#the rendering isn’t bad I just think it needed something else

[a-stars-art-blog]

BepBarbo Tuesday!!

[i2ycat]

playing4u

pairing non-idol!heeseung x fem!reader synopsis college boy heeseung that dedicates his songs to u, plays the guitar for u and never fails to sing u to sleep whenever u want genre college au, established relationship in the second half, fluff warnings not proofread, down bad heeseung… main masterlist

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

before u guys started dating

one thing about u and heeseung is that u both LIVE, LAUGH and LOVE music

picture this; u guys are at a music festival, probably something like head in the clouds

u’re singing ur heart out to niki’s set list (as u should) and heeseung, who was just beside u, happened to turn his head at ur direction

and GOD. FUCKING. DAMN.

boy was absolutely starstruck the moment he laid eyes on u, despite the scorching heat that rendered u a sweaty mess

he felt like he was in a movie

and he swore he felt his heart thumping faster and faster, which definitely wasn’t because of the bass or the crowd around him

he was too scared to ask for ur number right there and then, because honestly he’s highkey lowkey a loser…

he doesn’t have the rizz people think he has!

by the end of the night, he left the venue feeling defeated. the post-concert blues weren’t even hitting the way it should because all he could think about was u

in the next following days, he’s probably written songs about how he saw the prettiest girl but she got away, posting them on his private, for only his friends to see

“WHO IS THE GIRL.” jungwon drills heeseung for answers during a group game night at their dorm, which piques the interest of everyone else because when has heeseung ever shown this much interest in a girl, to the point where he would write literal SONGS FOR SAID GIRL??

heeseung describes the girl in perfect detail, from the colour of your hair to the tattoo u had on ur arm

“hey… isn’t he just describing y/n?” niki asks, trying to connect the dots with heeseung’s description of u and his own memory

“didn’t she post a story about head in the clouds a few days ago as well?? i swear i saw it.” sunoo adds as he pulls out his phone, “wait let me find her instagram,” and by this time heeseung could already feel the familiar rhythm of his heart thumping to the same beat it did on the day of the festival

“is this her?”

heeseung couldn’t believe his eyes. after all this time (it’s only been a week please), he finally was able to put a name to his mystery girl!

when i tell this man LEAPED when he found out that u both had mutual friends all this time… yea he was already down BAD.

more under cut!

after u guys started dating

it only took a month or two of talking for u to fall head over heels for heeseung

i mean how could u not when he’s so beyond perfect???

he’s never failed to pick u up from ur classes whenever he could, give u a shoulder to cry on when u were stressed about ur finals, and plan the majority of ur dates without u ever lifting a finger— u were his princess and he made very sure that u and everyone else knew it

because of ur joint interests in music, u guys would always send each other music that u’re currently listening to

“flo milli?”

“what? sometimes guys want to feel like a bad bitch too.”

other than sharing music, heeseung would 100% sing u to sleep whenever u ask for it… actually, atp u don’t even need to ask for it anymore because he already knows

u guys would be on the bed, and as his hands snakes around u to caress ur head lovingly, hee would start humming a soft tune

the vibrations of it lulling u closer to sleep

and when u actually fall asleep, he would kiss ur head goodnight and flick the bed lights off, tucking himself closer to u :((

before u guys even started dating, heeseung was already writing songs about u, so after dating, the amount of songs dedicated to and for u would only increase tenfold

he’d record them just for ur ears to hear

and when he’s letting u hear the songs he’s made, he always has this lovestruck smile on his face, eyes totally glossed over and heart in his hand for you take…

u’ve become his ultimate muse, his inspiration in all aspects of his life

u could tell just how much he loves you from the songs he makes— the melody, the emotions he sings with, the lyrics… all of it just screams that he’s totally head over heels for u

he would even let u have ur moment in his songs, either singing or just talking in the background… because he always wants to incorporate u into his art

when heeseung does decide to post the music he makes, he always makes sure to use ur photos as the cover because almost every song is about u and for u 😭 man physically cannot shut up about u

he’s talked all of his friends ears off ab how u cute u looked in his hoodie, how u pretty u were yesterday, and the day before that and probably tomorrow as well

there would be a point in time when u randomly mentioned that u found guys who play the guitar attractive and u know what heeseung did that day? applied for a guitar class, only to showcase what he’s learnt so far a few weeks later

“hee, i didn’t even know u played the guitar?”

“well i just started learning, like, 3 weeks ago.”

“and you’re already this good?”

“what can i say? i’m a determined man.”

© i2ycat 2024

[yourheart-inmyhands]

I just read the Blade with scared reader fic, could you possibly do that with Dan Heng too?

yes i sure can :D this was pretty fun to write! i feel like i don't get a lot of request for dan heng himself so it was a nice change! usually people request imbibitor lol :3

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes including, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of being held against ones will, mentions of force-feeding, mentions of being manhandled, mentions of feed tubes, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Dan Heng is, reasonably, upset over it. He’s worried about your health, skipping meals and missing sleep takes a toll on people, physically and mentally. It gets to the point where he starts drugging you to ensure you sleep. And while he isn’t exactly keen on force-feeding you, he compromises by giving you just enough to weaken you, make you more pliant, and then persuading you to eat.

He doesn’t like to be physically forceful, he knows you’re still going through the shock of being brought on to the Astral Express unwillingly and being kept there against your will. Himeko and Welt said you’d get over it soon, that you just needed time to adjust, but at this rate, you’d render yourself comatose before anything else,

Dan Heng is forceful with you, but still in a gentle way. He feels bad about manhandling you into the bathroom, but once you’re inside he lets you remove your own clothes and shower at your own will. He isn’t going to stand there and watch, he wants you to know that he still cares. The most forceful he gets is cuddling at night. He doesn’t need much, but he does like to have some part of himself touching you. It helps him sleep better, knowing you’re there and that you’re his. 

“Please, I- you haven’t eaten all week. Just… just take a few bites, you need to eat something.” Dan Heng pleads softly with you, hands nudging the plate of food back towards you. This had been going on for a few minutes now, with you pushing the plate back towards him, refusing the food. He didn’t want to have to drug you again, he already felt awful enough for having to do so last week, but you were still refusing to eat. Dan Heng wasn’t going to sit around and watch you waste away, but he still wanted you to know that you had this choice. That not everything had to be done the hard way.

Because of your resistance to food, you’re on a soft foods and liquids diet for a while, stuff that’s easy to feed you when you’re barely conscious. When you start opening up and eating more on your own, Dan Heng slowly begins to reintroduce other foods. Most of it he cooks himself, wanting to make sure it was perfect for you. It warms his heart to see you willingly eating it.

If you should never grow accustomed to him and staying with him, Dan Heng is not entirely against the idea of giving you a feeding tube. It’s a last resort kind of thing, something that would take well over a year to build to, but when it’s brought up as a possible solution, he starts to think on it more. It would make feeding you easier and it means you’d have to be drugged less, but it comes with the added problem of ensuring you don’t rip it out. Regardless, he will pursue that path if you should continue to be difficult with him.

[saintmagx]

call it what you want 🎶

Grayson Waller x Reader

An: I just loved this idea and had to write about it! Also not sure what Scarlett goes by irl so I’m giving her the nickname Beth cause I think that’s what I’d actually call her 🤔

‼️ warnings: swearing, use of real names, not proof read, we are dramatic asf, Grayson is dumb and oblivious but we love him, not really much substance just a little short story‼️

“No, absolutely not.”

“Matty please?”

“Yn I’m sorry i just can’t. I’ve spent so much time trying to be the bad guy, if I go, I lose all credibility. I’m sure if you ask Trin and Beth, they would go with you.”

“Trin is bringing Jon and Beth is bringing Kevin. I will literally be third wheeling everyone. Know what? Just forget I asked. It’s fine.” Upset, i storm off.

Taylor Swift. Taylor fucking Swift was the cause of this argument. The Eras tour was finally heading to Florida and i had tickets for us and our friends to go, however between purchasing the tickets and the actual concert itself, Matty decided - no wait sorry Grayson fucking Waller decided to start beef with the swifties - Rendering his attendance impossible.

Grabbing my phone I do what literally everyone else does when they need to rant about their man. Put it in the group chat for the girls to back you up.

Me

Matty says he isn’t going to the concert 😢

Trin

Girl I’m sorry. That boy is dumb as hell. Why he starting beef knowing we had this concert?

Beth

Men are dumb - screw him, we will still have fun girl 💕

Me

Honestly I don’t even wanna go now, yall can find someone to take our place.

Trin

No no no we ain’t gon do that. You’re gonna get you fine ass dressed to impress and you are gonna come to the concert with us.

Beth

Honestly yn it wouldn’t be the same without you there, please come - I’ll make sure your glass is always full 😜

Trin

I second that! Come on girl.

Me

Know what you girls are right, screw Matty. I’m still gonna go and enjoy myself. Drinks on yall though - promise is a promise 😚

Friday Night Smackdown

Backstage I stand with Trin who is currently warming up for her match tonight.

“We haven’t really spoke about it to be honest. I know I’m being over dramatic but he knew how excited I was for this concert.” I complain

A familiar scent fills my senses. A strong pair of arms wrap round my waist enclosing me in a tight embrace.

“There’s my girl, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He says.

“Well you’ve found me, now I gotta go get ready for my match.” I say u wrapping myself from Mattys grasp.

“I’ll see you out there Trin.” I announce before quickly leaving, leaving him confused.

“Boy, you done fucked up.” Trin

“What did I do wrong?” He says.

Shaking her head she replies “the fact that you don’t even know what you’ve done wrong makes this whole thing even worse.”

“Come on Trin, help me out.” He pleads

“The concert Matt, she was looking forward to you and her going and you’ve let her down. Do you know she wasn’t even going to go because of it? This is something she loves and wanted to experience it with you. You better get your shit together and sort it out before the gig.”

“Fuck!” He says letting out a huge sigh. He didn’t mean to hurt yn, he knew she was looking forward to the concert but didn’t think it would be a big deal if he wasn’t there.

“This whole swiftie thing has just got out of hand, but don’t worry Trin, I’ll fix it!”

“You better.”

Day of Era’s concert

Perfect you say to yourself.

You and the girls had decided to dress up as your favourite Era. You had gone with Lover era. Standing looking the mirror you had found the perfect dress, a pink off the shoulder tulle mini dress, it was the epitome of lover - and of course your outfit wouldn’t be complete without and arm full of friendship bracelets ready to swap with all the other attendees.

You had sent off a text to Trin and Beth to tell them you were ready to leave. A small knock at the bedroom door startles you slightly, knowing it would be Matty you tell him to come in. Turning around you are met with Matty dressed up with pink trousers - similar to the shade of your dress. A white Taylor swift T-shirt and and a few little friendship bracelets on his arm.

“We ready to go babe?” He asks

“I thought you weren’t coming?”

“I wasn’t, but I didn’t stop to think how much you wanted me to be there, and how much I wanted to be there with you. I want to have all these experiences with you and I can’t do that if I’m sitting at home.”

He walks closer to me and takes hold of my hands, looking into my eyes he continues.

“I love you so much yn, no swiftie beef is gonna stop me from making your dreams and wishes come true.”

He leans down and tenderly kisses my lips.

“I love you too Matty, you have no idea how much this all means to me.”

The truth is he did know how much it meant to yn. He could see it in her eyes and he made a silent promise to himself that he would never again be the reason her eyes were filled with sadness.

Thank you for reading whatever the hell this was. Appreciate the likes and reposts.

If you want tagged let me know! 💕

Tagged:

@jeysbae

@blueflowermentality

@co-sharkie

[zolanort]

A hypothesis regarding the discolored monster blood in LU

We will be working with the assumption that blood in Hyrule has the same general functions that it does on earth. Our heroes are shown to bleed red and seem to expect blood in general to be not-dark at the very least. Based on earth, red/hemoglobin is the most popular option, though green/chlorocruorin and blue/hemocyanin do seem to be on the table based on my N64 save files.

Bad guys like to have their bases in cool places like volcanos. If Dink is set up near a volcano (+10 points for aesthetic) he and his minions could be suffering from Sulfhemoglobinemia. Sulphur can bind to hemoglobin, causing the affected blood to appear darker in color. If this were the case, however, we would expect the dark blooded monsters to be weaker because their blood would be less efficient at carrying oxygen, and therefore this option is unlikely as the black blooded monsters are shown to be stronger than regular monsters. Also the blood wouldn’t be black exactly, but a darker blue-green, so this probably isn’t the culprit.

Having low oxygen levels in general would cause blood to appear darker (darker red, not blue), but just like above, this would leave the monsters weaker rather than stronger, and therefore this option is highly unlikely.

The dark blooded monsters are referred to as being “infected” and Wind even asks if they’re sick.

Our sailor is a smart pirate lad; infections can and do cause blood discolorations, but this is usually due to the presence of something extra in the mix (which is basically always bad/not going to give you a power boost) and/or the usual problem where the red blood cells are rendered less efficient at their oxygen carrying duties, causing a darker red color. Therefore, a straight forward infection involving a biological agent (bacteria etc.) is not likely.

Blood will oxidize when it is old, which could make it appear dark/black in coloration. This doesn’t really support being extra strong or even alive, but this is the option I think is most likely. Why?

Because magic. This isn’t news, we all knew it was magic already. The Bad Guys are being fueled by an evil dark magical infection of some kind. But why black blood and a power boost specifically?

Assuming that magic is a form of energy, I propose that their cellular respiration may have been magically converted to use the evil dark magic instead of ATP. Why? With a (seemingly?) infinite supply of anger and spite fueled dark energy rather than a limited amount of ATP, and also assuming that dark energy wouldn’t impact the electron transport chain like ATP and the associated energy exchange byproducts would, the muscles of an infected monster would never get tired. This addresses our key issue of explaining the power boost symptom.

While any of the other coloration causes above could work along with this idea, due to the citric acid cycle being eliminated from the picture (and the need for breathing/oxygen along with it), the red blood cells are probably just chilling in the evil darkness infused veins of the baddies, aging and then not really doing anything else until the blood is lost via fighting the heroes. This would explain both the dark coloration and why this symptom is directly tied to the evil dark magic and the associated power boost.

Anyway they probably just have discolored blood for evil dark magic aesthetic purposes, which is also cool, but it was fun to try to create an explanation.

[scesketch]

Rant incoming wee woo wee woo

Hi Minecraft lovers… anyone else feeling a bit mocked? A bit made fun of? Bc this Minecraft movie we’re getting… this is not it.

First of all, purely from a storytelling perspective, they’ve mucked up right at the beginning with the main characters. Steve is the player character. He’s the vessel through which we (before creating our own skins, of course) experience the game. So WHO ARE THE RANDOS?? Who are we experiencing this story through? They’re all wildly different, don’t fit the Minecraft universe at all—it’s like they’re trying to remake Jumanji poorly. How are we supposed to connect with these people if we don’t know who they are??? Like imagine if they’d done this with the Mario movie. Everyone would’ve hated it. (Also movie Steve’s sweater is awful. Why does it have two collars? Just no.)

Secondly, you have THOUSANDS of talented animators and artists who make Minecraft videos and movies and music videos and shorts in the original style of Minecraft! They could’ve gone the route of the Lego Movie and used the original style and medium. Instead they’re doing live action, with hyper realistic textures on all the blocks and a world that looks nothing like the Minecraft we know and love. Who are they trying to cater to? People who love Jason Momoa’s biceps specifically? You can still cast him, he can voice act, why did we need him as a full live action human being when that just… isn’t Minecraft? This movie isn’t artistic. It’s not creative. And I feel so bad for the people that had to make it, and the people who didn’t get to because the executives greenlit a live action dumpster fire instead of something animated and interesting. In the day and age of things like Arcane and Spiderverse, this is just sad.

And finally, the thing that unsettles me most: they’ve made the whole thing ridiculous. The freaking sheep. The llama. The piglins even. They look terrible and are almost definitely just comedic relief. Minecraft can be used for shits and giggles, yes, but Minecraft isn’t ridiculous—it’s HauntingTM. Where’s the C418? Where’s the render distance fog? Where’s the mournful groan of zombies you can’t see yet, somewhere deep inside a cave? They took one of the most melancholy games in existence and made it a weirdly 80’s-themed circus with no depth or intrigue. And it makes me, as a Minecraft player and fan, feel mocked. Bc I love Minecraft. The real Minecraft. But if this is how the world perceives my beloved block game, I dunno, man, I kinda don’t want them to know I like it, not because I’m ashamed, but because I feel deeply and intentionally misunderstood. Idk maybe I’m just autistic but this is getting to me in a way I didn’t expect, and I think it’s because something I love has been so ruthlessly cheapened. It’s so heartless. I can’t bear to look at it.

[superpeeboy]

Top five reasons Good Cop Bad Cop are the best characters?

Oh man! You knew what would happen when you asked that. Here goes!

(lots of text below)

1. Concept

GCBC’s concept has always stood out to me. Even before I was obsessed, I looked at his design, and I thought it was cool! The combination of the Good Cop Bad Cop trope and a dual-sided minifig head is really smart! Those ideas combine so well, and without that idea as a basis, GCBC wouldn’t be GCBC.

There’s also subversion of how split-personality characters tend to act! Obviously, Good Cop is the good one and Bad Cop is the bad one, but its more complicated than that. Good Cop is still willing to melt Emmet, and he still works for Business and participates in the policework, he is still a villain despite being nice! And Bad Cop, while it isn’t quite as noticeable earlier in the movie, 100% redeems himself in the end! (And I think he still has moments where he isn’t just full-on evil earlier on, I’ll get back to that later.)

A peculiar fact I know is that they started GCBC’s design with the Good Cop Bad Cop trope, NOT the dual-sided minifig head. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I feel like the natural progression would be starting with the LEGO feature and turning that into a character. But they didn’t do that. Originally, he was just going to flip glasses up and down from his hat.

The highlight of GCBC’s design is obviously their head. I love their outfit (maybe not so much when I’m rendering something), but there’s not that much to do about a police outfit. I only wish it was actually purple. BUT I’m getting distracted. I was trying to mention how GCBC’s faces contrast so much! Good Cop’s large glasses highlight his eyes, and his eyes show how nice he is, they’re round and soft and cute! To contrast Bad Cop’s sunglasses block out his eyes, and all you get to see is his big ol’ mouth. He usually has his teeth shown, with each tooth lined out. You don’t see outlined teeth on Good Cop. Outlined teeth are something I always got told not to do in art, because it makes characters scary. But of course, Bad Cop is supposed to be scary! So he has that trait! And I love to see it!

I’ve always been interested in character design. It’s not something I myself can do very well, but I love to see interesting characters. And GCBC’s design and concept are exactly that! Interesting! (And this whole thing is about GCBC, but I think a lot of the other characters also have really good designs.) What I especially love is how all TLM designs are interesting despite the limitations of being a LEGO. In fact, I think they’d be worse if they weren’t LEGO! The artists had to put a lot of effort into making these designs look good, even as minifigs. I think that’s awesome.

2. Story

Ough! It already hurts and I haven’t even typed yet! But of course, GCBC’s story is important. GCBC is given the most tragic story in TLM. They are forced to keep working for a corrupt boss, and they are the only ones (outside of robots) who are aware of the corruptness. But that is exactly why they have to just go with it, they know Business has the power to kill them and everyone they care about if they went against him.

And even then, even when they’re working for him the best they can, knowing far more than anyone else and having to act normal about it, well you know what happens. GCBC loses everyone. They obviously do not have many people that support them to begin with, but Bad Cop loses his parents and Good Cop! And that leaves him with one person, Business.

It’s implied Business has been so terrible to GCBC for a while. Good Cop is so scared of Business that he avoids the guy as much as possible, to the point Business needed to specifically ask for Good Cop, and even then he would keep switching out. And GCBC’s helmet is mostly for protection from Lord Business, not master builders. But what can GCBC do about their situation? Nothing! Business is the damn president, they can’t do anything about it. And they can’t join the master builders, they’re murderers, they can’t just join the good guys! GCBC is a victim of such unfortunate circumstance.

Isn’t that crazy!? They just add the most horrific abuse on GCBC to this movie!? It’s a movie about LEGO! And you can even see how this affected Bad Cop, if you look closely, and have worms eating your brain! But again, I want to get to that later!

3. Personalities

IT’S LATER! Obviously GCBC is two guys in one. I love that. I love it so much that it feels wrong when people seperate them! I’m getting more and more into my own interpretation and outside of what is actually shown/implied in the movie, but I think GCBC just wouldn’t work seperated. I feel like Good Cop and Bad Cop exaggerate each other’s personalities. Good Cop is really nice, which leaves Bad Cop to have to be the mean one. No matter how nice Bad Cop might try to be, he isn’t going to be able to match Good Cop. And their names are no help anyhow.

If they were to be seperate people, Bad Cop wouldn’t be as aggressive. He wouldn’t HAVE to be! And if he was, then he would just be a complete jerk. But when they’re connected, they both balance eachother out and contrast more. Good Cop allows Bad Cop to be mean and Bad Cop allows Good Cop to be nice.

Good Cop is the nice one. But he isn’t THAT nice. I think I said this earlier, Good Cop was totally okay with killing Emmet and he still works for Business. But he is less violent. He is the Good Cop, so he must be the sympathetic one, or else he wouldn’t BE that! He certainly is evil, but he also certainly is kind.

Bad Cop is the antithesis. He is the bad one, duh. But he also is not entirely terrible. He can be a little nice, as a treat. Especially after the loss of Good Cop. Now that there isn’t a Good Cop to be the good one, that leaves Bad Cop. And if you’ll notice, he does start acting a little nicer. He offers an easy way to Emmet, Wyldstyle, and Vitruvius in that Old West scene, he says thank you to what he THINKS is a robot, and obviously he brings back Good Cop at the end, he’s not entirely evil. But he definitely is a little bit.

During the movie, Bad Cop has a running gag where he beats up chairs. Aha, I’m really going into headcanon territory right now, but I see that as him taking his anger out on chairs instead of PEOPLE! Wouldn’t that be sweet? He tries not to hurt people! Amazing! He also melts people but I forgive him for that!

I love GCBC’s personalities. I love them on their own, but especially how they work together, as ‘one’ character. I love how despite being a Good Cop and a Bad Cop, they’re both more complicated than that. Man these guys are great!

4. Family

GCBC is the one LEGO character given a family. Obviously the story is about the Man and Boy upstairs, and they’re family, but no other LEGO gets that. Emmet and Business aren’t exactly related, even if they’re the LEGOsonas of Will and Finn. In a draft of TLM, Emmet did have a mom, Doris, but she was removed. GCBC gets parents though. And also, eachother, as brothers!

GCBC is a villain. But they have a family that they really do care for. Good Cop can’t bring himself to kill his family, when he’s entirely willing to kill Emmet. And Bad Cop is ‘willing’. But it’s more like he knows that if he doesn’t do it, Business is going to do it instead, and he’ll be punished. And he’s clearly apprehensive anyhow!

I already mentioned how Bad Cop reacts to losing his family, the only people who care for him, but there’s more! Bad Cop sings the song ‘Danny Boy’ after losing Good Cop. An old irish song about losing someone (usually by death) and wishing to be reunited someday. Cool man! I’m not crying! My eyes are sweating!

The fact that GCBC is given a family is very special! And the family really helps with their character. And everyone comes back in the end, but does that change how terrifying it would be to lose all your family, family who Bad Cop was especially close to?

5. Love

And now I talk about what might be the best part of GCBC. The love! Theres so much to GCBC, clearly the creators loved him. I love being able to see that. Despite being the villain, and not even the main villain at that, GCBC is included on lots of merch. GCBC is also included in lots of extras. And he’s included a LOT. GCBC is given so much by the creators!

Liam Neeson didn’t have to voice GCBC in single takes, but he did. Because he thought it fit the character. Because he cared about the character! He improvised that darndarndarnydarn thing because he cared about the character! He added all sorts of weird noises because he thought it fit GCBC! He didn’t HAVE to do that! He wasn’t getting anything from doing that! But he did it because he felt like it made the character better.

Isn’t that just darling? GCBC is not just a fan-favorite, I think he was a favorite of the people who worked on the movie as well! And I think those guys know a lot about TLM, ha ha! So, that’s 5 reasons why GCBC is the best character, in my opinion.

[edenfenixblogs]

The Jews who argue against the word “genocide” do not do so because they support what is happening; they do so because they are arguing that what is happening is better described by the term “ethnic cleansing,” which is also a horrifically bad and inexcusable thing. It just also doesn’t have the antisemitic connotation here.

Hey, need to point out using Ethnic Cleansing (which i only saw used by slightly less radical left) is just as bad and inaccurate to use as Genocide- Jews have experienced Ethnic Cleansing and to label this war as such disregards the actual ethnic cleansing Jews experienced for centuries- most recently SWANA Jews! And I would argue Ethiopian Jews too. Individuals willingly and temporarily leaving their home because it is a war zone (due to a war their leadership systems!) is not ethnic cleansing. We can look to what is happening to Armenians, and Afghans in Pakistan- that is ethnic cleansing.

I really need people to brush up not only on their dictionary terms but on the legal definitions that help determine something. Definitions and the correct usage of them matter! Languages matters- when we use definitions wrongly we water them down.

This is why we have people screaming genocide at something that isn’t one! Because their definition of genocide has been watered down- because every war is suddenly a genocide and every bad person I disagree with is a Nazi.. You get my drift. I’m very sensitive to correct usage of words and definitions.

I absolutely understand this perspective and I refrain from using either term personally with regard to this conflict.

I respect your sensitivity, which is one of many reasons I urge people to try to understand the impact of these words on the Jewish community.

That said, I am sensitive also to the fact that there are dictionary definitions of things and legal definitions of things and scholarly definitions of things. I try to keep in mind that everyone is approaching this conflict from their own cultural context so I am not as intense personally about correcting people's usage of these terms, simply because I'm not expert enough to determine which definition is "best." I think legal definitions should definitely always be used in the context of legal discussions, but I don't know if the legal definition is best in a sociological context.

I want to be clear: I'm not disagreeing with you. I'm just respecting my own limitations on this subject matter.

Rest assured, we agree on the main point here: It is important to be specific and accurate in the usage of terms. We cannot allow emotions running high to justify the watering down of such serious terms.

People of all identities affected by this conflict should approach discussions of terms in the same way they approach everything else about this conflict: with good faith, an open heart, and a goal of peace.

I respect that you also disagree with the use of the term ethnic cleansing. However, I personally do not agree that it is "as bad." This is not me trying to tell you that you're wrong. I just think this particular discussion point has a lot of equally valid takes. Your take is absolutely valid. But allow me to explain my take on the situation, which I consider to be equally valid:

I think there is a lot more wiggle room in the term "ethnic cleansing" than there is in the term "genocide." When I use the term ethnic cleansing, I am referring to the United Nations Office on Genocide Prevention and the Responsibility to Protect.

The key takeaways I have from the United Nations here is that ethnic cleansing is not actually a crime under international law. The two very loose definitions offered here are:

… rendering an area ethnically homogeneous by using force or intimidation to remove persons of given groups from the area.

a purposeful policy designed by one ethnic or religious group to remove by violent and terror-inspiring means the civilian population of another ethnic or religious group from certain geographic areas.”

I consider Palestinians to be a an ethnic group. I know some critics do not, but I disagree with those people. So if you do not agree with me on that, I doubt we will agree on the specifics that follow. I think recognizing Palestinian identity is vital to fostering a peaceful future for all currently residing in the Levant. However, I know that there are also politics and political realities in Israel between those who call themselves Arab-Israelies vs. Palestinians. I do my best to stay informed about topics, but this is too fraught for me to parse with any authority. I believe in Palestinian ethnic identity because of several reasons I won't elaborate on here, but can elaborate on upon request.

I am not particularly swayed by the first bullet point. I do not believe that Israel is trying to render Palestine as ethnically homogeneous, even though they are using force on the area.

The second bullet point has merit to me. I do not believe all Jews or all Israelis wish to eradicate and remove Palestinians from the Levant, so I do not consider Israelis in general or Jews in general responsible for the cleansing. Furthermore, even though I am personally a pacifist, I am also pragmatic. I believe there are much less violent ways to eradicate Hamas than the heavy bombing currently taking place. I also know Hamas has been firing rockets into Israeli civilian areas for quite a long time and Israel has every right to treat Hamas like the hostile, terrorist organization it is.

But I do hold Netanyahu and the Likud party responsible for their affect on Palestinian civilians. I was disgusted when Netanyahu justified his violent actions by invoking Amalek. And I believe that by invoking Amalek he did in fact cause all of his actions as commander of the military to be in support of ethnic cleansing. I do not deny the parallels between the Amalekites relationship to the ancient people of Israel and Palestine's relationship to the modern state of Israel: namely, repeated attempts to destroy Israel, repeated attacks on Israeli civilians (including the taking of hostages and the attack of women and children and the elderly as a terror tactic). However, what I cannot and will never endorse is the implication that we should treat Palestine the way ancient Israel treated the Amalekites.

G-d ordered the people of Israel to blot out the living memory of the Amalekites from the earth--to eliminate every living Amalekite as well as their city and livestock so that they would only be remembered for the horror they inflicted.

We cannot and must not treat modern Palestinians in this manner, and by invoking a religious precedent in this manner as justification for the modern assault on Gaza, I cannot really conceive of a way in which this is not a specific, religious directive to violently target a civilian population on the grounds of their ethnic identity.

Before anyone uses this as an excuse to demonize all Israelis or Jews, I want to explicitly shut that down as well. I know for a fact that not all Israelis or Jews support or agree with Netanyahu here. And while Netanyahu's horrific invocation of Amalek must be rejected, that rejection does not mean that there should be no consequences for Hamas terrorists and those who support their terror. What it does mean, is that as long as Netanyahu is directing the military response, he is, in my personal opinion, carrying out an ethnic cleansing. And we must be able to criticize him for that and respect Palestinian civilians enough to give them the grace to use the phrase "ethnic cleansing" to describe the horror they are experiencing. Criticizing this does not mean Israel has no justifiable military response. Hamas has been engaging in antisemitic terror and mass violence against Israelis and Jews for a long time, even prior to 10/7, in a way that must be stopped by force. However, the main goal for all people of good faith affected by this conflict should always remain peace, not retaliation or attacks on ANYONE (Jewish or Arab) based on their ethnic identity.

I fully respect that you may disagree with this. As there is no legally widespread accepted definition of ethnic cleansing, you may be operating under a different set of criteria to define the term "ethnic cleansing." That's OK, too. I would not call myself uninformed on the topic of the i/p conflict. I have been actively affected by it for over 25 years. That said, I'm also no scholar or international expert on the topic either. I would rate my knowledge and familiarity with the conflict and relevant terminology to be much higher than average and steeped in years of observation and personal experience. So, if I still view his as a matter up for a variety of interpretations, I cannot fault others for feeling the same way, even if that means they disagree with me. I hope this makes sense, and you are able to see my stance as legitimate, even if you disagree with it.

[alls-fair-in-pride-and-prejudice]

Magic Lesson

Part 6 of Weaving Constellations, a bunch of connected snippets of Gale and my Warlock Tav falling in love. Part 5 here , part 1 here, part 7 here

(A/N: These two nerds need to bone so bad why did I commit myself to a slow burn. Enjoy the first romance scene with Gale with a little bit of a twist!)

Lyra does not trust this ‘dream guardian’ that has shown up. At first she thinks Midnight is finally talking to her again, visiting her in her dreams as he often does. However, the moment he speaks she can see that he is all wrong, missing the signature sparkle of his skin. Whatever thing is speaking to her and her companions has chosen an illusion, something inspired by her patron, but distinctly not. It only sets her guard on edge.

She and Gale aren’t quite on the same page with that, much to her annoyance. One would think that she would be butting heads with Astarion more, but perhaps it’s worse because it’s Gale. He understands her like no one else in camp, more than she thought he would, which has been a pleasant surprise. Lyra smiles at the memory of her and Gale almost fighting to solve that Selunite puzzle under the temple first.

Tomorrow will be a big day. They know where the druid is now, and they need to free him and quite probably take on an entire goblin camp before they lay waste to the grove. Lyra knows she should sleep and be at her strongest, but she’s restless. Her eyes skim the words of the book in front of her but do not take in the meaning. 

She looks up to see Gale pacing, fixated on a glowing illusion in his hand. She cannot see it from this distance, so Lyra decides to approach. It’s the image of a woman, beautifully and lovingly rendered hovering over his palm. Lyra can guess who it is, and she isn’t quite sure why there’s a twinge of annoyance at that recognition.

Lae’zel and Astarion both propositioned her before it became clear that she was taken. She should feel relieved that there will be no such confusion with Gale, as this action makes it clear that he still harbors feelings for his goddess. And who could blame him?

Lyra. Lyra could blame him. His intentions were largely pure, if tainted by some ambition, and rather than help him with his condition, Mystra would leave him to suffer alone, and possibly take out a whole city with it. To end the relationship Lyra could understand, but to abandon him without a word when he is suffering so? Does he mean nothing to her? Well, what could a human possibly mean to a goddess in the long run? A blip in her immortal existence incapable of reaching a fraction of the power… why would he continue to long for her?

This line of thought is dancing dangerously close to some conclusions Lyra does not wish to come to, so she breaks the silence. “She’s very pretty.”

Gale drops his hand, the illusion dissipating into the night air. “Oh, you startled me. I was miles away.”

There’s a furrow to his brow. He really misses her, doesn’t he. “Is everything alright?” Lyra asks hesitantly, unsure of what else to say to convey that she is there to help, that he can unburden himself with her.

“Of course! Of course, I was just… practicing an incantation.”

Lyra sighs with a half smile. It’s a disappointment, but she supposes it makes sense. Despite what they have been through together, they haven’t exactly known each other long. Still. “I know you well enough by now, Gale. There’s more going on.”

He smiles sheepishly. “You’re right. I was conjuring an image of Mystra. I cannot quite describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her, to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence. No sculpture or painting could ever do her justice, only the fabric that she herself embodies. The Weave.” There are stars in his eyes as he says the words. “Mystra is all magic, and as far as I am concerned she is all creation.”

Is that… jealousy Lyra is feeling? Why on earth would she be jealous? She’s already in a relationship, there is no need for her to be jealous of Mystra.

Though… perhaps it is not that it is Gale so much as the concept of anyone speaking with such love and reverence in their voice. Just because Lyra knows that kind of language is reserved for goddesses doesn’t stop her from wanting that kind of adoration. “I hadn’t realized the depths of your devotion.” The words come out a little more bitter than she intends them to, but thankfully Gale does not seem to notice or care.

“Magic is my life. I’ve been in touch with the weave for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing like it. It’s like music, poetry, physical beauty all rolled into one and given expression through the senses.”

This is much more comfortable territory for Lyra to sit in with him, discussing their passions of study.

“I can’t say that I know the feeling. I’m not in touch with the weave when I cast, it’s channeling my patron’s power, but the way you describe it sounds like how I feel about mathematics, or the cosmos.”

“Would you like to experience it? I could show you.”

Lyra nods, never one to deny her curiosity.

“Then follow my lead.”

He moves to stand next to her, so they’re facing the same direction, but he’s also slightly behind her… and so close. It’s almost too close for comfort, but Lyra finds she doesn’t mind quite so much. 

As he leads her through the steps, Lyra quickly adapts to his guidance and skillfully mimics him.

“I want you to picture the concept of harmony, as true as you can.”

Ah, her one weakness. She has never been terribly skilled at picturing abstract concepts, nor summoning them to form such a vivid image in her mind. Flailing for an option, she chooses the present moment. There is nothing so harmonious she can remember as working with such a good instructor.

The very air seems to come to life around them, swirling with energy that permeates through Lyra’s very soul. Gale smiles wide. “You’re channeling the weave! How does it feel?”

“It feels… like home,” Lyra cannot find a better word for it. The sensation is so very right, so true to her core that it is as if something long lost has finally returned. The world makes sense, and she can feel her place in this endless tapestry of magic as if she has always belonged there. The glowing purple breeze rustles her hair, caresses her cheek, both a new love and something ancient, something deep in her bones etched into her ancestry.

And she feels Gale, just as much a piece of this tapestry. She can feel the connection between them, stronger than the mental link of the tadpoles. This is somehow more abstract. The weave has created a tether between their souls as well as their minds, and she knows all she has to do is picture what she feels and he will know.

She wants to show her gratitude, show how she cares about him, so Lyra focuses on their hands, the hands that brought all this to life, and imagines taking them in her own, squeezing gently. Her mind runs away with her and thinks of walking with him, discussing magical theory and replicating this night with many more lessons, their magic weaving together as easily as fingers interlocking. Though that particular type of interlocking fingers that her mind is conjuring is much less like walking hand in hand and more like pinning someone down and oh gods.

The magic around them seems to puff out of existence as sharp as the intake of breath from Gale. He’s staring at her. She’s staring at him. Then they both start speaking at the same time.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I didn’t think-”

“Minds are very-”

“It was a pleasant image-”

“Such abstract things, random associations-”

“I wouldn’t assume-”

“It was a wonderful lesson-”

“Any time you’d like to replicate-”

Lyra grabs Gale’s hand, and he falls silent, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “I would very much like it if you taught me again sometime. All that time studying theory at school, I became very accomplished in the mathematics and astronomy that are associated with higher level magic, but it never felt like this. You made it come to life. You’re an excellent teacher.”

The tension incrementally eases out of Gale’s shoulders as she speaks. “You are more than welcome to avail yourself of my expertise any time you would like. Thank you for sharing a moment of magic with me.”

Lyra smiles, regretting that she must go out into the cold and empty night alone again. Alas, “I should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“Of course, as should I. Rest well, Lyra.”

Lyra tosses and turns in her bedroll, feeling too wired up on the energy of the weave to truly settle. When she does, she dreams of silver scales that sparkle like the stars above, of wings outstretched and soaring in the clouds, of a deep rumbling voice of an ancient slumbering beast welcoming her home.

While Lyra sleeps, something else wakes up.

[incandescent-creativity]

@flashfictionfridayofficial I’m doing this one on time for once I swear

I thought this would be fitting for Ash’s realization that Zach is from… well, out there. Beyond. Etc.

Slowly, I say, “You’re in the City of Vanithea. On a central island separate from the local landmasses. Most of us live here in the city, although some human populations have settled closer to the shores.”

Something is wrong, though. I don’t know of any of the shore towns named Seahaven, and Zach’s smile has dropped. He looks like I just delivered bad news, but why?

“Do you have a map?” Zach asks. “Like a world map?”

Feeling the thrilling pull of a new mystery, I stand up behind my desk.

“Follow me.”

Technically, bringing him back into the private room I use to store all the materials I am currently studying is going above and beyond Help Center duties. But I keep a copy of Bordreau’s map to help me with my research, given that hers is one of the more academically accepted interpretations of voyage reports we have. And because I see her whenever I visit the administrative office, I can usually get up-to-date copies.

Zach doesn’t need to know all that, though. It’s embarrassing enough to have someone else see the disjointed spread of yellowed papers and notes tacked to each wall. I don’t need to go into detail about how I’m close colleagues with the mapmaker.

“Here it is,” I say, spreading it out. “And here is where we are.”

I don’t know what I expect him to do. The map matches what I explained earlier: the edges of various landmasses line the map to the east and northeast, and the scattered merfolk islands dot the south. In the center of the map is our island, with its shores drawn in significantly sharper detail than the sketched landmasses. It’s generally agreed that Bordreau is the best at walking the line between honoring what the voyagers who make it back have spotted from afar, and taking creative liberties.

Zach looks it over for less than a minute. I’ve seen the map before; I watch him instead. From what I can tell, he spends most of his time studying the illustration of our central island.

“The smaller islands,” he says, tapping the handful of islands located in merfolk territory. “What’s past them?”

“Hard to say,” I say with a shrug. “The merfolk don’t let us pass through. About a decade ago, the city council decided we had lost enough boats trying.”

Too bad Gran isn’t here to hear me deliver the news with such neutrality. With how many of my rants she has heard on the decision, she’d probably be proud of me. I’ll have to tell her later.

“Well, they should start up again,” Zach says with completely unearned confidence. “Because that’s where I’m from.”

“You’re from the merfolk islands?”

That would explain why he doesn’t know the city, but… Actually, no, it wouldn’t. He would have swam here, climbed ashore, and traveled to Vanithea, so he would know where he is. Not to mention that, unless Zach’s scales are just as pale as his skin, and are therefore rendered invisible, I can’t believe him.

“No, no,” he says, and now he does sound like he thinks I’m being silly. “Past them. I’m from… over here.”

He spreads his hand out and waves it over a portion of the map beyond the inked borders, indicating the implied landmass east of the merfolk islands.

I struggle to keep my face neutral as I consider the implications of what he says. If I believe him… If he is telling the truth, then Zach’s presence in my Center is completely unprecedented. Humans haven’t managed to establish any permanent settlements outside of the central island. Every time we try to sail east or south, the merfolk take issue with it, and voyages to the north have infamously met with disaster. And, as far as we can tell, there isn’t anything to the west.

At least, that’s what the voyagers of the past have told us. But few of them ever actually made landfall on any of the identified landmasses, precluding genuine exploration…

Points of connection between the revelation standing in my back room, and my ongoing thesis paper, begin to unfold in my mind. This could change the direction of the paper entirely. If Zach’s tale can be verified by someone, somehow, it could be the clinching argument I need to convince the City. The entire thing would be elevated from some opinion piece by a girl to a forceful argument by an academic.

Holy shit.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 1, Part 2

Downstar receives a dream from StarClan, much to Fennelspot’s envy.

[Image ID: Fennelspot and Downstar face each other. Downstar is surrounded by a few renders of pink flowers. Underneath her, pixel text reads + GUIDANCE FROM STARCLAN: THE FLOWER FIELD (DREAM)]

“I swear by StarClan, if Weedfoot didn’t ask me to take him in, I would have let him rot outside the Clans,” Downstar grumbled later that day as she trudged through the trees beyond RippleClan camp with Fennelspot at her side. The ginger cleric had a basket woven from grass twine in his jaws slowly filling with blueberries. He silently listened to Downstar as she carefully shuffled through a blueberry bush in the forests RippleClan carved out for their territory.

“AshClan should have let him stay,” Fennelspot said, his nasally voice muffled by the basket handle.

“It was hard enough to talk to Weedfoot when she lived there,” Downstar sighed. “I’m just glad she’s with us now. That we’re all together. Even if Puddlespeckle and Carnationkit are getting on my nerves.” Downstar spotted a few more blueberries deeper in the bush, hidden by afternoon shadow. She plucked each blueberry out with her mouth, careful not to pop the precious fruits. She dropped them in Fennelspot’s basket one by one. She snatched the last blueberry and dramatically chewed it up. She purred at the sudden sweetness.

“Lucky,” Fennelspot sighed. “I wish I could taste sweet things.”

“I think that’s all of the berries,” Downstar said. “Wanna head back to camp?” Fennelspot hummed in agreement.

The pair were still learning the territory, like everyone else in their haphazard Clan. They carved some of their eastern lands out of SlugClan and bordered WheatClan, but as they got further west, the more foreign the land became. Why SlugClan hadn’t expanded their land this way before, Downstar couldn’t guess.

“Fennelspot?” she asked softly. “I don’t think my mood today is just because of Puddlespeckle. I… I think I had a dream. From StarClan.” Fennelspot paused. “That’s common for leaders, isn’t it? StarClan likes to share stuff with us on occasion, rather than going to you clerics. It wasn’t a bad dream, either. I don’t think we have anything to fear. But it was so clear, Fennelspot.” Downstar pranced in front of Fennelspot.

“I really was in a field of flowers,” she purred. “I could smell them! I couldn’t tell what sort they were, but they were soft and red and beautiful! Oh, but that isn’t the best part, Fennel! There were these dogs, and for a moment, I thought they would eat me alive! But they got one paw deep into the flower field, and the flowers rose up and started hitting them! The flowers were protecting…” Downstar’s words died when she saw the look in Fennelspot’s eyes. He couldn’t meet Downstar’s.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fennelspot groaned, setting down the blueberry basket. “I’m glad StarClan spoke to you, if the dream felt that real, they’re likely saying something, but… Downstar, I haven’t heard anything from our ancestors since… since we formed RippleClan.” 

Neither said a thing for a while. Gray squirrels, those parasites among squirrels, chittered somewhere in the trees overhead. Fennelspot wrapped his tail around his back leg. Downstar thought things through.

“Well,” Downstar gulped, “a lot happened when we formed RippleClan. It took a lot of effort. Maybe they just don’t have anything to say right now. It was probably a normal dream.”

“Maybe,” Fennelspot muttered.

“Hey.” Downstar tucked a paw under Fennelspot’s lowered chin. “It’s alright. When StarClan wants to speak with you, they will. You won them over before, right? They probably need a break from all this.” She waved her paw around Fennelspot’s face. He chuckled and batted the paw away.

“Alright,” Fennelspot sighed. “I’ll let it go.” He picked up the blueberry basket, but his tail still hung low.

“Let’s make something with these berries tonight,” Downstar suggested. “I can mash them up and pair them with the mussels Scrubmask collected this morning.”

“That sounds nice,” Fennelspot purred. “That sounds… really nice.”

(Downstar: 60, female, adventurous, valuable insight, very clever)

(Fennelspot: 58, male, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

[backyardflames]

I definitely think EE realised they made a mistake putting Honey and Jay together but the problem is that because they did it does take the impact of Jay and Lola away. You could understand with Lola's journey that she loved other people but it just hadnt been then the right time with Jay until it was.

But with him it felt like, even though they got back together before she was diagnosed, that he pressed fast forward on their relationship. I don't doubt that he loved her but for how rushed it was that they were back together then she was diagnosed suddenly she was the love of his life, but like he hadn't been trying to get her back in the years they were apart.

I think thats one reason why this storyline is bugging me so much because he's acting like he's the only one who is hurting, maybe the only one who has a right to be hurting. Like its *his* grief and no one elses but Billy, Ben, 100% Lexi lost way more than he did. I used to like Jay but everything has been so self indulgent and well just selfish. He should have removed him from Lexis environment if he ever cared for her. If he so determined not to move on because he doesnt want to forget Lola then he should have respected her memory enough to not be around her already vulnerable daughter.

Everyone grieves differently and whilst I dont like how hes doing it i can understand it, what I cant understand is how it's been coupled with ignoring everything he promised Lola.

I think the Honey and Jay thing could have been waved away if had been a month or something tops. But it was years. And the truth about Lola and Jay is that Lola never picked Jay when she thought she had other options. And Jay grew out of his Lola obsession years ago - he didn’t care when they broke up. And the whole lonely Jay thing isn’t something I buy either. He’s been firmly established in the Mitchell family for over a decade. He’s ‘one of them’. We’ve seen it repeatedly over the years. He’s a Mitchell. Yet now he doesn’t feel a part of them?!

They tell us he has this great relationship with Lexi but we’ve literally never seen it. He’s been her often absent uncle for most of her life and of course she loves him, but there’s never been any real warmth to their relationship. They’re like buds. They now have a trauma bond.

And the thing is, I don’t even have a problem with Jay grieving. Grief is selfish. But I do have a problem with the way it’s presented without consequence. He pushed Ben into the PR thing and he knows it - and at the first hurdle he falls so spectacularly that it renders the entire intention of the PR moot. But he should still be allowed the thing Ben absolutely didn’t want and he has failed at because…?

He does drugs around Lexi, putting her in danger and upsetting her but it’s everyone else that should feel bad for being angry because…?

He puts his grieving, traumatised and in recovery friend in an impossible position, but Ben is the one who is wrong because…?

He assaults the person trying to help him and minimises his relationship with his step daughter of 2+ years and doesn’t apologise but it’s ok because…?

Jay can fuck up spectacularly. I welcome it. And I would love him for it. But when the audience and show think it’s everyone else’s fault to the point where they need to manipulate people with awful, nonsensical writing, I’m not going to be moved by it.

Jay hasn’t grown as a character in years, and if they keep pulling this shit where he isn’t in the wrong, even when it’s clear he is, he’s never going to progress.

[knowltonsrangers]

infigo [pt. 2]

Ensign Thomas Baker x reader // bookstore au

[part one]

Writing the paper should have become the easiest part, once the books were in your possession. The resources were all at your disposal, yet, every time you opened up your notes and computer, nothing seemed to come to fruition.

As a senior in college, writing a short history paper should be akin to nothing. You've written more on math assignments, for crying out loud.

Mindless daydreams seemed to take control of your thoughts, shuffling papers around your desk as your eyes drifted to the book on your bed. The one that Thomas had so kindly slipped into the bag the other day.

About halfway through the novel, you couldn't have been happier to have some sort of distraction, albeit an encouragement of procrastination. It was a simple gesture that had your heart racing in your chest every moment you thought of the interaction. It was so incredibly kind of him to help you, let alone gift you a book.

He must be incredibly observant, to notice how you just simply glanced at the cover before walking back to the front of the store.

"Hm,"

The bookstore was only a short walk away, a location that seemingly went unnoticed your first few times down that street. It was its own hole in the wall, but a lovely one at that, a secret you'd be hesitant to share. Your gaze moves to the window in front of you, a test of your eagerness being thrust upon you just by the rain.

The bell taunts him once more, a bought of terrible weather raging as the door all but slams open, enough that with a heavy sigh, he stands to close for the day.

No one in their right mind would venture out in this storm, and it was possibly doing more harm than good allowing the door to keep flinging open like that.

It's an short walk to the front, and just as he begins fishing around his jean pockets for his keys, he nearly stumbles over his own two feet to see a figure trudging through inches-deep water.

"Surprise?"

He's rendered speechless for a short moment, before shaking his head and gently yanking you inside, closing the door. Finally finding his keys, he locks the door so it would be just the two of you, and the two of you alone.

"I really didn't think it was that bad, or else I wouldn't have come. I think it got worse on my way here,"

Thomas just stares, eyes a bit wide as he takes in your appearance, a red raincoat actually dripping onto the blue carpet. Not that he cares about that, he cares that you're soaked to the bone and worried that he's upset with you.

He is, but only because you’ll probably get sick-not that he isn’t happy to see you, he is, very much so. But how could he ever say that? He and you hardly know each other, but your friendly and kind personality is just so endearing that he couldn't ever stand to see you so disappointed.

"I would hope so,"

Finally regaining his senses, Thomas breathlessly laughs, coming to stand behind you as he peels your coat from your shoulders. Then, he sighs in relief as your upper half is not as drenched as your bottom. He hangs your jacket on a rack next to the door.

"Did you need another reference for your paper? How is it going, by the way?" You hum in thanks, pushing some hair that was stuck to your forehead away from your eyes.

"Oh, aha, about that..."

Something twists in his stomach, a twinge of guilt first that he wasn’t as helpful as he thought he was.

"I actually came by to thank you. The paper...yeah, it's coming along, but really, the books were a huge help."

Relief floods his shoulders once more, before analyzing the rest of your statement.

"You're very welcome, y/n, of course. But I'm positive you didn't come all this way just to thank me-" He just hopes you can't hear how loud his heart is. Lord knows its the only thing he can hear right now.

"And to thank you for that book! You most certainly did not have to do that, I've been reading it since I've left here,"

A smile spreads across his face, cheeks beginning to hurt.

"It would be a fair assumption that you've done little of your work, and have been spending your time reading?"

You blush, the toe of your rain boot dragging against the carpet in slight protest.

"All right, yeah. You caught me."

You giggle as his smile brightens, a laugh on his lips as well.

"I am so glad to hear that you're enjoying it. Though, not too proud of myself for making you neglect your work."

"It's a small price for such a excellent novel. Not your fault anyways, I am always getting distracted."

A small lull forms, and just as you go to suggest maybe you should head back, his eyes catch your bag. Shrugging off all of his fear to attempt to be forward, he shakily asks:

"Did you bring your work with you?" "Oh? Yes, I was planning on heading to the library on my way back from here."

Your nose twitches.

"Though, it'll probably be the opposite of a library, especially during finals week. So noisy."

Thomas swallows thickly and gives the chance the most he's willing to muster.

"I was planning on closing for the day, y/n. The store is yours to work on your paper, if you would like."

He watches the way your jaw unhinges slightly as if he just offered you a hundred dollars.

"You have already done way too much for me, absolutely not-!"

"You have a quiet space, shelves of historical resources, and a bachelor's in American history at your immediate disposal. What more could you ask for?"

He doesn't miss your eyes lighting up.

"You were a history major? Oh, well now we're best friends, Thomas!"

Thomas laughs, and you can't help the way your cheeks warm at the sight. He was just so incredibly gentle and kindhearted, that you were certain that it would be no easy feat to leave the confines of the store if you chose to stay.

"You don’t have to. And are you sure it's okay? Seriously, the last thing I would want to do is impose,"

"I only graduated last year, y/n," He smiles, gesturing with his hand to the front desk, trailing right behind you as you approach it.

"I think I've still got it in me. And you could never impose, y/n, really. I want to help you,"

Sliding the stool over to you, you hop onto it, and he disappears into the back for a moment, but returns with a mismatched chair, pulling it over next to you.

Happily, you unpack your bag–computer, notebook, and lastly, the books.

"Want to see how far I got?" You jest, tone clearly sarcastic, but Thomas blindly nods.

"I'd love to."

And when you open your laptop, the both of you are met with a laughable blank document, not even your name or course atop the sheet.

"Oh, y/n..."

"I'm a pretty bad procrastinator. I like to call times like these desperate measures, but it seems all my small detours led me to the right place."

In the mismatched furniture, the two of you sat relatively at the same height, Thomas still just a bit taller than you. It was easy to meet his gaze here, behind the desk, and you felt a bit more courageous than before.

"You must be really good at math, then."

More laughter echoes, as hours pass in a mere blur, chattering amongst yourselves as you type away. It almost felt like twenty minutes had gone by, when your phone buzzes, signaling that someone was looking for you.

"Oh, it's four already?"

The both of you look up to the clock on the opposite wall, confirming that the time was in fact three fifty-eight.

"I take it then that it's time to wrap this up?"

You nod glumly, a small pout upon your lips as Thomas begins marking pages and closing over books.

"You're nearly done, y/n. Another paragraph and a proofread, and that's all it needs." "I'm not bummed about that,"

If you could describe his face in one word, it would be confused.

"Wait, let me back up. I am eternally grateful for everything, you literally just sat with me for hours assisting in a paper when you absolutely did not need to." You take a breath.

"So thank you, Thomas. I literally could not have done it without you."

"You're always welcome around here, no matter the circumstance. I am always happy to help." Your nose wrinkles, a smile toying on your lips. He senses what you mean before you continue, but allows you the floor to say it, even though you needn’t to.

"You'll have to tell me your favorite cookie, so I can bake for you sometime. But, ah, the reason I am so terribly bummed out is because this means it is goodbye, at least for now."

Loneliness was a feeling that Thomas knew a little too well, and while he was disappointed alongside you, he hoped it had meant he would have your visits to look forward to.

"Well, maybe physically, but I think given the circumstances that your paper isn't finished, maybe I can offer this,"

He grabs a piece of scrap paper from the desk drawer, scooping up a pen and scribbling some numbers across the surface.

"In case you get stuck with that last paragraph." He winks, and you take the paper gingerly, holding it to your chest as if you were safeguarding it.

"You are an absolute gem, you know that?"

"Anytime."

When you gather your things, Thomas moves to the front window, happy to see that the weather has let up, miraculously so. Just some grey clouds overhead, but the rain had dissipated for now. He grabs your coat off the rack, as you slip something atop the desk, hopeful he doesn't see it until you've left.

"Is it okay if I swing by tomorrow?"

Helping you into your coat, you look up at him expectingly.

"Of course, I'm open tomorrow."

"Okay, great!”

Slinging your bag onto your shoulder, he unlocks the door for you, holding it open as you venture outside.

"Oh, I almost forgot!"

You beckon him to you, and thinking nothing of it, he leans down, just enough that your arms latch around his neck, squeezing him into a hug that makes his whole face beam red.

"Thank you, very much,"

"Anytime. I’m just glad somebody finally got use out of those books,”

He manages to get out, arms coming to your waist to hug you gently in return.

"I'll see you soon!"

And just like that, the door closes over, nearly on his nose as he stands there, as if he couldn't just believe what happened.

"I need to-" He turns, eyes catching the white envelope on the front desk, immediately grabbing his attention.

Written on the front in perfect cursive read 'Thomas', and he's positive this time, that his heart skipped a beat.

[a/n: this is 1.8k words. how. how did this get so long.]

[heyclickadee]

Okay, while I’m waiting five years for this frame to render, here’s some thoughts I’ve been having about the whole practical effects vs digital effects debate.

See, on the one hand, I freaking love practical effects. Poorly done practical effects, well done practical effects, practical effects that haven’t aged well, practical effects that hold up and probably always will. Practical effects my beloved. There’s just something about having a thing actually be there, interacting with the light and the environment, having real weight, that I absolutely love. I absolutely want to see more of them in film.

On the other hand, I kind of bristle a bit when people argue that digital effects are easier, because…they’re really not. They’re cheaper a lot of the time, but that’s because the studios aren’t paying digital effects workers fairly. And they take up less space, of course, or maybe take up space differently. But they’re probably just as much work as the practical effects. You’re still having to come up with solutions to get things to look right, having to hit things with proverbial hammers until they behave, and definitely having to throw a whole bunch of math and art at a problem until it works. If there’s a cg dragon on screen, I promise that someone had to design that dragon, that someone else had to sculpt it (which isn’t less work even if it is happening on a computer), and then there’s the texturing and the rigging and probably coming up with solutions to get the rigging on the wings to work because dear lord is rigging the worst, and that’s besides animating, lighting, and compositing, and trying to get it to look like it belongs in a scene with everything else.

In fact, the reason why so many digital effects look iffy, especially on television, is because they’re a lot of work, but studios often won’t shell out the budget to allow the cg artists the time to do them properly. The cg animals in the cg Lion King look weirdly weightless and expressionless? Its not because cg is inherently bad (even though I think remaking The Lion King was inherently unnecessary, but that’s another story). It’s probably because the animators and riggers were either given the bad direction, or because they weren’t given the time to go back and refine the animation and give it the weight it needed and ended up having to rely on Maya (or whatever program they were using) to do a lot of the tweening, or something similar.

And there are also times when practical effects just will not work, sometimes because of safety or sometimes because cg is actually better suited for the situation. And there are even situations where audiences will assume an affect was digital, and then for it to turn out to be practical. So, for me, it’s not a debate over which kinds of effects are better. Its more about:

1. CG artists needing to be compensated fairly.

2. Studios and directors needing to not automatically default to cg effects.

3. Using the right kind of effect for the situation.

For example: The Dark Crystal: AOR needed to be puppetry and practical effects. A realistically rendered Dark Crystal universe would have been a complete disaster; that’s a fully built up from the ground fantasy universe that feels lived in because, in a way, it kind of is. They used digital effects here and there to touch things up or help with compositing (Lore, for example, is a puppet, but they used digital compositing to erase the puppeteers), and there’s a couple weird moments that are cg, but it’s the puppets and the practical effects that really shine. Alternatively—Prehistoric Planet. I’m sure there were practical effects used in some situations, but the animals in Prehistoric Planet needed to be cg, and realistically rendered cg, because the conceit of that series is that it’s a nature documentary. Now, do I also want to see a version of Prehistoric Planet that’s all puppets? Yep, but it would be a very different thing with a different result and feel.

So anyway, tl:dr: Digital effects and cg aren’t inherently bad; they do still require a lot of work; I think it should be less about getting rid of cg in favor of practical effects and more about knowing when to use cg, when to use practical effects, when to use various kinds and styles of animation, when to use everything together, depending on what kind of story you’re telling and what you’re trying to achieve instead of cg being the default.

And pay cg artists more.

[ponds-of-ink]

Notre Dame AU ‘Chapter’ 4: Conversation at The Castle

Going to be a shorter one this time, but at least we get a character interaction or two.

–

The castle bells clanged as Vanessa lingered in the main hall. She rested on the tile floor, listlessly staring at her watch as if it were a flashing book. As it had the capacity to play live recordings, however, this pastime wasn’t useless. In fact, that feature was the only thing ensuring that she was awake and alert.

A conversation buzzed through her watch, though its tiny speakers rendered the exact words unclear to her. The intonation in those words, however, made her roll her eyes and slowly exhale. “That kid’s probably wrecked everything else too,” she growled to herself, adjusting her posture to be more upright. “I don’t know whether to applaud him or shake him by the shoulders..”

Metallic footsteps shook the ground. Vanessa sprang to her feet as the rumbling strengthened. Her right hand twitched as she put it to her sheath. The same voices from the watch drew nearer, prompting her to hastily shut off the device before returning to her defensive position.

One of the large doors opened. An adult-sized, bear-like robot nervously entered inside. “I know you have claimed ‘sanctuary’, but I do not think that you have done it correctly,” he explained as a compartment in his chest opened up. “I am very sure that you need to stay at the castle doorstep until someone brings you inside.”

Gregory fumbled out of the robot’s chest cavity and landed onto the floor. “Yeah, well, I had no time for that,” he huffed, crossing his arms. “Kinda hard to do when you’re being hunted down by three animatronics at once.”

The worried bear opened his mouth to say something, but the shadow of Vanessa in the corner of his eye kept him silent. “Well, I hope that you are safe here in this castle,” he concluded while turning away and closing back the cavity. “I will notify the front desk as well as your friend.”

“Thanks, Freddy,” Gregory responded slowly, following the bear with his eyes as it walked away. “And, uh, thanks for everything else too. I really needed all the help I could get.”

“You are welcome, superstar,” Freddy replied, his voice tinted with a mix of concern and warmth. After one last mutual wave of farewell, he left the boy the castle.

Seeing her chance, Vanessa stepped in front of one of the windows. “Hey, little man,” she spoke up in a mockingly friendly tone. “Do you know what time it is?”

Gregory pulled out his blaster.

”I’m just saying that the main doors are still open!” Vanessa explained, raising both her hands up defensively. “Why are you still here if the ‘sanctuary’ thing isn’t going to work? You play on moving in or getting a job?”

Gregory shook his head with a scowl.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” the knight said with a slightly sadder expression, taking a few steps forward. “You could’ve joined our internship program instead of running around and messing up even more stuff. You would have been a great security guard.”

The boy retreated a step, then lowered his weapon. “What would you have done if I said ‘Yes’?” he asked sharply. “Would you have made me walk to the main stage for some ‘good boy’ award?”

Vanessa chuckled. “No, but I would’ve given you something for all that fighting if I had the time,” she admitted, carefully drawing out her sword as she kept approaching. “Too bad that’s not going to happen.”

Gregory fired a warning shot, but Vanessa blocked it with her blade. The laser ricocheted onto the floor as their chase began. She swung her sword towards the back of his shirt, but he ducked as he started his run to one end of the hall. He shot another “bullet” but she deflected it again. Thinking quick, she dashed to the opposite side and cut his escape short. With one strike, she knocked the blaster out of his hand. “Didn’t think I’d remember Chase B, did you?” she smirked as she put away her sword.

Gregory stopped before his blaster. “How do you know about Chase B?” he asked with a sneer. “That’s a routine only Vanny and I know!”

Vanessa scoffed as she ruffled the confused boy’s hair. “What do you get when you mix ‘Vanessa’ and ‘bunny’?” she inquired as she scooped up his weapon into her hand. “C’mon, kid, you’re smart enough to fight off three robots and a knight all by yourself! You should know this.”

Gregory frowned in thought. His eyes drifted from one checkered tile to another. His expression changed from frustration to horror. He shook his head in dismay as he looked back up at his much older rival.

Vanessa simply nodded. “It’s amazing how much a voice-changing mask and a decent acting job can change about a person,” she mused as she twirled the toy gun in her right hand. “One minute, you’re a ‘knight’ protecting a Renaissance Faire built in a huge mall. The next, you’re a fun-loving ‘rabbit’ who has to keep the mask on just to not break any illusions. Guess it worked a little too well with you.” Any smile she maintained faded as the boy processed her words. “Sorry about that, by the way,” she resumed somberly, lowering herself down to his eye level. “I was going to hint at it earlier, but this whole Agonia deal’s thrown everything off.”

Gregory stayed quiet. He sat down on the tile floor, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. “So... You’re ‘Vanny’,” he said slowly, his teeth slightly gritting.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“The same Vanny who I’m pretty sure was also here during the construction of this place.”

“Different costume, but you’re right.”

Gregory rolled up his sleeve, showing off both watches. “Then I think this one belongs to you,” he concluded, taking off the black and purple watch and holding it out to the knight. “I found this in Lost and Found a while ago, but I never found out who had it first.”

Vanessa gently put it into her hands. She pressed a button on its side, watching as an older interface light up the device’s screen. “It looks familiar,” she noted, slightly tilting her head. “But I think.. I shared it with someone. We had this daily trade-off for...” Her voice trailed as her right hand twitched. “Reasons I don’t want to remember right now,” she admitted with a bereft tone.

Gregory adjusted to sit beside her. He craned his neck to see the screen. “Do you know who the other one is?” he questioned curiously.

Vanessa’s nose scrunched. “Not really,” she answered as her scrolling finally stopped. “I just left it at the Lost and Found for the other person to pick up. This feed isn’t helping either. All I am seeing is that this person went by ‘46’ in these audio logs.”

“Audio logs?” Gregory repeated, his eyes lighting up. “Maybe I could—“

The two golden doors swung open. Vanessa swiftly jumped up and tossed the watch back to Gregory. She lightly kicked him in the leg, then grabbed his arm as if to “restrain” him.

Her reactions became more reasonable as Judge Glitch entered into the hall with the rest of the knights. “Good work, Vanessa,” he congratulated. “Now, arrest him.”

Vanessa stared at the boy with a stern glare. Gregory, meanwhile, returned with a frown.. For a second. This quickly changed into a shut of the eyes and a silent prayer. The only words that became audible were “Sanctuary, please... Sanctuary..”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Vanessa added as soon as these words drifted into silence. “He’s just pleaded sanctuary. And, if I’m not mistaken, he already did that six hours ago.”

Glitch rolled his eyes, but only shot back a look of tired annoyance. “Then go with the rest and report this to the front desk,” he growled darkly, advancing towards the pair. “In the meantime, I have something to discuss with this.. ‘prisoner’.”

“Yes, sir,” Vanessa answered simply, giving one last look at Gregory before following her fellow troop members. They left altogether, abandoning the boy to the rabbit.

Judge Glitch walked towards Gregory, then circled him slowly. “Tell me, little rascal,” he began snidely, stopping right behind. “How did you come to your conclusion about this whole ‘puppet’ ordeal, if I am completing your little speech correctly?”

Gregory said nothing.

“Am I to understand that these watches were your main piece of evidence?” Glitch pressed, reaching over and grabbing the black-and-purple device. He inspected it as Gregory clamored and fought against the strong grasp on his arm. “Interesting,” the rabbit mused to himself. “Seems like you actually have a case forming here. Not that it much matters, since you’ve got so much wracked up against you as well. You have quite the infamous reputation proceeding you, young man.”

Gregory stomped on the judge’s foot, only resulting in his foot phasing through. A grimace on the rabbit’s face, however, did mean that pain still coursed through. “You don’t know me,” Gregory huffed, shooting a glare.

“You’re right,” Glitch answered, grinning darkly. “We’ve never properly met before today. Perhaps now is the time to fix that.”

Before both could finish, the orange watch buzzed to life. “Gregory, Vanessa has told me that you have claimed sanctuary after all!” an elated voice cried out, replacing the tension with mutual confusion. “This is wonderful! Now you can stay safe until everything is cleared up!”

Glitch removed his hand from the boy’s arm. “Only for a week, Fredrick,” he sneered coldly, walking away. “And you will not be able to visit him until the week is up, if he is found innocent. Remember this.”

“My apologies, Your Honor,” Freddy’s voice said gently. “I will try to remember.”

“As will I, Freddy,” Glitch murmured as he opened a side door. “Turn off your side of the watch and let the boy get acquainted with his ‘prison’.” As if to emphasize his point, he shut off the other watch and tossed it to the boy. Then, without a single word, he left the room.

Now alone with his two devices, Gregory stood as the orange watch’s interface flickered from a live sound feed to a collection of audio logs much like the other. He sighed deeply as he switched from one watch to the other. “I guess I can listen to these while I wait,” he figured in his thoughts, flicking through the other’s logs until 46’s first appearance caught his eye.

The next few minutes Gregory spent composed of listening to these tapes and taking mental notes about 46. 46 seemed to be quiet at first, only recording dialogue and other things around him. The nature of these sounds, however, gave a sense of urgency. There were hurried whispers from voices Gregory knew in an instant. His intrigue perked up even more when the cathedral bells clanged through the speakers as one of those voices called for Sanctuary. The doors opened immediately. “Is anyone hurt?” an elderly man asked, being one of the only clear-sounding people on this tape.

A sharp shush, followed by an unintelligible rapid-fire of information was the answer.

Organ music softly played from the tiny speakers, now echoing throughout the castle. Gregory’s eyes widened. “Wait,” he said to himself. “Why does that sound familiar?”

The music kept on as the atmosphere seemed to calm down. “It wasn’t your fault,” one of the familiar friends reassured a nearby 46. “It was his, remember? He made you do this through that stupid—“

A very faint voice cut in, attempting to sing along with the music. Gregory would have chimed in, but the sheer alarm running through his veins kept him quiet. He stayed silent as an unseen choir sang out a prayer for the outcasts, much like 46 himself— Or herself, given how light and soft the voice was.

Considering the memories this entire performance-turned-fitting plea gave, however, he was not convinced that 46 was a girl. In fact, he almost sounded like...

Gregory shook his head in frustration. “My experience was just a weird nightmare,” he muttered as he shut off the device post-song. “46’s had to have been real. It’s all just one big coincidence.”

At least, he hoped that was the case.

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Forty-Two - Eye of the Hurricane

“It’s gonna be okay,” He hummed gently into the top of my head before kissing it. “We’ll figure it out.” “There’s no figuring it out,” I retorted, voice muffled. My arms came up almost involuntarily and wrapped around him anyways. “Dr. Sims made that pretty clear.” “You know me,” Dad said, the chuckle that followed sounding forced. “I’ll try to find a way.”  “And if there isn’t one?”

9k words | 45-50 min read-time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: Death/Illness, talk of death/illness, alluded to attacks on schools/facilities

I came to in a hospital bed a few hours later. Seizure, Dad told me, stiff as a board as he paced so hard I was pretty sure he was going to cause grooves in the grout. Whatever words Garrett had used my mouth to say obviously had him in a fit, especially when he realized I was conscious and that meant he could harass me. 

The questions came too fast for my fuzzy head to think through; What did Garrett show you? How are they sure it’s Celia? What else did you see? What did they mean by key? Dr. Sims tried to warn Dad that after a seizure, I may have short-term memory loss—especially considering it was my first attack. But he acted like he didn’t hear the man. 

And I didn’t forget. 

I tried to answer. The experiments. The implant in Garrett, since that seemed to pique Aunt Sia’s interest. The Conduit they found that could render someone’s power useless in their proximity, and how Augustine wanted to find a secondary power to make the attack physical. Physical, like how I physically became sick when sitting on the fact that the tar that made me sick made Mom sick, probably even Garrett if the scientists in the secluded lab got away with their efforts before the DUP were forced to clean house. 

I mumbled it out, broken by the want to cry and the need to dry heave: “They poisoned Mom with the tar. Celia. I saw it.”

Dad’s fists clenched at his sides and he paced over to a wall, clenching and unclenching before he finally yelled, cried out this desperate, enraged pained sound I’ve never heard before and never wanted to hear again. His fist became encased in video powers before it hit the sleek tile and the smack sent an EMP through the room that sent every machine I was hooked up to haywire, making everything beep or screech or scream before he turned, that same infuriated scowl on his face that was there when I saw him kill that man on the Marina. 

The nurses didn’t really like us after that. 

I shut down. Between the pain I was in, and the thousand of thoughts swirling in my head, I couldn’t function anymore. Dr. Sims and Aunt Sia tried to ask me more questions and it just felt like I was staring at them from somewhere miles and oceans away, meeting their gaze but not really seeing into their eyes. From how they looked, they didn’t seem to like what they saw in mine. And that wasn’t even the worst of it; every muscle in my body was sore, worse than it’d be after gymnastic competitions. I had a migraine so strong part of my vision was dipped in static, and something felt wrong with my sinus cavities. 

“We don’t need to keep her under observation,” Dr. Sims had decided after realizing they weren’t going to get anything from me, “We know who caused her seizure.”

Who.

Garrett.

I was discharged and allowed to rot in Aunt Sia’s room alone—she stayed behind at the hospital, something about Garrett having had a seizure too. Suffering is better when one’s not alone in it, I guess. “You get her home, put her in my bed, and let her rest…you all have something more important you need to talk about, anyways.”

My conducrinopathy. 

There were rules to my existence, now. Conducrinopathy caused every ‘good’ protein in my system to be replaced with a ‘bad,’ and that would eventually lead to more symptoms. Right now, there weren’t enough in my system to heal me normally. I’d lose powers the more 'good' proteins that disappeared, and once there were more bad than good…my power would start attacking me in some autoinflammatory response. That’s why Mom looked sick in her final photos. That’s why Garrett was trapped in their own mind.

Which is why Dr. Sims told me to use my power as little as possible.

No more running my hand under the tap and absorbing the water; showering was risk enough as is, as I couldn’t stop myself from absorbing that water and the draining apparently made new proteins be made. No humidifying into thin air, no weaving streams between my fingers when I was bored. They were concerned with how many proteins I’d already expended, between drowning Seattle and barely staying alive in the Sound. If it were up to Dad, I’d live in the desert and hydrate via saline drip. Take sand baths like a chinchilla. They wanted me to cut myself off from that side of myself, ignore it in the hopes to prolong the inevitable.

I was the most human a Conduit could be.

This was it. I was broken, permanently, with a failing organ and a disease with a life expectancy. Cut off from a half of me threatening to be my end. No matter what, I wasn’t going to get better. This wasn’t going to improve. I remembered learning about this disease when Tommy’s grandfather was diagnosed with it, when a tear in his muscles after a fall healed over with solid concrete. And when I looked it up online, I saw that it wasn't some sort of freak case—hundreds of old DUP experienced the same. Concrete replacing torn muscles, ulcers on the skin from concrete mixing with sweat and ripping at their flesh. When the stories started diving into pulmonary fibrosis and other health issues with more than five syllables, and a Mayo Clinic page that made me cringe, I only got out of the bed to bury my phone in Aunt Sia’s dirty laundry basket. 

The time after that was a blur. 

There was this horrible hollow feeling in my chest that attacked whenever I wasn’t staring straight at the wall, one that made me gasp in air until I sobbed. Mourning. I was mourning for everything—my future, my powers, the person I was. Crying over everything that could’ve been—because this took away so many options, didn’t it? If I was gonna get sicker, if my own power was going to turn against me and make me ill like Garrett, like Mom—

Who knew what I’d become? 

If I wasn’t crying or sleeping, I was staring far past a point I couldn’t see. One I wasn’t even really concentrating on—just looking forward. Dad brought in my favorite fast food at some point, but the smell of it made me want to vomit. Breakfast the next morning did the same thing, though I stomached a few bites since Dad refused to leave otherwise. He looked at me with a little concern, but I could see the thousands of unasked questions in his eyes, everything he was biting his tongue to hold back to not overwhelm me. 

He was back to treating me like glass. And at this rate, I felt like it. 

I was wiping my eyes with one of the blankets in the pile I was hiding under when the door creaked open, and I stilled; Dad would do this a lot, throughout the day. Quietly pop a head in to check on me and retreat just as quickly when he saw me in the same position he had left me in two hours before. 

The door did none of that this time. The copper hinges groaned when it was pulled wide, and sighed when it was fully closed again. A few creaking steps on the wooden floor of the second story bedroom, and then the other end of the bed dipped down as someone sat on it. 

A few beats of silence passed, and then Brent said, “I know you’re not asleep, Jean.”

A part of me debated not acknowledging him at all and pretending I was anyways, but then I felt his hand gently thwack the back of my leg and he said, “Get up. I’ve got water.” 

I shifted in my cocoon, slowly peeling my upper half out of it and leaning against the headboard as he held out the water bottle. There was a flash of something in his eyes when he first saw me—a smirk and the thought about making fun of me for my hair, probably—but he thankfully held it back when his phone’s flashlight caught my red eyes and still tear stained cheeks. 

Admittedly, between the consistent crying I’d been doing and the concerns about water in general, I was pretty dehydrated, downing two thirds of the bottle in one go before separating my lips from it with a slight gasp. “Thanks,” I murmured. 

Brent took the bottle and downed the rest, the crackle of the plastic the only sound in the room for a moment before he chucked it towards the door. “Woke up when Dad left, went piss, heard you crying.” The shadow of his profile turned towards me. “You okay?” 

Was I okay? I was debating whether or not to brush Brent off or burst into tears when the first part of his sentence registered in my ears and I paused. “Wait—Dad left?” I asked, voice scratchy and raw. “Where did he go?”

“Yeah. Aunt Sia called him like ten minutes ago, it woke me up,” Brent sighed, moving till he was propped up on the headboard too. His hand moved to run through his hair as he seemed to debate saying something before finally coming out with, “Garrett’s dead.” 

I froze, the blood in my arms running as cold as it did when I was actually frozen solid. “What?” I whispered, looking at Brent with wide eyes. 

Brent chewed on his bottom lip. “Didn’t hear much, but it sounds like Garrett became lucid and…well, they took matters into their own hands,” Brent shrugged, not elaborating further. He didn’t need to; I could imagine what he meant. “Can’t say I blame them—can you imagine living like that for the rest of your life?”

Oh, I could. It’s all I had thought about for the last day and a half.

Brent caught how my lower lip pulled down as I frowned and sighed, rubbing an eye. “Jean…” he started, groaning a bit as he grappled with what to say. I couldn’t blame him; if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t know what to say to him, either. 

“It’s okay,” I murmured, moving to lie back down and burrow in the blankets once again. I wasn’t up for a conversation like this, not now.

I was still in the middle of pulling a soft cotton one over my head when he said, “You promised.”

Moving the blanket to peek at Brent like he was a strange bug in a jar, I asked, “What?” What the hell was he talking about?

Brent met my eyes, the muted light from his phone somehow still catching the fire in them. “Back in the hospital in Seattle,” he said, almost accusatory. “You promised you wouldn’t die before me.”

God, that felt like years ago, too; New Years Eve in the hospital, when I had just woken up from whatever coma I was in in the Sound. “I thought you died,“ he had said.

“To be fair, so did I.”

“Well, now you can't die before me. It's my turn, next time.”

I blinked. “You can’t be serious—“ I started, but his bite cut me off quick. 

“Well, I am. So just—don’t do anything stupid, and when Dad figures this out, you’ll be fine.” He said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. I could hear the layer of concern in the alcoves of his request, the silent plea that he was really trying to say; don’t die, not yet. “Just….Dad will fix it.” 

“I don’t know if this is something you can fix, Brent,” I deadpanned, laying my head down and looking at him from under my mound of blankets. 

Brent huffed. “Yeah, well, tell Dad that—all he’s been doing is making calls and emails and whatever, trying to figure out how to help you.”

I blinked. “Really?”

Brent rolled his eyes, like I just asked the world’s dumbest question. “C’mon, you really thought Dad would just let it go? Now give me a blanket, it’s fucking cold.”

Brent stayed. He wasn’t good at pep talks, or making someone feel better—but then again, I don’t think there were any glittery words that could make me feel better right now. But he stayed, and that’s what mattered. During the day, I was left to rot alone in my room, but once night game, Brent would end up on the other side of the bed, taking the top layer of my cocoon off of me to sleep. 

It was always easier, having him a bit closer. At least the worst of the nightmares subsided then. 

The days passed by slowly as hell, if the shifting light behind the blackout curtains was any hint—though I didn’t keep track of it well. My mourning shifted to some sort of dissociation—I did what people asked of me mindlessly. Aunt Sia’s special dumpling soup was eaten when she asked with her big, pleading eyes; Dr. Sims got to give me exams with Dad watching. It was easier to just…go with the motions. It made everything easier, to not have to think about any of it. 

I was there rotting in bed when I heard the door open again from beyond the covers over my head, a strong smell following close behind. Coffee. Was it morning already? Must’ve been—Brent’s heavy body wasn’t making the bed bend in on itself.  I could hear more than one mug settle against Aunt Sia’s nightstand, and a weight settled near me as someone sat down. 

“Jeanie?” Dad called gently, a hand coming to my side and rubbing gently. “You up?” 

I was quiet for a moment, trying to decide whether to feign sleep or just admit I was when I chose the latter. “Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing the end of the blanket and pulling it off my head, popping out of the duvet like a snail out of its shell. Dad’s phone was on the table, flashlight on, the only source of light in the room. The end of his nose was bright pink like he had been out in the cold, thick flannel wrapped close. 

“Hey,” he greeted, smiling softly. His eyes searched my face. “How are you feeling?” 

Like shit. “Alright,” I lied. 

Dad hummed. “I texted your phone earlier but you…never responded.” 

“I, uh—“ I shot a look at the laundry basket before deciding my best course of action would be to run my hand under the pillows, acting like I lost my phone. “My phone’s probably dead, so,” 

Dad nodded. “Ah, probably. Alessia said you didn’t eat much dinner last night.” 

“Wasn’t hungry.” I deadpanned, realizing my tone probably wouldn’t work in my favor if I was trying to brush him off.

“Well it’s—“ Dad lifted his phone to look at the time, nearly blinding me, “—almost one in the afternoon. You should eat something.” 

I glanced at the nightstand, raising an eyebrow. “So you brought me coffee?” 

Dad chuckled. “I just got in from shoveling outside. Figured you could use a kick before I forced you to go to the kitchen.” Then, as a final bargain, he added, “I sugared it up.” 

Damnit. He knew my weaknesses. 

Minutes later I was sitting up in bed, willing the warm drink to do something to this coldness in my chest as Dad beside me, quietly working on his own mug. I knew this dance and I was trying to put it off for as long as possible; he’d sit there awkwardly until finally asking me what was wrong, I’d bat away the concern, he’d press, and my usual go-to was to bring up something about periods or boobs to scare him off. Usually worked. 

Which is why it threw me off guard when he said, “If you’re feeling up to it, I wanna do something with you today.” 

“Wh—“ I cut off, looking over at him. He didn’t look worried or apprehensive—he actually seemed…sorta excited? “You want to…do something?”

“Yeah,” he threw me a sideways glance, smiling gently. “A cold front’s supposed to move in tomorrow, and we’ll be having snow. I wanna do something I planned to do on your birthday now, before the snow ruins it.” 

I stared at him, narrowing my eyes when he didn’t crack. My birthday? I had forgotten about that entirely.

What the hell did he have planned? 

“You’re kidding.” I said in disbelief. 

Aunt Sia had it pretty good, honestly. For a woman that lived alone, she had a spacious house; two bedrooms, a walk-in closet she gutted out to shove a gaming computer in. Nice kitchen and, apparently, a decent backyard—not nearly as big as ours in Chapman, but enough for a wooden privacy fence to wrap around and it not feel claustrophobic, snow bordering the decorative stepping stones. Her patio furniture was tucked away from the elements, motorbike tarped beside the porch. She didn’t shy from personalization; the fences were painted and weathered, a few road signs nailed to them, the stepping stones each had little designs on them. 

None of that really mattered to me, not in weather like this—what did matter was Dad standing by Aunt Sia’s paint-covered fence with a pile of cardboard on a cleared-off table, a thermal cooler…and a spray paint can in his hand. 

“Nope,” he said, smile wide. “I promised you we’d do this one day, right?” He then motioned for me to hurry up. “Come on, before the can gets cold again.” 

It took me a moment to move; holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I only just got used to the idea that Dad was Delsin Rowe, the Conduit pioneer guy—but meeting Delsin Rowe the artist had always been a dream of mine. For that to be Dad and for him to be offering some sort of private session, here and now? 

The smile that crept onto my face felt like it was going to rip it apart. 

I bounced down the steps and jogged to Dad, looking around. God, every question I’ve ever wanted to ask, I could! And I could actually get answers! The first one slipped out almost immediately as I took the can he held out for me: “Why spray paint?” 

“What?” Dad asked, humor in his voice. 

“Out of everything you could have done, you chose spray painting. You were doing street art way before Seattle, right?” I asked him. “Why?” 

Dad huffed, “If I said it was originally because of the vandalism, would you believe me?” 

“What?” 

Dad barked out a laugh. “I wasn’t a good kid, Jean. I fought against society for all the wrong reasons for a while. What better way to be an inconvenience than to inconvenience others? Now put the can in your armpit under your jacket, you want it to stay warm.”

“Did you ever get caught?” I asked, trying to snake the spray paint can up past my jacket’s hem. 

“Oh, all the time. Reggie seemed to have a radar for finding me mid-piece, would take me in.” Dad straightened, murmuring to himself, “He always had my location, now that I think about it…”

“Reggie?” I asked, incredulous. “Your brother would arrest you?” 

Dad huffed, smiling to himself. “Yeah. Guy would go on and on about wanting me to do something better with my life than build a rap sheet.”

I watched him turn around to the cardboard pile, beginning to space them apart. “So you have a record? Are you allowed to be a lawyer with one?” 

“Delsin Rowe has a record.” Dad stressed. “Technically, I’m not him anymore.” 

“That’s quite a loophole.” 

“I was trained to find them.” 

Dad motioned to me, something in his hands flying, and I flinched as I caught the roll of duct tape, some embarrassing little squeal coming out of my mouth. Dad laughed, grabbing one specific cardboard cutout, prompting me to ask, “So, why stencil art?” 

“You’re asking a lot of questions, you know that?” He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. 

“Just curious,” I hummed, trying to sound cool. Chill. Like this wasn’t somehow a dream of mine and yet it was with the dorkiest man I knew. 

Dad huffed, a knowing look on his face. Okay so maybe I ranted that I’d love to talk to Delsin Rowe about his art one day to him without knowing I was talking to Delsin Rowe. How was I supposed to realize? I thought the guy in front of me was just Dad. 

At least Dad didn’t press further, deciding to answer me. “It’s quicker. Easier. If someone catches me while I’m spraypainting and calls the cops, I can get out of there quickly and get the piece done before they arrive.” 

Of course—efficiency. Probably helped a lot when the DUP were using him as target practice. “Mr. Moyer thought your use of stencils was cheating.” I teased gently. “Said it wasn’t real art if you weren’t willing to commit the effort.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Moyer got fired for cheating on his wife with a senior, so what does he know?” 

Dad began separating the cardboard into two piles propped up against the fence, seemingly able to make out the difference in the slivers cut from their square shapes as he said, “I also really like the strong lines stencils make in the layers, though. Especially with how much shading I use—keeps the piece from looking like a pile of black and white goo.” 

“Is that what all this cardboard is?” I asked. “Layers? 

“Yep.” He hummed, setting down the last cutout on the left. He turned around, hands going to rest on his hips. “Each piece I do has about four layers minimum? Adds depth.” 

“But why monochrome?” I asked. “You usually only use one bright color in a piece.” 

He shrugged. “Catches the eye. Plus it makes shading less of a hassle.” 

He moved to the cooler on the side and opened to reveal a bunch of spray paint cans and the rice heating pads Aunt Sia would make, decorative discount cloth full of white rice and microwaved for their heat. “Your art, the style—is it pop art?”

“Is this an interview?” 

I could feel my face turn bright red, warm enough to combat the nip of the cold air as Dad questioned me with an entertained, almost incredulous look on his face. Granted, I would love nothing more than to post a big exposé interview on my dumb little art blog years after everyone has tried—and failed—to get quotes from Dad regarding his art. But right now, this was more for my curiosity. “Sure, fault me for wanting to know about the life you hid for sixteen years,” I joked instead. 

Dad huffed, pretending to be annoyed. “Do you wanna actually, you know, make the piece or are you gonna keep acting like we’re on The View?” 

“Okay, okay! Fine, jeez.” I laughed, watching Dad as he moved closer. 

“Pro tip?” He started. “Don’t call my stuff pop art. Fuck Andy Warhol. Now, ” He stood beside me, turning to look at the fence. There was nothing on it but weathered pain in what used to be firebrick red and a ‘detour’ construction sign. “Alessia said we could make whatever we wanted, but I also wanna make something she’d love.” 

He glanced over at me and we both said it at the same time: “Rats.”

I had to suppress the giggle fit that threatened to crawl up my throat as Dad shook his head, smiling to himself. “Alright, maybe I’m not original,” he hummed, “But you know she would. The thing is, though—you could put any rat right here and call it good. But that’s not fun, is it?”

I stared at the fence, brow furrowing. “You were…your art was known for interacting with the environment, too. Using whatever’s around it as part of the piece.” I looked over at him. “Is that what you mean?” 

He looked…proud. Which wasn’t much coming from Dad, he never shied away from being the supportive father figure, but this was way different. I felt like I was getting a good grade in some sort of quiz right now. “Exactly.” He then looked back to the fence, zeroing in on the ‘DETOUR’ sign hanging on it, and his grin turned a bit sly. 

“And I have just the thing.”

“Jeanie, you’re killing me here. You point the can down, not press the nozzle down like that—”

“The can is huge! I can’t hold it like that, my cast is in the way—”

Dad’s hand went to his face and he sighed hard, laughing in that exhausted way he would when he would try to teach us something that he thought was stupid simple. Which wasn’t fair! He tagged for years before this, I only just got here—how was I supposed to know there was a certain way to hold the can? I just thought you pressed down and sprayed. 

But when I argued that the first time, he just laughed harder. 

Dad was…something else entirely. When I looked at the little patch of wall, I couldn’t really think of much to put on it beyond a rat in different poses. Him, though? He managed to map out a story. A standing rat in a construction hat just as orange as the stolen sign, directing the viewer away from the mousetrap on the opposite side rigged with cheese, orange and white cones around it. And watching him work! Oh my god. Not only was it a dream come true but he really did make this look easy. I barely finished half of the mousetrap by the time he completed the shading on the rat, and had only just gotten to the cheese when he was putting the finishing touches to the piece with the markers hanging out of his back pocket. The cones weren’t even there yet! 

I cracked, laughing, looking down at the paint on my jeans and shaking my head. This was a mess. 

“Hey!” Someone called behind us. We both turned our heads to see Brent standing on the porch, arms out and looking at us incredulously. “Who was gonna tell me we were doing this?”

Dad sniffed, trying to calm himself down. “You were busy, I didn’t want to—”

“I was taking care of Aunt Sia’s rats,” He interjected, bounding down the steps. “I wasn’t doing anything important!” 

“You mean you were playing with them.” I corrected.

“So?” 

“To be fair,” Dad said as Brent came closer, looking around at all of the supplies that were already spent, “I did promise your sister we’d do this together one day.”

“You know, you could admit you have a favorite child. It would hurt less.” 

Dad rolled his eyes as Brent unceremoniously snatched the spray paint can out of my hand, making me teeter in my crouch and fall on my ass. “Brent!” I hate brothers.

“Nope, don’t wanna hear it, it’s my turn.” Brent cut me off playfully, aiming the spray can. “You got to do everything else—”

“Brent, wait—”

“Son, the—”

We tried to warn him. Tried. But in his childish banter to inject himself in the middle of our project, he neglected to realize he was holding the can backwards. 

The can hissed and Brent flinched like he was shot, the spray launching backwards and immediately painting a misshapen orange circle on the stomach of his black long-sleeved shirt. He choked on his spit, the can falling from his hand, glaring down at the spot on his stomach before looking up at Dad and I with that same puppy-faced look of betrayal. 

And I absolutely lost it. 

Maybe it was the way his eyes widened or the indignation, or maybe after everything I had finally cracked—but for some reason, his fuck up was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. There was a hard huff to my right and I glanced over to see Dad with a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his own laughter.

Brent glared at us. “It’s not funny!” He insisted like a child. Dad snorted, which got me to guffaw harder, and Brent scoffed at us both. “I hate you both.” 

“Go inside, get Alessia to help you,” Dad chuckled. “She’s got a trick to get paint out of clothes but it has to still be wet.” 

Brent glanced between us both before rolling his eyes, a smile threatening to play on his lips. “You both suck,” he complained, starting towards the house. “Don’t do anything else without me!” 

Dad clapped Brent’s shoulder as he jogged past, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath. I bent down to grab the can Brent had dropped and tossed it to Dad when he motioned for it, watching him work to shove it under his jacket in an attempt to keep the can warm. “Why did you wanna do this now, of all times?” I asked him, laughter subsiding. 

Dad tried to shrug, the movement hard with a can under his arm. “Just seemed like the best time for it,” he responded. “There’s nowhere in Salmon Bay we could and…I figured you could use the pick-me-up.” 

He then looked over at me fully, and asked that dreaded question: “How are you doing?” 

My eyes fell; how was I doing? God. Horribly seemed the simplest way to sum it all up, but I didn’t say that—instead I gave my own half-hearted shrug, saying, “I’m alright, I guess.”

“‘You guess?’” 

I sighed, but I didn’t respond; I really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Dad noticed my shift in demeanor and called “Hey?”

I only hummed back. 

“I’m sorry.”

Huh? I looked up at Dad, brow furrowed—what on earth did he do to apologize for? “What are…” I drew off, too confused to even finish the question. 

“For the hospital, on Monday.” Dad started. “When…when Eugene and that other doctor diagnosed you, I never…checked on you. Just went straight into trying to solve the problem. Your aunt may have chewed my ass out about that.” He added with a huff. 

Of course she did. 

“I didn’t even ask how you were doing,” Dad shook his head at himself, then glanced over at me. “So—how are you?” 

I moved my shoulder, readjusting my own paint can under my arm. Stared at a nice mucky piece of snow. Did everything I could to not meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” I muttered pathetically. And I didn’t! This tagging lesson was a great distraction but even then, it felt like I was watching it through the lens of someone else’s life. A nice glimpse at escapism before being shot back into my trash body.

And as that reality resettled on my shoulders, I asked Dad, “Do you think it will get bad?” 

He didn’t have to ask what I meant. “No, no,” he reassured me. “If you keep your power use in check and you’re just…careful, everything should be okay.”

I nodded slightly, saying “I know.” I had heard the speech. Minimal power use. Try to be as not me as possible. “It’s just…”

How do I even translate how shitty that felt? That I’d have to suppress me, my power, forever now if I didn’t wanna die gruesomely before thirty? Or suffer a lifetime of pain? 

Dad breathed hard, and then his feet came into view near mine milliseconds before he was hugging me, my face pressed awkwardly into his chest. “It’s gonna be okay,” He hummed gently into the top of my head before kissing it. “We’ll figure it out.”

“There’s no figuring it out,” I retorted, voice muffled. My arms came up almost involuntarily and wrapped around him anyways. “Dr. Sims made that pretty clear.”

“You know me,” Dad said, the chuckle that followed sounding forced. “I’ll try to find a way.” 

“And if there isn’t one?”

I could feel something in Dad’s back tense at that, and I imagine he probably had that same look he reserved for those nights when he was missing Mom. That look when something from the past pulled at him in a threat to unravel him fully. He seemed to carry that expression a lot more often, now. “Then we’ll figure out how to live with it.” He decided. His arm squeezed me tightly, pressing my face further into his chest. “But it’s our issue to deal with. Together.” 

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t breathe.” 

“Oh shit, sorry,” he said, hands moving to my shoulders and pushing me away from his chest, chortling. The sound died the moment he looked at me though, and how hard I was trying to keep the tears in my eyes from spilling over. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying—was I just sad about everything? Relieved that Dad made it so obvious this was an us issue and I wasn’t alone? Maybe I finally broke from my apathy and decided to have another mental breakdown. 

His hand came up and pushed loose hair out of my face, and he said, “We’ll figure it out, Jeanie.”

I sniffed hard, nodding, Dad giving me the grace of wordlessly wiping my eyes without pushing further on what was wrong. And for some reason, my brain thought now was the perfect time to ask, “You don’t think I’m boring now that I’m human again?” 

Dad snorted, rolling his eyes. “Can’t stay serious for five minutes without cracking a joke, can you?” 

“It’s your go-to, you taught us—“

“Hey, we’ll deal with my coping mechanisms later.” He cut me off, shaking his head. But then he looked at me softly and murmured, “I didn’t care about that before your powers. Just you. You’re no different to me now either.” 

He gave me another side hug, turning us both to look at the construction rat and his uncolored hazard. “You only did this ‘cause you wanted to make me come out of the room, huh?” I asked. 

“I did it because I promised,” he corrected, “And you needed a reason to smile.” After a beat, he added, “And also so you wouldn’t be so upset when I told you that you’re starting your online classes tomorrow.” 

“What?” 

I didn’t get the chance to run away when I came back inside.

We finally came in after Brent got to add a bit to the mural, excitedly looking for Aunt Sia to show her our masterpiece. The woman grabbed Dad’s shoulder to bring him to her height, whispering something in his ear and pushing him towards the laptop on the tables before moving to follow Brent.

“Jean?” She called when I hesitated, watching Dad move. 

That happiness that was on his face just a bit ago had slipped away the moment he wasn’t looking at us, his expression something far more solemn. The mask slipped, if only for a moment, and really showed just how stressed Dad was.

I hated when he looked like that. He looked twenty years older.

Aunt Sia grabbed me by my wrist and gently pulled me away. “Come on,” she said, that soft and chipper voice having its own underlying tone of stress. “I want to see what you three made.”

It seemed like Dad and Aunt Sia were pulling some sort of coordinated effort to keep us distracted, like two toddlers who couldn't be trusted to be alone for three minutes without getting into the chemicals under the kitchen sink. And I knew why; in some part, it had to be because of me. What was happening to me. Every time those thoughts started coming back and I'd stare off into space, someone would come in to try to and distract me from them.

There was a point, a brief period, where Aunt Sia and Dad seemed distracted by something on her laptop, and I took the chance to pull on Dad's black jacket and slip out of the front door, intent on getting some sort of peace and quiet to myself.

Should have known it wouldn't have worked out like that.

“Hey, kid,” Zeke greeted, immediately putting out the partially-smoked cigarette on the concrete steps when he realized it was me.

I smiled a bit awkwardly. Well there went the chance for peace and quiet. “Hey. Aunt Sia said you went to the store a while ago.”

“I did,” Zeke reassured me, storing the cigarette behind his ear and sliding to the side, making room on the stairwell for me. I took the silent invitation and sat beside him, tucking away in Dad’s jacket as the soft winter breeze tried to give me a chill. “Got back a bit ago. Just wanted to…give your family some space.”

I glanced over at him as he leaned forward, elbows going to rest on his knees as he stared off towards the skyscraper-riddled horizon. Why did that expression seem to haunt everyone I knew? A vacant face and emotional eyes, staring at something far bigger than whatever was in front of them. 

It wasn’t hard to guess what was bothering Zeke, either. Dad had been completely cold-shouldered after nearly killing him, and the atmosphere between them felt more like sinking in the gunpowder of the storage keg waiting for the spark to ignite it. “I’m…I’m sorry about Dad—” I started. 

Zeke cut me off immediately with some noise in the back of his throat. “Nope, don’t be.” A hand came up to pull his sunglasses back on over his eyes, and I had to wonder if it was more because of the sun reflecting off of the white snow, or to hide his stare. “He has a right to be upset. All of you do. If I’d have known messing with that damn thing woulda started all this…”

He shook his head, letting it fall. I wanted to say something, anything, that would have reassured him—but how do you? What do you even say to someone when they learn that one selfish action killed thousands of people? 

That one choice caused their best friend to die?

I faltered. I didn’t think it was fair to blame Zeke, personally. Not by a long shot. But I just…didn’t know what to say. 

Zeke sighed, deciding to fill in the silence with, “I went to go get supplies for the road. I’m thinking I’ll head out tomorrow, go back home.”

“Wh—you mean New Marais?” I asked, surprised. Back home? Why would he be going back home?

Zeke nodded. “Yep. Think it’d be best if I skedaddled. Don’t think I’m much use to y’all anymore, anyways—”

“I don’t think that.”

Zeke paused, turning a bit in place to look at me. “Huh?”

“I don’t really think we would have gotten this far if we didn’t have your help,” I admitted. Was he really just gonna leave because of Dad? “I know you and Dad don’t…don’t really get along, but—you should stay. We could use your help.”

Zeke chewed on the inside of his cheek before slowly shaking his head. “I think it’d be best,” he gently rejected. “Y’all only need me for information, right? You guys can call for any of that. Think I’d just be getting in your way if I stayed here—it’s not like I can shoot lasers outta my eyes or do anything useful. I’m not being helpful much.”

Anything useful. 

It was that moment that I realized, in a way, I did have someone who got it. The guilt about death, that sinking feeling that you were in the way. After Zeke’s confession and how Aunt Sia defended him…I couldn’t say I didn’t understand. With my new diagnosis, it was exactly how I felt. I hated that feeling, and if Zeke was honest, he’d been feeling it for years. 

That had to be terrible.

So naturally, I moved to alleviate some of that pain. “We could be dead weight together?” I offered jokingly. Zeke took the bait and barked out a laugh, cigarette falling from behind his ear. 

“Ah, come on, don’t be like that,” he said when the laughter subsided, bending over to pick up his dropped cig. “You’re not dead weight, Jean. You’re sick.” 

“I’m—“ I drew off. I was what? “I’m broken. Can’t do anything anymore, either.”

“I know,” He said simply. A hand came up and rested on my back in that same spot my poisoned, dying organ laid. It was oddly comforting, coming from Zeke. There was no pity, no sadness. No sort of expression that made you feel like you were a commercial about dying puppies. He took it as fact, something plain to look at subjectively. “You…I told y’all I had the Plague, right?” I nodded. Zeke didn’t put the cigarette back behind his ear, instead electing to play with it, rolling the butt between his fingers until tobacco began spilling out of the other side. “After Cole’s goodbye message, I’ve just been thinking about how…he did it for me. Thousands of people, gone like that—“ he said with a snap, hand hovering for a moment before falling in defeat. “…And I was his deciding factor in using that RFI. If I died before he did, would he have done it?” 

Zeke glanced over at me, and I could barely see his eyes scream for answers through his glasses, trying to demand something from the universe that no one, to this day, understood. After a few moments, though, his pained expression softened. “Thing is, Jean—your father is having to make those same decisions, with you. Everything he’s done, he’s doing for you. And I don’t wanna get in the way of that just because I….” He drew off, eyes falling to the ground. 

And I think I knew why. “Because you want to make it up to Cole.” 

Zeke huffed, a sad sort of smirk on his face. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” He asked, before sighing hard. “But I’m gonna go. I can help in other ways. Ones where I ain’t standing between a family…and what they need.” 

I inhaled deeply, moving to look out at the sunset and the tall buildings it refracted off of, bathing the horizon in a warm glow. That gentle frost that came with sunset was beginning to settle on the city too, making the entire picture something I could only wish to capture in art. 

God, art. It felt like years since I thought about going to art school and now…it felt unobtainable. Why care? Was I going to survive the next four years?

I shoved all those thoughts in the back of my mind, instead regarding Zeke again to ask, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” He said near immediately, mind already made up. “I plan on sticking around at breakfast, seeing if your pops and aunt figured out any new leads, and then head out before lunch rush traffic.”

I nodded, about to ask him a separate question about travelling when his words actually registered in my mind and I paused. “Leads?” I repeated curiously. 

Zeke looked at me, eyebrow raising over his glasses, and the left corner of his mouth ticked up into a smirk. “Kid, after everything that happened, you think they’re just gonna accept it? You’ve got good people in your corner.” He then bumped his shoulder into mine gently. “Remember that.”

Aunt Sia came out and ushered me back inside quickly a bit after that, turning on a movie and somehow timing dinner near perfectly, the snobby little asshole critic on screen being served ratatouille the same time Aunt Sia set a steaming tray on a TV Dinner table. This was her favorite cartoon movie, we used to watch it all the time when she was babysitting us. She even let us feed some to the rats, who happily took it—Jerry managing to nip my finger in the process. Guess it’s good the rats loved the dish if they had a whole movie dedicated to it. 

And when the credits rolled and Brent and I rock-paper-scissored to choose the next movie, I sat through the opening segment of another PIXAR movie and mulled over Zeke’s words. Over Dad following through on a promise I forgot about, on Brent trying to be supportive in his own awkward way. 

Things sucked right now. There was no getting around that. And I knew by the time my eyelids started getting heavy as I laid on the couch, that I’d start spiraling again. But maybe things weren’t all that bad if I had everyone here with me. Like Dad promised: we’d figure it out. 

Together. 

It was funny how annoyingly normal the next day started. 

Six am wakeup. Stumbling downstairs from Aunt Sia’s bedroom with no recollection of how I got in there—last I remember, I was watching that little blob on Soul antagonize the man who was transplanted into a cat, and yet magically awoke in the bed. Cereal. Coffee. Debating dropping out. 

The usual. 

The kitchen table was cleaned up by the time breakfast was over, Brent and I placed in front of laptops on opposite sides of the hickory tabletop—after a firm lecture from Aunt Sia on how I needed to be careful with Dr. Sims computer. 

And then I was forced to push aside everything that’s happened in the last month and pretend like I cared about economics. 

Maybe this was a good thing, though. I mean it was hard to concentrate on my conducrinopathy when I instead was hating my life while trying to remember what an integer was. And with being three days behind, I had plenty of busy work to distract me. Two hundred words of an about me posted to a forum where other students were forced to engage for a grade, with three comments being thinly-veiled typographic sneers at how familiar my name sounded. An art assignment that, for the first time in my life, I had no ideas for. 

On second thought, maybe this wasn’t going as well as I initially hoped. 

The rest of the house slowly woke up; Dad came downstairs, grabbed some coffee, and disappeared upstairs just as quickly, saying something about working. Dr. Sims passed through (spending a good three minutes watching how I was using his laptop while sipping some sort of smoothie Aunt Sia made him, which was absolutely awkward), and even Zeke passed back and forth a few times, going to the back porch to dabble more in the smoking habit he seemed to have picked up in the last few days. 

It was, in all consideration, a peaceful morning. 

It should have been a sign it wouldn’t last. 

It started soon after Dad came down to eat some leftovers, one hand holding a fork and shoveling food into his mouth while the other scrolled and clicked and expanded on some sort of map/spreadsheet app on his phone. Brent sat across from me, head propped up by a hand as he did something under the table he was trying to hide from Dad—and was successfully doing so, until his phone rang. 

Brent jolted, taken back by surprise at the fact that his ringer was on, ears turning red when Dad’s eyes left his phone to glare at him. He quickly swiped the call away, chuckling nervously when he met Dad’s eyes. “Those…dang spam callers, huh?” he lied terribly, that red creeping out to ignite his freckles when Dad deadpanned. 

Deciding he didn’t want to know a thing about why, Dad simply moved to solve the issue by saying, “Turn the ringer off,” before going back to his work on the phone. 

Brent did as he was told, pocketing the phone with a glance my way that suggested he was just thankful it wasn’t taken till our ‘classes’ were over. Dad didn’t really joke about us throwing away the chance to learn when it was a choice, and not because we were struggling to understand something. 

But barely a minute passed before I heard the phone begin buzzing in Brent’s pocket again, his cheeks going scarlet once more. Dad didn’t seem to hear it, but Brent caught how I cocked an eyebrow at him by the time the ringing stopped and then started again, mouthing a single word: Mei. 

What the hell was Mei calling him for at this time? Wasn’t it almost nine over in Portland? She should have been in class at Linus Pauling, and she definitely wasn’t the type to be needy. 

Dad got a call next, humming curiously when he read the number and looking up at where Aunt Sia sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter. “It’s Arthur,” he told her, making her cock her head to the side so curiously Jerry almost fell off of the top of it. 

Reaching up to stabilize the rat using her head as a perch, Aunt Sia asked, “What would he be calling about?” and only receiving Dad’s shrug in response. Arthur Harrow was the senator and COLE Seattle chapter leader, I think. Pretty sure it was Seattle’s chapter, but he was definitely a COLE chairman. What did he want with Dad?

Dad stood, moving to the back porch where Zeke was just beginning to ash his cigarette, turning and sort of freezing in place as he saw who it was closing the porch door. Zeke was set to leave within the next few minutes, waiting for something from Dr. Sims before heading out and back to New Marais. 

It was almost strange to admit it, but I was going to miss him. 

The phone in Brent’s pocket vibrated again and he gave me an exasperated look, like he somehow expected me to know why Mei would want to talk to him right now. I shrugged, useless to his curiosities—but knowing with Dad gone, he had the best chance to use the convenient excuse of ‘going to the bathroom’ to answer the phone until he came in asking where Brent was once more. I motioned off to the door that separated the dining room from the living room with a nod of my head, Brent seeming to immediately understand what I meant. 

“I’m gonna, uh…” he drew off, avoiding Aunt Sia’s eyes when he stood. “I’ll be right back.”

God, he was a terrible liar. 

Aunt Sia’s eyes watched Brent’s back suspiciously before returning to her phone, and I tried not to let my eyes glaze over again as I listened to the recording of my new Economics teacher give a speech on…something. Shoot, I’d already forgotten what it was. I moved the cursor back and restarted the video, immediately dissociating as my eyes traveled to the closest form of movement in the hopes of staying open—outside, where Dad was on the phone and Zeke looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

Zeke’s hand was on the knob of the door, and it just barely began to turn when Dad straightened stiff as a board and asked, “What?” so loudly I heard him through the glass, the sound startling Aunt Sia. She barely turned before her own phone dinged and she looked down at it, growing more concerned. 

The stairs creaked, heavy footfalls rattling the wood as someone practically plundered down them. “Squeaks!” Dr. Sims’ voice called out, panicked. He skipped the last two steps and rounded the banister with an agility I did not expect from the man. 

“I know,” she said, moving to hop off of the counter. Outside, Dad and Zeke seemed to find a truce, Dad looking at something Zeke had pulled up on his phone. 

There’s a strange trepidation to knowing something is wrong, but not what—I think it’s the closest one can get to their basic animal instincts. The hair on my arm rose through the grating of my cast, my heart rate immediately picked up, and everything in me was screaming to run because something was wrong. But I didn’t know what. 

At least, not until Brent slammed open the bathroom door in the hall, rounding the corner with his phone to his ear, panicked and not willing to hide the fact that he was calling his girlfriend at all to shout to whoever would hear, “They took them!” 

Dad heard Brent outside, saying something to someone on the line and opening the door. “Yeah. Later,” he muttered to the person on the phone before hanging it up, holding up a hand as Brent approached, panicked. “Who are you—”

“Archangel attacked Linus Pauling,” he told Dad, not waiting for his spiel. The phone came down, and Mei’s picture was in full view, Brent pressing the speakerphone option. “Mei, tell him.”

“They want you,” she said simply, breathless and shrill and scared. Mei was the most level headed of us all, she never got scared. “There were—there were a bunch of people and this woman’s voice on their radios and she was looking for people Brent and Jean know. I hid, but—they took them.”

Aunt Sia held up her phone, showing a helicopter live feed of Linus Pauling; it was chaos, ambulances and police and SWAT and more, kids being led out of the school by armed escorts, hands on their heads per active shooter regulation. Though I really doubted this counted as that, especially with the evidence of powers being used—something sparked from a light pole that was split in half, there were vines that snaked the wall of the school and ice bridges that made the hair on the back of my neck flare up. 

The camera zoomed out, moving and refocusing on the courtyard, words burnt into the concrete of the center patio: DO YOU HAVE ANY REGRETS, ROWE?

“Tommy and Reese,” Mei said, making my heart drop out of my chest. 

“They took them.”