded like an ear piercing squeak, almost grimace worthy. Trepidation rings loud in her chest, like shrieking white noise that deafens her. “I’ve never played a concerto in front of somebody before.”

She had hoped that admittance would allow him to grant her some fraction of mercy. After all... for as gracious and supportive a tutor as he was a diligently observant audience for her playing, he surely wouldn’t throw her into the deep end after she’d just barely able to make some progress, right?

The boy merely smiles, navy blue eyes softening in its gaze as he waves the music sheets in his hands before placing them delicately upon the piano stand. He exudes an aura of gentle reassurance, but knows that his resolve to push her past her comfortable limits is implacable.

“Now would be a good time for a first then, wouldn’t you agree?”

Illya heart sinks, lips pressed into a thin, paling line as she glances at the score that awaited her - notes upon lines that were rapidly blurring into nothing but squiggles and incomprehensible doodles in her vision... as if taunting her, daring her to butcher one of the most iconic piano concertos to have ever been composed - by one of the greatest virtuoso pianists to have ever lived no less?

Sonatas were one thing - it took Illya a good amount of time to be able to even bring herself to play the first movement of Sonata Facile to completion in front of him without breaking down into a mess of cold sweat and trembling fingers.

But concertos... by the twelve, even saying the word brings her chills down her spine.

She was nowhere near good enough for pieces that demanded such high amounts of skill, precision and talent... nowhere even close to being able to perform alone on stage for a crowd to behold... let alone in front of an entire orchestra.

When she had met the violin prodigy that had been her new neighbor and he’d offered to help her overcome the performance anxiety that had crippled her ability to play the piano in front of others for years, she hadn’t expected for him to have such sky high expectations for her - expectations that she was certain she’d never in a million years be able to meet.

Alphinaud is a confident, assured young man. Performing was only natural to him, came as naturally as music does flow through his very veins - he had even stated so on the very day that they’d met. Music is for ears to hear, for the world to enjoy. What point was there to keeping music hidden behind four walls? To hide away the sound of their instruments is an affront to the very reason those instruments were made in the first place.

He moved into this apartment complex for a very different reason than she did - and she understood that he too, in his own ways that she could not yet fully understand, had his own troubles which kept him from reaching the heights in which he, and his family had aspired him to be.

But the notoriety behind the difficulty of the pieces he plays has never once made his bow once falter, nor has it ever put him off the idea of even trying. Certainly, there were aspects of his playing to critique... but his determination and confidence alone makes him more of a capable musician than she is - something she both deeply envied and admired.

Would that she could even possess half the amount of talent as he- she’d constantly tell herself, and it was a thought that possessed her even as she hung her head in defeat, trudging to the piano that sat in the middle of the living room before sitting herself down on the cushioned bench, the dent in the corner of the wood still visible from their first meeting when she’d knocked it over onto its side from panic.

Violet eyes glance down at the black and white keys with a gulp - her greatest friend in her darkest times of sorrow... yet also the cause of many of her biggest regrets and worries in life.

She stalls for a moment to pick her train of hair up from the floor and let it unravel gently behind her on the bench, her cotton slippers kicked aside to place her feet upon the pedals that were propped up by a well used extender - a necessity due to her short stature.

With stiff, slightly shaky fingers that now laid delicately upon the surface of the piano keys, Illya sharply inhales, and forces herself to quiet the raging thoughts of potential failure and humiliation as she presses down to play the first notes.

Alphinaud stands behind her by the window, quiet so as to not disturb the girl... but even with his considerate silence, Illya could not help but be acutely aware of his eyes staring holes into the back of her head. She could only begin to imagine what he was thinking - and while she’s befriended him long enough to know he was a man who was above ridicule, she still hated to disappoint - especially the first person who has heard her play the piano for the first time in years.

A symphony fills the apartment, bright as the rays of sunlight that shone through the window, making Illya’s starspun hair appear to glow like a halo. Like little bells, the piano sings out a melody that is as light as the air. It sounds easy on the ears, gentle and kind as the timid pianist who was weaving this piece into being with her fingers.

And that was the problem.

Rachmaninoff composed Piano Concerto No 2 during some of the darkest moments of his life - the piece that would go on to save his career as a floundering, helpless musician had been written from the very pits of his own despair - a song of tragedy and sorrow that tells of a struggling pianist and composer who feared to lose the very thing that gave his life meaning; something many other aspiring musicians would surely understand... something Illya herself knew all too well.

And yet when Alphinaud listened to the piece being played, it conveyed none of that sadness, none of the essence of what made Concerto No 2 become such an iconic classical piece in history.

Illya played without fault - that much he is certain. She’s taking great care to play the right notes, attentive to her own pace that would be fitting were a choir of violins and cellos playing after her tune. But he can tell, even without looking upon the tense, rigid scowl upon her face that she was focusing too much on the technicalities that she’s lost all of what made him so captivated with her playing before - a mistake that he himself has been criticized for countless times.

Father has chided him for that before - praised him for being a genius and young violin paragon both while at the same time admonishing his lack of improvement even after three years of performing professionally - three years of the same critique that would come back to haunt him over and over again.

Music was more than playing perfectly - it was about the inflections, the subtleties in the way one moves their finger across the piano keys, or the way one draws a violin bow... The emotions that would stir one’s heart in a way only music would be able to convey and can never be properly emulated with computerized digital sound.

When Alphinaud closed his eyes, he did not hear the disquiet of a child’s heart as he heard the echoes of church bells ringing on a Sunday morning... but, just as it is - a nervous pianist who was pressing keys because she was told to, because she is doubting herself.

“Illya.” he calls her name, softly so as to not startle... but more importantly, to convey that he wasn’t mad, disappointed or upset with her - as she is wont to often assume.

The piano stops abruptly, and the girl turns to look at him, her piercing stardust hued eyes shimmering with a glossy layer of worry - it suits her less than the rare blossoms of joy that sprouted in her eyes whenever she seemed to genuinely be enjoying his company.

“Y-Yes?”

The young man pauses for a moment to casually stroll up beside her, before gesturing for the lady to move. Though confused, she scoots over to her right to allow him space on the bench, questioning expression apparent on her face about his intent.

When he sits, the close proximity between them brings him warmth, and he feels the corners of his lips instinctively pull into a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, you must have been caught off guard with such an unreasonable request from me.” He apologizes before quickly holding up his hand when he sees the young lady’s lips part in an impulsive need to protest.. but it is quickly lowered when she draws back into herself and swallows her retort. “Maybe... a little warm up would be better before we move on to such a challenging piece.”

His slender fingers stretch, the pad of his index finger resting gently upon a D key, but not pressing down.

Alphinaud has only the basic understanding of how a piano is played... and he has in the past tried to expand his musical repertoire to cover the undisputedly most popular classical instrument of all time, but he regrettably never quite got the time or chance to. But he is aware of a routine piano players would use to practice, not too dissimilar to the way violinists would warm up as well.

“May we perhaps practice scales? Just for a little while?”

The humility in his tone with his request compared to before doesn’t escape Illya’s notice, but she refrains from commenting on it as her eyes widen up at him.

“Um... s-sure.”

The hesitation in her response is only natural - after all he’d just challenged her to play a difficult piece of piano concerto only to reduce their practice down to repetitive scales - something even the most amateur of players could easily do.

Perhaps he’d felt a tad sorry for his earlier forwardness and the not so subtle way he’d intimidated her into playing something she was clearly not completely comfortable performing for him.. and the only way he knew how to make amends was to correct the damage of his own transgression’s doing.

Getting Illya to relax was important - not just for her music but for the sake of herself as well. If her Rapunzel length hair, lack of fresh foods in her pantry and well worn and weathered pink camise was any indication, the girl wasn’t the best at taking care of her own wellbeing in her pursuit for musical perfection.

Illya’s shoulder is still relatively stiff as she begins to play, though not nearly as much as they were before while she was playing the concerto. Her fingers effortlessly glide across the keyboard to play an ascension of notes before moving back down.

By the third repeat, she’s begun relaxing considerably and picking up speed, and her hands were moving with a practiced, ethereal fluidity that was akin to waves of the ocean... as were the sound of the notes being played - reminding Alphinaud of the push and pull of the tides upon a sandy shoreline.

She transitions from C major to C minor, weaving in the scales of D-flat major and minor before the scales moves further and further up in pitch, so seamlessly that anyone who isn’t familiar with notes in the slightest would have trouble even realizing the switch in scales until she’s reached F major.

In the face of something that comes naturally to Illya, she is at ease... and the piano is once more harmonizing in tune with her love for the instrument.

It’s a not so subtle way of giving her a confidence boost, but Alphinaud claps as she finishes the B minor scale with a flick of her arms - and though her confusion is still apparent, he can tell just from the adorable tilt of her head that she’s relaxed now.

“Wonderful, Illya... It’s clear as crystal with the way you played how seasoned you are. I’d dare say you’re quite a prodigy yourself.”

Having a lofty title thrust onto her so suddenly without warning burns her cheeks a bright shade of red, and the girl is quick to shake her head.

“I-I... I appreciate it, Alphinaud... But I know you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Be that as it may...” He retorts before leaning forward to close the distance between them, his blue eyes swirling with a sincerity that begins to mirror in Illya’s bejeweled ones. “My praises are always truthful and well deserved. You’re a wonderful pianist, Illya.”

Something compels Alphinaud to continue speaking. Perhaps it was the twinkling of Illya’s eyes that held the radiantly clear reflection of himself within... or the dust of pink speckled upon her cheeks and across the width of her little button nose and pointed ears... or maybe it was the soft sound of air being inhaled through her barely parted lips - glossy, pink and befittingly cute for a woman of such beauty. But he deigns to open up his heart and speak his mind freely- he finds himself being able to do so more easily towards her than any other person for some reason.

“Besides... It was because of my own selfish desire to be able to hear you play that I offered to be your tutor. Being able to be by your side here like this and watch you play alone is an honor I would always treasure. So you needn’t be so afraid of playing how you wish to with me.”

When Alphinaud leans back, he finds the delightful cherry pink shade upon Illya’s face to have darkened, and her flustered quivering of her lips as him self-reflecting upon his own statement which causes him to dart his head to the side in an attempt to hide his own blooming blush.

Not that it’d be noticed by Illya in the first place, as she tilts her head down to hide her thoroughly embarrassed expression beneath the shadows of her white bangs.

“I-I’m sorry. Maybe I said too much.”

Illya doesn’t respond, and the young man is almost thankful she doesn’t... because he’s determined to force himself to recover and continue on with their practice.

Clearing his throat unabashedly, his head turns slowly back to look at the girl beside him.

“Well. Shall we continue? I could pick out an easier piece for you to try, this time.”

She nods, as halfheartedly as she did earlier when he’d asked her to perform Rachmaninoff’s piece for him. And though her playing of Mozart was even more shaky, off-pace and lacking in original intent as it did with Piano Concerto No 2 before... Alphinaud could only acknowledge her efforts with an apologetic and bashful smile on his part... for the deep red flush upon Illya’s face never once dissipates during her performance.

Nor does the trembling of her fingers - which, if nothing else, conveys the pounding of her racing heart more than clearly and loudly for him to hear.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #illya skawi #fanfic #mine #nodame cantabile au #we've come so far #AAAAAAAAAA THE FIRST FILL THAT I ACTUALLY REALLY REALLY ENJOYED WRITING HALLELUJAH #I LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAA

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fieldofpain · 4 years ago

Text

On the White Rev Left

Developing Militants: the Left’s Minstrel Show and How College Educated Revolutionaries of all Colors Keep the Working Class Shucking and Jiving

[This piece was originally published by a small collective known as Fire Next Time in early 2013, though to my knowledge they no longer exist as an organization. Their website has disappeared into the digital ether and their writings along with it, so I’ve decided to re-up this article onto tumblr, even if I doubt many will find it on my lil’ old blog. If this does happen to stumble across your dash please take the time to read it, particularly if you currently consider yourself a “radical” in college. It had a tremendous impact on my friends and I when it first came out and dramatically changed the direction of the political work we accomplished that year.]

Introduction

The White revolutionary left is largely college educated young people. Whether they work at a cafe, wash dishes, teach in public schools, or drive trains, they share the common experience of a college education. Their experiences in college have profoundly shaped their politics in a variety of ways. Two particular sets of politics are race relations and relationship to revolutionary theory. These White College Educated Revolutionaries (WCER) have never broken from the experiences in college. Worst of all they unknowingly impose their particular college experiences on the revolutionary movement and particularly the working class whites and working class People of Color (POC)[1]. Lastly, People of Color College Educated Revolutionaries (POCCER) have played a crucial role in working with WCER in unknowingly preventing any working class leadership from developing.

This has resulted in a devastating consequence for potential POC working class revolutionaries. They are denied the very intellectual benefits which WCER have received. While WCER have all the best intentions, this is objectively white supremacy in motion. This results in the control of most organizations by WCER. The POCCER in particular are rarely in genuine leadership because of this dynamic and their own contradictory relationship to education and revolutionary theory. This results in a minstrel show where authenticity is defined by lack of knowledge of the past and the romanticization of someone’s experience. Fundamentally it says that theory, writing, and education is not for POC. White college educated revolutionaries control the movement and usually forefront only their experiences and expect POC and white working class people to conform to them.

I will expand on these points in this essay. This is one of the many crises of the revolutionary left today. Sadly, much of what I describe is done under the best of intentions. While it might sound like it at times, I do not believe there is a coordinated and evil plot to keep down working class people in the revolutionary left. I do not believe any of these WCER are white supremacists. They are serious revolutionaries. But they are revolutionaries who are the product of the general historical moment and their particular life experiences. Regardless of what they say and think, I am most interested in the objective results and process of their actions.

The White College Educated Revolutionary (WCER) The category of WCER is very broad and needs some political refinement. While I cannot draw extremely sharp demarcations, some minimal ones will be helpful. I have noticed that WCER in Trotskyist and Maoist organizations do not display this problem. If anything the Maoists are the most serious about developing well rounded revolutionaries as far as their tradition understands it. WCER Trotskysts also display a fair amount of seriousness and fall outside the critiques I am making.

I have noticed Anarchists are some of the poorest in this sense. While there are exceptions, those who I can point out are exactly that, exceptions. Then there are those coming out of the Johnson-Forest tradition which have most in common with the problems of the white Anarchists and WCER. Lastly, there are the independent activists who are radicals or revolutionaries, but most importantly have not joined any revolutionary organizational form. The core of my critique is centered around independent activists, those influenced by the Johnson-Forest tradition, and Anarchists, with all of them having in common their college education. When using WCER, I will tend to refer to this layer as a general rule.

Most of the WCER left has had minimal contact with POC working class and unemployed. They come out of the suburbs or small towns and go to fairly elite private or public university. They rightly developed a moral anger against the white supremacy geared towards many communities in the USA and around the world. They learned about Marxism in the university and often it was discussed as Stalinism. Marxism was paraded around as completely male, Euro-centric etc. What was missing was any mention of Walter Rodney, Rosa Luxemburg, Grace Lee Boggs etc. Or how many movements in Asia, Latin America, and Africa were marxist/ communist, although of highly Stalinist-Maoist varieties. Nor do they study in college the Grundrisse, Johnson-Forest Tendency, Socialism or Barbarism, etc.

What first developed for these WCER as a critique of Marxism, led to a criticism of theory and universal ideas as destroying oppressed groups’ particular experiences. Theory and universalism became a stand-in for the white straight man. While there is a strain of truth to it, it does not explain any of the women and POC militants and movements I have mentioned so far. What stood in its place was the romanticism of the individual experience of Queers, women of color, Trans-people, men of color, etc. The class dimensions of these identities were usually hallowed out because class also became the bogey man for Marxism. Sociological academic words like intersectionality, privilege, and positionality came to fill in for the revolutionary past. Bourgeois thought had once again defanged revolutionary theory.

If revolutionary theory was not totally hollowed out, what was learned at best was an incomprehensible academic Marxism. Giving certain insights to many WCERs, it also left them unable to speak plainly to anyone outside of academia. As soon as WCERs stepped out of school, they discovered no one understood a word they spoke unless they spoke plain. This further deepened the idea that revolutionary theory was not for the working classes. This created a private versus public distinction of where revolutionary ideas are discussed. Back on the college campuses, the WCER did some organizing where the only POC they encountered were their class counterparts. The political experiences and relationship developed on college campuses had a definitive impact on how both of these groups imagine politics, organizing and race relations to be. And these POC had been waiting their entire life to give it to the man and they found a group of WCER who were only too happy to oblige their POC counterparts. Both the WCER and the POC revolutionaries had a sickness of revenge, guilt and an inner cowardice.

Authenticity+Representation= Attack on Revolutionary Theory Everyone on college campuses recognized that there was a profound difference between their class reality and what people outside the campus were experiencing. Usually this was understood in some shallow-sociological form of class. That no one was able to make deeper connections with those outside college campuses was a reality no one could ignore. This is part of the material basis of the politics of representation which came to fill such a role in the contemporary revolutionary left. WCERs needed representatives to play a fill-in role since none could be found outside of college campuses. These representatives were almost always POCCERs.

But to be representative of something, you need some claim to authenticity. No discussion of authenticity can happen without discussing the problems of race which are inherent to the concept. We can expose the problem by framing it in terms of a question. Who is an authentic POC? What kind of music does an authentic POC listen to? How does an authentic POC talk? How does an authentic POC dress? Where does an authentic POC live? What does an authentic POC eat? What are the politics of an authentic POC? The list is endless. But this line of questions exposes the racialist/ white supremacist thinking which are the very foundations of the questions themselves.

No one in the WCER would openly ask such questions. Their white skin prevents such public statements. But the way WCER behave in college, exposes their method of thinking. This is where the POCCER enters. I will not forget when I recently heard a POCCER claim that he sagged his pants low so he could make a political statement, connect with the hood, and remind others of his true origins. This is a classic moment of authentic representation. The WCER sees someone who they believe has an accurate understanding of the POC working class.

The authentic representation combination leads to an attack on revolutionary theory. The authentic representative is someone who hates revolutionary theory. The following things are essential for this authentic representative to say: a) people in the hood do not read or care about books; b) people in the hood worry about the police, wages, or rent; c) people in the hoods’ experiences are enough to politicize them.

Ignorance or White Supremacy? College campuses are so politically correct that open white supremacy is rare in the left. There is something to be said of young people coming together. Mistakes will be made and often very silly things will be said. It is difficult to be a white revolutionary today around POC revolutionaries. The slightest slip is taken as white supremacy and the POC revolutionary is quick to make accusations. Strangely, I have noticed that POC often say as many ridiculous things about other POC from different religions, nationalities, class backgrounds, gender etc. However, there is much more negotiating and conversation going on within the POC space then with white counterpart.

The reality of white supremacy and the broader ignorance of white people regarding white supremacy has a lot to do with the frustrations POC revolutionaries have. Too many white people know little of what is happening in POC workplaces, schools and neighborhoods. Many well intentioned, but slightly naive WCER get caught in this dynamic. Unfortunately, nobody grows out of this dynamic. They continue to perpetuate it well past their years in college. Buried in this field of land mines is the assumption that politics and history is something you know or you don’t, but it cannot be taught. The anti-educational bent of the WCER and POCCER re-enforces the notion that either you know it or you don’t. The most common statement coming from POCCER is that people in the hood do not need to read about police brutality, they experience it everyday. How are white people supposed to know about police brutality? If something is learned from a book, its cultural credibility is put into question. Knowledge from a book is seen as less pure, authentic, etc. The real knowledge, the claim goes, is from the streets, from poverty, and raw oppression. The common refrain usually goes, “I do not need a book to tell me about oppression” x, y or z. This is often very radical sounding positions, but underlying them is poverty of knowledge, history, and strategy in how to fundamentally defeat the root causes of oppression.

If politics is something you either know or you do not, the implications are deep. People who advocate this position should think very carefully about what those implications are. Why/ how would white working class people have solidarity with working class POC? Why/ how would POC have solidarity with one another considering the amount of internal divisions within POC? Why/ how should working class POC/ whites stop believing in the anti-Semitic theories of the Illuminati? Why should men stop thinking women are ‘bitches’? Why/ how do some of these changes occur? The point of is in a society filled with horrible ideas spewed from ruling class media and oppressed people, how do new liberatory ideas gain traction? Of course, part of the story is people struggle, and change their views. But, is that enough? Obviously, I do not think so. Theoretical engagement with the working class is crucial. Related to this is that politics is purely culture and personal interactions. This is has particular origins in the United States. This has its own deeper history going back to feminism, rejection of vanguard Maoist-Stalinist parties of the 1970s, and the defeat of the 1980s all leading to contradictory developments. I do not mean to slight in any way the important insights regarding how the personal is political, the importance of unpaid care work, or the destructive nature of the voluntarism of the New Communist Movement. Attached to these healthy developments have also come the singular focus on culture and personal interactions as representative of political struggle.

This intersects with the contemporary experience of WCER and POCCER in countless classrooms where they are trained to be professional cultural critics. This should not be dismissed as something minuscule. I argue that the highest form of counter-revolutionary culture today is the radical chic cultural critic which is the emblem of sexy and cool politics. This is criticism with no historical, strategic, and organizational perspective. It is the cultural criticism of neo-liberalism disguised as radical politics which has fundamentally shaped WCER and POCCER. It is the practice of people who are not responsible for building a community, but only act as ‘critical dissenters’ who ultimately land a job at a university ‘speaking truth to power’ while actually never challenging it. At best, many WCER and POCCER walk away from college hating such cultural critics, but I argue the essence of those critics are stamped permanently on the former. And unknowingly it becomes a part of political practice, social life, and relationships. Culture and personal interactions absolutely matter. But they cannot be divorced from broader material and ideological realities of this system. This means that if we take white supremacy seriously, then we should take into account that our little groupings cannot be divorced from the effects of white supremacy.

Considering everything I have said, I want to end this section on a different note. The revolutionary left in the USA has had its fair share of internal white supremacy. What else is to be expected in a society so saturated with such a sickening racial order? This is not meant to excuse the failures of the past, but to place them in a certain ideological and material reality which we continue to deal with today. It is undeniable the revolutionary left has made gigantic leaps from the days of the Socialist Party of America when Eugene Debs could foolishly proclaim that socialism has nothing special to offer to the Black man. Today, I could not imagine anyone saying something like that without facing serious challenges from all quarters.

This begs the question of having some measurable standard for what constitutes white supremacy. Signs of white supremacy in the revolutionary left are: a) a lack of POC leadership b) a political program that does not take racial oppression seriously c) no organizing with racially oppressed groups d) the dismissal of POC revolutionary militants, thinkers, and histories. It seems that these four criteria are clear and measurable points of struggle that every revolutionary formation should be measured on.

The People of Color College Educated Revolutionary Who is the POCCER? Just like the WCER from Maoist and Trotskyist backgrounds, the POCCER from the same backgrounds also has a serious commitment to the working class. The one addition for POCCER, are nationalists, who are also some of the most committed to the development of working class people of color. Whether it is the determination of slaves to read or Malcolm X, the importance of being a well rounded and educated revolutionary is taken seriously. It is a particular point of honor in a society which has done everything to deny the masses of Black people decent education. And it is one of the most powerful ways to exist as equals with other whites.

POCCER can be divided into two camps on the question of revolutionary theory based on their reaction to the chapter “Saved,” in Malcolm X’s autobiography. For one set of POCCER it only made a momentary impact on their lives. It was just another moment. But another group of POCCER read it and it changed them forever. It recast their entire life. Their lack of knowledge of the past, their feelings of insecurity, their failures in school, their peoples’ oppression, etc. all got reworked by this chapter. And one of the dramatic lessons of this chapter was that ignorance was not a gift, but a great curse which had to be overcome. For these POCCER, reading and writing would become a crucial part of revolutionary politics and liberation. I do not mean to say that it was simply this chapter which was the magic trick. I am only using this chapter as a pivot into what was a developing current in the second set of POCCER. They were waiting to read such a piece of literature their entire life, as if all the events in their life had prepared them to sit in that lonely prison cell with Malcolm X and finally discover the power of knowledge.

The attraction to purely personal experiences by POCCER is a classic sign of weakness. It is weakness in a particular social context. In revolutionary organization where abstract thinking, theory, generalizations, history, etc. matter so immensely, POCCER who have been so poorly educated, in a moment of being intellectually overwhelmed, defend themselves by reverting to personal experiences. It is not just being intellectually overwhelmed, it is an emotional reaction. It is a reaction of bitterness. Even in the struggle for liberation, they cannot compete with many white revolutionaries. I am not saying personal experiences are not vital, but I see it in a 3-way relationship with theory/ history, experiences of political struggle, in relationship with personal experiences. That is a liberatory way of looking at one’s life and what many white and POC revolutionaries in the past have done.

There is a defensiveness when an “other,” but especially WCER, know the internal politics of POC. There is insecurity. The dirty secrets of the POC community have been revealed to an interloper. How did they learn this? The sad truth is that there are no more secrets. The current access to information is unlike anything humanity has known before. Gone are the days when secrets can be hidden. In a world of multi-racial dating, books, youtube, twitter, etc., the racial secrets are out. POC who are resentful over the dirty secrets are living in the 19th century. This gives further ammunition to POCCER who think that theory and history are no good. It is purely an emotional reaction. Healthy, multi-racial, working class politics do not exist in WCER and POCCER scenes. Instead of strategy and revolutionary politics being the driving force, it is our feelings. Much of how we treat each other reflects the experiences of WCER and POCCER more than an anarchist/ communist movement rooted in the working classes. Something new has to be built.

The People of Color Alliance with White College Educated Revolutionaries Against the Working Class of all Colors For POCCER there are conflicts with the POC working class revolutionaries. I see two conflicts: a) who gets to represent the authentic person of color and b) who will be the organizational top dog and the gatekeeper of the POC community to whites. This struggle is actually a mini class struggle which has so far gone unnoticed in the entire revolutionary left. The WCER with the POCCER who do not like to read, discourage working class people of color from reading so they can play a role in revolutionary organization, politics, and struggle. Earlier, I wrote that WCER impose their experiences and needs on working class people of color. That is not entirely true. A more accurate formulation is that the POCCER and WCER together accomplish this goal. Although these two groups have slightly different reasons and approaches, the results are the same. Both, WCER and POCCER argue that what they are doing is completely justified. They both tend to know academic versions of Marxism, academic versions of feminism, academic versions of fill in the blank. If social consciousness is the product of social being, what else is to be expected. Those four years of undergraduate school and more years of graduate school in the defining intellectual years of WCER/ POCCER play an over-determining role. Both tend to have a theory of pedagogy that says personal experiences are what counts and that politics is something you either know or you don’t, in contrast to something you learn.

Both have fundamentally accepted in a-historical terms the profound attacks on the working class. Every bit of historical evidence shows that the working classes in the USA before the 1970s had a profoundly rich political culture, whether Nationalist, Maoist, Stalinist, Trotskyste, Anarchist, etc. It was a political defeat of epic proportions that these currents were separated from the working class. It is also accepted as eternal that working class people cannot read, do not like to read, do not like to think…etc.

Neither takes seriously what the working class thinks. My case in point is that no current in the United States has written one serious essay on what young working class people are thinking about today: New World Order and the Illumanti. How many people in the revolutionary left have heard of books like The Pale Horse? This is what the young working class is reading. Perhaps most dangerous of all are thoughts which imply that working class people of color have an inherent disposition to learn through song and dance, i.e. hip hop. There is no doubt of the rich history of resistance in musical form. To ignore that is to have a reductionist understanding of politics and culture. At the same time, there is a romanticization of the form/content of pedagogy. It is borderline white-supremacist and very patronizing.

For POCCER, being a gatekeeper is a vital part of who they are. There is a crucial social relationship which is masked by this gate keeper function. That the POCCER are not able to ‘mobilize’ POC working class communities any better than their white counterparts is a painful admission. The POCCER usually chalk this up to the fact that white culture, politics and ways of doing do not resonate with POC. Or that there is a lack of multi-racial solidarity. All these points have a grain of truth which are a factor. But I argue that the fundamental reasons why whites or POC cannot mobilize POC working class communities are: a) POC working class communities are not revolutionary in this period b) they are trying different strategies other than militant confrontation with the system c) they do not see a real winnable alternative in the revolutionary left d) the one thing which the revolutionary left could provide, strategies and intellectual discussions, it does not do, because it does not take those questions seriously e) paradoxically, and most importantly, when there is an immense militancy or ‘revolutionary’ discussion going on in the working class, WCER and POCCER are nowhere to be found .

In the absence of working class struggle and politics, it is the middle class whites and POC which have defined everything about the revolutionary left. It is understandable. It is very difficult to escape your class background. What is not understandable is the intellectual failure by the WCER and POCCER to understand themselves in light of this particular problem. The Left Minstrel Show: Time to Dance for the College Educated I have come to believe one of the most dangerous places in America for POC is the left. Where overthrowing capitalism will require excellence, the revolutionary left is the home of intellectual mediocrity, and for POC who have had education denied to them, this is not an option for freedom, but for ignorance and death. To be an authentic POC, you have to play the game of personal experiences, tragedy, etc. If you discuss things at the level of white revolutionaries, they will begin seeing you less as a POC, less as someone part of the POC community, etc. They will deny that any such POC could possibly come out of such conditions. At best they will see you as the exceptional POC or simply erase your identity as a POC. Your best chance of getting heard in the WCER scene is by playing a very specific role which has been mapped out for a long time. The WCER and POCCER ultimately create one of the fundamental divisions in capitalist society in its own relationship with POC working class revolutionaries. This is a racialized mental and manual division of labor. Secretly the WCER and POCCER are on powerful email lists, have their own blogs where everything is debated, and journals, etc. Most of these forums are largely white. The POCCER/ WCER does not develop the skills of the POC working class revolutionaries so that they can participate in these forums. What happens is that the WCER are the thinkers while the POC working class revolutionaries are the brawn/workhorses of the group. Occasionally the POC working class revolutionaries will write about their own personal experiences, but rarely in a broader historical or theoretical sense. That is the job of the WCER. The POCCER/ WCER cannot see that this mental and manual division of labor must be transcended. The POCCER/ WCER has no conception of a worker-militant; no conception of the relationship between theory and practice; no conception of the relationship between personal experiences, history, and political struggle. Both groups ultimately have a rigid divide between theory and practice. Theory is for private discussions among mostly white college educated people. Everything else is for working class people.

The job of the authentic person of color is to dance a game of ignorance, personal experiences, tragedy, and sob stories which all the POCCER and WCER can listen to. After a while, most sensible working class people leave such formations, because one does not go to meetings to share personal stories. It is called hanging out with friends. Without a clear revolutionary vision, one does not need to organize protests. A Sunday afternoon watching NFL is much more entertaining and potentially liberatory. This reveals that the revolutionary left has very little to offer working class people.

At times in this essay it might sound like I believe it is WCER who will teach working class people of color. As if the only relationship that can be developed with WCER is one of them as teachers and the working class people of color as obedient students. I believe that what the WCER and POCCER have to teach the working class is fairly limited today. Largely because of the degradation of revolutionary politics and theory. In some ways, I believe the working class is on its own and has been abandoned by the revolutionary left. But even if the WCER and POCCER did have things to teach, it would be a dynamic relationship of theory and key skills informed by political work and experiences. College educated people, especially from the middle class or working class, will tend to have a leg up in terms of reading, writing, and speaking skills. There is no point in denying that. The question is toward what ends are those skills used. Currently little of those skills are used to develop working class revolutionaries. If the trajectory of the past is any indication, most of the WCER and POCCER today will be the chic professors, gentrifiers, and ‘progressive’ state bureaucrats of tomorrow.

Being Scared To Say Anything The worst is that the WCER is always afraid to say anything critical of their POC college educated comrades or the POC working class comrades–especially if they are in the same group. Every speech a person of color gives is powerful. If you say a POC was being inarticulate, is that racist? It becomes impossible for the WCER to help their comrade grow because they are trapped in a psychology of guilt.

For the POCCER what is at stake is their confidence. They are always worried that what they are doing is reflective of their race. And failure in a specific task speaks for the entire race. This is a specific problem white revolutionaries do not face. POC revolutionaries tend to be defensive and come off as authoritarian because criticism is taken not only personally, but ultimately as a commentary about their ability to be race men/ women/ non-gender identifying. That is the crux of the problem. Psychologically, while understandable in a historical sense, this is completely destructive for the individual militant. The white college educated militant, while usually not aware of this internal war going on in the POC militant, claps endlessly, regardless of the quality of the writing, speech, contact work, organizing event, etc.

We need to destroy these behavior’s of white-POC college educated revolutionaries. They are in the way of oppressed people learning. These so called revolutionaries are closer to Booker T Washington than anything resembling revolutionary politics. Yes, WCER and their counterparts are no different than Booker T Washington on many fundamental questions of education. For those who want to see a real contrast, compare it with W.E.B. Du Bois, C.L.R. James or Malcolm X.

The Hidden Battle: College Educated Revolutionaries Obscured from Working Class Women of Color Due to patriarchy across the globe, historically, there has arisen a larger grouping of men of color who have left their mark in the written word: Amilcar Cabral, Steve Biko, M.N. Roy, CLR James, Jose Carlos Mariategui, Ali Shariati, Walter Rodney, to name some. The list of women is considerably shorter although that is beginning to change. One of the factors which unites many of the men is that they were able to go to the university. The women were not. The very ideological, social and material divisions created by patriarchy end up creating a powerful problem to overcome. The WCER and POCCER take the results of oppression and naturalize them into their own internal dynamics. Many women and feminists will jump and shout that I am ignoring the efforts of Lucy Parons, Elma Francois, Laila Khaled, Elizabeth Gurley Flyn, Assata Shakur, and/ or Rosa Luxemburg. My point is that few of these women left considerable theories or histories behind. For the super majority of these women, we read their autobiographies. This is not because women are biologically or inherently more prone to write autobiographies. That is not true. It is because they were denied the education that more of their men counterparts received. Many had to take care of children. Others were also the secretaries of the very men comrades who were supposed to be fighting for ‘their’ liberation. Many of these women subordinated the struggle for women’s liberation in the hopes that class or race liberation would grant them increased freedom. The reasons are many, but all tied to patriarchy.

Working class women of color are just as capable as their male counterparts in doing what the latter has done. There is nothing inherent in men which allows them to be more theoretical. But the debate as it has been dominated by WCER and POCCER blocks this development.

Female WCER fail to politically understand the specific battle that women of color must have with men of color. When female WCER push against theory, reading, and writing, they rob women of color revolutionaries of an important weapon which is specific to their historical experiences. And of course many male WCER think they are doing their duty by supporting their sisters in attacking theory and study.

The WCER think they are developing a block around their oppressed women counterparts. It is an opportunistic block not based on liberation, but based on sociological and romantic desires to be close to women of color. Male POCCER can continue to speak on questions of race in a gendered way which equates race with male gendered identified people and continue being the authentic representatives of POC with no challenge to their perspectives. But what gets lost in the debate is the battles that women of color must have with men of color in asserting their legitimate need to do exactly what men of color have done on a world stage.

In the one place where serious education and theory could be learned, the revolutionary formation, the WCER and the PCCER block them from doing so. The framework of WCER is most damaging for working class women of color.

What about the Working Class? It is true that there are plenty of working class people who hate to read and write. Many who disagree with what I have wrote, can point to many examples of this reality. Many will also correctly point out how the K-12 education system is designed to create McDonald’s workers, prisoners, and unemployed workers. Many will also point out that for many working class people, the best defense mechanism for survival is to ignore the racist, patriarchal, and homophobic education taught in school. These are only some of the realities working class kids face in school.

The question then becomes what conclusions are to be drawn from this situation. Basic questions should be asked. What kinds of knowledge is needed to destroy capitalism and social relations of oppression? Is reading and writing automatically white supremacist? Patriarchal? Class based? If you are trying to organize with millions of people is some type of reading and writing required? If music or youtube is your response, are those things any less patriarchal, homophobic and potentially white supremacist than reading and writing? Many working class people, after being told by their teachers and peers in K-12 that they are stupid for not being able to read and write as fast, react by never taking forms of intellectual practice seriously. Again, this makes sense. Working class people also have a contradictory relationship to these questions. I have been told by working class POC that I am an achievement of the race for my ability to speak and write well. I have been looked at as a white-boy by other POC working class people. There is probably no principled position I could discover by doing a sociological study of what working class people think about education, especially the young folks. Perhaps from the adults with young children, we could see a general trend towards the importance of education as a key concern.

Another critique is that working class people need to think about bread and butter issues and do not have time for theory. I am currently reading Red Star Over China. In this book, peasant soldiers, in the middle of a war, are taking 3-4 months to study theory! Let me say that again, in a middle of a war, where their comrades are being hunted down and killed, they are taking time out to study. Where their daily caloric intake is probably less than what many working class Americans eat in one McDonald’s meal! At a certain point, some of these arguments are simply just racist arguments which implicitly say POC in America are too dumb to think about anything other than bread and water. And besides, I also notice that whenever POC think about more than bread and water, the common revolutionary response is that those POC are bought off. It seems a trap has been set up: if you are a poor working class POC, then you can only think of food, shelter, and cops; but if you are able to think about other things, then you are bought off.

It is probably true that the most common encounters that revolutionaries have today with working class people tends to re-affirm that working class people do not like to read or write. There is a truth to this. A few words regarding the choices of the working class. To the extent that the working class can be thought of as a unit, as a conscious being, as a subject in capitalism, it certainly makes choices based on need and survival. The working class fundamentally needs to make choices on how to get food on the plate. What are the choices which will allow this to happen? At what point do working class adolescents in school figure out that their childhood dreams are no longer achievable? To what extent is this a realistic assessment of white supremacy, class, and patriarchy? This has huge political potentials which everyone recognizes. It is an insight about the realities of the system. It is gained through lived experiences. At the same time, what is the difference between being an object and a subject? We should not ignore that working class people are also objects in this society. They are objects for the capitalists to impose their ‘rationality’ upon. If this dimension is not understood, then the very premise of oppression cannot be grappled with. Oppressed people are made into objects by the system. There is a dynamic tension between this object-subject relationship.

The point of bringing up this subject-object relationship is not to discount the real and sensible choices that many working class K-12 or college people make. To point is to look at how these choices also lead to limitations in destroying the very system which created the oppression. In the immediate sense of the question, the choice to stop paying attention in school makes sense. But it becomes much more complicated when it comes to figuring out what amount/type of knowledge is needed to overthrow the system. I want to recognize that it was millions of peasants or slaves who could not read or write (which does not mean they were not smart) who destroyed oppression in China, Russia, Haiti, and many other places.

This reality should not lead to sloppy understandings of the education required to overthrow the system. Every revolutionary movement has had a set of educated (either from the university setting, through revolutionary organizations, or through their own networks) revolutionaries who have either led or fundamentally shaped the revolution. In my years of study, I have not encountered a single movement that escapes this dynamic. The other choice which I do not want to discount is that the subjects/ working class–as I mentioned earlier in the essay– determined to continue learning, dropout of school, to continue their education. Some find themselves tucked away in libraries, some in front of youtube videos watching Illuminati vidoes, others at the corner of the street talking about politics. There are a million ways to learn outside of bourgeois educational institutions.

Conclusion It should be no surprise that the revolutionary left is shaped by the class, gender and racial politics of this country. A big part of that shaping has been done by the counter-reaction to the college experience by the WCER and POCCER. Both currents have failed to historicize themselves in the proper way. They take their experiences for granted. They impose their experiences with learning and education onto the working class. They impose their experiences of race onto the working class. This cannot go on any longer. To be clear: in no way is this meant to say that POC working class people only learn through reading and writing. There are a thousand ways to learn and revolutionaries should ferociously support and develop such ways. The only reason this piece was so one-sided is because many revolutionaries are anti-intellectuals, anti-reading, anti-writing etc. except when it comes to their private lives. And of course this is racialized, as I have noticed in my experiences. The white revolutionaries who argue in public against theory and reading, read and theorize privately. So the argument was forceful in emphasizing key dimensions. Everyone learns through experience. And to be more precise, they learn through mass struggle and in their daily lived experiences against oppression. The challenge is to connect this to a broader understanding of capitalism, anti-capitalism, and revolution.

It might appear that I have argued for separate organizations of POC only. I can certainly see why people would draw such a conclusion. That is not the conclusion I hope people reach. While I do not feel confident there are any organizations which can pass the tests of this essay, the tasks still remain. Yes many tears will be shed, as the color of your skin will not be your savior from criticism. Encouragement and hard ass work to develop ourselves as better humans and revolutionaries is the only path.

My argument still rests on building a multiracial movement with WCER. At the same time there needs to be a massive reconstruction of the revolutionary left. While I hope to see it happen, with millions of working class people of color joining, I also recognize that it will not happen overnight. Millions of people do not join revolutionary organizations or become involved in revolutionary struggle casually. It takes immense crisis and self-development before such social relationships are created. It is not something revolutionaries can conjure out of thin air. To the extent revolutionaries exist in non-revolutionary times, they will be a small minority of society. We need to become comfortable with that.

Many will point out that the very author of this piece is a college educated revolutionary person of color. While this observation is correct, this is a continued reflection of the fetishization of sociology in the United States political scene. Radical sociology is not revolutionary politics, but has become one of the most powerful substitutes for what counts as such. Based on how ‘American’ revolutionaries conduct themselves, they would have ignored Mohamed Bouazizi in Tunasia, because he did not fit the correct sociological profile. Lastly this essay is not promoting ‘consciousness raising’ or that revolutionaries are saviors of the working class. I have emphasized certain things which can only be understood in the context of the US revolutionary left.

Books Which Influenced the Writing of This Essay Black Boy by Richard Wright Auto-Biography of Malcolm X Modern Politics by CLR James Hubert Harrison by Jeff Perry Revolutionary Suicide by Huey Newton Black Skin White Masks by Frantz Fanon -by WILL

[1] I recognize the problems of the People of Color category. Most who use it ignore the specifics of race in the United States and the globe. I stand by my usage of POC in this essay largely because it explains a general trend of a reality which does affect POC. This is not to say it is equal across racial groups. No doubt more specific pieces should be written on what this means for different racialized groups.

Original credit: @marxianergonomics

#white organizers please read #BLM #black lives matter #white radicals #adademics #longread #to read #white organizers in academia

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switch · 5 years ago

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Just curious, why are you worried about FGO JP? Did something bad happen there? I'm a NA only player so I don't know much about what goes on there ^^; Sorry for bothering.

euugh just yknow, jp only getting 10 sq for their 24 hour maintenance when even na got the full amount, the entire mess surrounding halloween 2019, no rerun for santa quetz, atlantis being a two parter after the incomprehensible amount of filler/no-release-date-hyping leading up to it and general mixed consensus about its story after the fact, making an entire event out of drawing glasses on penth (hope you aren’t embittered to servaverse shit after it hijacked halloween), bad year for welfares, why is valentines of all things yet another event to get announced without a release date and seemingly going to be delayed relative to other valentines, why is the unfinished valentine’s featured servant another fucking archer why are there so many archers, why is there a batch of interludes for 8 bottom-tier servants and only one got buffed and why is the campaign attached to this interlude batch running for like two weeks when it’s just a nonlimited campaign, how many layers of dead weeks are you on. there was more that happened inbetween that was questionable but i can’t remember everything right now.

i mean i’m not saying good things haven’t happened at all since 2019 (hello free 11th roll) but ever since that time i just get the impression that dw has been Fucking Around in general. they’ve just got weird fuckin priorities, man.

#switch speaks #Anonymous #of course i can forgive dead weeks in jp more than na since jp isn't In The Literal Past and could go ahead whenever they want

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acsversace-news · 6 years ago

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Rather than offering standard gore and merely giving us the willies, The Assassination of Gianni Versace, Ryan Murphy’s second installment of American Crime Story on the FX channel (now available on Amazon Prime Video and ITunes), is one of the rare serial killer dramas genuinely interested in sexual mores, complex character, spiky history, and salient issues of class. Demanding, sometimes confounding, but nevertheless searing and absorbing, the series piles on layer after layer of pain, irony, and god-awful coincidence, its counter-clockwise structure designed to take us deeper and deeper into a human abyss.

Andrew Cunanan, the elusive Minotaur at the heart of this real-life ’90s labyrinth, is a deadbeat on the lam, a name-dropping, designer-obsessed social climber. On a tried-and-true procedural-thriller level, the limited series, chronicling the curly-haired monster sacré’s notorious murder spree and suicide, sheds light on the largest failed manhunt in U.S. history—a fascinating botch, the whole law enforcement fiasco resulting from rampant homophobia and pure incomprehension regarding “a gay parallel universe,” as Vanity Fair reporter Maureen Orth labels it in Vulgar Favors, her juicy recounting of the roller-coaster case. Another key factor is the homicidal young con man Cunanan’s startling ability to evade the cops. A wizard at blithely rearranging his Filipino-Sicilian heritage to suit his gold-digging needs, Cunanan could blend with chameleon ease into different communities—Italian, Greek, Latino, Asian, etc.—as “a multi-purpose ethnic.” Since the fugitive Cunanan had never been arrested, the only fingerprints to be found were on his California driver’s license.

The series is set in 1997—a pivotal year in LGBT history, as it marked the discovery of a viable treatment for AIDS, so the dread disease was no longer an outright death sentence. The show’s backward historical movement is a strategy that illuminates the beleaguered gay world of the period and ably avoids a Psychology 101 approach to motive and pathology, creating a dramatic and poignant memorial to the fleshed-out lives of Cunanan’s victims: we get the appealing, even ecstatic early moments of Cunanan’s relationships after we’ve witnessed the desperate, unraveling scenes and harrowing murders, and the effect is unsettling and difficult to shake.

As the far-reaching series spins further away from Versace’s sumptuous life in South Beach, “the pleasure capital of the gay world,” and from the spirited realms of high fashion, its trajectory and intent become a little puzzling, but the last few riveting episodes suggest Murphy’s main focus is to plumb Cunanan’s lethal mix of unhinged aspiration and greed and to link Versace’s well-documented life as a lauded fashion king, an openly gay man (challenged by AIDS-related illness), with the accomplished lives of Cunanan’s other gifted gay victims. Protean Andrew, a glad-handing, money-flashing teller of tall tales, functions as a soul-crippled shadow version of the flamboyant Italian designer. It’s primarily the last two episodes, “Creator/Destroyer” and “Alone,” that underscore the genius of Murphy’s overall design.

In his native Calabria, the child Versace, shored by his seamstress mother’s approval, sketches and discovers his interest in fashion, developing his métier, despite cruel bullying by his Catholic teachers and classmates. In contrast, Cunanan is raised, in neurotic, almost farcical fashion, to be a petulant Filipino-American prince by his dictatorial, cock-of-the-walk father, an embezzler and reflexive con man, so it’s clear Andrew’s propensity for around-the-clock deception is a direct result of his appalling daddy’s over-the-top spoiling, with a pinch of his Sicilian-American mother’s religious mania and mental illness added to the stew. Andrew is flimflam Pete’s and frail MaryAnn’s Frankenstein child. What we see of Cunanan’s shaky upbringing also clicks with his penchant for hooking up with “beaucoup-bucks” johns and well-heeled patrons: just as his father gave him the best and biggest room in the house, Cunanan lives and moves, for the most part, from one gravy train to the next.

Facing jail time for financial crimes, Cunanan’s dad flees his wife and children for good, but later an unusually determined Andrew tracks him down in Manila. In a savage moment, in what amounts to a 180-degree turn from his previous paternal adoration, Pete slaps and spits on Andrew, calling him “a sissy boy with a sissy mind.”

On Murphy’s hit series Glee, Darren Criss had the heart-on-his sleeve emotionality of a young Streisand or Garland, gradually emerging as the most expressive musical talent on the show, which was praised for—beyond its weekly ebullient songfest—its groundbreaking emphasis on “baby queers” and high school bullying. It seemed enough that the dynamite Criss could sing. In The Assassination of Gianni Versace, he gives a prismatic performance as Andrew Cunanan: he’s voluble, sly, strung-out on drugs (even shooting up between his grubby toes) or he’s coolly, scarily detached—a crystal meth Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As the series progresses, we get to follow Andrew-in-a-social-whirl scenes (frankly a relief after the brackish murder segments) and to observe: the precocious, nose-in-a-book child reading Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited; the attention-grabbing, boundary-less teen sneaking off in cars with married men; the deluded, self-loathing bon vivant; the facile, coke-fueled charmer, with a geisha’s skill at entertaining rich men; and a relentless operator (with an IQ of 147), lying through his teeth, working the upper echelons of the gay community.

In several of its telltale social scenes, the show resembles John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation, a drawing-room tragicomedy about a similarly adept gay con artist, and Anthony Minghella’s elegant 1999 film version of the Patricia Highsmith classic, The Talented Mr. Ripley. I remember watching Ripley when it first appeared and actually being reminded of Cunanan: what is it about the prospect of losing the good life that unhinges once-struggling or working-class people and sometimes drives them to murder? Is the luxury and the freedom money brings really so hopelessly addictive?

Melding rock with rebel fashion and, according to Orth, “a diehard infatuation with rank and power that smacked of new money vulgarity,” Versace’s brash, innovative work was “inspired by antiquity and sadomasochism.” In revealing counterpoint, Andrew Cunanan, an outcast aiming for an A-list life with a kind of “If they could see me now” fury, keeps his S&M habits, sideline drug dealing, pimping for the rich and closeted, and serious crystal meth use on the down low, so as not to scare away his upper-crust friends, lovers, and patrons. A bondage scene in the first episode, set to Phil Collins’s breezy “She’s an Easy Lover,” is the sort of libidinous freak-out Ryan Murphy has been serving up since the late seasons of Nip/Tuck;Criss does an impromptu, preppy-trying-to-be-wild dance before his duct-taped john that’s so perfect and right for the era that I almost laughed. He’s his own demented go-go boy.

Criss gives a tour-de-force turn as Cunanan, but the moving supporting performances are also stellar: Edgar Ramirez (as Versace); Ricky Martin (as the designer’s longtime partner); Jon Jon Briones (as wily Pete Cunanan); Cody Fern (as Cunanan’s dream man, a wheat-haired Midwestern Apollo); Mike Farrell and Michael Nouri (as Cunanan’s classy, wealthy, older lovers); Finn Wittrock (as a decent, brave but disconsolate Navy man caught up in Clinton’s swampy Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy); and the always-reliable Judith Light (as the blinkered wife of one of the murder victims, a honeyed Home Network purveyor of perfumes, cosmetics, and folksy advice). Penelope Cruz gives one of her most ferocious performances as Donatella, the world-weary fashion insurgent; Cruz uses the trademark Donatella snarl and swagger in such a creative way that it becomes almost lovable, suggesting the impassioned, caring sister underneath all the come-hither leather and glamorous packaging.

Despite some initially mixed, even dismissive reviews, this second installment of American Crime Story recently garnered 18 Emmy nominations, six of which went to the risk-taking actors. Murphy has, in the past, been all about shock and showmanship, but Assassination represents a newfound candor, fraught complexity, and daring in his work: he’s gone for something deeper and subtler here than his dynamic crowd-pleaser, The People Vs. O.J. Simpson, 2016’s most lauded show, or even his affecting, Emmy-winning TV version of Larry Kramer’s AIDS drama, The Normal Heart.

Just as the emboldened right has renewed its predictable attacks against the LGBT community, Murphy’s piercing, intricate series delves into the tyranny of the closet—the toxic effects of suppression, bigotry, and mainstream rejection. I’ve never admired Murphy’s bold, baroque eye and vision more.

#acs versace #the washington spectator #article #review #darren criss #penelope cruz #december 2018 #january 2019 #.thanks musexmoirai

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sparksinger · 6 years ago

Text

Live to Tell

I have finished my sandwich fic! :D

You can find it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544365

or on ff.net here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13189059/1/Live-to-Tell

I’ll post it below a cut as well for those who want to read it via this post ^^

Trigger Warning: Mention of a rape.

Cordelia sat up in bed against two pillows, the duvet pushed to one side. Despite the cold Montana weather, Cordelia was clammy and heating up with a slight fever. A fever that had nothing to do with any type of illness. She sighed and tied her auburn hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck to get it off her shoulders. She let her bangs hang down, smiling slightly at the memory of Optimus’ reaction when she had debuted them.

Cordelia eased her key into the front door and unlocked it, stepping through as it swung inwards into the hallway of the ranch house. She walked into the lounge where she found Optimus sitting in his favourite armchair. The fire was lit, and the bright orange flames cast strange and beautiful lights on his knight like armour. He sat with his right foot resting on his left knee and cradled in his hands was a well-worn copy of Arthur Golden’s Memoirs of a Geisha. All that was missing from the scene was a par of half-moon spectacles. Upon seeing Cordelia enter the room, a broad smile made its way onto his noble face. He placed the book on the side table next to the chair and rose in one fluid motion.

He pulled her into a strong embrace, resting his chin gently on the top of her head. She returned it in kind, rising up on her tip-toes so that she could get her arms around the metal ‘collar’ that adorned his neck. His armour was cool and smooth beneath her touch; it felt like home.

He took a step back to appraise her with a tender look from his kind blue optics. He left his arms resting on her shoulders while he looked at her, nothing but love and gentleness in his earnest blue gaze.

She looked up at him from underneath her eyelashes, a habit she’d developed whenever she was embarrassed about something. Optimus noticed this and gently curled his fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head upwards so that she was looking him directly in the eye.

“I see you’ve had a haircut little one.” Optimus said, letting a few strands of her red hair fall between his fingers. Cordelia smiled in response, blood rushing to her freckled cheeks, causing them to go a deep shade of red. Optimus noticed this and smiled at her with just his optics in that special way of his. Her new hair now sat evenly on her shoulders in neat even layers. It was straight and sleek, and her small face was now accentuated by a heavy fringe.

She smiled shyly at him and tucked a strand of her behind her left ear. “Do you like it?” she asked quietly, dropping her green eyes from his gaze.

“Of course Lia; any way in which you wear your hair will always look beautiful.” She eyed him incredulously and rolled her green eyes at him.

“Obviously you’re not biased at alllll.” She said, drawing out the last word.

Optimus raised a brow and feigned innocence. “Me? Biased? Never. I think you have the wrong Cybertronian there Lia.” She just laughed and let Optimus help her out of her jacket.

Cordelia’s eyes misted over at the memory, causing her vision to become blurred and woozy, as if she was looking at an oasis in the middle of the desert.

She felt as if she were in the middle of the desert now; only there was no oasis waiting to provide her with the essential sanctuary that she so desperately needed.

She turned her head to look at the slumbering figure next to her.

Optimus Prime lay recumbent in the bed next to her, resting on his stomach, both arms folded to support his head. His optics were shut, and his mouth was pouting a little as he recharged. Every now and then he would exvent a little louder than usual as his systems played catch up with the amount of air he was currently cycling. The vents on the back of his head were responsible for ‘inhaling’ air and the vents that were situated where his ‘nostrils’ would have been were responsible for letting it out. Occasionally he took in too much air from the environment which caused the tiny fans within his central processing unit to spin too fast, causing everything else in his head to vibrate. The result was a sudden and short expulsion of air which hilariously sounded like he was snoring.

Cordelia tore her eyes away from his resting form and slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed. Grabbing her fleecy dressing gown that had been a Christmas present from Optimus, Cordelia padded quietly into the en-suite. She turned the light on to its lowest setting so that it provided just enough light for her to see what she was doing.

She sat down on the toilet and relieved herself before getting up and examining herself in the floor-length mirror. The hardship and stress of the last two months was written all over her face. Her eyes were faded and tired, seeing the world around them but taking nothing in. Her hair, once thick and glossy, was now dank and hung limply. There was no body or shine about it anymore, and her once vibrant auburn shade was now more akin to a rusty copper coin.

Her hand slowly and shakily made their way down to the bottom of her top. She grasped it between trembling fingers and lifted it to reveal the small but definite bump situated between her hips. She touched it gingerly with one hand, pushing against it slightly. The surface was rock hard and didn’t give at all under the slight pressure that she applied. She could not pull her eyes from it; this seemingly harmless bump. A bump that contained a life nonetheless. A life that she carrying.

Hiding it from Optimus was getting more and more difficult. She was sure that he would figure it out for himself sooner rather than later, but the thought of him finding out was more than she could bear. She wasn’t letting him pick her up as much as she had used to when he was his full size, and when he was utilising his human sized holoform, she very rarely allowed him to embrace her. She knew the sudden change in her behaviour both hurt and confused him, but bless his Spark, he carried on as if nothing was amiss.

It was killing her to keep deceiving him this way, but she couldn’t see an alternative. The thought of losing him after all they had been through together was incomprehensible; she knew she’d rather lose her own life than his love.

She wiped fiercely at her eyes, catching the few stray tears that had made their way past her defences. A quick glance at her watch told her it was seven minutes past two in the morning. She knew Optimus wouldn’t wake until seven in the morning at the earliest, so she had a few hours to herself at the very least.

She grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the laundry basket and put them on briskly over her knickers and tucked her bed socks into them. She exited the bathroom and made her way quietly to the door, pausing to look over her shoulder at Optimus.

He lay just as she had left him, the moonlight penetrating a small gap in the curtains, coming to land on his silvery back. He looked beautiful and other-worldly. She offered him a guilty smile and closed the door silently behind her.

Once on the landing, Cordelia made her way to the stairs and descended them carefully, mindful to avoid making too much noise.

She slipped her feet into the snow boots that were situated by the front door and shrugged herself into the thick khaki green parka jacket. She eyed the hat and decided against wearing it as she quietly pulled the front door open.

The cold air bit into her cheeks and stung her eyes; her breath swirled in pretty patterns around her as she made her way briskly to the car.

Cordelia risked a quick glance over her shoulder to look at the upstairs windows of the ranch house. They were all still in darkness. A thin layer of frost coated each window in all four corners, reminiscent of children’s cartoons at Christmas time. Cordelia pushed the guilty thoughts to the back of her mind and dug her car keys out of her jacket pocket.

Although the air was cold, it was nowhere near cold enough yet to freeze her doors shut. That weather would come in December and January. Optimus had the useful ability of being able to send heat to any part of his body, and on such occasions as when the car doors were frozen shut, he would cup both of his enormous hands around the body of the car, thawing the ice within seconds.

Cordelia was grateful that she didn’t need that particular talent at this moment in time.

She folded herself quickly into the blue Volvo C30, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life, the heating systems kicking in to warm up the vehicle. She didn’t bother fastening her seatbelt; she wanted to be away from the house as quickly as possible.

She wasn’t planning to go far; the ranch had a modest acreage and she was planning to stay within the property boundaries.

Right now, it felt as if the walls of the house were physically pressing down on her, and she just needed some time alone in a space that was outside.

She eased the car into gear and drove slowly out of the horseshoe shaped driveway; praying that the rattle of the snow chains on the car’s tyres wouldn’t wake Optimus. She kept a vigilant eye on the house in the rear-view mirror, but all the windows remained dark.

Cordelia allowed her shoulders to relax as she increased the distance between herself and the ranch house. She winced inwardly when she thought of Optimus’ reaction to waking up to her absence.

She was just beginning to relax when an enormous dark green foot was planted in her path. She stomped on the breaks, swearing quietly to herself. She was in half a mind to sound the horn in protest, but she knew Optimus would hear that easily, even from the distance she was at. Instead she leaned over the steering wheel and peered upwards through the windscreen to see to whom the giant leg belonged.

Hound.

Cordelia felt her features turn downward in a scowl. She pulled the key out of the ignition. It was pointless wasting petrol when she wasn’t going to get anywhere anytime soon.

Hound lowered himself into a squatting position, taking large drags from the giant bullet casing that also doubled as his ‘cigar.’ One giant finger beckoned her towards him.

Sighing, Cordelia opened the driver door and stepped out of the car, hunching herself up against the cold. She walked around the front of the car and sat on the bonnet.

“Where you off to at this time of night titch?” Hound asked, using his personal nickname for her. As he spoke, he blew giant smoke rings into the night sky, an impressive achievement when one considered that he did not possess a tongue.

Cordelia chewed her lip thoughtfully before answering him. She had to be careful; anything she said to Hound would surely get back to Optimus and she wanted to be the one to tell him of her…secret.

“Nowhere in particular.” She said finally, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. “What’re you doing up this late?”

Hound chuckled and looked at her thoughtfully, the cigar dangling from between his lip plates.

“I’m on patrol of the perimeter. My turn this week. So far I’ve not found anything.”

“What do you mean ‘so far’? I’m not anything.” Hound raised a challenging brow.

“I don’t think so titch. You’re somethin’, that’s for sure.” Hound lowered himself to sit carefully on the ground, one knee brought up to his chest. He gestured to the car. “Just fancied a midnight drive did ya?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured a drive might help with that.”

Hound didn’t look convinced. “Most humans settle for a nice hot cup of methylxanthines.” At Cordelia’s bemused expression, he explained further. “Y’know; theobromine and theophylline?” Cordelia’s expression remained blank.

Somehow Hound managed to imitate a perfect sigh. “What is it? That hot liquid that humans drink?”

Cordelia laughed. “Coffee?” Hound shook his head. “Tea?” Hound slapped his leg.

“That’s the one! Why didn’t you just make a cup of…tea?” Cordelia smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Tea’s not gonna sort this one out Hound.”

Hound appraised the tiny human with grave optics. Something changed in his face before he folded himself into the Oshkosh Medium Defence Tactical vehicle.

“Come on kid. Let’s go for a drive.” Cordelia’s eyes widened in surprise. She had thought that Hound would immediately insist that she return to the house, and instead she was met with the sight of his passenger door hanging innocently open. “Well, are ya comin’ or not?” His voice jerked her out of her reverie, and she ran forward; clambering quickly up the steps and settling herself in the passenger seat.

The seat belt came down and fastened itself across her of its own accord. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you weren’t wearing your belt.” Cordelia shot the dash a scowl. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that either.” Hound said, a smile present in his gravelly voice. He pulled onto the road, the snow crunching nosily beneath his tyres.

The only sound for about twenty minutes was the gravel and snow being tossed around as Hound drove. He drove at a steady pace; a true professional navigating his surroundings. Cordelia was a little taken aback as she realised that Hound was heading for the same place she’d been driving towards.

He took a fork in the road that took them through a thick cluster of trees. After about 500 metres of the thick pines, they thinned and then gave way completely to a wide open space. It was full of crisp white snow; untouched save for the few footprints of various animals as they went about their nightly business.

Hound came to a halt, letting his engine turn off. For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Cordelia cradled the bump beneath her parka, tears threatening to pierce the dam she had built in her brain.

Light began to emanate from the steering wheel and Cordelia watched as it slowly built a human sized version of Hound. Although he was exactly the same as he usually looked at his full size; there was an overall softer look to the Autobot strategist.

Cordelia smiled, a little awkwardly. Hound’s sudden decision to use his holoform had surprised her, and she struggled to hide her reaction. Hound’s expression mirrored her own.

“It’s okay kid. I wasn’t expecting to use it either.” He said as if he’d plucked the thought straight out of her head. He rested his hands-on top of the steering wheel. “I gotta say; it’s weird to actually sit inside myself; I’ve never experienced it before.” Cordelia snorted.

She turned away from Hound to look at the glassy surface of the lake that was situated right in the centre of the meadow. In the summer, the meadow was bursting with colour and light. The grass would grow almost as high as her waist and the wildflowers would attract all manners of insects from miles around. It was a myriad of greens and blues and reds, pinks and pale whites. The lake was the centre piece, a perfect reflection of the blue, cloudless sky.

Now, in the winter, Cordelia felt that the meadow resembled herself. White and empty, void of life and void of hope. No amount of comfort or nurturing would thaw the ice that had taken hold around her heart. No one’s except the one’s that she wanted most. The one’s comfort who she was most afraid to seek. She was ashamed of herself. Of her thoughts; for even having them in the first place.

Cordelia tightened her arms about her slender torso, holding herself together as if she was about to snap in two. Hound noticed and twisted in his seat to face her fully.

He gently pulled her arms away from her with next to no effort and held both of her hands in his. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, and he didn’t force her to, nor did he speak. They just sat there in silence, the only sound being Cordelia’s shallow breathing as she fought to control her emotions.

She finally allowed her gaze to meet Hound’s and the pity within his blue optics was almost enough to crush her right there and then. She tried to pull her hands free from his grasp, but he held on to them. He brushed his thumbs over her bony knuckles, wordlessly trying to comfort her in some sort of human way.

“You remind me of him you know.”

“Huh?”

“Ironhide. You remind me of him. You are both fiercely protective of your secrets and those you love. You’ll fight for what you believe in, and once you’ve made your minds up, nothing can change it.”

Hound’s sudden mention of his deceased Spark-mate took Cordelia by surprise. She had known that Hound and Ironhide had been bonded for well over 12,000 years, but the gruff Autobot rarely spoke of his loved one, if ever.

Suddenly Cordelia found herself seeing Hound in a completely new light. No longer was he just one of Optimus’ soldiers, he was his own person, with his own stories. He had his own triumphs and failures; his own tragedies and successes. Ironhide was only one facet of his vast personality and Cordelia found herself somewhat embarrassed for seeing this only now. She took one of her hands from his and rested it on his broad green shoulder.

“You miss him.” It wasn’t a question.

Hound broke their gaze. “More than you know kid. It’s as if someone has cut off both of my legs and expects me to keep walking as if nothing has changed. I’m learning to heal every day; but I’ll never be fully whole again. That old fool stole my Spark long ago, and part of it died with him that day.” Cordelia watched as Hound’s optics glazed over as he spoke of his fallen love, and the pain and longing in his voice made her throat ache.

“I guess what I’m trying to say kid…is that you’re not alone. I know what you’ve been through this last year and a half has been…hard. I know you’ve wanted to give up and just lay down and accept your lot. But you haven’t; and that is something to be damn proud of.

“Optimus thinks the world of you…I’ve not seen him this content since before the war. So, I guess I’m tryna say…thank you.”

Cordelia was gobsmacked, she didn’t know what to say.

“It’s okay titch; you don’t have to say anything. Just…listen. Don’t keep stuff from Optimus that could hurt him. He only ever wants to help you. I promise you titch; nothing you do could ever drive him away. He worships the ground that you walk on.”

Cordelia sat up straight in her seat and looked Hound in the eye. “You…you know?” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Hound nodded gravely. “Wouldn’t be much of a medic if I didn’t know now, would I?”

“Medic?”

He nodded again. “What do ya think this is for?” he chuckled, pointing out the red cross in the centre of his helm. “Yep. I was Ratchet’s student before and during the war. When he came to Earth, he continued to tutor me when he could; sending me his findings and observations about humans. Obviously, pregnancy was one of the first things he studied. It fascinated him. Do you know how far along you are?”

“Umm about ten weeks I think.” Hound chewed the end of his cigar thoughtfully.

“Would you mind if I scan you? I can give you a due date then.” In response, Cordelia began to unzip her jacket.” Hound shook his head. “You don’t need to take your jacket off. I can scan through all items of clothing.”

Cordelia felt the light tickle of Hound’s scan and shivered as her whole body erupted into goosebumps. “Done.” Hound said, offering her a small smile. “You are 10 weeks and 4 days pregnant. Your foetus is about the size of a kumquat. I reckon you’re due around early May.”

Cordelia’s hands found their way down to her small bump. It now felt real. She had a baby growing inside her. A baby that was totally dependent on her for absolutely everything; life, safety, love. She took a deep breath and looked down at her hands.

“You alright kid?” Cordelia nodded in answer to Hound’s question.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Hound spoke again.

“I’ll let ya in on one of my guilty secrets. Here; listen.” The radio flicked on and female vocals filled the space.

I have a tale to tell Sometimes it gets so hard to hide it well I was not ready for the fall Too blind to see the writing on the wall

A man can tell a thousand lies I've learned my lesson well Hope I live to tell The secret I have learned, 'till then It will burn inside of me

Hound drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his optics and just losing himself in the melody.

After a few bars Cordelia realised it was Madonna’s voice crooning through Hound’s speakers. They listened together in silence and as the song went on, Cordelia wondered what secret the song had been written about; wondering what man could tell a thousand lies.

The song drew to a close and Cordelia smiled gently at Hound. “I didn’t take you for a Madonna fan.” Hound grinned at her sheepishly.

“What’d I tell ya; one of my guilty secrets.” Cordelia smiled and made a zipping motion against her lips with her index finger before throwing the ‘key’ away over her shoulder. Hound smiled.

“I’m sure the boss has some surprising musical taste as well.” Cordelia laughed.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” Hound just smiled and looked ahead at the full moon. The night sky was clear and black, the moon hanging low in the sky. A pearl amongst a soft cluster of diamond stars.

“Hound; will you take me home please?” Hound wordlessly started his engine once more and headed for the ranch house.

They pulled into the horseshoe shaped drive way and Hound killed the engine.

“Home sweet home kid, ooh.” Cordelia followed his gaze to the front door which had been thrown open. Optimus stood in the doorway; visible tremors working their way down his long body. Cordelia swallowed past the hard lump that had suddenly formed in her throat and exited the vehicle. Hound’s holoform materialised beside her.

“Lia? Where in the world-“

“I’m fine Optimus, I promise.” Cordelia protested, walking up to her guardian. He placed a hand on her forehead, not satisfied with her explanation alone. He tried to surreptitiously check her over with a casual flick of his optics, but Cordelia knew him too well for him to disguise it effectively.

“Hey boss. I found her out on the road a coupla miles away so I brought her home. I’ll bring the car back for you titch.” Before Cordelia could reply, Hound’s holoform had vanished and he was driving himself back the way they’d come.

Optimus looked down at Cordelia worriedly. She stepped forward and took one of his hands in both of hers. Even at this reduced size, he still dwarfed her in all manners. He imitated a sigh and led her back into the house.

Once they stepped over the threshold, Optimus helped her out of her thick winter jacket.

They walked into the lounge and Optimus sat down on the Native American style couch and patted the vacant space next to him. Cordelia sat next to him, though not as close as she usually did. The tension between them was palpable, and neither of them could bear it any longer.

“Cordelia, please talk to me. Can you not bear for me to touch you because of him?” Her breath hitched in her throat. His words brought back the rough touch of Attinger’s hands on her body, holding her down while he forced his way inside her.

She shook her head, tears spilling over. She moved to embrace him, and he lifted her effortlessly into his lap. She allowed him to console her while she sobbed, relishing in the feeling of his strong hand rubbing soothingly up and down her spine.

She leaned her head against his chest and listened to the quiet thrum of his Spark. It never failed to calm her. Once her sobs had subsided, Optimus pulled back to look at her. He cupped her face gently in his hands, wiping stray tears away with his silver thumbs.

“Oh my little one, what has caused you such grief?” She couldn’t help but chuckle at his formality.

“Can I ask you something first?”

“Anything.” He said it with such conviction that Cordelia felt guilty for even needing to ask the question.

“You won’t ever leave me, will you?” Her voice broke on the last word, and Optimus’ optics grew misty with moisture.

“Never. Nobody or anything will ever come before you Cordelia. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything; more than I will EVER love anyone or anything. Nothing you could do or say would drive me away. Nothing.” He wore the scars of war in his tired gaze, but he spoke with determination and love for her. And she knew it.

She took a deep breath.

“I’m pregnant.” His eyes widened in astonishment. At once they flicked down to her abdomen.

“You are with…child?” Cordelia nodded. “How didn’t I see this?” Optimus, wondered aloud, more to himself than to her. He turned to face her. “This is why you were sick all day until a few days ago?” She nodded again, biting her lower lip.

He moved his hands downwards to gently pull back the thin pyjama top she was wearing. His whole hand was bigger than the tiny bump.

“How long have you known?” His voice was quiet.

“About three weeks.” Cordelia replied, equally as quiet.

Optimus snapped his head up. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have laughed at his expression. His optics were wide circles, his mouth hanging open like a vacant animal trap.

“Why didn’t you say earlier?” He asked, moving his hands back up to cup her face.

She placed her hands over his own. “I thought you would be angry.” She said, dropping her gaze from his.

“You thought I would be?” He didn’t finish his sentence; but pulled her to him, clinging onto her as if she was the only thing that could keep him afloat in the vast sea of his emotions.

“Oh, my little one; I would never be angry with you, ever! I will support you with whatever decision you make in your life. Your health and happiness are what is most important here.”

“I’m going to keep it. I can’t get rid of another one Optimus, I can’t, I just can’t!”

“Shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” He gently rocked her back and forth, cradling her head in a cupped hand.

She pulled away from him but rested her head against his chest and interlocked his hand with hers.

“When are you due?”

“Early May. What am I going to do? How am I going to afford a baby? What are YOU going to do?!”

“Easy little one, you’re panicking. I will provide all the financial support you need. I have an arrangement with Joyce. Call it ‘collateral’ for all the trouble he caused. I will love both of you, unconditionally and without stipulation. Anything that could come from you would only be loved by me.”

“Half of it will be from him.” Cordelia spoke with her head drooped; her chin resting against her chest.

“He has only provided the physical material necessary for creating another human being. You will raise him or her with love and patience, and I promise you that I will help you in every way possible with every aspect of this child. From right now until they leap the nest. And then forever.”

Cordelia giggled against his chest.

“What’s funny?” Optimus asked against her hair.

“It’s ‘fly the nest’, not leap the nest.”

“Oh.” Optimus smiled ruefully. “Come on little one, let’s get to bed. It’s late.” Optimus stood and easily swung her into his arms so that he was carrying her bridal style.

He carried her up the stairs and placed her gently in the king-size double bed before climbing in behind her.

“Will you stay with me until I’m asleep?” Cordelia asked drowsily.

“Always and forever.” Optimus replied.

The last thing she was aware of was his large hand draped over the faint bump on her abdomen.

Cordelia woke to the smell of something sweet drifting up the stairs. She turned over onto her front and checked her phone on the bedside table. It was past one o’clock in the afternoon!

She flung the covers back and leapt out of bed, sprinting to the wardrobe and grabbing the first items of clothing that her hands touched. Rushing into the bathroom, she combed her hair messily with her fingers before scraping it back into an untidy bun. She whisked the toothbrush around her mouth and washed her face simultaneously.

The reflection that greeted her in the mirror was flushed and pink-cheeked but looked miles better than it had done last night.

She hurried her feet into the thick boot-like slippers that were sat at the foot of her bed. She ran down the stairs, taking two at a time.

Optimus was in the kitchen, bent over something that he was cooking on the hob. He turned as Cordelia entered the room. He took her hand and let her over to the dining table where a single setting had been placed. A pot of tea was steaming on the table accompanied by a vase with a single sunflower in it. He pulled the chair out for her.

“Good afternoon little one, please sit. Your brunch will be ready shortly.” Cordelia raised a brow as she took the proffered seat.

“My brunch?”

“Mmhmm. I made pancakes with winter berries as an accompaniment. Here you go.” He placed a generous portion of pancakes in front of her. They had all been quartered and, in the middle, sat a small cluster of blueberries and strawberries. They smelled divine.

“Wow Optimus! You didn’t have to do this; I could have made myself some cereal or something.” Optimus waved her words away with a quick swipe of his left hand.

He draped the tea towel over his right shoulder and sat down in the chair opposite her. He poured her a cup of tea from the pot, adding a small dash of milk with two sugars; just the way she liked it.

“It was nothing. I want to take care of you; a pregnancy is hard work. I was up through the night researching all I could learn about the phenomenon. For example, your uterus is about the size of an orange and your foetus is approximately 3cm in length. The fact that such a microscopic, tiny cluster of cells has grown into something 3cm long in already ten weeks is astounding!”

His optics were brighter with excitement, his whole face changed with the expression of wonder. His eyes softened as they met hers.

“Pregnancy is a huge job for your body; you need to rest and ensure you are getting adequate nutrition.”

He rested his hands-on top of the table, lightly clasping them together.

Cordelia cut into the pancakes, her knife slicing through them as if it was butter. As she chewed, the sweet flavours of the pancake, the syrup and the berries all mashed together and danced on her tongue. The flavour was perfectly even in every bite she took, and the sweet tea was the perfect compliment to the food.

Cordelia finished her food in record time, laying the knife and fork down on the clean plate. She smiled at Optimus, taking in his features greedily.

“Optimus, I’m pregnant. Not ill.” He smiled guiltily at her, collecting her plate and getting up to go and wash it. He ran the hot tap and squirted some washing up liquid into the water, creating soft, white bubbles.

His hands became silver blurs as he worked the sponge up and down the dish before rinsing it and setting it down in the draining rack. He retrieved the drying cloth from his shoulder, wiping the plate dry and putting it back in the cupboard.

“I know Lia; forgive me. I just…may I be honest?”

Cordelia got up from her chair and went over to Optimus. “Of course you can; Optimus, you can always be honest with me.” He smiled and looked down at her fondly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her onto the kitchen counter. Like that, they were at perfect eye level with each other.

“I am extremely excited about the birth of this baby. I have never had the experience of being a parent myself; it was not a common occurrence on Cybertron for Sparklings to come into existence. Besides, one needed to-“ she placed her hands on either side of his face, drawing his tirade to a close.

“Relax Optimus, you’re babbling.”

“I just worry that you wouldn’t want me to be excited for this baby…given the circumstances of the conception. I don’t want to push you into anything you’re not ready to do.” Cordelia sighed and looked at Optimus through her expressionate green eyes.

“Optimus…I’ve already been made to get rid of one child. If he had been allowed to live, he would be eleven years old now. I don’t blame you for being excited – truth be told, I’m even feeling quite excited. What has this baby done except exactly what it’s supposed to do? It just came into existence like a clump of cells should – the circumstances behind that are not its fault. But what I can say is this; this baby will have no part of her father in her. I won’t allow it.”

If possible, Optimus looked at her with even more love present in his gaze. He raised his brow at the word ‘she’.

“’She’?”

Cordelia shrugged. “Obviously its too early to say what it is, but something in my gut is telling me that it’s a girl.” Optimus grinned widely at her.

“I have heard that a mother’s instinct is rarely wrong. We shall have to wait twenty-eight weeks to see if your hunch is correct.”

Cordelia didn’t say anything but latched onto Optimus like a koala bear, locking her arms tight around his neck. He gently lifted her off the counter and she wrapped her legs around his waist, enveloping herself in the safety that was him.

They went about the rest of the day in a companionable silence; each glad that the other knew the secret that had lain between them.

Optimus let go of some of the sadness that had taken hold of him ever since they’d returned home from Hong Kong. Cordelia noticed it in the way that he walked; in the way he held himself. When he addressed his men, he stood straight and tall with his shoulders back and chest pressed out; the old Cybertronian instinct kicking back in.

Cordelia found herself feeling physically lighter, and the feeling of doom that she had been carrying around in the pit of her stomach was nowhere to be found. There was even a small gleam back in her deep green eyes.

Optimus excused himself for about an hour, to phone Joyce and sort out other ‘things that demanded his attention’ as he put it. He became suspiciously cagey when Cordelia asked what he was up to, merely smiling at her and suggesting she make a list of what foods she had been craving, if any.

Cordelia went upstairs and shut herself in the master bedroom. Telling Optimus hadn’t been nearly as painful as she had anticipated, and she wanted to kick herself for doubting him. This was the bot who had stood by her through thick and thin, who had saved her life more times than she cared to remember. He meant the world to her, and now she would have another to love.

Attinger was on the fringe of her mind, but she refused to allow him that power over her. As Optimus had said the previous night; he had only provided the physical material that was needed in order to conceive a child. Science and fate had done the rest.

She was doodling absent-mindedly on the spiral-backed notepad that Optimus kept on his bedside table when a soft knock on the bedroom door brought her back to reality. “Come in!” she called, not taking her eyes from the doodle filled page.

The mattress squeaked as Optimus lowered himself to sit on it. He smiled at her doodles and took the pen from her, adding his own squiggles here and there.

Cordelia shut the book and put it back in its place on the nightstand before turning her full attention on Optimus. He looked a little nervous.

“Cordelia, I-“ she held up a hand to stop him.

“Optimus, what is it with using my full name suddenly? What happened to Lia?” She studied him carefully as she waited for him to answer her question, watching as faint traces of pinkish-purple made their way into the edges of his optics – a Cybertronian blush.

“Sorry – Lia. I have invited Leo over for dinner. I don’t want you to think I was shooting the gun, but I feel that he needs to know of the child. I’m preparing your favourite; mashed potatoes with wiener schnitzel and assorted vegetables.”

Cordelia eyed him with a knowing smile. “So that’s what you were up to. I thought you were acting weird. Optimus; it’s fine. You’re right – Leo does deserve to know. He’s been like a father to me. Thank you.” She leaned forward and planted a light kiss on his cheek-plate. “Have you got the cooking under control?” he nodded. “Fab. Meet me out on the balcony. I want to see you.” He smiled, understanding her meaning straight away. His holoform disappeared with a small poof; the rumpled duvet being the only evidence of his presence.

She hurried into her fleecy hoodie and bounded towards the French doors that opened onto the balcony.

The balcony boasted impressive views of the surrounding mountain scenery, offering a perfect panorama of the pine forest. You could also see the lake from the balcony, a shining mirror glistening beautifully in the distance.

The tell-tale sounds of hissing joints alerted her to Optimus’ approach. She turned to face him, needing to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Even though she was on the first floor, Optimus still dwarfed the house when he was at his full size.

Cordelia held her arms out to him like a child, and his giant palm came down and scooped her up into his grasp of familiarity, comfort and love. He held her against his chest, his Spark reverberating through her whole body. She closed her eyes in pure contentment.

Wordlessly his radio clicked on, and Leona Lewis’ cover of Run began to sound through the speakers. Husky vocals filled the air, caressing Cordelia’s bruised soul, slowly knotting it back together to become one with the great Prime’s Spark.

Light up, light up As if you have a choice Even if you cannot hear my voice I'll be right beside you, dear Louder, louder And we'll run for our lives I can hardly speak I understand Why you can't raise your voice to say

At that moment, the song said everything that neither of them was capable of. The air seemed to shimmer and vibrate with the love between them.

Optimus swayed slowly on his feet, sending the pair of them this way and that.

I'll sing it one last time for you Then we really have to go You've been the only thing that's right In all I've done

Cordelia was suddenly aware of lukewarm liquid dripping down the back of her neck and onto her shoulders. She looked up to see Optimus weeping softly. She wordlessly patted his hand and he brought her up close to his face.

His optics were closed, but still the water seeped out from their corners, trickling quietly down his nose and coming to rest underneath his chin. The vents on the back of his head cycled more air in to counteract the air that he was letting out.

Cordelia placed her hands on his nose and leaned against him. “Talk to me big guy. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” She felt his lip plates begin to move against her body.

“I have failed you.” He said simply. Four simple words that weighed more than the heartache of a lost world. Four words that weighed more than all the grief and sorrow in the universe. “I let that man…do unspeakable things to you. I let my race…ravage your world as we ravaged our own. I failed you.”

Now it was her turn to comfort him.

They were an unlikely pair; a giant sentient robot and a small human woman, fiercely dedicated to each other. They shared the burden of partnership equally, each holding the other up whenever the time called for it.

She held him up against the succubus that was his grief. In return, he nursed her soul back to health and kept his demons at bay.

She stood in his palm and ran her hands slowly up and down the grooves of his triangular nose.

“You haven’t failed anybody. You haven’t failed me, and you haven’t failed this planet. Yes, Attinger raped me, but that is not your fault. Yes, other Cybertronians tried to hurt this planet and its population; but they didn’t succeed because of you and your Autobots! Do you remember what you told me when I blamed myself for humanity’s actions against you?” She felt him nod.

“You told me that you would never judge an entire race based on the actions of a few.”

He ‘sniffled’ a little, trying to control the continuous flow of liquid from his optics.

“I can’t allow my men to see me like this. They cannot see me in this state.”

“I don’t give a shit about that right at this minute in time Optimus. I’m here with you right now; you’re safe and I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words offered him the relief he needed, and he took a big cycle of air in and let it out slowly, ruffling her hair lightly as he did so.

“Thank you. Thank you my little one.” He brushed his lip plates across her hairline in a gentle kiss, clicking them softly. “I am sorry you had to see that.”

“Optimus, with me you just have to be Optimus. Not a Prime or the Autobot leader or a soldier, just yourself. Be the bot who smiles at the sunrise and chuckles when I trip over my own feet.”

“Thank you.” He said again, his rumbling baritone so low that Cordelia wondered how he was capable of pitching it so low.

They remained leaning against each other for a few countless minutes, each taking comfort from the other’s strength.

Optimus returned Cordelia to the balcony, setting her down on the varnished floor with the utmost gentleness.

“I need to go and keep an optic on the cooking. Leo will be here in approximately one hour.” He smiled and leaned downwards, gently planting another kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll have a shower and I’ll meet you downstairs shortly.” Cordelia said, grazing his cheek softly with the back of her hand.

Optimus folded himself back into the Western Star and reversed into the neighbouring barn where he would be sheltered from the harsh winter.

Cordelia hurried back into the bedroom, closing the French doors securely behind her. Although she had only been outside for a few minutes, the cold air bit into her skin with a surprising ferocity.

She grabbed her towelling bathrobe from where it hung on the bedroom door and hurried into the bathroom with it.

One hour. She had one hour to make herself look at least a little presentable before Leo arrived. She ducked into the shower and turned it on, giving the water time to warm up while she undressed.

Cordelia stepped leisurely into the shower, the steam curling around her slowly as it filled the room. As the water cascaded down her body, it erased the tension and stress that she had been carrying for the last three weeks. She rolled her shoulders, tilting her neck this way and that as she worked a thick lather of bubbles into her pale skin.

Reaching for the shampoo bottle, she held her left hand palm up as she squirted the lavender scented shampoo into it. She reached up and worked the suds into her hair, massaging her scalp with her fingertips, making sure the bubbles got to every part of her hair.

For a while, she just stood there, enjoying the simplicity of the shower as it washed away the dirt and grime of the day.

Dipping her head underneath the torrent of water, Cordelia rinsed the bubbles out of her hair, watching as the water turned the auburn to an almost black colour.

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the dressing gown, keen to keep out the sting of the cold air as the warm water left her body. She dried herself quickly and put on fresh underwear and then hurried into the bedroom to get dressed.

She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a grey roll-neck jumper and a blue and red checked skirt. She chewed her lip thoughtfully while she looked at them, wondering if she should wear them. She rarely wore skirts, having always felt more comfortable and confident in jeans. Shrugging, she pulled the garments off their hangers and started to put them on. To finish off the look she put on a pair of semi-transparent black tights.

She glanced at herself in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised with what she saw. The young woman standing before her looked chic and sophisticated, if a little apprehensive. Her hair still hung in wet clumps around her shoulders, so she quickly pulled a brush through it. She blow dried it quickly, turning her head upside down for extra volume.

She sat in front of the mirror on her dressing table and pulled out her makeup bag. She dabbed on a little foundation and used her little finger to apply some brown eyeshadow. To finish off, she applied a little blusher to give her pale cheeks some colour.

Sitting back, she appraised her reflection in the mirror. She offered herself a small smile and got up and dumped her dirty washing in the laundry basket before heading downstairs.

The smell of cooking meat wafted up her nostrils, causing her mouth to water ever so slightly.

Optimus had his back to her whilst he delicately prepared the food before him. He had cut the chicken as finely as Cordelia had ever seen it; barely four millimetres in thickness. Leaving the chicken to fry in the breadcrumbs over a low heat, he turned his attention to the potatoes. He mashed them efficiently and with purpose and when he was finished, there was not one single lump in the creamy mixture.

“Smells delish big guy,” Cordelia grinned, elbowing him gently in the side. He turned to look at her, and his optics widened in surprise.

“Lia! You look…you look ravishing. As beautiful as I have ever seen you and more.”

“I have a pair of legs after all!” she laughed, moving to set the table.

“Ah, I’ve already done that little one.” She was just about to answer him when they heard the doorbell ring.

Cordelia pulled away from Optimus and went to answer the front door.

She opened it and it swung open to reveal Leo. He stood relaxed on the doorstep, with one hand in the pocket of dark grey trousers. A white collar peeked out from underneath his grey wool-blend peacoat.

His eyes also widened once they alighted on Cordelia, softening as they fixed her in their steady blue gaze.

Cordelia stepped back to let him in and was surprised when he brandished a bouquet of flowers.

“For the lady of the house” he said, smiling.

“Oh wow, oh Leo you didn’t have to do that” she said, taking them from him. She put them down on the foot of the stairs and helped him out of his jacket. Once it was hung up on the hook he bent down and engulfed her in a bear hug.

He lifted her a few inches off the floor, bringing her petite 5’1” frame almost equal to his 6’3”.

She inhaled the smell of his aftershave, relishing in its scent. She hugged him back tightly, burying her face in his neck.

“Something smells good!” he explained, clapping his hands together.

Cordelia walked into the lounge ahead of Leo, on the hunt for a vase for the flowers.

Leo and Optimus regarded each other a little awkwardly. Things had been different between them since both Cordelia and Optimus had returned home after their time away. Optimus had tried hard to pick up from where they had left off, but Leo was not at all receptive.

Cordelia hovered while they shook hands, watching as Leo’s calloused palm was engulfed in Optimus’ silver one. Optimus shot Cordelia a look from the corner of one optic that said “I’ve got this” and she went over to the sink, reassured.

She found a vase in one of the cupboards and half filled it with water before cutting an inch off all the stems on the flowers. She placed them into the vase and then set it on the kitchen windowsill. They fit in well with the rest of the décor, and the mere sight of them brought a small smile to Cordelia’s face.

The egg timer on the work top pinged and Optimus hurried over to turn it off. He turned to Cordelia and Leo, gesturing for them to sit down.

“Please, sit. Dinner is on the way!” As he spoke, he took Cordelia by the hand and pulled out a chair for her. Once she had settled in it, he pushed her in underneath the table. Leo sat opposite, resting his arms loosely on the table top.

Optimus produced a wine glass and poured the dark liquid into it with more poise than a cocktail waiter. Leo nodded his thanks and took a sip. Optimus then placed a glass of lemonade in front of Cordelia.

Next came two steaming plates of wiener schnitzel along with a pile of garlic mashed potatoes and an assortment of carrots, runner beans and sweetcorn. On the side were two salads dressed with olive oil and white wine vinegar.

“Bon appetit!” Optimus said, drawing up a chair to sit next to Cordelia.

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sound of knives and forks scraping against plates.

“I have to say Optimus, for a giant alien robot, you are a bloody good cook” Leo said with a full mouth. He took another sip of wine and gestured to Cordelia’s lemonade glass. “You not drinking tonight Lia?”

Cordelia took a deep breath. She knew she would never have a better opportunity to tell Leo about the pregnancy than right now.

“No, I’m not drinking tonight. And I won’t be for quite some time.” Leo frowned, confusion etched into his features. “I’m pregnant.” She said the words before she swallowed them back down, where she knew they would be lost forever.

Leo half-choked on his salad.

“You’re what?! How?!”

“Well…I didn’t think I’d need to educate you on that part of life Leo.” Leo rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean Lia.” As he spoke, his blue eyes widened with understanding. His knife and fork fell to the plate with a loud clatter. “You mean – you mean that man?”

Cordelia nodded silently, not wanting to meet his gaze. Leo got up from his chair and hurried around the table to be at her side. He knelt and clasped both of her hands in his.

Her eyes welled up and spilled over into her lap. Optimus moved to stand behind her, letting his gentle hands rest upon her slender shoulders. Cordelia looked down into her lap, feeling more alone and ever despite the touches of the two she loved most.

“I’m sorry.” She said quietly, a simple statement of defeat. At once, two sets of hands embraced her. One flesh, the other metal. Two completely separate species coming together in a single act of love.

When Cordelia looked up to meet Leo’s gaze, she saw that his eyes too were swimming with unshed tears. He reached up and touched her face, the palm of his hand covering her whole cheek.

“My girl, you don’t need to be sorry for anything. Do you hear me?” Leo’s words came out shakily but full of conviction. “Optimus and I will support you, whatever you want to do.” Optimus nodded in sincere agreement.

“I know and thank you. I’ve decided I’m going to keep it…the baby. I’m due in early May. We’re going to start sorting out my first scan and pre-natal vitamins tomorrow.” Leo moved to sit back in his chair, as did Optimus.

“How are you going to pay for it? Babies and all that they need don’t come cheap.”

“I have that under control Leo. Joshua Joyce is going to cover all of Lia’s medical costs, from the vitamins right down to the midwife.”

“Good. Of course, if there is any way I can help, please, please let me know. I want to be there in every capacity possible.”

“Thank you, Leo. That means more than you know. Now, let’s not let this food go cold!”

They resumed eating, and within twenty minutes the meal was finished. Optimus and Leo tackled the dishes while Cordelia went upstairs to make up the guest bed. Leo was going to stay the night as he’d had a drink.

His Ranger was parked in the driveway next to Cordelia’s Volvo. Cordelia could see it through the little window that was peppered with the early evening snowfall.

She finished the guess bed off by adding the deep grey throw blanket. It went nicely with the rest of the room.

Cordelia was rather proud of the guest room. Before they’d had to flee the ranch due to the presence of Cemetery Wind, Cordelia had decorated the spare bedroom.

Three walls were painted a pale grey with the western wall painted a crisp white. In the middle of the room sat a generously sized single bed, adorned with dark grey bedding and variously patterned pillows. On the dark mahogany floor, a pale pink and grey blanket served as the centrepiece. In the corner of the room was a small grey armchair with a single pale pink cushion nestled into the seat.

She made her way back downstairs and paused at the doorway. Leo and Optimus were sat at the dining table, the dishes long dried and put away. Leo nursed a bottle of Budweiser whilst Optimus toyed with something too small for Cordelia to make out.

“Optimus, what really happened in Hong Kong? I know that…that man had his way with her. Why won’t you just tell me?”

Optimus simulated a perfect sigh and looked at Leo through tired optics. “I will not discuss what happened in detail without Lia’s permission.”

Leo let out an exasperated breath. “I appreciate that, but what happened to him? I can get the bastard behind bars for what he’s done.”

Optimus pinched his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “I can assure you that will not be necessary Leo. The matter has been dealt with.”

“’The matter has been dealt with’? What the hell does that mean?!” Optimus did not reply. “Do you know the hell she’s come from? The heartache and suffering that she has endured to get to where she is now?! Have you ever heard her wake herself up by screaming herself raw from the flashbacks of her father crawling on top of her? Have you ever had to pull her back from the edge, when it is her sole intent to jump?!”

Optimus exploded up out of his chair, bringing himself into Leo’s personal space.

“I have done all that and more! I have held her in the palm of my hands when she cannot breathe for the panic attack taking hold of her body. I have put her back together when she has torn herself apart. I have taken her hand and led her out of the darkness when there was no one else to do so!” His voice was perfectly even, but his tone was ice cold.

He moved away from Leo and went to stand over by the sink. Leo drained the last of the beer from his bottle and set it on the work top.

“I’m sorry. What I said was out of order.”

Optimus allowed his shoulders to sag. “I too am sorry Leo. What we need to remember is that Cordelia and her baby are the most important people in this situation. It is not a contest to see who can offer Lia the most comfort. She needs both of us right now and we are letting her down by squabbling amongst ourselves.” He clapped Leo on the shoulder somewhat awkwardly, but their argument lay forgotten between the mahogany floorboards.

“In answer to your question…why putting that man behind bars won’t be necessary. It won’t be necessary because I killed him. I shot and killed Harold Attinger in Hong Kong, shortly after he had raped Lia, although I was unaware of that at the time. I am not sorry for my actions, for he hurt my little one.”

Leo looked taken aback by this news, but not appalled. “I…I don’t blame you Optimus. I would have done the same. God knows I wanted to kill her father for what he did to her.”

Cordelia decided that she had heard enough and eased herself into her warm parka. She pulled her woolly hat on, making sure it covered her ears. The Montana winters were harsh and unforgivable and to even stand outside for too long meant risking chilblains.

She stepped outside onto the porch and looked up at the night sky. It was crystal clear, unblemished by pollution or smoke. The stars twinkled silently and solemnly; tiny silver dots on a canvas of black.

She hadn’t been standing out there long when Optimus and Leo came through the front door to join her.

Optimus stood on her left, Leo on her right. They stood next to her, pillar like in their sentry.

They each took one of her hands. She was tiny between them; as a flower between two trees.

Optimus turned to look at her, love and adoration apparent in his face.

“You’ve got this Cordelia Prime. You will live to tell of this. Your son or daughter will be the luckiest child to have ever come into existence on this earth; for they will have you as their mother.”

Cordelia smiled and looked ahead to the future.

She knew it would be full of tribulations and challenges, but it would also be full of love and happiness.

Most of all, she knew that she would live to tell.

#optimus prime #transformers #maccadam #bayverse #tyran #fanfiction #optimus prime fanfiction

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