#they just belonged to an earlier migration wave

[eschynite]

kind of mean but true..

[xamaxenta]

I just had a brainwave regarding my op pokemon au, as yall know I’ve given Ace’s ninetales a very stubborn, prideful nature and personality, with a passion for disregarding the general safety of others by digging copious numbers of holes (for people to fall into)

There’s actually a reason for this, because Baltigo is a city that runs along the coast of the main continent (the Grand Line) but with towering mountains encircling it, the city is exposed to the elements a lot and these mountains and this particular coast is an ancient migration route for several pokemon species

However thanks to the big bad that inevitably happens, the situation has been broiling beneath the surface for years and researchers are completely baffled by the rising aggression, pokemon are hunted in large groups for this organisations evil doings, herds and ecosystems ruined because of this poaching, migration routes and territory lines are horribly disrupted its a quiet chaos beneath the surface of their world

And maybe the League committee is in on it 👀 of course Marco is completely unaware of this affiliation, some of the gym leaders may be aware but choose to remain neutral, Sabo has suspicions but he has nothing to say just yet, he needs more evidence

So how does Kyokaen digging holes help or relate to any of this at all, because of the building calamity that will no doubt occur in the near future, the migration routes near Baltigo have become oversaturated with aggressive pokemon that do not belong in this climate, because theyre desperate, angry creatures they will target anything that stands in their way for the following: food, shelter, protection

Ace’s ranch is honestly all of these things, with his farm and land backed by the sheer mountain range, his location is almost like the Pokémon equivalent of winning the ecological jackpot or something

So the reason why Kyokaen so adamantly refused to go with Deuce is because his hole digging hobby is what is protecting the ranch from invading species (ver bad for ecosystem and Ace is already so busy!!! He can’t help all of these pokemon) , its not that he hates Deuce, it’s because Ace needs him more than his best friend does, thats all

Unbeknownst to Ace, Kyokaen digs these holes for foreign pokemon to trip up or fall into, which when found he would chase them off, bristling and snarling, all of his nine fox tails waving sky high menacingly

Sometimes this tactic doesn’t work, Kyokaen is a smart poke, he has been on a lot of battlefields with Ace and knows how his partner likes to fight because Ace has a knack for the dramatics and intimidation, fire type pokemon lend into this perfectly

If hole tripping doesn’t work, intimidation does, and intimidation by using numbers is a surefire way to work, so when a group of invading pokemon show up, Kyokaen and several copies of himself will chase thrm off (uses double team, he can create up to twenty copies of himself)

Also the concept of Kyokaen learning Ace’s dramatics and having his copies crawl out of the holes he dug earlier for a maximum oh shit moment

Basically Kyokaen is best boy and he is allowed to dig up the entire ranch

[moonbaby26]

Title: The Man from the Sky

Pairing: Loki x Goddess!Reader

Summary: You were a Greek sea goddess, just enjoying a typical day of nothing when a strange new god dropped into your land.

Warnings: None yet. There is smut in future chapters already written. Will post more soon.

Notes: I’m aware that what we’d think of as ancient Greece well predates who we’d call the vikings and their like cruising around the seas. This doesn’t take place at the height of the Greek pantheon worship, but old enough in human history that some men still believed in both sets of deities.

Chapters: Next Chapter Here

My Masterlist

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You dipped your feet a little deeper into the warm water as it lapped the edges of the rock you sat upon. The sea was calm today, and the wind gentle as the nymphs chatted around you about the usual things. A bit of gossip one had heard from a local river nymph, a new shipwreck one had found, status of a fish migration from another.

You wouldn’t exactly call it boring though, you specifically chose these more remote areas when you came ashore for this very reason. It was so much more unlikely for you to run afoul of mortals here, or even others of your own kind that you may not feel like putting on airs with at this very moment.

It was so quiet in fact, that you were considering getting up to go lay in the sand on the beach in a few minutes and enjoy a nice nap in the sunlight.

That was before the boom which echoed through the air all around you. Somewhat like thunder, but not quite as all the nymphs fell silent.

When nothing came after, you felt all their eyes then turning to you. Their voices piped back up soon enough, though the tones in them changed to all nerves now.

“Do you wish to leave, milady?”

“Could it be Zeus?”

“But it didn’t sound like him.”

“Is there a volcano nearby?”

“What else could it be?”

“I don’t know what it was, I’ve never heard that sound.” You finally said, though now looking inward to the land. You were at least sure that the sound was not of the sea. But you refused to give in to the nymphs’ skittishness too quickly. And without real reason to leave, eventually you all did start to relax again.

Yet then came the cries. “Goddess, mistress please!” That cry absolutely was from the land as you looked in time to see the river nymph you’d met earlier in the day now running from the tree line and down onto the sands. She stumbled slightly, just before reaching you where the sea met the rocks.

She was panting, clearly having run some distance as she continued. “I’m so glad to still find you here,” She bowed slightly, only because she didn’t know you well enough to realize you didn’t require this.

“What is it?” You asked simply, honestly more curious now than anything else. What could she have seen that would strike her so alarming? Any nymph worth their ilk would know every creature, every natural occurrence, all that existed within their lands.

“There is a man in the forest, he came from the sky!” Yet she continued quickly, sure you would only think of Olympus. “But I do not recognize him as one of your own family. And his clothing, he is not of our territory. This I am sure, my goddess. I watched him only long enough to see that he was very angry. I am afraid of his intentions here.”

A man? But not truly a man. Mortals did not come from the sky.

“An angry god?” You said, now standing as you then stepped down from the rocks. The forest belonged to Artemis truthfully. But being this close to the sea, you thought that the older goddess would forgive you this if it came down to it. She would rather the nymphs be protected you were sure from any childish acts of a god’s wrath that may now come into play here.

You had brought no armor, the possibility of battle so far from your mind when you’d come ashore today. But that didn’t mean you travelled completely defenseless. “Bring me my spear please.” You requested of the sea nymphs.

Though they were still anxious, they responded dutifully, one sinking beneath the waves before reappearing with the glinting weapon in hand. It shone a brilliant silver, sea foam still running off its blue spear tip as she handed it to you out of the water.

“Show me the way, and I will investigate this stranger.” You spoke plainly, hopping down onto the sands as you strode barefoot towards the forest, spear in hand. “We will keep our distance as best we can, we don’t seek conflict, understood?”

“Yes, milady.” You heard, the sea nymphs staying behind you as the river nymph moved in front to lead you upward, the sand transitioning to rocky soil and the sparse vegetation and trees beginning to increase as you climbed the hillside.

For the sea nymphs, you could hear them losing their footing here and there in the loose soil, themselves of course far more adapted to swimming the ocean’s depths at your side rather than hiking up into the forests.

You did hope you were not putting any of them in danger. But if you felt they truly were in harm’s way, you would have no qualms in telling them to retreat back to the water at once.

“Up ahead,” The river nymph whispered to you, pointing towards a clearing you could now see leveling off in the distance. But the opening looked so strange with the density of the other trees now around you.

“Was that always there?” You asked her, knowing something unnatural when you saw it, even when this far from the water.

“No,” She confirmed. “When the sky opened up, it carved out the land as well. He appeared when that force receded.”

“Understood.” You replied, though in truth not really understanding at all as you motioned for all the others to proceed no further. You’d never seen something like this. “I will go alone. If he should attack me, please return to the sea to seek help.”

They fidgeted, looking unhappy but not arguing your choice. “Please be careful, goddess.”

You nodded, but kept on slowly. You tried to remember what you’d been taught as a little girl about stalking and hunting on land. So many moons ago, running through the forests with Artemis and at times Pan, being mentored before returning to the sea to your father, mother, and so many siblings.

But the closer you came, the more you realized that the stranger would likely not notice any sound of light footsteps approaching or ground shifting. As you neared, you saw his form pacing back and forth in the clearing, seemingly cursing to himself in a language that was not your own.

Yet it still sounded familiar. Abruptly you knew where you had heard a dialect like this before. It sounded so much like those voyagers from the northern seas. The ones with their longboats and course beards, sometimes with hair as red as fire as they fished and sang and fought.

And he did look as pale as them as well. But with hair like black of night, and a frame far more slender than the burly mortals you’d seen rowing those northern boats along. And just as the river nymph had warned, his clothing confused you as well. Rich green robe, but with black and gold as well. It was wholly foreign and exotic to you in its styling, as was he.

When she’d said a strange man had arrived, honestly you had also expected someone older in appearance. He looked quite youthful to be honest, even as his brow remained furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides.

And just when you thought his feet may actually cut a path in the earth from his agitated pacing, he finally slowed, then stopped all together.

This is when you froze as well, knowing you now had a decision to make. Should you keep to your hiding, just to hope he should eventually leave in whatever fashion he came? Or should you reveal yourself to question his identity and purpose here?

“Done spying yet, or do you intend to actually do something with that spear?” A cutting voice spoke abruptly to your side, so suddenly that you almost lost your footing, shocked as the same man emerged from behind other trees only feet from you.

But you still saw him in the clearing as well, at least you did momentarily before the image of him there dissolved, leaving only the form now nearest you.

“You speak my language?” Was all you questioned instead of answer him though, as he had said those last words only in your tongue. You also kept focusing on backing away as you chose to keep a safer distance. He was some sort of illusionist at least then, which could escalate the danger here very quickly if he made you lose your bearings.

And he was starting to circle you a bit you realized as he began to walk again. But you willed yourself to keep your spear at a neutral position, rather than aim at him, still not intending to provoke attack if it could be prevented. You had no idea what other strengths he might have, and your primary goal was still to keep the nymphs from getting caught in any crossfire.

“Not all of us are so uneducated,” He snapped back at you, still in your language, though you could detect that foreign accent underneath.

You were not wholly unused to rudeness though, yet it had been a very long time since you could recall being spoken to directly in such a manner. It was more the bickering between others in the palace that you were sometimes forced to be party to. Which was only another reason you often favored the relative isolation of the mortal world.

“You need not be so offended, stranger. I only came to see who had entered our land, and to protect my friends if need be.” You answered as reserved in tone as you could.

“Then you have done your duty, girl, and can now be gone. I came here to be alone. If I was actually intending to plunder this wasteland of nothingness, your little cohort never would have made it back to you to begin with.”

You stared, a little coldness entering your eyes then. So that was what had given you away. He’d already been aware of the river nymph to begin with, and had been waiting for someone to return the entire time while leaving that illusion of himself still in the clearing as distraction.

And he’d actually referred to you as ‘girl’. Did he really think you just one of the nymphs then? It was hard to say if he was intentionally trying to goad you, or if he really was so unfamiliar to not realize you for what you actually were.

You straightened a bit, replying, “Insults to our homeland aside, I will leave you to this quiet then, if you should at least tell me your name. You are clearly not of Olympus, and we still have right to know who it is who traverses into this particular land of mortals which we hold sovereignty over.”

He scoffed, clearly wishing to not speak to you even a moment longer. But in the way his chest puffed slightly, you thought it was only pride then that made him physically incapable of denying his identity.

He actually moved closer to you as well, that agitation still rising further in his voice. “Little fool, you stand before Loki! Son of Odin the Allfather. I am god of mischief, prince of Asgard. Your witless mortals should count their blessings that an Asgardian should ever see fit to even set foot here!”

You didn’t know if you’d been quick enough to mask the true surprise from your face. You had already assumed him a god. But never...never had you actually laid eyes on an Asgardian. They never came to this part of the world as far as you knew. And was he telling the truth? Was he really a son of Odin?

This stranger’s arrogance aside, if he were a child of Odin, you knew your own father would be furious with you if you were intentionally insulting now. Asgard and Olympus had never had the closest ties, but you were not enemies either. Asgard was honored by the mortals of the north, and Olympus still honored by those of the south, though perhaps not quite as much as the true olden days.

It took real will, but you bowed graciously to him in return. “It is an honor to meet you then, Loki, son of Odin.” As you straightened up, in his eyes you could see he was trying to judge you as sincere or not. But you just continued smoothly. “As promised, I shall leave you to your thoughts then. But I would be unmannered to not offer my assistance should you need a hostess in your time here as a guest in our land. My name is (Y/N), daughter of-”

You hesitated only the briefest moment, “of the sea,” is what you decided on though. Unlike Loki, you preferred a little anonymity with strangers. You didn’t wish to be targeted just for your lineage.

And with that, you turned, beginning to walk back towards the beach, even as you finished talking. “If you should need me, you need only find the sea’s edge and call for me. One of our creatures will hear you soon enough and seek me out.”

But some odd part of you regretted not being able to see his expression as you left. You wondered if you only would have seen more disdain and condescension at your offer.

Regardless, he said nothing else and soon enough you were back on the sand, the nymphs chittering in a mix of horror and awe around you.

“Who does he think he is, speaking to you that way!?”

“Do you really think he’s of Asgard? Shouldn’t we alert your father?”

“Why would he even come here? He seemed so bitter. Do you think they cast him out?”

“I’d cast him out, with a dirty attitude like that!”

You looked to the horizon, just taking a breath. “I don’t think we need to rush and tell my father just yet. But I do know where I want to go now.” You looked to the river nymph briefly though, “Please have those in the forest keep a distant eye on him. Should he leave or do anything else of note, please let us know.”

You glanced back to the sea nymphs then. “The rest of you return to the oceans. I’m going to Olympus, to the libraries there. I want to find out more about Asgard, to see if he is who he says he is. I’ll return to the water soon.”

They all nodded, “Yes, milady. Please let us know what you find!”

“I will,” you agreed, just watching them dissolve back into the waves.

Were you excited perhaps? Or just very curious? Nothing interesting in this way had happened in ages. You were determined to learn all you could on this new arrival.

—————————

The Olympians had been a little surprised to see you gracing the halls there. So many of your cousins had dropped in time and again to say hello, curious themselves of why you were out of the water this long and seemingly such a bookworm all of the sudden.

And you did read for days. All you could find on Asgard, on Odin, the Norse mortals, and their language. You found record that Odin had born two sons, honestly an oddly low number you thought in comparison to the many children of your own kings.

But there in these tomes, were those two names, Thor and Loki. Thor, god of thunder, amusing of course in comparison to Zeus, king of all, including lightning. But also Loki, god of mischief, just as he’d said.

You were surprised, but enthralled as you actually found a drawing of Loki within the book. Though not completely accurate you thought, you still recognized that type of clothing. The green and gold, and the pale skin and black hair with his icy blue eyes. You tilted your head a little, looking at the gold helmet he wore in the artist’s depiction, with long horns curving from it like those of a great beast.

Was he really a beast? Or just a too arrogant manchild? And why did you increasingly wish to find out?

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(Continued in next chapter here)

[spookysmujer]

Maraschino pt.2, O. Diaz

Summary: After the rejection from Oscar, things seems to take you on a roller coaster ride. 

warnings: angst, f e e l s, theTEAbeenSPILLED ☕️ daddy issues

word count: 3.5K

a/n: Here is the highly requested part 2 of Maraschino! I had fun writing this though if it is trash it’s because I wanted to hurry and get it out for y’all since I been getting msgs. heh. But Ray? Whew chile, the ghetto! Part 3? Please enjoy and don’t forget: follow the blog, heart/comment/reblog the content as well as turn on the notifs! (Y/S/N: your sister’s name)

(gif belongs to @thesewickedhands​ ✨)

 “Have a wonderful day!”

God, why is the person yelling? You smile weakly and squeeze your eyes nearly shut as the sun is blazing down on you while you say your thanks and exit the uber. The throbbing of your head and the loud lawnmower from one of your neighbors has you internally cursing.

How did you end up like this? Granted this was the plan last night to go out and have a good time, you certainly did not expect to be doing such a thing. You never let yourself get to this point before. But you also never got denied like you did with Spooky last night. A shiver goes through your body as you think of him. You won’t let him infiltrate your mind no more.

“Y/N!” Your sister’s voice sounds frantically as you round the corner of the house.

Well there goes your plan to sneak in through your window to pretend you were in your room all along. She wraps your arms around you, gluing herself to your body causing you to stumble back a bit. “You are a dead woman walking!” She whispers to you as you arch an eyebrow at her. 

As confused as you were, José appears from around the corner taking long strides towards you. His face sports no emotion of missing you but a lot of anger. It causes you to automatically back up the closer his approaches you. Your sister has since removed herself from you as your brother is now in your face.

You blink as you peer up at him, “Where the fuck have you been, hermana? You know how much shit you are in, hm? I get a call from Y/S/N saying you aren’t home. I assure her you would be and when she calls me at 6 in the morning telling me that you still aren’t in? You left a note?”

“José! Calmate, I went out with a friend. And I spent the night. What’s the big deal about that?” You briefly explain yourself. He laughs for a moment before grabbing you by your upper arm and pulling you towards your sister. Now it’s her turn to start backing up, “Ven aqui, her! That’s the big deal. When I ask you to be the sister you need to be, I don’t mean when you feel like it. You know the Santos have been getting into heavy shit lately. I need you here when I’m not!” 

The tension is thick as you pull your arm from his hold and push him, “But when you wanna go and do whatever it’s okay? When you wanna hitch a ride with Spooky to Sin City with dirty ass hynas last week, it’s all good. Business trip, huh? Don’t come for me when you are far from perfect!” 

The two of you are both very stubborn with your brother usually being calm and collected while you’re more expressive with your feelings. Family is important to him especially considering it’s just the three of you. Jose scoffs as you stomp away from him and your now crying sister. 

Oscar suddenly appears in front of you as round the corner and collides with his body. He reaches out to grasp you before you can stumble back, the feelings hitting you all at once, “What are you doing here?” You swallow thickly.

He licks his bottom lip as his eyes rake over your body. Still in your dress from last night, hair unruly and make-up smudged. Anyone can spot a ‘walk of shame’ when they see one. He laughs internally thinking of how you wasted no time after last night’s rejection.

“I offered to drive him when little hermanita called up again worried you weren’t home yet. Seems we know why now.” A small grin painted across his lips, you squint your eyebrows at his words as you hear your brother approaching the two of you. You step back before Spooky migrates his eyes to behind you, “We got business, everything good here?”

José nods and steps beside you, “Don’t be leaving.”

The two guys leave as you stand there a bit dumbfounded. Y/S/N appears next to you and grabs your hand. She apologizes for you getting into trouble with José. You want to yell at her for starting unnecessary drama. But she explains she didn’t want your brother to potentially find out about your little sneaky link with Spooky.

“Well, he and I ended that shit so nothing to worry about. I went out and got wasted. I am done with these guys. No más!” Though even sounding like fake news to yourself, you go and wash off last night’s memories. 

As the day had gone by, you skimmed through your daily journal of all the entries you wrote about Oscar ‘Spooky’ Diaz, ripping them out. All 6 pages. You roll your eyes at your thoughts about him, some sappy and some nasty. How did you believe a man who runs a street gang, that is as mean mugging as Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street, would be into you the way you are him?

It didn’t matter the answer now. Good riddance of him! That’s when the sound of your window opening pulls you from the wandering thoughts. You stand up quickly, reaching for a bat that’s besides your bed. “Get the fuck out!”

“Calmate! It’s me, Oscar.”

You clutch your chest, doubling over to catch your breath. “What is wrong with you? Ever think of flying a pebble at the window or calling first?” You say as he climbs in, adjusting his flannel before closing the window then your room door. You watch him as he starts to look around your room. Though there’s a part of you that wants him out, you haven’t made any advances to get him out.

He sits on your bed and finally looks at you, “Abajo.”

Uncompliant, you cross your arms and shift your weight to make it known you are fine standing there. He smirks and looks away before locking eyes with you. “You don’t think I like you too? You think I fucked with you for this long cause it was just convenient? Girls everywhere around my place but I was only fucking you. Why do you think that?”

“Is this supposed to be your sweet confession that makes me go all heart eyes? You're gonna apologize and I’m supposed to forgive you and then we give us a try and realize all our worries were nothing but fear that our anxiety instilled in our heads? Because that’s not how it’s gonna go.” You say as he gives you a semi-disgusted look.

You chuckle softly and watch him intently.

Oscar analyzes you closely. It’s a front, no doubt he thinks. He doesn’t deny the thought that you are a thick-skinned woman. He knows you have a superior mind and a mouth to go with it but he knows there is no way that you could’ve gotten over him that quick. Though judging by your appearance earlier in the day, you definitely tried.

You laugh a little more as you step in front of him and lean over to get your vision in line with his. “You made it clear to me and now I’m making it clear. Nothing you say will convince me that you give a rat’s ass about me. If you really did? There would be no sneaky link shit. You wouldn’t have a problem with people knowing about me, or my brother knowing but it is a problem so get out.”

This ticks Ocscar off a bit. He stands which makes you straighten up as he gets in your face, stepping towards you. You are stepping back slowly as he creeps more, “You think you can handle this lifestyle? The constant threats, the territories? You can’t. When it comes to this kind of life, something like love can be the bane of your existence. So we don’t get into it. We don’t get involved because the people we fall for end up dead.”

You’re pressed with your back against the wall and your chests against each other. Oscar’s eyebrows are connected and he’s staring at your agape mouth. His breath is fanning against your lips, emotions hitting you all at once. “I-I slept with someone last night. Got it good too.”

The jealous tactic seems to fail immediately as Oscar laughs. And for some reason the look of amusement on his face seems to be familiar for a reason you can’t seem to figure out.

“Sleeping around is simple, falling for someone is something else entirely. I’m not saying that we jump into something. But at least you know now it’s not just one-sided.” He steps out of your room. You follow and watch him walk down the hall as Y/S/N stands there. She is stunned seeing Oscar nonchalantly trek through the house.

You don’t know what to say. As you look at your little sister, you sigh in defeat trying to explain this one. Instead you go back into your room and shut your door. You got what you wanted, right? But you still feel like something is missing. 

The week had slowly crept on.

A few shifts at the bodega, classes at the community college and life at home. Jose had basically converted you back to your teenage ways. Making sure you were doing your part in parenting your little sister. Friday night Y/S/N wanted to have Dwayne’s BBQ for dinner and since your social life is drier than your skin, you agree. 

The thought of a  BBQ bacon cheeseburger lifts your mood which has been dragging throughout the week. Your sister happily skips into the restaurant as you trail behind slowly, when you enter you look for her and see she chatting up with Dwayne. 

“Y/N!” José calls out and your vision unfocuses from them onto your brother and pile of Santos in a booth. They all look your way including Oscar. You exhale a deep breath through your nose as you put on a fake smile and wave before stepping up to place an order. 

 Your brother approaches you as you look past him to the booth of Santos, “Didn’t know you guys would be here.” He sets down a $20 bill on the counter when the cashier tells you the total. “Foos gotta eat too.” José starts talking to you about something but your focus falls back on Spooky again. You watch as he stands and makes his way towards you. A small panic sets in your chest but fades away as he ends up exiting the BBQ joint. 

Unknowingly to yourself, your watch as he walks to his car. He leans against it and pulls out a cigarette, no matter how hard you try to avert your eyes from him, you can’t. All week you had been doing fine. Even with the little things reminding you of him, even with the memories that have been seeped into your bed. You didn’t dwell too much on thinking of him until you see him now. 

“Talk to him.” 

It’s just like the movies where the car tires come to a screeching halt and there’s the obnoxious crashing sound. You move your eyes to your brother’s. Did he just say what you think he said? “Talk to him? Spooky, what for? Why would I need to talk to him?”

Jose chuckles, “Hermana, I had my suspicions about you two. Then he told me bout it, he acts like it doesn’t bother him much but it does so go talk to him. Yeah, I’m not so thrilled that he’s messing around with my baby sister. I know how he is but I know he wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hurt you so I’m cool with it. So go talk to him, figure that shit out because I’m getting over you moping around the house.”

You push him away as you look back to the red impala.  After a moment of contemplating it, you decide to head out and approach Oscar, he had his eyes on you since he settled by his car. You lean on it besides him and cross your arms, “You told my brother?”

He smirks and shrugs his shoulders. You try your best to keep the smug look off your face. He holds out the cigarette, you take it and inhale. Coughing a bit as the smoke burns your throat a little. You hand it back and sigh, turning to look at him.

“I like you, you like me. I’m not saying we jump into something… but why not?” You question as he exhales some smoke, you lock your eyes into his, “You ain’t cut for this lifestyle, you would be a liability. Plus your brother in my line of work? That makes him vulnerable as well. It woul--”

You groan loudly which quiets him mid-rant, “Drugs, alcohol and money do all the same things to him too. You see how he is when he gets wasted. There are so many things that make you all vulnerable. If he can make it work with the hyna he’s with, then you can make it work with me. Plus I know this lifestyle more than you think. I know when and where to be and not to be. I know who to know and who not to know. I know things! So don’t act all big bad Spooky to me.”

Now standing directly in front of him and he’s peering down at you. He dips his face lowers and looks at your lips as you look at his. In no time your lips are connected. Oscar slides his hands over your waist, gripping it and pushing you flush against him. You bring your hands to cup his face, letting your tongue slip into his mouth. A full on make-out session breaks out.

As if you didn’t dream of something like this happening you smile into the kiss, pulling away, “You get into this with me, it’s not gonna be glitter and gold. This shit is tough, I can’t be worrying about the things I already do plus you.” You nod and kiss him again, wringing your arms around his neck, he hugs you and feels calm for the first time in a while.

So you enjoy the night more than you thought you would be. With your siblings and the Santos at Dwayne’s. After a night of chatting, Oscar asks you to come back to his place. And well since it isn’t your first rodeo, you agree and send Y/S/N home with José. 

You don’t keep your hands off him while heading back to his place, you are pressed against him and kissing his neck, he is loving every moment of it. The both of you get out to head into the house but the mood is killed when you walk in to find Cesar and his friends on the couch who get frightened due to the scary movie playing on the TV.

Oscar cursing under his breath, “Can’t you watch movies at some else’s house?” You elbow him as he rolls his eyes. But Cesar didn’t want to start anything with his older brother so he asks Jamal if they can continue watching at his house. Soon after the house is empty and quiet again. The two of you settle on the couch, you straddling him and pulling your top off.

“Yo! There’s someone posted up outside!” Cesar suddenly bursts through the door which causes Oscar to push you off him and reach for his gun. He tells the younger Diaz, his friends and you to stay put as he checks out the fool that runs up on the Santo trap house. You scramble to put your shirt back on and curse when Cesar trails after his brother. You follow in pursuit, trying to tell Cesar that Oscar said to stay inside. “Who is that?” 

“Ray?” You say out loud though you thought you were just thinking it.

Oscar turns to you when you say the name of none other than his estranged father. You look to both Ray and Oscar, looking at the two men and making the connection. You feel the color get sucked out of your face, oh fuck.

“You know him, who is he?” Cesar asks you and he looks at Oscar. The Santo leader has his eyes on you and is still confused as to how the hell you know his father. “He’s our father.” Oscar says, still looking at you.

The confirmation makes you want to be obliterated right in your very spot. This can’t be happening! Is it? You try to speak but nothing comes out of your mouth. You finally look to Ray who has a small smirk on his face and that’s why that look Oscar had on his face that day seemed so familiar. You saw it that night you went out of town to have a good time. 

“Hola de nuevo, pequeña coyote.” Ray says looking at you. 

You grimace as Oscar connects the dots himself. The amount of heat that settles into your face along with the gasps from Cesar’s friends don’t make it any easier to bear.

“Wait Oscar, wait!” He is stepping towards his father, ready to charge. “I didn’t know he was your dad! Listen to me, please!” You step forward quickly and pull his arm back, he yanks it out of your grasp quickly as you plead for him to listen to you.

Oscar begins to snap at you, “Him? This is who you slept with and you want me to listen to explain? Huh?!” The anger booms in his voice as he is mere inches from your face. Cesar appears next to you trying to get between the two of you. You didn’t think Oscar could ever get so mad. And you have seen the Santo leader in moments of rage before. 

“Mijo, listen..” 

Ray’s voice sounds from behind Oscar now. He turns and wastes no time in welcoming him with a right hook. His father stumbles back as you gasp along with the sounds from the teens. “Oscar!”

You take the initiative to stand between the two of them, holding out a hand against Oscar’s chest as he is heaving and exuding anger. Ray is mending to his jaw as he stands up. You notice the lights of the neighbor had turned on and people were beginning to pile outside of their homes to see all the commotion.

“Oscar just stop and listen to me for one fucking second! No, I did not sleep with Ray. We did get together that night, yes but we didn’t do anything that involves other body parts. I started going off about you with him, I vented and we spent the night drinking. I got too wasted and he offered to let me spend the night in his motel room. Nothing happened!” You release in one breath. 

Everyone looks at you, unable to make sense of the situation. 

“That’s why I came, when she mentioned things about you, I had to come see for myself if what niña said is true. That you’re running the Santos.” The two men stare at each other as you stand in the middle. Your heart is racing. 

Oscar doesn’t say anything as he looks back and forth between his father and you. When you step towards him and reach out to grab his hand, he raises his hand up in defense and steps back. You can see the glint of hurt in his eyes as he backs away from you. Your eyes pleading for him to try to understand everything.

You trail behind a fuming Oscar into his house, you are nearly jogging when you catch up with him. But he steps into his room and slams the door in your face. You step back and sigh. “Please talk to me…Oscar. Nothing happened, you have to believe me.” 

He doesn’t respond as you rest your head on his door. You hold your hands on the door silently cursing yourself. What could you say that made the situation sound better? How could you make it look like it really was nothing even with Ray right there?

A few moments have passed by when the door opens, a still very upset Oscar stands there as he flies forwards a bunch of crumbled paper at you. You watch as the papers fall to your feet and he slams the door in your face again. No context of nothing. 

When you pick up the papers, it’s drawings of you. Portraits sketched out from a ballpoint pen. Some dated as far back as a month ago to as recent as a few days ago. Oscar drew you. He did so multiple times and in such craft it takes your breath away. 

You feel the tears begin to well in your eyes. The pain that you have caused him. How do you fix this?

taglist: @clemmingstylins0n @fairygardenss@princesstiffxoxo@firebenderwolf @spookysnena @mbaku-babygirl @chellybear98@multiyfandomgirl40 @i-just-wanna-live-gc@roury66 @kkim120 @lillict @tinylumpiaa @prettymya3@starrynite7114 @onmyspookysblock @aneitii @b3mybunnybaby  @angelxfics  @spookysbabymama @ladylj @vayagrxce @irenne-stans @boujee-bitches (please let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

[therealvalkyrie]

Painter’s Hands and Guatemalan Coffee: Part 4

the ackerman influence

Pairing/setting: Levi Ackerman x Female!Reader, modern!college!AU

Summary: When you catch your idiot boyfriend cheating, your grumpy roommate is there to pick up the pieces and watch your back as you toe a carefully drawn line in the metaphorical sand.  

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: consumption of alcohol and weed products, intoxication, swearing, pretty dang fluffy

AN: SURPRISE BITCHES it’s out tonight!! An infinite thank you belongs to my beloved @ghostlightprincess for her keen eye for editing and swoon-worthy compliments and encouragements. Seriously, this chapter is dedicated entirely to her. I hope y’all enjoy!! I hope y’all appreciate the love I gave Sasha this chapter because........reasons. Pleease feel free to come scream/squeal/chat in my DMs or askbox! In love with you all<3 ~valkyrie

(read part 3 here)

“Here, thisun ‘sblue!” Hange slurs as she passes you yet another shot glass with Greek letters etched on the side.

“Mmm, I like blue,” you giggle, then clink your shot with hers before you both tip your heads back to pour the liquor down your throats. It tastes inexplicably like turquoise, and you laugh loudly over the thumping dance music in approval. 

The poor freshman charged with staffing the drinks table eyes the pair of you skeptically. “Maybe you two should slow down, you seem like you’ve had enough—”

You round on him, offense written across your face. He’s definitely right, but you aren’t exactly gonna let some pimply, snot-nosed teen tell you how to drink. “Woah, Nelly, this ain’t cocktail hour, this is fuckin’ Greek row an’ I won’t have your judgment,” you waggle a finger in his general direction for emphasis, “harsh my vibe.”

“You tell ‘em, girlfriend,” Hange approves vaguely, hanging off your shoulder.

The freshman holds his hands up in defeat, amused. “No judgment.”

You nod once. 

“C’mon, Han, let’s see if we can find the snacks.”

“Pleeeeeeease…”

You turn away from the drinks table to do just that, angling towards where you remember the kitchen to be — honestly, this frat is huge — and set off through the crowd. Hange trails after you, fingers tangled with yours like they have been all night, yammering on about something you can’t be bothered to follow.

“‘Scuse us, comin’ through, on a mission!” You push past jostling bodies until you reach the far wall and lean against it for the last leg of your epic journey to the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

Someone calls your name and you look up through squinted eyes to see Sasha leaned up against the counter by the fridge, bowl of chips in her arms and dab pen tucked behind her ear. She’s dressed casually, sweatpants and DIY cropped t-shirt contrasting your jeans and flashy top.

“Sasha! My love! My dearest, sweetest darling!” You stretch your arms wide towards her, Hange jolting forward where you’re connected. “We come in search of snacks.”

Sasha laughs and lazily deposits her bowl on the counter, stepping forward to stabilize you both with a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve come to the right place, my friends.”

She steers you both to sit at the island, wedging you between the only other two people in the kitchen. You vaguely recognize them as soccer players on the university team: a shaggy-haired brunette and a tall blonde. Sasha passes you her dab pen before ambling over to the pantry. You take a hit, then pass it to Hange, who’s looking much better now that she’s sitting down.

“Sash, these your friends?” the blonde asks, peering down at you through red-rimmed hazel eyes. You pluck the pen out of Hange’s limp grasp and offer it to him in greeting, along with a drunk smile. He takes it and grins back.

“Yep,” Sasha confirms with half her body still stuck into the pantry. “It’s the mad scientist one and the architect.”

“Almost architect,” you correct. “Not official until I have my degree! Although, I will agree, Han’s a mad scientist.” You poke her in the side and she swats you away with an eye roll.

“Oh,” the brunette soccer player pipes up from Hange’s other side, now looking at you curiously as well. He’s also high, startling green eyes hooded and posture relaxed. “So you’re Braun’s ex.”

You hide your shudder of distaste by turning back to take a drag off the pen. “Please don’t tell me that’s all I’m known for,” you sigh out with a cloud of smoke.

“Eren, don’t be an ass.” Sasha finally returns with a box of chocolate pretzels and a bag of hot Cheetos. “Pick your poison, hot stuff,” she offers each in turn. You ponder for a second, then reach for the Cheetos. “That’s Eren—” she points to the brunette, who raises a lazy hand “—and that’s Jean—” the blonde reaches for the pretzels. Sasha makes an offended noise and cradles them to her chest.

You introduce both yourself and Hange while Sasha plays defense against Jean’s long reach.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes to you, leaning over Hange to grab some Cheetos. “I heard what he did to you. Really shitty.” His tone is casual, but the way he’s practically pinning you in place with his eyes makes you twitch.

“Puh-lease,” Hange pulls out the word, long and sarcastic. “‘Twas more than shitty, what that douche did. I’d’ve wrung him out to dry, but she didn’t—”

You cut her off with a sharp poke to her side. “Drop it, Han, I don’t wanna think about it.”

“But— ooh!” She’s sufficiently distracted when you shove your food in front of her face.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes again.

“S’okay,” you sigh and take another drag, then hold the pen out to him in a peace offering. He smiles slowly and takes it.

“You guys staying over? There’s plenty of room in the basement, and friends of Sasha’s are always welcome.” It’s Jean who offers, returning to his seat beside you with a singular pretzel for his trouble.

“Hmm, might be nice,” Hange muses, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Thank you, but my roommate’d probably have a conniption if I wasn’t home in the morning.”

Hange actually snorts at this, then starts coughing violently because of the hot Cheeto dust suddenly up her nose. You pat her back in mild concern.

“What, they got a stick up their ass or something?” Eren asks.

“Or something. Levi’s just protective.”

“Levi?” Eren’s eyes are suddenly wide, almost fearful. “Levi Ackerman?”

“Yeah.” Your tone edges on defensive. “Why?”

He takes a hit and shrugs before answering. “He’s just my foster sister’s cousin. Interesting family.”

“Oh, you mean Mikasa?” You didn’t know exactly how they were related, but she’d helped Levi move in and it had struck you how eerily similar they were in disposition.

“Yeah, Mikasa. She’s around here somewhere…” As though by magic, he turns to look over his shoulder just as Mikasa and another blonde boy you don’t recognize mosey in from the hallway. She’s leaning down to catch his soft words and he’s talking with his hands, stalling as his eyes light on the little group in the kitchen.

“Oh, hey guys,” he greets. 

“Armiiiin,” Eren greets with a genuine smile. “Come meet some new friends.”

The pair rounds the kitchen island, Armin allowing Eren to pull him in by the arm and Mikasa going to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sasha. 

“I know you,” Hange pipes up, tilting her head to observe Armin. “You’re in the sophomore biochem class I TA for. Arlert, right?”

Armin ducks his head in a nod. “Yep. Professor LaBelle is a wonder, I had a great time this semester.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Hange’s grin is almost slipping to the dangerous side of intrigued. “I graded your final paper, by the way, and just between us, you set the grade curve.”

He blushes red but his eyes shine with something akin to satisfaction. “Really? That’s a relief, it was a bear to write.”

Eren leans back behind Hange to gesture to you, looking across the kitchen at his foster sister. “Mikasa, this is—”

“—Levi’s roommate,” they say at the same time.

“I know.” Her dark eyes regard you interestedly. “Hi, again,” she greets, saying your name even though she’s maybe heard it once in her life.

“Hi!” You give a small wave.

“What, uh, what,” Jean clears his throat and you look up at him to catch a blush staining across his cheeks and nose. He’s looking at Mikasa. “What’re you guys up to in the basement?”

“We were just going to start a movie, Connie’s setting up the projector,” Mikasa says, eyes flicking from you to Eren. “Wanted to see if you guys wanted to join.”

Jean stands suddenly, his stool rocking from the force of it. “Y-yeah, we’ll join!” Sasha hides a snicker behind her hand.

Eren stands, too, between Armin and Hange, who are still chatting. He looks down at you and says your name like a question. “You coming?”

You find yourself shaking your head again. “I’m so crossed, I think if I even look at a couch I’ll fall asleep. And I, uh,” you yawn, slipping your phone out of a back pocket to check the time. 12:11 AM. “I should be getting home.”

It’s earlier than when you would normally call it quits, but suddenly all you can think about is going home and falling into Levi’s clean, soft-smelling sheets. Plus, it’s the Saturday preceding finals week and tonight was only meant to blow off steam between intense days of studying.

“You stayin’?” You bump Hange with your shoulder, and she looks around at you with wide eyes as though she forgot you were there.

“Hmm?”

“You stayin’ for the movie?”

“We’re watching It: Chapter Two,” Armin supplies, eyes crinkled in excitement.

Hange’s eyes grow impossibly wider behind her glasses and she grabs your elbow a little too hard. “You wouldn’t mind, right? I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

You smile and shake your head. “Wouldn’t mind at all. You stay, I’ll call an Uber.”

The whole group starts migrating in the lazy way drunk and high people do: Mikasa helps Sasha with the snacks; Eren and Jean grab canned drinks from the fridge; Armin and Hange gravitate towards the door, talking fast with words you’ve never heard before. You stay sitting at the island, tapping away at your phone to order a car.

When you stand to find the front door, your high hits you from behind like a fuckin’ baseball bat and you sway dangerously. You whistle through your teeth, low and soft, planting a hand on the counter. Sasha looks over at you in concern, her arms full.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah, I just… what is in that dab pen?”

She laughs, head tilting back. “Good shit, right? Got that one new last week.”

“For real…” you trail off, getting your bearings.

“Here,” Mikasa starts, piling even more food into Sasha’s arms, “I’ll walk you out. Levi would skin me if he knew I didn’t make sure your driver’s not an ax murderer.”

Normally, you’d protest, but the room really is starting to spin.

“Okay,” you sigh and allow her to hook your arm through hers. She’s surprisingly solid, and you find yourself leaning heavily into her. “How’re you still sober?”

“I don’t drink or smoke,” she answers, gently pushing past Armin standing in the doorway. “Doesn’t affect me, anyway, so it’d just be a waste of money.”

“Huh,” you grunt, then twist to wave to the group. “Night, everyone.”

A replying chorus of “goodnight” chases you and Mikasa through the dark foyer littered with drunken party-goers. 

“Oh, wait,” she pauses with a hand on the doorknob. “Did you bring a jacket?”

“Oh,” you wrinkle your nose and think back to getting ready in the afternoon. It had been unseasonably warm and your coat didn’t match your outfit. “No, I didn’t bring one.”

Mikasa gives you an odd look and deposits you by the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Your body feels light as you lean back, tucking your hands into your armpits so they don’t float away. Your eye catches on movement in the dark shadows by the staircase and you squint, trying to see who’s there. It takes a second, but you eventually make out a pair of people, well… making out. They’re completely absorbed in each other, bodies impossibly close and you giggle quietly to yourself before your stomach rolls. No, don’t think about… too late.

You shut your eyes tight and turn away from the couple to lean sideways against the wall. The image is too similar, too gut-punchingly familiar.

“Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to stick your tongue down my best friend’s throat? Didn’t mean to practically fuck your best friend’s girlfriend in public?”

The biting words and stuttered apologies are still rolling around in your head when Mikasa comes back, thick puffer coat in hand. She hands it to you and you mutter a subdued “thanks,” twitching to dislodge the dull pain that’s settled in your ribs.

“It’s Eren’s, but he won’t mind. He doesn’t wear this one a lot, and you can just give it back next time we see you.”

“Right,” you nod, head moving a little too easily as you slip your arms in and fumble with the zipper. The faux fur around the hood tickles your face as Mikasa flips it up over your head. She’s clearly experienced in the art of taking care of intoxicated people.

Outside, you’re grateful you bundled up because the temperature has dropped significantly since the afternoon. Chilly December wind bites at your face and you bury your hands in coat pockets to save them from the same fate. Your fingers brush against something cold and metallic, and before you know it you’re pulling out a fistful of crumby objects: a super plus tampon, the packaging split down the side; two “for her pleasure” condoms; and, inexplicably, a Hot Wheels matchbox car. An ugly snort escapes your nose and Mikasa looks over at you in alarm. You raise up your fist and she chuckles through her nose as well. Squinting in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, you find the expiration date on the condoms to be several months ago, so you lean over to a convenient trash can and toss both them and the tampon. The matchbox car returns to the pocket. Who knows, maybe Eren’ll miss it if it’s gone.

Mikasa doesn’t look affected by the cold, only winding her red scarf more securely around her neck as you both quietly wait on the sidewalk for your Uber. A quick glance at the app tells you that it’s three minutes away.

“Are you and Levi close?” You find yourself asking into the night sounds of Greek Row on a Saturday night.

You almost think she doesn’t hear you over the sound of a group spilling out of a neighboring sorority, but then she answers.

“Not particularly. We didn’t grow up together and only connected because of Uncle Kenny a couple years ago.” Her tone is light and casual as she talks about her family, as though you should know who Uncle Kenny is. Should I know who Uncle Kenny is?

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“We may not be close,” she starts again, eyeing you closely, “but I think we’re very similar. And I can tell he cares a lot about you.”

“Oh. Right.” Your palms are suddenly sweaty in your pockets.

“He may not show it,” her tone is careful, “But he does.”

You smile faintly and kick your boot against the curb. “He does show it, in his own way. He’s been really good to me.” Somehow, it’s easy to talk about this to Mikasa, even when you get all stuttery and weird having an identical conversation with Hange. Maybe it’s the drugs and alcohol, or maybe it’s because there’s not a hint of judgment in Mikasa’s eyes. Either way, it feels good to speak your feelings into the world.

“Good.” She nods and follows your gaze to where you’re still scuffing the curb. “Some unsolicited advice for you: if you ever want anything besides mutual pining to come out of it, you need to be really obvious. Or make the first move outright.”

This makes you stutter and wring your hands, she just puts it so bluntly. “R-right, the first move…. Oh, I think that’s my car.”

“What’s the license plate number we’re looking for?”

You read it out from the app while Mikasa steps to the back of the blue sedan that just pulled up. She nods, confirming it’s the same, then circles to the driver’s side window, which is cracked open.

“Hi,” you greet the driver, a blonde woman in her late twenties, and confirm her name matches the one in the app before sliding into the back seat. Mikasa leans down to murmur something to her and she nods, glancing back at you in the rearview mirror.

“G’night, Mikasa,” you call out the window. “Thanks for everything. And tell Eren thanks for the jacket.”

She waves as the car pulls away. You settle into the quiet hum of the car and let your mind wander. 

Mutual pining. Make the first move outright….

—

“Mikasa texted me,” Levi says by way of greeting as you stumble out of the car and thank your driver. He’s leaning on a lamp post outside your apartment building when your Uber pulls up, jacket and boots pulled on over flannel pajamas. 

“Levi, stand ominously on the sidewalk often?” you ask, dragging out his name long and sing-song.

“Only for you, kid.” He loops an arm around your waist and steers you towards the entryway

“Not a kid,” you grumble, masking the stutter of your heart at his usual pet name for you. Somewhere in the last couple of weeks, it’s gained a weightier significance, at least to you. It’s endearing and a little distancing and charged all at once and it makes your head spin as you climb the stairs up to your floor.

At your door, Levi unlocks it while you drift slowly in a circle next to him, trying to expend the sudden nervous energy you’ve gained in his presence.

The first move, first move, first move… Mutual pining. Mutual.

“What are you muttering about?”

You hadn’t realized you were thinking out loud.

“Nothing,” you say quickly and pass through the door he’s holding open for you. Your momentum carries you farther than you mean to go, and he catches you by the elbow, reeling you back to the coat rack by the door.

“Whose jacket is that?” He shrugs off his own and eyes the faux fur around your face skeptically.

You fumble with the zipper for a second before he sighs and reaches for it himself, stepping into your space. His face is so close to yours you can feel his breath ghosting over your collarbone as he unzips the jacket.

“Eren’s,” you finally answer. “Look.” You pull the matchbox car out of its pocket and show it to Levi with a wide grin. He stares at it for a second, then the tiniest smile twitches onto his lips.

“He’s a weird kid.” It’s almost fond, with an undertone of exasperation.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he’s in the art department, too. Graphic design major, marketing minor. I TAed his freshman seminar last year.” Levi slips the coat off your shoulders as he speaks, then hangs it by the loop next to his. 

“Ah, that makes sense,” you muse, wandering farther into the apartment. “He looked terrified when I mentioned you. What’d you do to those poor freshmen?”

“Nothing they didn’t deserve.”

“...ominous,” you hiss, your eyes wide as you let him gently push you into your room. The nervous energy hasn’t quite been expended, and you find your hands wringing with it. Suddenly, you’re rambling about your night as he sits you down on your bed among the laundry that’s taken residence there in its disuse. The stupid song they played at the first frat; Sasha’s excellent food; the blue mystery shot.

“It tasted like turquoise, I swear, Levi! It was like magic!” Your eyes are wide, insistent as you lean forward into his space.

“How does something taste like turquoise?” He ducks his head to avoid your face, fingers untying the knotted laces of your boots.

“You’re the artist, you tell me.”

“I don’t eat my paint.”

“Not even once? Not gonna lie, your paint looks very tasty, sometimes…”

“Are you always this annoying when you’re high?” He tugs the second boot off your foot as you let yourself fall back onto your bed.

“Come on, you love me,” you crow to the ceiling. Mutual pining.

Levi mutters something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Where do you keep your pajamas?” He stands and looks around your room.

“Middle drawer, left side,” you direct, lazily motioning to your dresser with an arm. Your eyes flutter shut as you listen to Levi pick his way across the floor and slide the drawer open.

Normally, you can get yourself in bed after a night out just fine. Normally, you slip into the apartment making as little noise as possible, and fall into bed without Levi even waking up. But it feels nice to have his steady hands on you when it feels like your organs might start floating apart at any second. It’s anchoring and reassuring and you can feel the safety of being near him lulling you into a doze.

Come on, you love me.

You shoot up to sitting, mind whirling and chest tight. “L-Levi?”

“What.”

“D-do…” Do you love me? “Do you think I’m pretty?” It feels petty in your mouth and you immediately regret the words, but it would be worse to try and take them back, so you just bite your lip and look down at the floor.

A hand plops onto the top of your head. Levi’s gray eyes meet yours, soft with something you can’t describe, when he tilts your head up. He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches his other hand to thumb your bottom lip out from between your teeth.

“I think you’re very pretty.”

--

(read part 5 here)

[hummussexual]

BARCELONA, Spain (AP) — They file into neighboring countries by the hundreds of thousands — refugees from Ukraine clutching children in one arm, belongings in the other. And they’re being heartily welcomed, by leaders of countries like Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Moldova and Romania.

But while the hospitality has been applauded, it has also highlighted stark differences in treatment given to migrants and refugees from the Middle East and Africa, particularly Syrians who came in 2015. Some of the language from these leaders has been disturbing to them, and deeply hurtful.

“These are not the refugees we are used to… these people are Europeans,” Bulgarian Prime Minister Kiril Petkov told journalists earlier this week, of the Ukrainians. “These people are intelligent, they are educated people. ... This is not the refugee wave we have been used to, people we were not sure about their identity, people with unclear pasts, who could have been even terrorists…”

“In other words,” he added, “there is not a single European country now which is afraid of the current wave of refugees.”

Syrian journalist Okba Mohammad says that statement “mixes racism and Islamophobia.”

Mohammad fled his hometown of Daraa in 2018. He now lives in Spain, and with other Syrian refugees founded the first bilingual magazine in Arabic and Spanish. He said he wasn’t surprised by the remarks from Petkov and others.

Mohammad described a sense of déjà vu as he followed events in Ukraine. Like thousands of Ukrainians, he also had to shelter underground to protect himself from Russian bombs. He also struggled to board an overcrowded bus to flee his town. He also was separated from his family at the border.

“A refugee is a refugee, whether European, African or Asian,” Mohammad said.

When it comes to Ukraine, the change in tone of some of Europe’s most extreme anti-migration leaders has been striking — from “We aren’t going to let anyone in” to “We’re letting everyone in.”

Those comments were made only three months apart by Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orban. In the first, in December, he was addressing migrants and refugees from the Middle East and Africa seeking to enter Europe via Hungary. In the second, this week, he was addressing people from Ukraine.

And it’s not just politicians. Some journalists are also being criticized for how they are reporting on and describing Ukrainian refugees. “These are prosperous, middle-class people,” an Al Jazeera English television presenter said. “These are not obviously refugees trying to get away from areas in the Middles East... in North Africa. They look like any European family that you would live next door to.”

The channel issued an apology saying the comments were insensitive and irresponsible.

CBS news also apologized after one of its correspondents said the conflict in Kyiv wasn’t “like Iraq or Afghanistan that has seen conflict raging for decades. This is a relatively civilized, relatively European” city.

When over a million people crossed into Europe in 2015, support for refugees fleeing wars in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan was much greater. Of course, there were also moments of hostility — such as when a Hungarian camerawoman was filmed kicking and possibly tripping migrants along the country’s border with Serbia.

Still, back then, Germany’s chancellor, Angela Merkel, famously said “Wir schaffen das” or “We can do it,” and the Swedish prime minister urged citizens to “open your hearts” to refugees.

Volunteers gathered on Greek beaches to rescue exhausted families crossing on flimsy boats from Turkey. In Germany, they were greeted with applause at train and bus stations.

But the warm welcome soon ended after EU nations disagreed over how to share responsibility, with the main pushback coming from Central and Eastern European countries like Hungary and Poland. One by one, governments across Europe toughened migration and asylum policies, doubling down on border surveillance, earning the nickname of “Fortress Europe.”

Just last week, the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees denounced the increasing “violence and serious human rights violations” across European borders, specifically pointing the finger at Greece.

And last year hundreds of people, mainly from Iraq and Syria but also from Africa, were left stranded in a no man’s land between Poland and Belarus as the EU accused Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko of luring thousands of foreigners to its borders in retaliation for sanctions. At the time, Poland blocked access to aid groups and journalists. More than 15 people died in the cold.

Meanwhile, in the Mediterranean, the European Union has been heavily criticized for funding Libya to intercept migrants trying to reach its shores, helping to return them to abusive — and often deadly — detention centers.

“There is no way to avoid questions around the deeply embedded racism of European migration policies when we see how different the reactions of national governments and EU elites are to the people trying to reach Europe,” Lena Karamanidou, an independent migration and asylum researcher in Greece, wrote on Twitter.

Jeff Crisp, a former head of policy, development and evaluation at UNHCR, agreed that race and religion influenced treatment of refugees. Like many, he was struck by the double standard.

“Countries that had been really negative on the refugee issue and have made it very difficult for the EU to develop coherent refugee policy over the last decade, suddenly come forward with a much more positive response,” Crisp noted.

Much of Orban’s opposition to migration is based on his belief that to “preserve cultural homogeneity and ethnic homogeneity,” Hungary should not accept refugees from different cultures and different religions.

Members of Poland’s conservative nationalist ruling party have also consistently echoed Orban’s thinking on migration to protect Poland’s identity as a Christian nation and guarantee its security, they say, arguing that large Muslim populations could raise the risk of terror threats.

But none of these arguments has been applied to their Ukrainian neighbors, with whom they share historical and cultural ties. Parts of Ukraine today were once also parts of Poland and Hungary. Over 1 million Ukrainians live and work in Poland and hundreds of thousands more are scattered across Europe. Some 150,000 ethnic Hungarians also live in Western Ukraine, many of whom have Hungarian passports.

“It is not completely unnatural for people to feel more comfortable with people who come from nearby, who speak the (similar) language or have a (similar) culture,” Crisp said.

But as more and more people scrambled to flee as Russia advanced, several reports emerged of non-white residents of Ukraine, including Nigerians, Indians and Lebanese, getting stuck at the border with Poland. Unlike Ukrainians, many non-Europeans need visas to get into neighboring countries. Embassies from around the world were scrambling to assist their citizens struggling to get through chaotic border crossings out of Ukraine.

Videos shared on social media posted under the hashtag #AfricansinUkraine allegedly showed African students being held back from boarding trains out of Ukraine — to make space for Ukrainians.

In Poland, Ruchir Kataria, an Indian volunteer, told the Associated Press on Sunday that his compatriots got stuck on the Ukrainian side of the border crossing leading into Medyka, Poland. In Ukraine, they were initially told to go to Romania hundreds of kilometers away, he said, after they had already made long journeys on foot to the border, not eating for three days. Finally, on Monday they got through.

The United Nations Refugee Agency has urged “receiving countries (to) continue to welcome all those fleeing conflict and insecurity — irrespective of nationality and race.”

___

Vanessa Gera in Warsaw, Poland, and Justin Spike in Budapest, Hungary, contributed to this report.

[xtruss]

These Facial Reconstructions Reveal 40,000 Years of English Ancestry

As the U.K. wrestles with issues of identity and nationalism around Brexit, a new exhibit is putting fresh faces on the region's ancient residents.

— By Kristin Romey

The Stafford Road Man, left, and the Patcham Woman, right, are among the facial reconstructions of ancient “locals” who lived on the coast of southern England over the past 40,000 years.

In 2018, the dark-skinned, blue-eyed facial reconstruction of Cheddar Man, a 10,000-year-old British resident, made international headlines and sparked discussions about “native” identity in a nation grappling with Brexit and issues of migration.

A year later, an exhibit at the Brighton Museum & Art Gallery revealed the faces of seven more ancient “locals” who lived on the coast of southern England over the past 40,000 years, showing how science confirms that the history of the region is much more complicated than we once thought.

Five of the seven individuals are true “locals,” forensically reconstructed from skulls excavated around Brighton in the southeastern county of Sussex. The most modern “local,” a 40-something man excavated during building construction in the 1980s, dates to the Anglo-Saxon period, a time when England was first unified under one king, explains Richard Le Saux, the museum’s senior keeper of collections.

The most ancient natives are a Neanderthal woman and an early modern man. Their facial reconstructions are based on remains from elsewhere in Europe, but artifacts found in the Brighton area show that both were local residents some 40,000 years ago.

Left: Neanderthal Woman! While this Neanderthal woman’s remains come from elsewhere in Europe, movement between what is now continental Europe and the British Islands was easier during the last Ice Age, and artifacts from southern England show that both Neanderthals and modern humans were residents of Brighton some 40,000 years ago. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Right: Early Modern Man! The skeletal remains for this early modern man also came from elsewhere in Europe, but tools manufactured by Homo sapiens show that modern humans were living in Brighton just as the Neanderthals were going extinct. Studies suggest that Neanderthals and modern humans may have overlapped in Europe for as much as 4,000 years. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Back to Life

The bygone Britons were brought back to life over the course of 14 months by Oscar Nilsson, an archaeologist and sculptor who has reimagined the faces of other individuals in history, including a 1,200-year-old Peruvian noblewoman and a 9,000-year-old teenager from Greece. Nilsson’s forensic technique starts with an exact 3D replica of the original skull, scanned, printed, and then modeled by hand to reflect bone structure and tissue thickness based on the individual’s origin, sex, and estimated age at death.

Recent genome studies of ancient European populations enable Nilsson to outfit his reconstructions with reasonably accurate estimates of skin, hair, and eye color. The Neolithic population that the 5,600-year-old Whitehawk woman belonged to, for instance, generally had lighter skin and darker eyes than earlier occupants of Britain such as Cheddar Man, but were darker than the exhibit’s Ditchling Road man, who arrived on the island in the first wave of light-skinned, light-eyed Beaker people from continental Europe around 4,400 years ago.

Left: Patcham Woman! Patcham Woman was a resident of Roman Britain, and her burial may be a 1,700-year-old crime scene: She was discovered by ditch diggers in 1936, buried in a fairly deep pit with a nail driven deep into the back of her skull. More nails were scattered by her knees, and a male skeleton was found lying feet-to-feet with her. Signs of stress and disease in her spine and joints show she led a hard physical life before dying sometime between the ages of 25 and 35. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Right: Stafford Road Man! Discovered in 1985 during building works, Stafford Road Man is among the first wave of Saxons to enter Britain after the collapse of the Roman Empire. Buried with a spear and a knife around 500 A.D., he lived an unusually long and active life and died after the age of 45. Apart from arthritis in his spine, shoulders, and hips, skeletal analysis shows Stafford Road Man suffered from an enormous dental abscess, which would have caused terrible pain and likely killed him after the infection spread to his brain. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

The faces of ancient Brighton residents likely sparked Brexit-related conversations about the regions previous occupants and cultural connections to continental Europe, says Le Saux.

“One of the stories that we're going with is how often we've been linked to Europe, and how much of our history is informed by series of mass migrations in each period,” he explains, adding that Britain has been physically part of mainland Europe several times over history, the last time just 8,000 years ago.

Left: Ditchling Road Man! Ditchling Road Man, named for the road-widening project that revealed his remains in 1921, was part of the first wave of farmers from continental Europe that arrived in Britain with their distinctive Beaker pottery around 2,400 B.C. His remains show that he suffered several periods of malnutrition while growing up, which may have slightly stunted his growth. Ditchling Road Man died between the ages of 25 and 35 and was buried with a Beaker vessel by his feet and a small number of snail shells next to his mouth. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Right: Slonk Hill Man! Slonk Hill Man died about 2,300 years ago, but his cause of death remains a mystery. Excavated in 1968 during a highway project, he was an active, strong, and healthy man in his later twenties when he passed away and was buried in a semi-crouched position in the bottom of a storage pit, a practice typical during the Iron Age. What makes the burial unusual, however, is that he was laid atop a thick pile of uncooked and uneaten mollusks—especially considering that seafood would not have been a common part of Slonk Hill Man’s diet. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Individual Lives

What makes the ancient Britons portrayed in the exhibit so interesting, Nilsson says, is how science reveals the lives they’ve lived. “I’ve worked with so many skulls, but these were the most characteristic ones I’ve seen. The faces that developed became so individual.”

Whitehawk Woman stands out for the apparently unusual circumstances of her life and death: Scientific studies show that she was born more than 5,000 years ago on the Welsh border, then moved several hundred miles [east] to Sussex at some point, and was buried with good luck charms in a grave at the entrance to a Neolithic ceremonial site.

The remains of a fetus found in her pelvic area suggest she likely died in childbirth, a scientific insight that informed Nilsson’s artistic depiction.

“I wanted her to look a bit curious—thinking about the future—because I'm thinking of the moment when you see her is perhaps before she's giving birth to the child that probably led to her death,” says Nilsson.

The swaggering 2,300-year-old Slonk Hill Man posed his own particular problems, Nilsson adds. According to his bone structure, the Iron Age twenty-something was “probably kind of good-looking,” which can sometimes lead to a reconstruction that looks too much like a mannequin, the sculptor explains. The skull also featured a pronounced point where the brow ridges joined, which could have given Slonk Hill Man a bit of a “cruel” expression. “It was difficult to make him smile without looking too creepy,” Nilsson says.

Whitehawk Woman! Small and slender, Whitehawk Woman lived about 5,600 years ago and died before the age of 25, possibly during childbirth (the remains of a fetus were found in her pelvic area). She was excavated in 1933 from a burial in the Whitehawk Enclosure, one of Britain’s earliest Neolithic monuments. Recent DNA analysis from the Neolithic Whitehawk population suggests they were generally dark eyed and dark skinned in comparison to the Beaker population that eventually replaced them around 4,400 years ago. Coutesy Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove

Then there was the artistic decision that had to be made with Stafford Road Man, a Saxon-era adult who likely died from a terrible facial abscess. The infection was probably grotesquely swollen at the time of his death, but Nilsson chose not to exaggerate the ailment. “I wanted to show him with some kind of dignity, and establish a connection between him and the visitor to the museum.”

[homerjacksons]

Sonny Carisi Week Day 2: off duty Word Count: 1847 Pairing: Rollisi, pre-bensler? Summary: Sonny and Amanda host a dinner party for the squad. AO3

As Jesse chattered away to him, stirring the pot diligently, Sonny heard the door open again, a string of barely-discernible greetings ringing through the apartment, and his heart felt fit to burst.

He’d been wanting to do this for a while; have everyone get together, cook for them, pamper them, show his found family just how much he loved them. He’d never had the space to host in his tiny apartment, though, and he couldn’t ask someone else to host just on his behalf, so more often than not, on the off chance they did all get together, it was for takeout, and a kid-free night.

This was different. Special. This was what he’d been wanting all along.

Amanda slid up behind him at the stove, winding her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his shoulder which Jesse pretended to find gross despite the absolute glee in her eyes.

“You doin’ okay in here?” She asked softly.

The question was directed at Sonny, but Jesse piped up with a very happy, “We’re great, momma,” which startled a laugh out of Sonny.

“Yeah,” he said gentle, turning in her arms to press a kiss to her cheek. “We’re great.”

“You’re behaving?” She asked Jesse, who nodded solemnly in return. “Good.”

“Go,” he said, punctuated by a chaste kiss to her lips. “Entertain our colleagues.”

“When you were planning to use my apartment to host this, you said they were our friends.” She tried to look stern, but she couldn't quite manage it and he laughed, turning back to the stove.

“Go,” he insisted. “I’m doing what I do best here. And it’ll be done in 10 minutes so make sure the kids have washed their hands.”

He could feel her watching him, and he turned to shoot her a smile before she left.

 --

 He felt warm and fuzzy again as he brought out plates piled high with homemade spaghetti and meatballs for everyone. He couldn’t help but watch as his friends helped themselves to salad and garlic bread, laughing and talking all the while, as though his food wasn’t an interruption to their previous conversation but merely a welcome addition.

“This smells great,” Kat exclaimed, eyes wide and hungry as she grinned at Sonny.

“Tastes great,” Fin added around a mouthful of pasta.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Garland said gently, giving his wife’s hand a squeeze.

“Uh, it’s Amanda’s home, but—“

“Shush,” she said, swatting his arm playfully. “It’s just as much your home as it is mine.”

His heart melted at that, and he had to take a moment to let that sink in as the conversation started up around him once more. On a surface level, he’d known this was his home too. He spent just as much time here as Amanda did, maybe even more now. But he still had his tiny apartment going to waste, slowly emptying of everything he could ever need as his belongings migrated here, and they hadn’t discussed him moving in, officially.

“You okay?” Amanda asked, mouth close to his ear so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Course,” he said with a grin, squeezing her hand under the table.

And he meant it. He was sure he’d never felt better.

 --

 “Never known you to be this quiet,” Elliot said, settling beside Sonny and handing him a beer.

Sonny laughed. “You barely know me at all.”

“Touche.” 

Elliot was quiet for a moment, watching Liv and Amanda where they sat on the couch, heads close together, cheeks flushed with wine and eyes alight with laughter.

“Feel like I do, though,” he said after a beat, not tearing his eyes away from the scene across from them. “The way Liv talks about you all, I feel like I’ve known you just as long as she has.”

Sonny turned to look at him, not sure how to respond to that. He couldn’t return the compliment—Liv had never mentioned Elliot directly in the time he was gone, and even since he’d come back, she’d kept whatever was going on between them private, barely spoke about him unless prompted—but it felt wrong to leave a comment like that hanging.

“She’s a good woman,” Sonny said thickly, looking down at the beer in his hand.

“The best,” Elliot agreed with a grin, clapping Sonny on the shoulder. “Although you didn’t do too bad.”

That startled a laugh out of Sonny and he looked back over to Amanda again, warmth thrumming through his veins.

“Yeah,” he said a little breathlessly. “Still pinchin’ myself, y’know.”

Elliot nodded slowly, finally tearing his gaze from the women to look at Sonny. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“So you and Liv…” he trailed off, not sure it was really his place despite Elliot starting this thread of conversation.

“Getting there,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. But she’s worth it.”

Sonny nodded. He knew what that felt like, knowing someone was worth every bit of effort and pain, knowing someone was worth waiting forever for.

 --

 “Carisi!” Kat called from the kitchen, beckoning him over excitedly.

Sonny feigned annoyance, grinning the whole while, as he left Fin and Garland to continue their conversation without him.

“Watcha doin’ in my kitchen?”

“Your kitchen?” She raised her eyebrows. “Thought your kitchen was on the other side of Manhattan.”

Sonny felt his cheeks heat up, and he hoped the alcohol and warmth of the room would have already given him enough of a flush that she wouldn’t notice.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved a hand, still grinning. His cheeks hurt but he couldn't quite stop.

“This s’posed to be you?” She asked, pointing to a stick figure drawing pinned to the fridge, front and centre, Billie’s name scrawled in the corner.

“Yeah,” he said proudly, almost like he was challenging her.

He knew he was listed as daddy in the drawing, knew that topic had stayed between him and Amanda as they worked out exactly how they wanted to proceed and what was the right way to go about all this, but in that moment, with love and affection and alcohol flowing through his veins, buzzing in his brain, he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed with pride or the way he stood a little taller in the face of someone else seeing, someone else knowing.

Kat softened, giving his elbow a squeeze. “I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, turning to grin at her. “Me too.”

He was about to say something else, but at that moment, Billie barrelled into his legs, tears welling in her big eyes, and everything else was forgotten in favour of helping his little girl.

 --

 “Noah, come on,” Liv insisted from the doorway, exasperated and tired and fond all at once. “It’s time to go.”

All she got in response was a shriek of laughter and pounding footsteps as Jesse and Noah continued to chase each other around the table, high on far too much dessert and the leftover excitement of being part of a ‘grown ups party’.

Liv sighed, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t insist again. Instead, she settled a hand on Sonny’s arm, expression soft and warm.

“I’m really happy for you, Sonny,” she said quietly, giving his arm a squeeze for good measure. “You deserve this; to be happy.”

Sonny glanced past her out into the hall where Elliot waited, checking his phone for their Uber.

“So do you,” he said with a nod in Elliot’s direction.

Liv followed his gaze, a soft, wistful look taking over her face for a moment before she turned back to him, looking so much like his boss again that he instantly stood a little straighter.

“I know,” she eventually said, expression softening again. “Just making sure he knows that first.”

Sonny laughed, covering her hand with his own where it still rested on her arm. “Trust me, he knows.”

She studied him for a moment before looking back over at Elliot, who was now looking at them in return.

“Uber’s here,” he said, waving his phone.

Liv turned to call for Noah again, but he came bounding towards her just in time, eyes bright and curls bouncing.

“Thanks again,” Liv said softly, taking Noah’s hand in hers to join Elliot.

“Thanks, Uncle Sonny,” Noah echoed, waving behind him.

Elliot nodded to him from the end of the hall, raising a hand in farewell, and then they were gone.

He closed the door behind him, resting against it for a moment, letting the success of the night sink in.

“Uncle Sonny!” Jesse squealed, wrapping her arms around Sonny’s legs.

“Shh,” Sonny stage whispered. “Your sister’s asleep.”

“Uncle Sonny,” Jesse repeated in a whisper. “Read me a story?”

Sonny looked up to meet Amanda’s gaze across the room where she was gathering plates and glasses to take back to the kitchen. She gave him a small shrug and a warm smile in response, and he, once again, felt awed that she trusted him enough to make any decision about her children without consulting her, even if it was just a bedtime story way past her actual bedtime.

“Okay, Jess,” he agreed, ruffling her hair. “You go get ready for bed and pick out a story and I’ll be in in a moment.”

He gathered a few stray plates and glasses, following Amanda to the kitchen to dump them beside the sink.

“Hey,” she said softly, turning to face him at the counter.

“Hey,” he echoed back, heart thumping against his ribs almost like he was nervous, or excited, or both.

“We’re real adults now, huh?” She joked, straightening his collar before winding her arms around his neck.

His arms fell easily to her waist, pulling her in close. “Dinner party, tick.”

She laughed, tilting her head back, eyes shining in the light, and god, she looked so beautiful she took his breath away.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

She kissed him properly, pulling him in close, almost desperate, like she’d wanted to do this all night and was just waiting to have him all to herself.

“Careful,” he mumbled into her mouth, reluctantly withdrawing. “I still gotta read Jesse a story.”

“Your mistake,” she said with a sly grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips before letting go. “Off you go, then.”

He watched her for a moment, just as she had done earlier that night, thinking of the ring he had tucked away back at his apartment, the only thing of any real meaning he still had there.

If anyone had asked him even a month ago, he would have said he wasn’t sure she’d say yes, but as he watched her washing dishes after helping him host their first ever dinner party as a couple, with her eldest waiting for him to put her to bed and her youngest already calling him daddy, he knew. He knew he could ask at any moment, and she’d say yes without a moment's hesitation.

[confused-stars]

They say the 'L-word' less than a month into knowing each other.

They were just hanging out down by the river with a paper bag full of pastries, and watching the clouds in the sky until it's time for dinner. Oboro is reluctant to get up, but he does, and Hizashi stays put - he has the shorter way home, he can enjoy the last rays of sun a little while longer.

"Bye, Zashi," Oboro says, waving down at him.

Hizashi smiles. "Bye, Obo, love you."

There's a split second of silence, before Oboro laughs. "I love you, too, idiot."

He nudges Hizashi with his foot, and then runs off when Hizashi lets out an indignant squawk with only a hint of his quirk.

Hizashi lies back down in the grass with a happy, warm feeling in his stomach that is definitely not butterflies.

___

Two months into knowing each other, Oboro regularly gives Hizashi piggyback rides.

That one started after a particularly rough day at training that left Hizashi feeling like his legs were about to give out from running so much. Oboro would usually just transport him on a convenient cloud, but he'd overused his quirk that day, so old-fashioned piggyback it was. And once they started, and Hizashi noticed how warm Oboro is and how nice his hair smells and how broad his shoulders are... well, why stop?

It's a regular occurrence now, to see Oboro racing down the halls with Hizashi on his back, laughing and cheering for him to go faster. Oboro insists it's good training. Hizashi just enjoys not having to walk... and drawing attention doesn't hurt, either.

___

Four months into knowing each other, they start holding hands.

They're in Hizashi's room when it first happens. The music is, for once, turned down, and they've long since gotten distracted from their homework in legal studies. It's Oboro's weak point, all the tiny details to pay attention to, and the memorization, so of course Hizashi offered to help. He's good with words, even if it's legal jargon. But, this is even more important.

"No, look." Hizashi repeats the sign for the fifth time. "Like that. You need to crook your fingers more when you move them that way."

Oboro tries to imitate him again, and Hizashi fights the urge to laugh at how clumsy he is. Oboro is really trying to learn a second language here, mainly for Hizashi's sake, and that's sweet of him.

Hizashi reaches out for his hand and does the movement with him. "There. Like that." Oboro's hand is warm and strong and slightly calloused from battle training, and Hizashi's is small around it. He lets go and Oboro does the sign again.

"... eh, it'll do," Hizashi decides. He shuffles closer to Oboro and pulls one of their textbooks across the carpet. "Now, we really gotta get on this if you wanna understand a word in class tomorrow." He twirls his pencil in his hand, a soothing, repetitive movement, swishing it from side to side.

Oboro's hand closes around Hizashi's free one, and Hizashi just smiles, humming happily to himself as he leans over the book and begins to go through his notes again.

___

Five months into knowing each other, they start kissing.

Hizashi is curled into Oboro on the Yamadas' living room couch late at night. The rest of the house is already asleep, but as long as they keep it down, Hizashi's parents don't mind them staying up a bit longer. They'll migrate to Hizashi's room eventually, but it's just so comfortable here. Hizashi could just about doze off like this. Oboro makes for the perfect pillow.

"Hey, Zashi?"

Hizashi hums in question, bleary eyes half-looking at the tv screen through smudged glasses.

"... you ever think about what it'd be like to kiss Aizawa?"

Oh. Hizashi blinks. "Uh... yeah. Sometimes." It doesn't feel weird talking about this, though he thinks maybe it should? But this is Oboro. His best friend. Co-parent of the brain cell. They share everything, always.

Oboro runs a hand through Hizashi's hair, still damp from the shower he took earlier while Oboro was charming his family as always. He fits into their house so seamlessly that Hizashi's sister has joked about how one of them might as well marry him, to which Oboro blushed incessantly in a way that was... well, Hizashi wishes he'd taken a picture so he could look at it again.

"I've never kissed anyone before," Oboro says thoughtfully, "I wonder if I'd be any good at it."

Hizashi peeks up at him over the rim of his glasses, which means all he sees is a blur of tan and blue. "Yeah, me neither. Is that something you need to practice to get good at?" It would make sense. Hizashi has no idea what kissing is supposed to be like.

Oboro seems to contemplate that for a moment. Or maybe he's just sleepy. "Maybe? I think enthusiasm counts for a lot though."

Hizashi snorts. "That's your go to for everything, O." He wonders if Aizawa would want to kiss either of them. He doesn't seem the type to be interested in much of anyone, but he's just closed off in general. They've been breaking down his walls slowly.

"... so..." Hizashi says slowly, "If either of us gets to kiss Aizawa, shouldn't we be prepared?"

Oboro nods, as always following his train of thought. "He is pretty hard to impress."

Hizashi reluctantly shifts in Oboro's arms, turning to face him properly. "So... practice?"

Oboro's smile is sleepy and soft, and Hizashi finds that he doesn't mind kissing it away at all.

___

Six months into knowing each other, they realize.

Hizashi is sitting on Oboro's lap, snuggled into his broad chest because even though it's Summer, the night is getting a bit cold. Not to mention the bugs he's skillfully avoiding this way.

Shouta - because finally, finally he's allowing them Shouta - is sitting next to them, curled into himself and staring into the fire.

It's their last night at training camp, so they're finally allowed to stay up late, and though they're all exhausted, none of them wants to admit defeat and go to sleep. There's been a lull in conversation once people ran out of ghost stories to tell, and now they're all just sitting in comfortable silence. Enjoying each other's company.

Hizashi is humming under his breath, but it's quiet enough that only Oboro can hear. He's got a stick that he's peeling, tossing bits of bark and wood into the fire every now and then.

Oboro's arm is warm against his shoulders. Hizashi feels like he could nod off any second.

If they never become heroes, and instead stay frozen in this moment forever, he'd be perfectly content.

He's not sure he's ever felt properly content before.

When he looks up at Oboro, he finds his best friend is watching Shouta with an entirely too soft expression on his face. Hizashi follows his gaze, and he's pretty sure a moment later he's sporting the same expression.

Shouta's face is lit a gentle orange by the flickering campfire, a barely there smile on his face that shows how happy he is. Here. With them. Where he belongs.

The light makes his features seem even softer, smoothing them out where they've grown a little sharper recently, and reflecting as a glimmer in his dark eyes.

He's stunning.

There's strands of hair falling into his face as usual, and before Hizashi can go through with tucking them behind his ear, there's already an arm being lifted to do just that.

Hizashi watches as Shouta turns his head and blinks at Oboro in surprise. His cheeks are tinged slightly pink, but that might be the heat from the fire.

"Lemme braid your hair, Sho," Hizashi finds himself saying, speech slurring a little with sleepiness.

Shouta's mouth twists downwards. "You're barely awake. That's a terrible idea."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Hizashi says, a little dramatically, and makes grabby hands at Shouta.

With a sigh, Shouta complies and turns his back to them.

Hizashi takes the strands Oboro just tucked back and begins braiding them along the side of Shouta's head, the fire giving barely enough light for him to see his work. But his hands are experienced and sure, and the familiar motion is soothing.

"You have... nice hair. Soft," Oboro says, interrupted by a yawn, "Not like Zashi's. The gel ruins it."

Hizashi shoves at him with his shoulder. "Not all of us can have cotton candy on our heads."

Shouta snorts a laugh, and Hizashi beams, because those are rare enough and they're delightful to listen to.

"Go out with us," he finds himself saying before he can stop himself. And isn't that on brand, Yamada? He bites his lip. Shouta is frozen, still with his back turned to them. "I... I mean, only if you'd like that? Or if you only wanna go out with one of us, that'd be fine, too?"

He feels Oboro's hand on his shoulder and leans into the contact, quieting down.

"Sho?" Oboro asks gently, "You... okay?"

Hizashi feels terrible. He shouldn't have asked like that. Especially since some of their classmates are definitely listening in on this now. Should've waited. Should've planned this better, talked it through with Oboro, because they were fine talking about dating Shouta in theory, but what if Oboro's not fine with sharing? What if he'll want to be with Shouta and then Hizashi won't get to cuddle him and hold his hand and kiss him anymore? Because Shouta would be doing that, then. Like a boyfriend does.

"... with both of you?" Shouta's turned around now, eyes moving between their faces. There's... mainly just confusion in there.

"Yeah?" Oboro laughs a little, but Hizashi can tell it's nervous. "We've both liked you for a while, and we share everything else anyway! Not that you're an object to be shared, yikes, could've worded that better, huh? But, anyway, the point is-"

This time Hizashi is the one to stop Oboro's rambling, though not entirely on purpose. He just buries his face against his shoulder, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Somehow, that gets Oboro to stop talking. A warm hand draws soothing circles on Hizashi's back.

"But..." Shouta still sounds so confused. "But you two are... happy together?"

That gets Hizashi's head to jerk up. "Together?" he echoes.

Oboro makes a soft noise of surprise. "Shouta... Zashi and I aren't dating."

Shouta's eyebrows draw together. "You make out all the time. You're always holding hands. I've heard you say 'I love you' to each other."

"Well, yeah, but..." Oboro seems to be processing this. Hizashi isn't faring much better.

"That's just a best friend thing!" is what he comes up with.

Shouta... Shouta buries his face in his hands.

"Are you fucking serious?" someone's voice comes from their right, and Hizashi doesn't even care to identify it.

Because Shouta is right.

He looks up at Oboro. "Hey... hey, O?"

Oboro nods numbly.

"Are we dating?"

Another slow nod, and a half-shrug that seems to signal 'I guess?' in Oboro-code.

Hizashi isn't sure what to do about that so he shoots him finger guns. "Rad."

"... you're fucking kidding." Ah. Shouta's back with them. He's glaring, but he also seems to just be in general despair. "You didn't know? Everyone else knew!"

"... everyone?" Hizashi asks.

"Everyone!" comes another voice from the void.

Hizashi wants to sink into the floor and die. Instead, he finds himself hidden by a convenient cloud, shielding the three of them from the rest of their class, and he leans his burning face against the welcomingly cool, soft surface.

"I'm going to live in a cloud forever," Oboro speaks his thoughts out loud, "I'm going to lift myself up into the sky and become one with them."

Shouta laughs again. "Wow. I knew you two were idiots, but this... this is insane."

"Do you find our suffering funny, Shouta?" Hizashi speaks into the cloud.

"Very," Shouta confirms, almost cheerful in his tone of voice.

"Okay," Oboro says, "Okay, so we've established Zashi and I are boyfriends. But you, dearest Shouta, are dodging the question. Will you or will you not join us for our first official date night?"

Shouta huffs. "Obviously. You two can't function even slightly without me."

Hizashi peels his face out of the cloud. "Seriously?" Well, then... who even cares about his embarrassment anymore?

"Yeah, seriously," Shouta says. Then, quieter: "Dumbass."

Hizashi gasps in mock-offense, and Oboro starts laughing so hard his quirk slips away from him and the cloud dissipates. Hizashi glares at both of them. "Oh, I see how it is. Two boyfriends means twice the bullying."

"I bullied you before," Shouta points out.

Oboro takes in a breath of air, still slightly shaking with laughter. "Yeah, but now you can also shut him up with kisses. A whole new world!"

Shouta seems to contemplate that for a moment. Then he nods. "Acceptable."

Hizashi thinks so, too.

[queenmuzz]

Siren’s Song

If his father found out where Nero had gone, all alone, he’d drag the finling’s tail back and lock him somewhere in the depths of the ocean.  His dad, (and mom, to a lesser extent) tried their best to keep him from the danger of humans, but by the Dawnfather, he was almost thirteen migrations old, and finlings his age were allowed to go where they wanted, within reason.  Besides , he thought as he flexed his fist, his soul weapon had fully materialized, he could defend himself from practically anything.  Only two weeks ago, his entire right arm had changed into a beautiful scaly claw that glimmered silvery blue and red. His parents seemed relieved more that his newly developed weapon was permanently bonded with him, than the fact that he’d gotten one earlier than usual.  It meant he didn’t ever have to worry about ever getting separated from it, a fate worse than death.

Even then, The only two reasons he had managed to get closer to the shoreline was that he was supposed to be with his uncle, who was supposed to be teaching him how to hunt with his new arm, but with the promise of picking up a human trinket for him, Dante had left him to his own devices, while his uncle went on a hunt for something called ‘pizza’. His uncle was weird.

Another reason Nero had gotten so close to the shoreline, was because his dad seemed to think this area, despite the human settlements, was safer than most areas.  This island, this Fortuna…. It didn’t have the large fishing tankers other places did, only the easily dodgible small fishing boats.  And unlike other sandy banks where the dry land met their home, there were few humans wearing those tiny strips of cloths that provided little protection.  When they rarely showed up, they were covered head to their stubbly legs in clothing.  And they almost never went into the water.  

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.  The legends spoke of how dangerous humans could be, especially when you encountered them on their own domain. The rules were simple:

Never let yourself be seen by them.

Never accept a gift from them.

And most importantly:

   3. Never promise a human anything.

You can also read it on Ao3 HERE

Humans were a strange people, with inexplicable powers that were said to compel or even worse, bind Merfolk to them.  How many tales had his father sang to him about foolish mermen and maids suffering captivity and death because they didn’t understand the danger they were courting by encountering humans?

Well , Nero thought, as he slowly got closer to the shoreline, the tide went out for them, but I’m different.   Besides, he had his new weapon, he’d be perfectly fine.  Already he had perfected his hunting using a manifestation of his claws to shoot out and either spear, or grab a fish, before yanking it back to be devoured.  A group of Cordina swam a tail’s length away from him, and he effortlessly yanked one of them, and with pride, he began to take a bite of its belly.  He wasn’t old enough to swallow them whole, but probably by his next migration, he should be…

Mid bite he heard it.  A beautiful sound that reminded him of the haunting choral singing of the whales of the North.  Except this was higher pitched, came from only one throat instead of many, and strangely enough… it sounded like it came from above the surface?  

Resisting the urge to give in to curiosity and break the surface, he compromised by slowly following the entrancing song from beneath the waves.  It couldn’t be far, sounds in the air didn’t carry as far as they did in water, and sure enough, within a few strokes of his fins, he found the source, a lone wooden dock jutting out over the water.

Or rather, WHO was on it.

Nero had been told by his father that singing was something only Merfolk and the warm blooded fish of the sea could do.  If humans could sing, he explained, they would have to stand right next to each other in order to hear, and their songs couldn’t possibly convey the depths that his people’s songs could.

And yet, this human… this… girl… (She seemed about his age, and his mom had explained that human children had different names for gender) sang so sweetly, it almost felt like she was luring him in with magic.  

But it couldn’t be magic, since he still had the wits to remain hidden, to check for danger, before settling underneath the creaking wood of the dock.  Even so, her voice was so beautiful, he risked silently breaching the surface to hear her more clearly.

He didn’t know why she was singing.  She was apparently alone, so she wasn’t telling a tale, and she was far too young to be singing for a mate.  Tidemother have mercy, he couldn’t even understand the words.  Something about  ‘darkness’ ‘wind’ and… a ‘garden’?  That was a strange word.  Maybe his uncle or mother would know.

But in the end, it didn’t matter as he listened, his claws embedded into the slippery post to stabilize him.  Whatever she was singing, it was beautiful.

And, as he risked a peek through the planks, she was as beautiful as the song she sang.  Her clothing was whiter than seafoam, brighter than the icebergs that floated from the south, with lines of what seemed to be glittering sunlight etched into it.   But that wasn’t the most stunning thing.  Her hair was a vibrant shade between coral red and earth brown, a colour he’d never seen in all of his travels.  And her eyes!  For a moment, he thought they were seaweed green, but then they flashed into dark sand brown, so rapidly, he wasn’t even sure they were different colours, or just a melding of them.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.  His father had told him most humans were brutes with harsh voices, but he hadn’t said all of them were. Maybe his dad was wrong, that humans weren’t the monsters the tales said they were.  Or maybe, this one human was an exception, a pearl in an oyster.  

She slowly stopped her singing and with a beautiful smile, she pushed her hair back to form it into a tail of some sort, revealing her creamy skin with reddish speckles (did humans have scales?  He’d have to ask his mom about that, she was really knowledgeable about that stuff) and sighed happily while basking in the son.

“Oh!”  She yelled out, and Nero froze.  Had she seen him, or somehow sensed him?  He clung to the post, quickly calculating paths of escape.  

Instead, he heard a tinkle, a Thud! and a Plop!, as something hit the dock, before slipping through the crack between planks and fell into the water, to sink straight to the bottom.  He could only get a small glimpse as it plummeted down, but it sparkled, like a falling star.

“Nononono!” the girl yelped, and above him, he heard her scrambling, and her head popped down over the side, obviously trying to locate that glittering trinket.  

Nero was totally not terrified.  Not at all.  Sure, this was the closest he’d ever been to a human, and he stilled his breath, she was so close she could probably hear his heart pounding.  All she had to do is look in his general direction, and he’d be spotted. It was only her intense gaze to the sea bed below that saved him.  He couldn’t even flee, because any movement he made would undoubtedly attract her attention.  So, he clung to the post, silently praying for both the Dawnfather and Tidemother to protect him.

The only upside to his situation was that he had an even closer look at the girl.  She was so pretty, and hadn’t been for the fact she had legs, she could have been indistinguishable from one of his people.  But even so, there was an expression on her face that hurt him deeply, a deep sorrow.  Whatever had fallen into the water, it had been very precious to her.

“KYRIE!”  A voice called out from the shore, and the girl's attention swung over to the source, allowing Nero a moment of reprieve, “I told you not to get your dress dirty!  The ceremony is happening very soon!”

Rapid footsteps clattered as an older woman, who bore a resemblance to the girl strode up.  “I’ve been looking all over for you, have you been here all this time?”

“I-I-wanted to practice my singing here, mama.” “You know you don’t always  have to come here alone dear, everyone loves your singing!” “Yeah,”  she didn’t sound convinced.  Did she think her singing was bad?  Nero scoffed at the idea.

“Well, it’s time for your performance,” the older woman wiped off traces of dirt off her daughter’s dress, before gasping, “Where’s your new necklace!?”

“It… fell off my neck,” the girl admitted, hanging her head, “the clasp unlocked and it fell…” she glanced down to the water below.

“Oh Kyrie....” the woman was disappointed, yet not angry. “Your papa and I just got that for you...you need to be more careful with your possessions.”  She glanced over the edge of the dock, and Nero had yet another flash of panic.  Thankfully, she didn’t spend much time scanning the water.  “Ah well, there’s no time to retrieve it.  Your father and Credo will have to look for it tomorrow morning, it shouldn’t go far. Now,” she patted her daughter’s head, “let’s be on our way, your singing will delight everyone!”

Nero didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity, even when the two humans were gone, in the small chance that this was a feint, a trap.  Because that glittering fallen star, that...necklace that glittered in the sand, like an anglerfish’s lure.  But, there were no signs of any other humans laying in wait for him, so cautiously, he made his way towards the sparkly item. Despite it shining like the Dawnfather, it wasn’t hot, in fact it was cool to the touch.  But it glimmered and sparkled like his father’s amulet, it even had a little red gem in the middle.  But the lady was wrong, the way the water moved around here, it would be washed away by tomorrow, or buried by the shifting sands.  Nero had a conundrum:  He could either let it get washed away, lost to the sands of time....

Or he could grab it.  But it belonged to the girl, and the rules about accepting gifts from humans...what if it put a terrible curse on him?

But , he reasoned, it’s not really a gift.   He was merely retrieving it, and he’d give it right back to her… maybe he’d put it on the dock.  

His fingers caressed the shiny metal, as reflective as his father’s blade. No, he couldn’t just leave it here, some bird, or some other human would pick it up for themselves.  Nero couldn’t have that.  He’d just have to hold onto it until he saw her again at the docks.  She apparently hung out here to sing.  Yeah, he’d find her, figure out a way to leave it nearby, and hope she noticed it without noticing him.  Simple plan, really.

The necklace glistened once more in the sunlight, before suddenly with a golden flash, disappeared into his scaly claws.  So his soul weapon could do that too... interesting.  At least his uncle (and dad) wouldn’t be on his tailfins about the trinket he had.  It would be hard to explain how he had gotten a hold of something like this.

“Heya guppy!” his uncle met him a good distance from the shore, ruffling his hair, “you got anything cool?”  

Nero pretended to be annoyed, “Nah, sorry. But,” he scratched the bridge of his nose, “can we come back tomorrow?  I think I heard some of the humans talking about a ‘pizza party’ on the beach tomorrow?  Maybe we could…”

His uncle’s grin widened, “Oh yeah!  We can do that!  I knew you’d pull through!”

Nero almost felt bad for lying...almost.  But his dad would never let him get so close to the shore unaccompanied, and his uncle was the only one who trusted him to go by himself.  He'd just give it to her tomorrow.  Besides, how hard could it be?

It was much harder than Nero had thought.  Finding Kyrie was incredibly simple, she had a very set schedule, spending hours in the morning just singing, or ‘practicing her scales’ as she put it, her voice ascending and descending like the waves.  And he’d hide under the dock to listen, entranced by everything.  He almost was tempted to sing along to the songs she sang, if it wasn’t for the fact he’d be caught for sure.  Sometimes, her parents would come to call her home, or her older brother, but usually it was just her...and him.

But every time he felt he should give back the necklace, he felt… he couldn’t.  And it wasn’t magic, he was certain of it by now.  Honestly, the more he observed her, and the others, the more he was certain that humans couldn’t EVEN do magic.  They were just a slower, weaker, more clumsy version of merfolk, who couldn’t even breathe underwater.

But Kyrie… there was something about her.  Nero wanted to be near her at all  times, and holding onto that necklace seemed to be the only way he could do that.  So, every time when she was called home, he’d promise himself that tomorrow would be the day he’d give it back.  

Unfortunately, that day never came.  “Wait, what do you mean we have to go?” Nero tried to stop his father from swimming off.  He still had plans for the day.

“It’s time, the shoal is on the move to the north,” his father gruffly said, “we’ve wasted enough time on whatever you and your uncle have been up to, if we wait any longer, we’ll spend far too much time chasing instead of hunting.  Tell your mother we must be on our way.”

“But…” Nero still hadn’t given back the necklace.  And now, he might never get another chance to.

His father’s furrowed brow softened as he placed a hand on his shoulder, “Nero,” he spoke softly with misplaced understanding, “I know you’ve enjoyed your new found freedom in this area, it’s why I have put off the migration for as long as possible, I wanted to see my son happy and free in a safe area. But,” the sternness returned, “the Ways must be followed, we must move on.  You understand that, right?”

He was right of course, already the Cordina shoals were slim, and Nero was lucky if he found one on his own per day, and he didn’t relish the thought of eating kelp as a replacement.  (A trait apparently passed down from his father, who detested the stuff)  But still…

“Do not worry” his father patted his head softly, “We will return.  We always do.”  

It was an attempt to reassure him, in his father’s awkward way, but still...Nero hoped that she would keep to her pattern as he did his.  He’d have to get it to her next time on their migration.  It would be easy.

It wasn’t easy.  Eager as he was to see her again the next time they followed the shoal to the balmy shallows of Fortuna, he still couldn’t give up the necklace.  She still stood at the end of the dock at the same time each day, singing not only the same songs as before, but more complex ones as well.  She’d gotten taller, and dare he say it, even more beautiful.  But still, even with multiple opportunities, he couldn’t part with it.  It was like keeping a piece of her with him, and when he took it out of his clawed arm, just the caressing of it calmed him down when he failed miserably at hunting, or when he had an argument with his parents about how independent he was allowed to be.  And so, by the time they had to move on, he still carried it.  There was always the next migration....

He told himself that after the first one, then the second, then the third…

They were approaching Fortuna for the fourth time since he had first met (no...that was the wrong word, but how else could he describe it without sounding like he was hunting her?) and after a particularly aggravating hunt where his uncle constantly ribbed him about ‘If you’re that bad at hunting, maybe you should stick to kelp, guppy’ , Nero had found a secluded shelter to calm down.  He was a krill’s whisker away from punching that smirk off his uncle’s face, and the last thing he wanted to happen is to give his father a reason to restrict his movements, especially as they approached the island.  He rolled his shoulder, and out came the necklace, pristine as the day it fell into the water.  He smiled gently as his fingers traced the shape, like bird wings, that enclosed the brilliant gem.  If he closed his eyes, he could swear he heard her voice.  Perhaps she has another new song?

“Ah, there you are!” His mother’s voice snuck up on him, giving him no time to hide the necklace without looking suspicious. “When Dante said you stormed out of the hunting party at the speed of a sailfish, I was a little worried you’d get yourself in trouble.”   She drifted down towards him, a makeshift satchel made of salvaged cloth from the surface world at her side.  No doubt it was full of shellfish, her favourite food.  She wasn’t as quick at hunting as his father, his uncle, or to be honest, any of the other merfolk, and Nero always worried that she had been injured early on in her life, something that put her at a disadvantage.  But she was always cheerful, and found other ways to contribute to the hunt.

“It’s just…”

“Dante...I know… trust me... sometimes I wish a jellyfish would sting him on the tongue, just to shut him up for a while. But,” she sat down beside him, and began prying open one of the clams with her soul weapon, a small pearlescent knife, and offered him the contents. “ He thinks he means well, he just doesn’t realize he’s swimming against the current.”

He gratefully took it and slurped down the contents.  His mom was always able to mediate between the three mermen, she’d find a way to make his uncle apologize, and things would be back to normal...for a while at least.

“Oh… that’s beautiful Nero! Where did you find that?”  Too late he realized that by grabbing the shell, he’d inadvertently revealed his prized possession.

Parrotfish Sand! He thought, Welp, time to fib a little.

He put on a convincing smile.  “Oh this?  It’s beautiful, isn’t it?  I found it while investigating an old shipwreck a while back!”  Yeah, that was believable.  His dad was more permissive about him going down into the depths than into the shallows.

Unfortunately, the doubtful look on his mother’s face shattered the illusion, “Oh really?  If it came from an old shipwreck it would have had more corrosion on the brass clasp, to the point where only the pendant should still have a possibility of retaining its shine.  That is, if the jewelry had a high enough percentage of gold.  If not, it would have been just as corrode d.”

Nero was stunned.  How had she known he was lying?

“Corrosion?”

“It’s where the water and the salt…” she paused as if she was trying to find the right words, “well, simply put, they change the metal into something different, and often weaker.  Human metal of course, not the metal of our soul-weapons.  It’s why some shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea are all brown,and fall apart just by brushing up against it.  Some metals, like gold, are resistant, some not at all.”

“How..how do you know that? About human stuff?”  

She smiled softly at him, “Nero...I suppose it’s time I told you that once…” she looked up at the dappled surface, the flickering sunbeams shining down on them, “Once, I was one of them.”

Nero choked on the last of the clam he was slurping up.  Maybe he hadn’t heard his mom right.  There’s no way that his dad of all merfolk would have fallen for...a human?  Maybe his dad didn’t know…?

“I’d hoped that your father would have explained our ‘unique’ family situation earlier on...but…” she sighed… “well, if he won’t take the first step-I mean, first stroke.  I guess I should.  Yes, I used to be human, and yes both your father and uncle knew about me.”

“But-” Nero was at a loss for words.  True, his mom always seemed a bit ‘different’ than the other merfolk, but he’d never really minded.  She was a wonderful mother, why should he care?  “How?”

“Magic I suppose, it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around, and I’ve had over a decade and a half to try to make sense of it.”

It still didn’t make sense to Nero.  Of all the mermen to settle down with a ...human? “Dad hates humans!” he blurted out without thinking, “He always reminds me how dangerous they can be, that I should never talk to one, or be seen by one.” Instantly, he felt the urge to slap himself for such an insensitive statement.

His mother looked sad, but not because of what he had said, “I… understand where your father’s coming from, he’s had...an unpleasant history with humankind, it’s tainted his views.  One day he may tell you about it, when he’s ready  But,” she stroked his cheek,   “even he understands humans aren’t all bad, there are some that are ignorant about what happens past their shorelines, and others that are willing to take a chance to dive beneath the waves, so to speak.  I was one of the latter, and it still took me the better part of a migration to gain his trust and love.  I suppose he tries to tell you those stories to keep the risk of you getting hurt as low as possible but,” she looked down at the necklace, “it seems that our family’s obsession with the surface still runs in the blood.  So…” she smiled, “spill the beans, (her penchant for weird turn of phrases suddenly made a whole lot more sense), who’s the lucky human?  I won’t say a word to anyone else about this.”

“It’s...it’s a girl.  Her name is Kyrie...and she likes to sit on the docks and sing in Fortuna.”

“Awww, how sweet!  How did you two meet?”

“Sh-she hasn’t actually met me yet” , he must have turned as red as a snapper by now, “ I just sit under the docks and listen to her singing.”

“But you have her necklace.”

“Yeah, she dropped it about four migrations back, and...well, I wanted to give it back...but…”   ah well, he might as well come clean about it.  Perhaps his mother would understand.  “Everytime I do, I get the weirdest feeling, like I’m giving up a part of myself.” He scratched his nose, “You probably think I’m being dumb as driftwood, eh?”

“Not at all,” his mom said, surprisingly “the heart is a strange and stubborn thing, that makes us do things that we really don’t understand, but,” she smiled, “don’t be like myself and your father and deny your feelings, because you don’t know what the next wave will bring.”   She pulled him close to give him a kiss on the forehead.  “Just promise me that you be careful, alright?  I want you to be happy, AND safe.”

Kyrie was there, sitting on the dock, just like always.  Unfortunately, that was the only thing that was the same.  Instead of her brilliant white clothes, she wore a dress of deep black, like the depths of the ocean.  And instead of singing, she remained silent, not even humming a tune.  And worst of all, her beautiful smile, the thing that only the Dawnfather could compare to in brilliance, had vanished.  Instead, she sat, her legs dangling over the edge, staring out to the horizon, not moving.  Her beautiful eyes had lost their vibrancy, like dead seaweed, and her skin had gone pale, and sickly, like a bloated dead fish.  Strange, there was wetness on her cheeks, that dribbled down before landing in her lap.  Nero wasn’t sure what had happened to her.  Was she ill?  Hurt?  All he knew, it caused his heart to constrict, and that he’d do ANYTHING to bring back her smile.

Steady footsteps on the worn wood caused him to dart back to his hiding spot under the dock.   He knew the gait, even if he didn’t see him very often. Credo strode down, but slowed as he approached the young woman at the end.  He was also dressed oddly, his usual white and gold outfit replaced with a dour black, quite similar to his sister’s.  Was there something going on, a sort of celebration?

“Kyrie…” he spoke softly, as if he didn’t wish to disturb her, but was forced to.  “I was beginning to worry when you didn’t come home after school today.”

There was no response, her eyes still locked on the horizon.

“It’s getting late, and the funeral is early tomorrow.  You and I need our rest for what’s going to be a long day.  The entire family will be coming over… Aunt Lisandra will be taking care of the food preparations, and- ”

“I can’t..” her voice sounded raspy, rough like a shark's skin, “I can’t go home...because mom should be there, taking the poppy seed buns out of the oven, and dad should be there in his study, putting the final touches on that painting he was working on…. But there won’t be the smell of bread in the kitchen, and that painting will always be unfinished.... Because they aren’t ever coming home again....”

Nero was perplexed.  What did they mean by never seeing each other again?  Even if humans couldn’t swim, they could travel anywhere in the world, they could even fly in those metal bird things he would see sometimes up in the sky.

“I know…” Credo answered soberly, “I miss them too…” he placed a hand on her shoulder, before crouching down, “but I know, wherever their spirits have gone, that they would want us to persevere, to remember them, but move forward.”

Only then, did it hit Nero with the force of a tidal wave: Kyrie wasn’t ill, or hurt...well, not in the physical sense.  She was mourning for the dead.  Dawnfather strike him down, what an idiot he was!

“It’s going to be difficult,” the older man conceded, “but you don’t have to bear the burden alone.” “I know…” came the response, a little less soulless, but still with grief.

“If you don’t feel like it, you don’t have to sing at the service.  I don’t want you to feel unnecessary pain, just because some of our relatives desire a show,” her brother muttered darkly.

“No, I need to do this,” she argued back, “not for great uncle Lorenzo, or anyone.  Just for me.”

“If that’s what you desire…”

“Yes.  I just…” she sighed, “I just need some time alone for a bit more.  I promise I’ll be home in an hour or two.”

“Are you sure?” “Credo…” she smiled at her brother, sadly, but with more sincerity, “I’ll be fine.  Don’t worry about me.  But,” her smile lost some of the grief, “thank you for everything.”

Nero stayed still for quite a while after the man had departed, ruminating on what he had heard.  He hadn’t had to deal with the pain she had dealt with, but his father had, and it was obvious that his grandparents’ deaths had affected him.  If there was a way to ease her pain, a way of healing the absence in her heart.

The necklace!  

He looked at it in his clawed hand.  He’d expected the usual reluctance to give it up yet again, but not this time.  This time she needed it more than he could ever.   The only issue was how to give it to her.  He couldn’t just  swim up and plop it in her hand, nor could he attempt to throw it up onto the dock, where there was a good chance it would  just bounce off and back into the water, attracting her unwanted attention.

He looked at the glistening jewelry in his softly glowing clawws, and realized the answer was in the palm of his hand….literally.  All he had to do was find the correct position, speed, and angle...it was just like spearing a fish.

Swimming far enough to get a good angle, but deep enough to not be noticed, he clenched the amulet in his hand one last time, took a mental deep breath and with a force of will, his spectral hand shot out of the water, almost silently, and with precise control, dropped the necklace on the dock with just the barest of noise, enough to get her attention, before it retracted back to himself, and he quickly returned to his hiding spot.

“Oh!” Kyrie had heard the clatter, and turned almost too quickly, a second sooner, and he would have been caught.  But her eyes were immediately drawn to the necklace, glittering in the light of the evening Dawnfather, as she gingerly scooped it up.

“How in the…” she slowly caressed it in her hands, no doubt trying to figure out if it was the same one she had lost all those migrations ago.  Nero swallowed as he peeked through the crack in the wood, getting as close as he dared.  She closed her dull eyes as she clasped the necklace in her hands, pulling it close to her forehead.  After a few moments of silence, her eyes opened, not quite back to their beautiful state, but much more clear, and on her lips, a small smile.  

“Thank you…” she spoke quietly, and Nero froze.  For some reason he was certain she was speaking to him.  But that was impossible!  He had made sure that he was completely undetectable!  She hadn’t ever given an indication that she had noticed his presence.  Maybe she was just speaking to the spirits of her parents or something.

But it didn’t matter, as she began to sing, a song he hadn’t ever heard before, a song full of grief, and yet hope.

Quando sono solo sogno all'orizzonte e mancan le parole

Sì lo so che non c'è luce in una stanza quando manca il sole

Se non ci sei tu con me, con me

Su le finestre

Mostra a tutti il mio cuore che hai acceso

Chiudi dentro me la luce che

Hai incontrato per strada

Time to say goodbye

Paesi che non ho mai

Veduto e vissuto con te

Adesso sì, li vivrò, con te partirò

Su navi per mari che, io lo so

No, no, non esistono più

It's time to say goodbye

And even though Nero couldn’t make out most of what she was singing, it still gave him a feeling of peace

It was the next migration, his seventeenth, when Nero finally broke the last rule.  He was doing his typical thing, hovering under the dock, relaxing to the soothing music that Kyrie sang.  She looked healthier, happier, and more at ease.  The loss of her parents undoubtedly still had affected her, but she had grown from it.  He was happy as well, hoping his action, as little and delayed as it was, had brought her some comfort.

So lost in her melodious voice, he didn’t even notice her slowly lower herself down, and with a sundenness  that would have caught a dolphin off guard, poked her head underneath the dock.

“Hello there!”

His instincts screamed that he needed to flee, that he was in an extreme amount of danger right now.  His muscles spasmed, and instantly he began to calculate on whether it would be safer to dive down and then out, a slower but safer way, or risk making a mad dash from the docks, putting as much distance between her and him.  Then never, ever, EVER come back.   He’d played far too long in the low tide, now he was in danger of being beached, metaphorically speaking.

“Wait!”  Her voice called out, and against his better judgement, he paused, “Don’t go, please? I’m not going to hurt you.  I just…” she paused as she tried to think of what to say, “want to thank you.”

He froze.  He hadn’t expected that.

“Thank me?”  Her eyes lit up brilliantly at his response.

“You CAN talk!  I’m so glad!  I always worried that you didn’t speak our language.” Her smile grew in delight as she pulled herself back up.  Nero floated there, momentarily at a loss what to do.  Should he make a swim for it?  She hadn’t made a move to attack him, in fact, she was giving him an opening to escape.  But what if it was a trap?  He shook his head.  The way she spoke, it seemed like she had known he was there for a while, possibly for multiple migrations.  So, slowly, and with more than a little wariness, he swam from underneath the dock and popped up in front of her.  The delight on her face was infectious, and that smile, Dawnfather be praised, that smile was for him, solely for him.

“Thank me?” He repeated, confused as he looked around, still worried he would be spotted.  But aside from a few fishing vessels on the horizon, there was no one but her.

“For everything…” she explained, as her hand went to her throat, playing with her necklace,.  “Every year around this time, when I’d come to the docks, I swore I felt someone watching me, supporting me, like a guardian angel.”

Nero had no clue what she was talking about,  but he wouldn’t interrupt her.  Her singing was beautiful, but now, her speaking to him, directly, was pure bliss.  If this had been a trap, he would have been a stunned fish right now, easily hooked.  But nothing happened.

“But unlike an angel...it didn’t come from above, it came from below…the water.  It was you.”  Her toes grazed the surface of the water, and she was so close, she could have reached out and touched him, but she didn’t.  Not that he would have minded…

Her eyes went down to the necklace between her fingers.  “In the darkest moment of my life, you gave me something precious.  The necklace, yes… but,” she looked back at him.  “Whenever I couldn’t sleep, when I felt like I was falling into despair, I would hold onto this and would feel a sense of peace, like the rise and fall of waves, of seagulls, the songs of whales.  It was so comforting…  That was you, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t know what to say.  He hadn’t intended it, but perhaps keeping it so close to himself for all those migrations had some residual effect.  

“Uh....yeah.”  It wasn’t a lie, but he wanted to slap himself with his own fins on how stupid he sounded.  “I-I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner, I-”

She laughed, and Nero felt tingles everywhere in response.  “It’s okay, I’m glad it was safe with you.  So,” she leaned forward, getting even closer, and Nero lost himself in her eyes.  If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it (not that he would want to), “Can I have your name?”

Somehow, his mouth was able to work, and he didn’t even stutter…

“Nero...my name’s Nero”

For what seemed like ages, he and Kyrie talked.  She told him all about the surface world, from how they managed to stay sane despite living in the same place for migrations at a time, to her family, (he decided not to pry into her parents), to why she sang.  It stunned him that not all humans enjoyed singing, how in the watery depths were they supposed to pass on knowledge to their children?

But he kept his questions to himself, and when she cautiously asked about him and his people, he felt comfortable to tell her about his family, and merfolk in general.  She never pressed for more details, but she asked how long he would remain in Fortuna.

“It’s about one cycle of the Tidemother, the shoal moves out, so we gotta follow it, or else we’ll be stuck eating kelp”  He couldn’t help it, he gagged at the thought.  “We should be heading out when she hides Her face.”

Kyrie’s face fell a little bit.  “Oh, that means you’ll be heading out pretty soon.”

“Yeah…” he agreed, and for the briefest of moments, the thought of him staying in Fortuna for the rest of the migration, eating nothing but kelp didn’t seem that bad.  But explaining why he didn’t want to leave this island to his father… not so appetizing.  “But guess what, I’ll be back to see you on the next migration!  And I won’t hide under the dock this time!”

“You promise?”

There was a slight pause, as Nero recalled something he’d heard innumerable times

Never promise a human anything.

To the depths with that… he thought, and smiled at the young woman, the one that had unwittingly lured him in, and captured his heart.

“I promise”

[kn1feinthec0ffee]

in too deep (epilogue) - jules

jules x reader

warnings: a nearly imperceptible amount of angst which is completely overshadowed by the CAVITY INDUCING FLUFF (but also a teeny bit of sexual content bc my fingers slipped hehe)

word count: 1,766

notes: I COULDN’T POSSIBLY END THIS WITH A SEMI-FLUFFY ENDING WHEN THERE IS A WAY I CAN MAKE IT EVEN FLUFFIER DO YOU KNOW ME AT ALL??? 

********************

you kept running. 

you ran and you ran and you ran until your legs wouldn’t carry you anymore. but they always seemed to be two steps ahead of you. each time you thought you got farther and farther away, they were right in front of you with a new weapon to torture you with. 

you rounded the corner of the seemingly endless corridor, there he was, a cleaver in hand. you fled down a flight of steps only to be met face to face with her wielding a fireman’s ax. 

you heard loud, booming gunshots from every direction except for the one you were headed, so you continued on. you spotted sweetiepie at the end of the hallway, quietly sobbing to herself. 

  “hey, are you okay?” you approached the girl slowly. she went eerily silent as she looked up to you and began chanting. 

  “help me, help me, help me!” she cried out, reaching her arms out to you. you lunged forth to grab her, only to be yanked to the floor by a chain around your ankle. sweetiepie let out a piercing scream, looking at you in betrayal. 

  “you said you’d help,” she sniffled. “you promised.” suddenly she fell through the floor, disappearing into total darkness.

heaving sobs wracked through your body. you curled up into a ball on the cold floor, wrapping your arms around yourself as you shook. “why couldn’t i help her? it was m-my fault, it was a-all my fault, all my f-fault,” you whimpered. 

  “hey!” jules exclaimed, giggling when you jolted awake. “sorry, you were tossing and turning a bunch. have any good dreams?”

you sat up and pulled her into a kiss without any hesitation. her hands threaded into your hair, the ring on her finger glistening as sunlight streamed through the windows.

  “only you, my love,” you grinned, telling a small white lie as to not ruin the mood. you moved to kiss her neck, but you were interrupted by sara bursting through the bedroom door. “well, well, well, look who it is!” 

the two of you could’ve kept the name sweetiepie, but you all collectively decided to distance yourself from anything that had to do with the psychotic couple who had taken you hostage. instead, you chose sara, a name that invoked strength and positivity. 

she smiled and climbed up onto the bed, forcing her way between you and jules so she could lay comfortably in your arms. jules gasped in mock offense. “hey! you trying to steal my wife?” 

  “nope, i’m trying to steal my mom!” sara’s laughs turned into giggles as jules’ fingers dug into her sides. 

“not on my watch!” jules growled playfully, scooping her daughter up and off of the mattress. “come on, mama, let’s make some breakfast,”

you followed her into the kitchen where she was already instructing sara how to crack an egg. “now be careful, you don’t wanna get any of that shell in there, or else it’s gonna be pointy,” you watched on in admiration as she cracked it into the bowl flawlessly.

“there you go, sweetheart!” you gave her a high five. “you’ll be out-cooking us in no time.”

the three of you finished cooking the bacon and eggs, sitting outside on the porch to eat. you realized just how much you loved where you lived as you gazed out into the vast expanse of the ocean.

jules noticed you staring and scooted her chair closer so she could wrap an arm around you. “how ‘bout a beach day today, huh girls?”

“yaaay!” sara squealed. “i’m gonna go get my swimsuit and toys!” she ran over to the door, skidding to a stop and running back to grab her dishes before heading inside.

jules chuckled at her excitement before turning to you. “what’s goin’ on up there, girly?” she prompted softly.

you sighed, deep in thought before you responded. “i don’t know, its just - don’t get me wrong, i’m happy and all, but i just don’t feel i deserve all this. part of me died in that house and i guess i just wonder why i moved on,” you bit your tongue, trying to hold the tears back. “why do i deserve a family life when i’ve done so little? i’m not worthy of you, i’m not worthy of any o-”

she cut you off with her lips. “i don’t wanna hear any of that. you’re worthy of the world, sweetheart, and i want you to realize that. you know they say you get back what you’ve put out into the world, and what i see is a beautiful woman who’d risk life and limb to protect her family.” she threaded her fingers through yours. “and i know that’s true because that’s the woman i married.”

“i want you to tell me whenever you feel like this, just so i can tell the demon that lives in your head how wrong they are.” she reached over and wiped the tears that had fallen down your cheeks. “no more crying, alright, babe? it’s beach day! no tears on beach day!”

her contagious happiness caused a smile to bloom on your face. you laughed through a cry, standing up from your seat to pull her into a hug. “i love you. so much.”

“i love you more, baby.” she grinned.

———————————————

you busied yourself unfolding a few chairs and and finding a good spot to dig the umbrella into the sand while jules rubbed sunscreen onto sara.

“remember sweetheart, no swimming without your mommies, okay?” jules reminded her. sara nodded, running down to the edge of the beach to make a sandcastle for her horse doll.

you reached every spot on your body until it came to your back. “julie, can you get my back?” you felt her presence behind you, the slick sound of sunscreen between her hands filling your ears.

you felt her warm palms smooth the substance across your skin, kneading in between your shoulder blades as she moved along. you relaxed against her chest as her hands migrated to the cups of your swimsuit, massaging your breasts through the thin material.

“you know, there’s no one else nearby,” she murmured, sucking on the patch of skin underneath your ear which caused you to go even more pliant in her hands. “what do you say we turn this into a nude beach?”

“more,” you moaned, keening into her grasp. she grinned wolfishly, but her plans were quickly thwarted when -

“mommy!” sara shouted, quickly sobering the both of you up. a look of confusion crossed her face as she watched the two of you pull apart.

“what’s up, hon?” jules swiftly answered, pulling her sunglasses down to her nose.

“can you come swim with me, please?” she asked politely. the two of you nodded, getting up from the lounge chair.

you turned towards her, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. “can i get a rain check on that?” you giggled.

“oh absolutely, baby.” you gasped as she picked you up, running down to the shoreline with you in her arms. “mom’s really eager to join you, sweetheart!”

she waded in about ankle deep before tossing you into the waves. you resurfaced with a deep breath, gaping while your girls laughed at you. “holy sh-shit, it’s freezing in here!”

“here, i’ll warm you up!” jules giggled as she tackled you into shallow water. you shrieked and laughed as the two of you splashed around in the water. 

the three of you stayed on the beach until the sun began to set. sara had moved onto the sand, searching through the grains to find pretty shells. just as you and jules had begun to pack up your belongings, a golf cart slowed to a stop behind you.

a tall man exited the vehicle, clad in red swim trunks, sunglasses on top of his head, and a t-shirt that said ‘lifeguard’ on it. “excuse me, ladies, it’s starting to get dark out, d’you need a ride home?”

you were apprehensive to trust another man for fear of evil intentions, but jules seemed to see a certain kindness in his eyes. “sure, we’re just about finished packing up.”

“oh, i can help with that,” he offered, helping to dismantle the beach umbrella. sara had put away all her toys and we were helping the man load all of our things into the back of the cart.

“thank you...” you trailed off, hoping to learn his name as you extended your hand out to him.

“mickey.” he smiled as he shook your hand. “and it’s nothing, i help folks out like this all the time, it’s kind of in the job description.”

you sat in the back of the cart with sara while jules sat in the passenger seat, making small talk with mickey. from what you gathered, he seemed really sweet, and he lived in a small apartment in the seaside town with his doberman, max.

the ride was brief, but the swimming had apparently tired sara out enough for her to fall asleep on your shoulder. when you pulled up to your house, you pulled sara into your arms to carry her inside.

“it was nice to meet you, mickey. i hope we see you again sometime.” jules smiled at the man. mickey gasped, pulling out a pen and a notepad from his pocket.

“here, i’ll give you guys my number so it’s not left up to chance,” he mumbled with the cap in his mouth as he scribbled out his phone number.

you said your goodbyes to the lifeguard as he hopped back into the golf cart to return it to the beach. you headed inside, showering of the salt and sand of the day before heading to bed.

you curled up next to your wife, inhaling the scent of her body wash. she soothingly ran her fingers through your drying strands of hair. “do you remember what i said earlier about getting back what you put into the world?” you nodded. “well, look at what you got today. you spent the day with your wife and daughter and nothing went wrong. that’s because you’ve only put positivity out into the world, so that’s what you get in return.”

she shifted so she could look at you. “in my professional opinion, you deserve the world, and you have nothing to be worried about, alright, love?”

tears of joy threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you held them back. she pulled you in for a kiss and you melted against her embrace. “i love you, julie.”

“i know.”

******************************

YAAAYY HAPPY ENDING!!

also you know i had to write mickey into this story somehow you KNOW i had to do it and i just so happened to be presented with the perfect opportunity for lifeguard!mickey and there was no WAY i could pass that up

but this is the true end to this story and i had so much fun writing it 🥺

tags: @emmyrosee @bill-skarsgard-owns-my-ass @phantomnae @flowers-in-your-hayr

[iriswc1995]

Ash In Ordina

Chapter One:  ‘Home’

The screech of the railcar grinding to a halt startled her awake.  Ash peered from under her hood, instinctively grabbing the hilt of her sword.  The car was empty save for her and a few wandering ghosts.  It was difficult to see through the smeared windows.  It was utterly dark outside.  She sighed, wiping crumbs from her eyes and standing up.  After a moment, the doors hissed open, and she stepped through.

The ‘station’ was hardly more than a platform of corrugated metal, dripping with rust, that bridged two sides of the yawning darkness below.  Orange lights gleamed like eyes on the distant walls that did little to reveal the vastness of the dozens of floors extending above and below.  Ash made her way across, combing fingers through her matted hair.  Past the station, a blue light illuminated a lone figure leaning against the wall of the corridor.  He had a boyish face, a mess of dreadlocks, and perpetual bags under his eyes.  His left arm was a cybernetic prosthesis, which he waved as she approached.

“Heya.  Glad you made it.”

Ash nodded and pulled her coat closer around herself.  “Lead the way, Cygnus.” 

She followed a few paces behind him through a labyrinth of oily hallways, trying to stay alert.  There was never much in a given Tower to distinguish one area from another, save the occasional worn sign.  What was different was the layout, and the people.  Smells of dirt and skin and cooking meat surrounded them as they entered a crowded intersection crammed with dingy shops.  This district had working traffic lights to dictate the constant flow of activity, which the pair pushed their way through as hastily as possible.  A thin stairway led to an auxiliary floor, where Cygnus cut the chains on a gate that led to maintenance.  Ash perked up a bit.

“Home sweet home?”

“Not yet.  Watch behind us.”

Complex webs of pipes and wires guided them through the dark, claustrophobic maze.  Cygnus didn’t say much except to warn her about a gap in the floor or the sound of footsteps approaching.  Ash stayed relaxed.  She trusted people who lived behind locked doors or in cramped spaces more than whoever was patrolling outside them.  As much as she would trust anyone besides Cygnus, at least. 

The arrival of more ghosts, pale and eerily indistinct like clouds of water vapor, signalled their exit from maintenance and back into a populated area.  Cygnus slowed his pace as they entered a long living hall, lined with apartment doors and people who were either hunched over or entirely prone along its sides.  A nearby sign read ‘District 17, Floor 3.’  Ash squinted.

“I thought you said you’d found somewhere isolated.”

“Again, we aren’t there yet.  We’ve still got a bit to go.  Are there ghosts around or something?”

“No more than usual.  I hope you got some food, by the way.”

“Two large pizzas, right?”

She chuckled.  They carefully wove through the carpeted halls of the district.  Thousands of people could live in a single Tower, and the corporation heads tended to cram in a lot more than that.  Ash wove disdainfully at buzzing flies and ignored the hands reaching out for her as they passed.  It’s crazy the kind of thing that the city can make into a routine, she thought bitterly.

Then, her sword vibrated in its sheathe.  Ash slowed her pace and looked around, flicking the hilt with her thumb to reveal an inch of the blade.  A familiar surge of adrenaline pulsed through her.  Her vision reddened, beginning to switch focus, blurring the halls around her but sharpening the humanoid figures, including the wisp-like forms of the ghosts.  The sword was a slender katana Ash had held on to for almost ten years, and it was unlike any other piece of equipment she’d found.  Glancing to the left, Ash saw a small group of wisps huddling together, but these ones were bright red instead of pale. Though they were partially obscured by a wall, she saw them suddenly begin moving downwards as a single unit, presumably down an elevator shaft.

“Ash?  What’s up?”

Cygnus had stopped a little ways down the hall.  Ash looked around for another moment before running to catch up.

“Nothing, for now.”

“We can’t stop for every skeleton bird ghost you see flying around.”

“That was one time, dude.”

He smirked and continued walking.  The apartments fell away behind them as they climbed another set of stairs.  Ten minutes passed before Cygnus stopped in front of a door that was dirty enough to look like it had merged with the floor and ceiling.  Wires drooped haphazardly above their heads, some of them still sparking.  He typed in a code on the number pad and the door lazily forced itself open.  The lights inside flickered on.  It was a laboratory, full of old computers lined up on desks.  Every surface was coated in dust, and the shelves were lined with boxes that had long ago been combed for anything useful or valuable.  What few tools littered the floor were rusted nearly to pieces.  In one corner of the room was a set of monitors that looked newly-cleaned, hooked up to several smaller devices that no doubt belonged to Cygnus.

Ash sighed and stretched her arms, immediately settling into one of the darkest corners of the room.  A small sleeping bag was already rolled up here; Cygnus knew her well enough to know she wasn’t going to be using any chairs.  She started to unroll it as Cygnus sank down at his desk and started typing away.

“Where’s my pizza?”  Ash asked.

A moment later, Cygnus tossed over an almond nutrient bar.

“Fuck yes.”

She tore into it without hesitation.  It had been a while since it’d felt safe enough to rest.  Their last hideout had been compromised so completely that they’d come a long way to find somewhere new, as far as possible from the patrols of Ordainers.  An hour passed quietly, save for the tapping of keys and the rhythmic scrape of Ash sharpening her sword.  She wasn’t even sure it ever needed it, but it was something to do.  Surviving in this city consisted much of filling the silence.  Ash stood up and sheathed her sword, leaning it against one shoulder.

“I’m gonna take a look around.  I saw something with Red earlier.”

There was the heavy sigh she’d braced herself for.  Cygnus stared hard at the empty space beside her.  “Ash.  We’ve been here all of five minutes and you’re already wanting to find trouble?”

“I’ll be more careful this t-”

“Every time, she says that every time and what do I do?  Not much, just get walked all over.”

“You know that’s not what it’s like.”  She walked over to Cygnus’ desk and put a hand down on it, waiting for him to look at her fully.  He finally did, resting his cheek on his hand.

“It always starts like this.  That’s all I’m saying.”

“This is important.  I saw red ghosts.  Something serious could’ve happened nearby, maybe a Dissonance.”

“Ugh.  Fine.”  He sat back, firmly rubbing his brow with his non-cybernetic hand.  He always did that when he was annoyed.  It was charming enough to make Ash smirk a little.  Even when he was stressed, Cygnus always thought about things carefully.  He took an earpiece from the desk and handed it to her.  “Call me when you’re back.  If the cops are chasing you again, don’t lead them back here.”

“Mhm, I won’t.”

“I mean it.  I’m not getting in another gunfight.  Good luck out there, I guess.”

----

Charred metal and snapped wires made her surroundings smell like a welding shop.  Sickly white lights illuminated the elevator shaft at the end of hall, right where Ash had seen the red specters.  It looked like it had been out of order for a long time, and wherever the car itself was stuck certainly wasn’t on this floor.  Ash braced herself; before taking a running leap, wrapping her arms and legs around the steel cords suspended in the shaft.  After getting a decent grip, she let go with her hands and allowed herself to slide downwards with the cords braced against her shoes and coat sleeves.  Several minutes passed, and when Ash felt her muscles start to ache, she picked another opening in the shaft to leap outside again, now on a much lower floor.

She stared down a hallway that was so ill-maintained it was listing partially to one side.  The floor was a mess of rubble and detritus, but the power still worked enough to illuminate the hall with the flashing signs and video advertisements that lined the area.  Ash stepped carefully through the neon-painted darkness.  It seemed like this had been a major thoroughfare of some kind at one point, but had gradually fallen into disuse as people migrated to higher floors.  Sometimes it was almost surprising how decayed certain areas of the city could be.  It was less so when Ash remembered that most Towers were so large, a missile could hit one part of it without people who lived on the opposite side noticing.

A red blur suddenly darted through her vision at an intersection up ahead.  Another ghost.  She walked up to where she had seen it and focused her vision, unsheathing an inch of her blade again.  Ash had seen ‘ghosts’, for lack of a proper term, ever since she’d first claimed this sword, which she called ‘Red’ for simplicity’s sake.  From the very start, it had been obvious it wasn’t a normal weapon, and it only became more intriguing as she learned its exact properties.  In addition to greatly enhancing her strength, it had the ability to sense an afterimage of beings who had died but, as far as Ash could tell, not yet fully passed on to whatever comes next.  The red ones in particular were those who had died fairly recently or in an especially brutal manner, still clinging to the memory of blood running through their veins.  

However, the sword also left a murky redness in its wake that could be followed by Distortions - or anyone else with a means to track it.  The perfect weapon for finding trouble, or for trouble finding you.  

Ash made her way down a spiraling concrete staircase while checking the gun at her hip, making sure it was loaded and ready.  While bullets were typically ineffective against the Distorted, she always had it ready in case she ran into a less paranormal opponent.  

Emerging from the staircase, Ash entered a room so colossal that a layer of cold fog obscured the opposite wall.  She blinked a few times, hesitantly stepping inside.  It seemed like an old hanger of some kind for transport shuttles or private vehicles.  Monolithic pillars supported a dizzyingly high ceiling, through which soft footsteps would echo like rolling thunder.  Much of the hangar was flooded, knee-deep, with what Ash hoped was just dirty water as she waded through it, alert for any sign of movement.  

She caught some when another ghost darted into a nearby office building, a crimson haze trailing behind it.  

Ash followed, running up the stairs to the railway where it had vanished.

A few kicks to the thick iron door broke it open just enough for Ash to cut through the lock with her blade.  It had been a while since she’d seen this many red ghosts in such a short time.  This had to be a Distortion, a group of Harvesters, or maybe some kind of turf war between rival gangs.  

The dark, brutalistic hallway of the office was eerily silent.  Ash stepped inside.  Her breathing slowed, hand tightening around Red’s hilt.  The only sound was the water gently dripping from her cloak.  One of the doors on the side of the hall was leaning open.  Ash peeked around the corner.  

The stench hit her like a solid wall.  Rotting flesh.  A single light flickered on and off above a sizable office space with desks, computers, cubicles, all in disarray and coated with dust.  Stretched between them and along the ceiling were dark, ragged curtains that almost resembled party streamers.  Whole cubicles were wrapped in them.  Ash covered her nose and stepped inside, looking around.  A stench this awful meant the deaths were recent.  It smelled like a big  pile of corpses - Ash lamented how well she could recognize that.  Flies and moths danced beneath the broken light.  On the chairs in front of each desk, an old suit and tie was draped, presumably the uniforms of the staff who worked here.  All of them were drenched with blood.  That accounted for some of the stench, at least.  But there were no bodies.  

Ash’s eyes flicked back and forth, her hands shaking.  One of the curtains stretched across the entrance of a cubicle to her left.  She experimentally nudged it with the hilt of her sword.

A sickening squish.  A few drops of blood.  Ash’s stomach turned, her eyes widening.  Then, a voice.

“ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ~ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ… ʟᴇᴛ’ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ~”

Scratchy and inhumanly shrill, the voice was shockingly close.  One of the ceiling panels near the flickering light gently peeled aside, until an impossibly long, sallow-skinned arm slithered from the darkness.  The panel thudded to the floor.  A horrifying visage, an absurd  facsimile of a human face, stretched and twisted, with bulbous eyes and stained teeth, smiled down at Ash.

“ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ɪꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴅᴀᴀᴀᴀʏʏʏ~”

Ash drew her sword and leapt upwards, cutting at one of its arms, but like a skittering spider it retreated into the darkness.  The muffled tapping of fingers filled the room before it slunk to the ground a short distance away, fully emerging this time.  Its entire body was similarly twisted and elongated, and other than a vague humanoid shape and a head of patchy black hair, its overly-tight office suit was the only human thing about it, which only served to accentuate its monstrous, distorted nature.  Ash gritted her teeth, pointing her blade towards it with both hands clasped around the hilt.  This thing was disgusting, but it didn’t seem to have an overly adverse effect on her sanity.  Hopefully that meant no mental hazards to watch out for.  Its stance was spindly, off-balance.  Mindless.  She could win if she could corner it.  She slowly circled her prey, simply ripping through the curtains of flesh with her body mass.  The creature jittered and spasmed, lunging towards her with a clawed hand.  She ducked, and slashed upwards, but it was too fast again, skittering across the rims of the cubicles.

“ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴏʜ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ!  ᴡᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴄᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ!  ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴘᴇʀ ꜰɪꜱᴄᴀʟ ʏᴇᴀʀ!”

Ash took out her gun and aimed towards the creature.  It continued moving in its frenzied pattern, and she aimed for a moment before firing three times.  Two of the bullets connected, blood coating the wall behind it.  As expected, it only flinched slightly, and began scuttling towards her again.  Her eyes gleamed in the dark as she grabbed a nearby chair and twirled her body, throwing it as hard as she could.  It thudded against the creature’s torso, and at the same moment Ash charged forward, cutting a red line across its waist.  It let out an ear-piercing squeal, and a flailing arm caught Ash’s head, sending her sprawling.

It jittered in place for a few moments, a cacophony of screams and squeals, before suddenly charging directly for her.  Ash tried to get to her feet, but its hand locked around her throat and carried her forward with its weight.  Her spine thudded against the door she’d come through and they came fully through the wall.  They careened over the railing, spiraling two dozen feet down to the hangar floor and splashing into the murky water.  Ash’s head swam with color.  She coughed, gagged, tried to reach for Red... its gnarled fingers were still locked around her throat.  It picked her up out of the water, reaching high above its head.  Its face wore a warped smile.  

“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴅᴀʏ~ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏɴꜱ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ~ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʟʟ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ʜᴏʟɪᴅᴀʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴅᴀʏ!  ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴍꜱ ᴡɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀʏ ʜᴏᴏʀᴀʏ~ ᴡɪᴅᴇ, ᴡɪᴅᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʟʟ ɢᴏ~”

Fingernails dug into the back of her neck and tore outwards, beginning to peel the skin from her spine.  In doing so, its grip loosened slightly, and she swung back and forth to gather momentum before kicking it in the face.  One of its eyes popped, oozing dark pus, but it didn’t blink or flinch.  Ash’s lungs screamed for air.  This was bad.  She was too weak.  Her gun wouldn’t work.  Red was down in the water somewhere.  Out of reach.  Could she try to draw strength from it, even while she wasn’t holding it?  She had never tried before.  Seemed like now or never.

She closed her eyes and focused.  Focused on the red haze.  The smell of rust.  Sharpening instincts.  New sights and scents.  The world condensing to the head of a pin.  The tip of her blade.  Blood.  Thirst.  Strength.  Survival.  

Crimson haze ebbed from Ash’s form.  A guttural growl emerged from inside her, the raw sound of a desperate animal.  The creature continued laughing, and began slamming her against the ground, again and again.  Pain stabbed through her head, through her back.  But if pain was wood, she was a fast-catching fire.  She couldn’t muster as much strength as usual, but this had to be enough.  Her throat screamed for relief, but she forced her hands away from the creature’s fingers and grabbed its forearms instead.  She started to pull down, blood trailing from beneath her squeezed eyelids.  She felt the creature’s misshapen bones start to bend.  It squealed, shaking her back and forth, but she didn’t let go.  She pulled harder.  Harder.

SNAP.

Its arms broke at the wrists; its hands going limp around her throat.  She fell to the floor, sucked in a breath, and quickly dived, swimming between its legs as it screamed.  Her hand trailed along the concrete, searching.

“ᴅ-ᴅ-ᴅᴇᴄᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ!  ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴᴏᴡ!  ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ!”

She felt it, and picked it up.  Holding her blade aloft, she swept it into its sheathe and sprinted at the creature.  Staggering, arms hanging limp, it turned to stare at her.

“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴅ-”

“Shut up.”

Warped guts exploded from the cloven rift in the creature’s midsection, the inertia of the blow forcing it backwards.  Ash twirled her blade, kneeled, and stabbed behind her, piercing what was left of its torso up to the hilt.  Blood rained down on her.  A few deep breaths later, she felt the creature’s weight begin to lessen.  She stood up fully as it dissolved into blood and flecks of pale ash that began to disintegrate in the dark water.  

Ash slashed the blade through the water to clean it before resheathing it, sighing and rubbing the back of her head.  She watched the pool of viscous remains spread further throughout the hangar.

“If someone else were here, I’d say something badass, like ‘party’s over’ or something.  But there isn’t anyone else here, so.”

She heaved another sigh and rolled her shoulders, starting to sluggishly wade towards the exit.  Hoping Cygnus would be able to stitch up her neck so she wouldn’t need to find a surgeon again, she began the long climb back to her new home higher in the Tower.

[secret-engima]

Snippet of Souls of the Sea (Still Belong to Blue Tides)

(since I have no self control and I want to share and some of y’all seem to want to see it, have the snippet I mentioned earlier! In which Nyx’s day goes from Boring to Very Much Not In Just A Few Minutes)

...

     Nyx chewed the piece of ration he’d snitched from Libertus’s pack idly as he settled further on his haunches.

     Keeping watch was so boring. But that was the front line for you. Endless minutes of boring inaction punctuated by total chaos and bloodshed. Still, he would have thought he’d feel more alert than this. This was the furthest they’d ever pushed Niflheim back. Another aggressive, hit and run sabotage campaign from the Marshal paying off with its usual brutal flare.

     He wondered what the Captain would have thought of it, the irony of them making more progress in the two months since Cor the Immortal took over than in all the years Captain had been fighting and bleeding and grouching alongside them. Then he shut that thought down, because wondering about that led to wondering about why Captain had disappeared three months ago and there was no point in thinking about something for which there were no leads or hope. The Captain was still listed MIA, so there was a … thin hope he would return someday, but that would mean he’d been captured.

     Knowing Captain, Nyx thought the man would prefer to be dead than three months a prisoner of the Nifs.

     Something in the air changed, the sensation of a predator watching him from the undergrowth and Nyx kept his shoulders relaxed even as he shifted his heels under him for a better jump and carefully rested one hand on a kukri hilt. He looked around casually, refused to tense up when he saw nothing but the feeling of being watched by a greater predator increased. If it’s another freaking voretooth pack…

     Somewhere to his left, something cracked under the weight of an unseen creature. Nyx stood up, not even pretending to be oblivious as he stared at the wilds outside their temporary base, both hands on his kukri and magic bristling slowly under his skin. He didn’t call out, because it was probably just wildlife that was curious about the foreign presences in its territory. Nifs were rarely this stealthy, considering their love of bombing everything from their ships or unleashing waves of clattering MT units. Still.

     All the hairs on Nyx’s neck were standing up. He breathed and was inwardly startled to taste ocean salt on his tongue. No- not ocean salt. That was impossible. But … there was the impression of it. The impression of ocean salt and hissing waves, the glitter of sleek serpentine scales in the corner of his eyes when it wasn’t there. He inhaled and felt something inside him quiver, something that screamed with the same warning he’d felt when he’d wandered too far from his parents on the shoreline when he was boy, had splashed too deep into unchecked waters and had almost been snapped up by one of the great Silver Serpents that sometimes lurked there as they migrated.

     Then-, a rustle of leaves, a glimpse of a human silhouette in the shadows of the brush. Nyx drew his kukri and raised his voice, sharp and loud —both to be intimidating and to alert the other glaive in the camp that they had company—, “Hey. How about you get out here and introduce yourself rather than lurk? This is a restricted area.” Nothing, Nyx eyed the spot he’d thought he’d seen the silhouette and was disconcerted that he couldn’t see it anymore. No Niflheim soldier was that stealthy in the wilds, that was almost Galahd skill. A refugee perhaps? Or a Hunter taking a shortcut and surprised to find their base, “If you’re a Hunter,” he called cautiously as more glaives scrambled up the wall behind him to see what he was yelling at, “then come out and say so. You won’t be in trouble as long as you don’t cause any.”

     “Nyx?” Libertus breathed in his ear.

     “Someone’s out there, might be alone, might have company.”

     Tredd twitched on his other side, sniffed the air and muttered, “Why do I smell the ocean?” Oh good that wasn’t Nyx’s senses failing him.

     “I have no idea,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, sensed Libertus shivering faintly out of the corner of his eye, just as alarmed by the eerie aura of an ocean predator nearby as Nyx was. Nyx raised his voice again, “Come out or be considered a hostile!”

     There was a moment where nothing happened and then-. A boy. No warning, no sound of undergrowth, he was just there, a teenager of maybe fourteen years standing just a few yards away, on the very edge of their perimeter, “I’m not an enemy,” he called in a voice that immediately made Nyx revise his mental estimation of from teenager to pre-teen, “are you really Kingsglaive?”

     Libertus narrowed his eyes at the boy still half-hidden in the shadows, “Yeah, and you’re trespassing on our perimeter. Identify yourself!” The boy took a few slow steps out of the shadows, hands away from his sides and safely away from the short sword Nyx could see peaking over his shoulder and Nyx hissed softly.

     The kid was a mess. Thin as a twig, his wrist bones on display beneath tattered sleeves, his cheeks too hollow to be healthy even if he wasn’t drastically underweight, his clothes filthy from endless travel, and his stance wide and cautious. Skittish. Either the Nifs are getting more dedicated in their acting, Nyx thought, or this kid is a refugee. Nyx sheathed his kukri and ignored Libertus’s warning hiss as he jumped down from the wall and approached the kid. The boy watched him with too-sharp, too-old eyes that promised a fight if Nyx tried anything. Nyx leaned down a little so they were closer to eye level, “What’s your name kid, and what are you doing out here?” The boy didn’t look Galahdian. He had no braids and paid no attention to the braids in Nyx’s own hair. But that didn’t mean Nyx’s heart wasn’t already going out to him —Nyx had seen too many Galahdian children in this kid’s position, had seen Crowe in this position, had himself been in this position at one point—.

     The boy took a slightly shaky breath, closed his eyes, then opened them and very slowly reached for the harness holding his sword. Unbuckling it and keeping every movement non-threatening, he held the sheathed gladius in the flat of his palms and turned it so that Nyx could see the battered crest engraved on the hilt, “My name is Gladiolus Amicitia,” said the boy as he looked Nyx in the eyes, “And I would very much like to go home.”

     Nyx reared back as if slapped because that- that was impossible. There was no way this kid was the missing —dead, everyone knew he was dead even if he was officially MIA— son of the Shield. The boy had gone missing in Tenebrae. That was across the entire ocean, through Niflheim controlled waters and then Niflheim-conquered territory. It couldn’t … really be …

     Nyx looked into too-old, too tired eyes that burned a war-aged amber in a too-thin face and found himself believing anyway. Nyx ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the incredulous mutters of the other glaives on the wall, “You got any proof other than that sword, kid?”

     The boy seemed to think, then hesitantly shook his head, “You wouldn’t know the safe words of my line.” He paused, “If- If I could talk to Cor Leonis, or my father, I could prove it.”

     Nyx mentally made peace with the fact that if this kid was not who he said he was then Nyx was going to be in so much trouble and gestured toward the base, “Gimme the sword and we’ll call up the Marshal. How about that?”

     With a grimace the boy turned over his sword and followed Nyx into the base under the incredulous stares of the other glaives. Libertus continued to give Nyx a despairing look as Nyx called up the Marshal using their “important business only” communication line. The Marshal picked up with a curt, “Report.” Because of course he did. Of course he had the number of the emergency communication line memorized or labeled.

     Nyx took a deep breath and bid his career goodbye if this went wrong, “There’s a kid here who insists on talking to you, sir. Showed up on the perimeter with a banged up old gladius bearing a noble crest. He says-.” Nyx hesitated. Even if the line was supposed to be secure, paranoia made him reluctant to say it, “He’s calling a Code Thunderroc, sir.” Code Thunderroc, the unexpected return of an MIA soldier. Closest he could get without blurting it out.

     The Marshal’s voice held a furious growl that made Nyx wince, “What crest.”

     “Amicitia crest, sir.”

     There was a fragile pause, brittle on the other end and then a subdued, “Put him on the line.”

     Nyx passed the phone to the boy, who put the phone to his ear and physically sagged when he heard the Marshal’s voice on the other end, angry as it was. Amber eyes blinked back tears and for the first time the kid looked like an actual kid as he said in a wobbling voice, “Godfather Cor, it’s me. I … I want to go home. Please. I want to see Minn Konungr.”

[alexsmitposts]

Lebanon: Colonial Thieves & Conflicting Networks of Patronage I am trying to think how best to write about Lebanon, about the BIGGER picture and the complicated political situation and structure there. It goes beyond the Beirut port bombing or the source of the fertiliser, well beyond the recriminations, and what is actually being reported in the news as well. This is a topic we have covered earlier in NEO, even before Lebanon was so newsworthy. But as with everything, the first rule of a journalist is to not to believe in coincidences. Blast from the Past Let’s just assume readers know all about the current situation, the corruption, the banking mafias and the humanitarian crisis on the horizon. Lebanon is a country collapsing, crashing and burning, and its banking system with it. The country is about to hit rock bottom—at least in the opinion of most pundits. As mentioned in previous NEO articles, the lack of a government isn’t going to get foreign troops out of Lebanon, or stabilise its currency and persuade its neighbours to respect its position. Nor is it going to keep it out of the shadows of Israel and Syria. But having a new government which isn’t backed, or at least tolerated, by public consensus won’t bring about immediate change; it won’t be the magic cure. On the contrary, it will for sure raise new issues, create new groups willing to be bought off and create greater instability, simply because it is easier to fight an enemy you know. Changing the political-sectoral structure of the government, an ongoing issue in Lebanon, isn’t going to prove a panacea for all either – not because no solution would satisfy the Lebanese, but because the very existence of its government system doesn’t satisfy everyone else. But what comes next? At the heart of this system lies a social compact which connects individuals to political leaders based on sectarian identity — Maronite Christian, Sunni Muslim, Shia Muslim, Druze, to name a few of the country’s 18 different religious sects. Each knows its place, and is closely linked to various networks of political and financial patronage—and these have existed from generation to generation. In layman’s terms, if a whole new order is put in place in Lebanon – based on liberal, deliberative politics, not doling out privileges to various religious and ethnic groupings, and with well-delineated representative electoral boundaries drawn up following the first census the country will have seen in decades – most of the confessional groups will most likely lose out, or persuade their supporters they will. The sectorial elites are very entrenched, and run their own self-sustaining networks of patronage, so it isn’t hard to predict how they will react. If something the West recognises as “liberal democracy” is introduced in Lebanon, the elites’ spheres of influence will contract, and their interests will have to come second to those of the locals. At least, that is the theory – as ever, Westerners are unable to understand that “liberal democracy” is itself a sect, run by a particular segment of the population, holding certain approved views, which sustains itself by even more extensive networks of patronage. The elites and the locals are not two separate groups in Lebanon. All the various groups and elites are in some sense local, the outcomes of waves of past immigration and a system which, though antiquated, was questioned far more by outsiders than it ever was by Lebanese, whose only argument is who should have which slices of the cake, and for what reason. The Maronites claim to be the “original” Lebanese, descendants of the Phoenicians. But their claim to being the real Lebanese is no more or less valid than those of the Sunni or Shia populations, or the Druze, or even the Armenians who have a clear, century-long presence in the country—ever since the Armenian genocide at the hands of the Ottomans. This is why nationals outside the country simply call themselves Lebanese – they identify more with Lebanon than with the ethnic groups and associated states everyone else tells them they belong to. In the nineteenth century it was often said that the differences between the dominant political parties lay in which gentleman’s clubs their members belonged to, rather than in their ideologies. The differences between Lebanese lie in which networks of patronage they can access, not their religious or ethnic identity. Lebanon has never been a nation-state or national state, so all groups have a more or less equal participation in its identity. No one group can claim that it is the true local population, and the rest are minorities. Everyone is a minority, and it is only the much more recent Palestinian and Syrian immigrants and refugees who might remain out of the social and legal framework, even though they largely migrated there to find one. Trying to upset the delicate balance of interests which holds the country together, when outsiders allow it to, will certainly lead to a great deal of acrimony from almost anyone who has enjoyed any degree of power over the past seventy years and more, who won’t want to give up any privileges and share things with Johnny come lately “newcomers”. As we have learned from too many other fledgling states or flickering beacons of democracy, be careful for what you wish for. Change for its own sake is not always for the better, especially in complicated parts of the world. This has been a lesson learned in the wake of the so-called Arab Springs. High Wire Act Perhaps the best starting point is to assume that the present Lebanese government is a high-wire act. By any measures it should have failed long ago, even before it resigned, as it represents too many competing and diametrically opposed interests, sects and political agendas, pieced together into a government out of sheer desperation amidst almost impossible political realities. Corruption is endemic, as to a cat who likes to climb trees and claw things. Much of the problem has to do with the fact that Lebanon is deeply rooted in its old colonial past, and its former masters, powers such as France and Turkey, are completing for a place at the table in a bid to retain their historic influence. When Lebanon was the Las Vegas of the Middle East, wealthy and attractive, these powers tried to exert this influence in a much more covert way, not wanting to interfere with the operation of a gravy train. Now those days have gone, they are setting themselves up as the solution to the problems they themselves created by refusing to accept a Lebanese system they were incapable of emulating. From 1920 until its independence in 1943, Lebanon was under French colonial rule, while before that the Ottomans ruled for four centuries. This is why it was predictable that Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan has accused his French counterpart Emmanuel Macron of “colonial” aims in Lebanon, and called his recent visit to Beirut a “spectacle”, amid growing tensions between Ankara and Paris. The meddling from outsiders has made Lebanon a modern-day Casablanca, full of cross-sections of intrigues. Not only France and Turkey but the US and Israel see it as the beachhead for influencing regional affairs, as if things are not already complicated enough with Iran, Saudi Arabia and Syria engaged in an ongoing proxy war within Lebanon’s internal politics. No one wants them there, but if the state isn’t strong enough to protect particular groups of locals from people sponsored by the other side, they have little choice but to put up with the “protection” of people they do not actually regard as representing their interests. Macron and Erdogan have enough problems at home, but prefer meddling in an area that is already a tinderbox, so they can blame the other, and therefore by extension all it represents in their respective countries. All this is contributing to a perfect storm which will leave Lebanon a failed state amongst failed states. What will actually have happened is that everyone else has failed because Lebanon is intrinsically sounder than they are, but it is the Lebanese who will be expected to pick up the pieces. Shallow-minded State While France and Turkey are making worrying bids for renewed influence, the US is trying to call the game from a distance. US motivations are simpler, and easier to understand – the US answer is always, “I blame Iran for the problems in Lebanon,” with a few soundbites about Hezbollah to boot. As ever, this line has everything to do with the US, and nothing whatever to do with Lebanon or the reality of life there. IRAN-Hezbollah is a label of convenience for State Department types and the John Boltons and Mike Mike Pompeos of this world, i.e., the proverbial “shallow-minded state”.It is really interesting to listen to State Department briefings and read press releases. What they don’t say is most revealing, like Pompeo’s statement in the aftermath of the only too convenient fertilizer explosion at the Port of Beirut: “I want to extend our deepest condolences to all those who were affected by the massive explosion at the port of Beirut yesterday. We stand ready to assist the Government of Lebanon – as it grapples with this horrible tragedy. You’ll see the United States announce a number of things we intend to do to assist the people of Lebanon in the coming days.” Such as what? Everything has strings attached, especially when it concerns providing aid to a country during a humanitarian crisis. We only have to look at the developmental model imposed on any country, the USAID Missions and IFO, IMF and World Bank advisers, designed with no other purpose but to ensure the US takes control “lock, stock and barrel”. Let’s hope that a new model evolves (not a feeding frenzy), and one not based on externally imposed structural adjustment policies or economic shock treatment, as if the economy hasn’t been shocked enough. It should be more needs driven, and must not identify the locals as the problem, particularly when you are expecting those locals to vote the way you want them to when your new system is in place. Baking a new cake will require time, and enough time must be afforded for the evolving protest movement and other independent figures to politically organise. Early elections will result in the same sectarian elite getting elected, but then not being allowed to operate, so Lebanon will again be lumbered with the worst of both worlds. To go back and see where it all began, one only needs to check out the secret 1916 Sykes Picot agreement between England and France about slicing up what would be left of the Ottoman Empire after World War One. It would be naïve to think that anyone can get a grasp of what is going on now without understanding the historic intrigues. The Bolsheviks found a copy of the Sykes-Picot agreement when they seized power, and had the audacity to publish it. Lenin called it “the agreement of colonial thieves”. This might also be an appropriate title for what may come in the wake of the resignation of the most recent Lebanese government, and any conditions imposed by the West or the IMF on Lebanon in exchange for a financial lifeline.

[mikhaelkosanik]

Chapter 3 (google translate)

My office was located in the old part of the library. Many years ago this building was enough. Then Brumaltown was only restored after a wave of migration. But gradually the city grew, and a small house was not enough to store all the books. The authorities rebuilt a new public library in the city center, and dividing this into two parts, they gave it to private practices and the Grasse Foundation. While working, I occasionally saw Kathleen Grass, the youngest of Emma's children. She brought valuable documents to the archive and personally entered the materials into the file cabinet. Apart from her, no one could do this: Eliot and Emma died almost twenty years ago, and their eldest son Eugene was developing for the treatment of the virus. He was not up to the papers. As a result, Emma’s children shared responsibilities: the son was engaged in science, and the daughter in the fund of assistance and archives.

Kathleen was happy with everything: from childhood, she had seen what difficulties her mother had faced and what kind of ostracism she was subjected to. Science was not given to her either, and everyone noticed this: from parents who encouraged any undertakings of children, to teachers. And although the fund hired volunteers from time to time, they were not full-fledged assistants. Funding had severe restrictions: all donations went to meet the needs of patients and small salaries of those same volunteers. I knew this, because the Grasse Foundation collaborated with FVP and provided them with quarterly reports.

At first I was surprised that volunteers were paid money, but then I realized why: the fund worked not only in the states, but also around the world. His activities were equated with the Salvation Army or the Red Cross from the past. Because of this, few people went to such work, and there were always not enough hands. It was rumored that the fund even sometimes offered those works that were not directly related to risk as socially useful work. For example, all the same work in the archive. But recently, this has not helped.

The library was the best choice: it was hidden behind massive trees in the depths of the largest city park. Silence - and only rare visitors distracted from work, embarrassing applicants. Sometimes people came to me with such problems, which it’s a shame to admit even to ourselves, not like outsiders. Over the years, I have seen a lot. FVP did not like it, but everything tripled me. Without an eternal eye, working on your head was easier. And besides, part of the library was given to the archive, which also drove idle onlookers from this place, because they did not care about “some kind of documents there”.

When meeting, Kathleen gave me access, provided that I would check the operation of the equipment in the archive. She rarely came, busy with no less important matters, and it was extremely difficult to remotely check the archive. Looking for at least someone who will often visit this place, Miss Grasse asked for my help. The work is simple and easy - of course, I agreed.

Before, another employee worked with me, and we went upstairs one by one. But time passed, and Dale was promoted, moving to work in a private school for Eno. I was left alone among the books, dust and noise of the archive fans. This weighed, and at the same time saved: it was easier for me to experience my grief alone than in full view of others.

The caller came a little earlier and was waiting for me near the entrance. “This is good,” I said, recalling what other times there were clients.

More than once or twice, I came across those who called, begged for help, made an appointment, but never came. There were people who called three to four times, but found excuses not to visit a psychologist. So with all desire it was impossible to help.

“The costs of work,” I consoled myself, trying not to think about the bad. “I can't force them, after all!”

The current visitor nevertheless found the strength to come to the appointment, for which I was very grateful to him.

It turned out to be a tall, tight, though not complete, man in a strict business suit with a bright spot - a tie.

His stern facial expression with small wrinkles, barely noticeable on pale skin and cold evil eyes burned through me, hinting that the owner is not one of those people who blindly trust others.

“Eh, the consultation will be difficult,” I said immediately, hurrying up to the front door and standing next to the stranger.

The gestures of the applicant were smooth, but verified and very mean. I noticed this when the man turned to me. Like he was hiding something. This reminded me of the equilibrists in the circus - they just as carefully and smoothly moved, walking along a thin rope over the abyss gaping beneath them.

Approaching, I hastened to extend a hand to the expectant, noting the smell of cigars and "burnt" skin, mixed with subtle touches of cologne. My observation was confirmed: the stranger shook my hand tightly and gestured that it was worth continuing the conversation elsewhere.

Opening the door and minting a few steps on the bright tile, we went into the office near the entrance. Once there was a children's reading room. I really liked that from those times there were drawings on the walls and shelving with books. Many of them were written off, and I just took the books to myself, making excuses that I would read these tales to either my sister or my nephews.

We were greeted by a spacious room in blue and light yellow tones. I did not touch much, because it did not stop me from doing serious work. In addition, children's drawings and the situation itself sometimes said: for me there are no children's problems - there is a misunderstanding between children and adults.

When the visitor and I settled down in comfortable chairs left over from the past, he proceeded to the story.

“My name is Eric Coleman,” the man began, continuing to drill me with a heavy look from beneath his bright wide and straight eyebrows. - Your number was given at the hospital. It so happened that my daughter began to hurt herself.

- How long have you noticed this behavior? - the bright office tuned for a peaceful manner, and I hoped that I would be able to find out the details. I understood that, while working for the ZSC, I did not arouse the confidence of the newcomer, but still relied on his consciousness.

“Just yesterday,” Eric spoke calmly, his pose not expressing excitement, but I understood that this was not entirely true.

The one sitting opposite me seemed a strong-willed, decisive person, maybe even tough and straightforward. It shone through in his precise and dry manner of speech, in the article and direct posture. And although the man was large, which only added severity to his mind, he spoke surprisingly emotionless and calm. It’s just dry, as if stating the facts from some encyclopedia.

How many people will immediately tell a stranger, albeit very famous in narrow circles, that his child hurts himself and, perhaps, is trying to commit suicide? I also did not know such. Sometimes I spent a good half of the session on a banal clarification of the situation and its circumstances ... if not the entire session.

  “Don't think, my daughter doesn't want to die,” Mr. Coleman remarked, guessing what I was thinking. - She inflicts wounds horizontally. If these were suicide attempts, she would inflict them differently.

- Selfharm? I asked. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Most likely,” Eric answered my question. “I saw the veins being cut,” the man ran a finger along the sleeve, showing a vertical section.

Here I was already thinking: I had many patients who tried to commit suicide. Often, adoptive parents did not even know about the depression of their children, turning after one or two unsuccessful suicide attempts. I was definitely not the kind of person who should prove the lack of such a motive in behavior. I had a selfie in my practice, but for a long time. And he was connected with completely different circumstances.

Eric immediately made a reservation that this is not the case. But perhaps he simply did not know all the circumstances?

Maybe his daughter did not know how to inflict wounds in order to die? Or maybe she did it to check if she could bear the pain or not. A case came to mind: a boy inflicted wounds long enough to prepare for pain. But, without talking to the child himself, I could not draw any conclusions. Maybe a man is really right and the wounds are just self-harm, not talking about the desire to die? True, the latest version cannot be completely discounted. Statistics inexorably told me that even ordinary self-harm could ultimately lead to suicide attempts.

“You said you were a pink family?” - I remembered the detail of yesterday’s dialogue. It was awkward to be silent for a long time, considering options that might actually not exist at all.

I knew very well that “pink” families are called families where one of the spouses belonged to the eno. Officially, enos were considered hermaphrodites, which was indirectly confirmed by the structure of the genital organs. But only indirectly. Not all enos were born like that. In addition, a biological evaluation took place at birth. Therefore, the Garth test was created. It consisted of two parts: a biological assessment, which is given to all children at birth, and a psychological assessment, passed at eight and fifteen years. Often I saw very young children who did not even pass special tests, with a marker of the third sex - a pink choker on their neck. Why they put on this attribute so early was a mystery to me. Only the Garth test finally put an end to the question of the gender of the child. More precisely, even a fifteen-year-old teenager. This is the official age when every third-sex citizen received documents with a special note.

Over the years, I have seen a wide variety of enos, from gentle and sweet, when looking at which it is impossible to believe that they are biological men, to completely brutal and strong. After all, biology remained biology, and the psyche does not always affect the appearance as we would like. Within the norm, at least.

The formation of the “pink” marriage took place even if not before my eyes, but I found the forerunners of the current liberalization. And I'm ready to put my hand on the Bible, swearing that now everything is more or less good!

When the first outbreak of the virus broke out in 2034, almost every government threw itself into creating a cure. These attempts to cure the Mehoni virus led to the discovery of the Encantant. It began to be used after the first clinical tests on cell cultures. There was no time for more serious research.

A side effect of the drug and became irreversible changes in the psyche of some men. For a long time, it was believed that “Encantant” was a kind of chemical lobotomy that changes gender awareness and disables sexuality. That is how eno appeared.

The institute of the “pink” marriage and the “pink” family took shape finally not so long ago, about 60 years ago. A crisis in the economy, a crisis in politics, a lack of resources, a lack of women - all contributed to the forerunners of the “pink” marriage. Even the church did not condemn this, with the proviso that the guys do not sleep with each other. In addition, in those years there was a definite base, both cultural and scientific, allowing for relations between people of the "same" gender.

Healthy girls then massively campaigned to give birth to children. They tried to ban abortion, legally require the birth of children under a certain age. But all this was before the war. After that, another misfortune appeared - the reduction of the population. Almost all governments quickly realized that, if they continue to restrict women, the economic crisis will lead to the collapse of the remnants of the past, and the reduction in DBV will completely destroy the economy, returning the world to the agrarian-feudal system.

During the years of devastation, the third sex did not bother anyone, and the problems of eno remained in the shade for some time. Everyone tried to restore what was left of the once great country, split in two. Moreover, the migration of survivors from dead lands has become a huge problem - both for the states and for the S.I.C. Amid a similar problem, the enos seemed inconsequential and were ignored. As, in fact, what is happening in the shelters of St. Elena for patients with the virus. No, shelters appeared long before the first bombs fell on the world. That's just not easier from this. And then, after the story of Emma Grass, society had to put up with the fact that there are patients with a virus dangerous to humans and they also have their own rights. Because of this, the institution of the “pink” family was created. This is the price that the vast majority of countries were willing to pay for the peace of their citizens. At least that's what I knew. After all, sick children and women had to be put somewhere.

In addition to the third sex, who married a man, there were female “pink” families, where both partners had a virus note in their documents. But there were very few of them, and in my practice I did not happen to meet them. Eno alliances with women were not considered “pink” because of biology. Moreover, such marriages steadily made up for the shortage of the third sex, because Enos could only give birth to their own kind.

I doubt that female "pink" couples formed a relationship from a good life. More likely because of ostracism and loneliness. There was no question of love.

I already had a certain practice in working with “pinks”. It was necessary to work in such families not only with children due to a number of legislative aspects, but also the characteristics of the enos themselves. Almost all eno, both according to my data and statistics, had a soft psyche, a compliant character and a very strong parental instinct. Often they were brought up very strictly and in places harshly. The first years of the FVP required the education of eno children in closed schools. Due to the artificiality of the third sex, after coming of age, graduates of closed schools were transferred to the jurisdiction of the SSC. Then eno accounting was very tough, they were considered as a resource, and I even found those times ... Well, yes, there were enough problems in society, the economy was rising from its knees, and we had to look for ways of least resistance.

At that time, “pink” marriages were most often the second for male widowers, and eno spouses were considered by them as an option for a free nanny for children and a housemaid. A kind of bonus for good service to the homeland. After all, someone should lead a life, take care of children, especially after overpopulation has begun. Because of it, the number of officially permitted marriages was limited. These almost had nothing to do with love or sex. No one was embarrassed by the consumer attitude towards eno. Yes, and they themselves put up with this, just to survive: almost all the knowledge of the third sex was reduced to housekeeping and caring for children. Just 25 years ago, everything was just that. In those days, the “pink” couples tried not to advertise the relationship after the wedding. Yes, and the WCC did not strongly advocate the openness of these families. Well, yes, they once engaged in the selection of couples for eno: it is unprofitable to advertise problems in such families. So there was a cult of silence.

It might seem that no other options existed, but this is not entirely true. There were parents who wished their children happiness regardless of gender. Yes, society imposed severe restrictions on the behavior of eno, on their ability to learn, live and work independently. But loopholes were even then. My couple, for example. He received a very good education and after college got a job as a teacher. For those years, it was just “unheard-of arrogance” on the part of Eno.

Today, in 2133, everything was different, although the sediment from those troubled times was still felt. Almost every show or program said that “pink” families are one of the pillars of society. From screens, posters and newspaper pages, Protection of family values ​​seemed to shout out its slogan: “A strong family is the key to a happy future!” First of all, this concerned precisely the “pink” families and eno spouses. And it is not surprising that such families turned to me in the most difficult and neglected cases ...

According to my information, officially in Brumaltown there was only one “pink” family, which did not want to make contact. The same girls who were infected with the Mehoni virus. This created additional problems. Most likely, you will have to work not only with the girl, but also with one of her parents.

“Yes,” the interlocutor answered, a little confused. Bitterness froze in his eyes. Then the amber flame flashed, and Eric added:

“But,” having paused, “we are not quite so.”

It was very important. Of course, I probably could not know what was meant, but certain assumptions nevertheless appeared.

With the onset of the liberalization period, a sufficiently large percentage of enos did not want to formalize any kind of relationship. Yes, and to join them, too, did not dare. It was easier for them to live apart than to follow the stringent requirements of society. My former colleague Dale, who worked directly in the educational center, also complained about it, and the top of the FVP expressed their complaints about this - this was regularly reported in the news. If we count the number of eno, then we get quite decent numbers of single citizens: approximately every fifth state citizen and every twelfth citizen of S.I.C were alone. For other countries, I did not have statistics and could only refer to these summaries.

As a result, the Defense even had to make concessions and allow lonely eno adoption if they met the requirements of agencies. To be more precise, the latter, it seems, was influenced by the Grasse Foundation, which could not endlessly sponsor orphanages and orphanages, where, in one way or another, children with the Mekhoni virus got into.

I involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief: I will have to be very careful both in communicating with the Coleman family and with the Family Values ​​Protection authorities, which, upon completion of work, I will add this case to my report. I couldn’t conceal customer data. No ethics could cover this!

“Good,” I finally remarked, scrolling through the foregoing in my mind, “come with your whole family.” I’ll try to find out the reason for your situation. Eric thanked me and left the office without saying another word. After his visit, I involuntarily recalled what I had been trying to escape from for thirty years. Alas, I knew firsthand what the “pink” family is.

***

The next day, the Coleman failed to arrive. Eric called and dryly warned me that due to busyness, the meeting would have to be rescheduled. I agreed. In terms of speech, it looked like the first time Eric’s husband had called me. Understanding the state of the Colemans, I was very afraid of meeting with members of this family.

During the weekly break, I thought for a long time whether to take a new family or not. “Pink” families had their own specifics, because of which working with them was extremely costly in terms of resources. I was not sure that my reserves in this case could be enough. Neurotization in such pairs always exceeded the average, and it was simply not always possible to reduce it. And without it, the whole workflow would turn into hell. In addition, I myself once had a “pink” pair, because of which I could somehow project my experiences onto strangers, which could also affect my work. And the worst thing was that if I took on this case, I would have to lie to the Protection of family values. It would affect me too. After all, I worked for this organization.

I was persuaded by Eunice to tackle this, always getting in where I didn’t need and loving to put her two cents in any of my business. True, it was she who said that only I can understand such a family and help, having a certain experience behind me.

“You understand that someone else will calmly report about them to FVP?” Or somewhere else! Can you imagine what it feels like? - the last argument of the sister was a shot at the bull's-eye.

She knew that I could not talk about something if they did not directly ask me, even though I myself worked for the Defense of Family Values. Therefore, “pink” families turned to me in the hope that I would not say too much. At least that was before.

"Okay. If I can’t help, I’ll try to find another specialist who can be trusted, ”I reassured myself, as I did in situations with missing clients.

Eric did not deceive and really came on the day off with his family. That day, the door of my office swung open, loudly and unpleasantly banging against the wall. For the first time they burst into me like this, and I was even taken aback by such things, having remained standing by the table.

A guy of a dry physique flew into the office in a whirlwind. Dressed in a crumpled T-shirt, well-worn trousers and a battered leather jacket, the guest reminded me of a huge stray dog ​​from distant childhood: the same one, beaten by the life of a rogue.

The guy’s eyes smiled, as if to spite the whole world, sparkling with excitement. It reminded me even more of our shaggy friend with Eunice. He also brazenly smiled at his mouth, wagging his tail and edible bulls at the guys in the neighborhood. And only by the small gray lock in the visitor's long tousled hair did I realize that the stranger had long been not a teenager or even a youth.

Rushing across the entire hall, he flew up to me and, holding out his hand, he rumbled:

  - Hi. Are you dock?

I did not want to respond to such familiarity. I was just about to speak out, looking around at the sloven, as Eric entered behind him in a heavy, measured gait. Behind him peered apprehensively a little girl in a closed dress and with an elegant scarlet bow on her head.

“You ...?” I asked in surprise.

- Adrian Coleman. I called you, - still holding out his hand, laughed "rogue." “This is my ...”, hesitating and less confident, “my husband, Eric.”

Then, pointing to the still hiding girl, he said: “And this is our daughter Rina.” The girl only embarrassedly smiled and waved my hand, hiding again behind the adult. She seemed against the background of high enough strong parents quite tiny and reminded me of a beast of galago. Especially with large purple eyes, a small nose and a bow, one to one like huge triangular ears.

“Good afternoon,” Eric greeted dryly again, sitting down in a chair and showing with a gesture that his partner should do the same.

Adrian sighed theatrically, but still sat next to his spouse. Rina initially also sat next to her parents, but soon she became interested in the environment. We started a conversation, during which at first Adrian spoke more, chattering about all sorts of nonsense and nonsense. In contrast, it looked comical: a groovy jerk with smiling eyes to the whole world, like a dog’s eyes, and a gloomy phlegmatic man, boring others with a stern look. That's for sure - opposites attract.

And I realized what Eric meant by saying that they are unofficially a “pink” family. Colemans simply did not formalize the relationship! It’s good that I didn’t start the report. Now I was free to write in it about the conversion of a single father. Then I thanked the Lord that there was still a code of ethics for the psychologist and I could refer to it if someone tried to find something in my documents. And reports often turned out to be simple formalities for archives. Therefore, I breathed a sigh of relief: I did not want to set up my clients at all.

Coleman's daughter, Rina, turned out to be a silent, slightly aloof girl. She really looked depressed and painful: she covered her face with hair, hid her eyes, even if only for the first time. When parents talked about themselves, Rina separated from us adults, sitting back on the floor and hugging her knees. Talking with the Coleman, I remembered Eric's first visit. The man seemed a stern, domineering man with a heavy look. Straight and cold. This impression was complemented by the manner of speech, not a bit changed in the presence of the family, and the same strict, even prim style in clothes, and even dry, verified gestures, in which almost no emotions slipped.

The only thing that stood out against this background was a hairstyle similar to a yellow dandelion, and a more or less bright tie (albeit combined with the main suit). It seemed that Eric was a stern, imperious tyrant, accustomed to keeping both his partner and daughter under control. But I was wrong. All three spoke very openly and warmly, which was also evidenced by the fact that Adrian was chattering non-stop, and Rina, seeing a bookcase with books, asked me for permission and went to look for something interesting for herself. None of the fathers limited her to this. He didn’t even say a word. When the girl got up, I noted that her walk was a little uneven. This was not evident, but the girl limped on her left leg. “Leg injury?” I thought. “Athlete?”

The men themselves, though a little nervous, tried to be as honest as possible with themselves and me. And although only Adrian spoke, and Eric was silent, I saw that the men were in solidarity with each other. In the circumstances, lying did not make any sense. The mental state of the child depended on my work and both parents understood this.

Not finding anything interesting among the books, the girl painted the whole meeting something in her album. Adrian said that she often draws various sketches and gives to her friends. This hobby replaced another, and both fathers were glad that their child had found a new interesting activity for themselves.

“It was very difficult for us to find something like this,” Adrian smiled awkwardly with his hand behind his head. - Rin, almost no one wanted to take in circles and sections.

“She does not look like a conflict person,” I thought again, casting a cursory glance at the girl immersed in the drawing. “Asperger Syndrome?”

After a short presentation, we talked about their problem and a little more on abstract topics. I made sure that all three of those who came relaxed and realized that I could be trusted. The whole conversation, as I noted, rested on Adrian. He enthusiastically talked about his hobbies, his daughter and Erica, noting any trifle. He was probably nervous because I was connected with the FVP, and thus tried to cope with the jitters. At first, I could not understand which of the parents in this pair is Eno. No one had a hoop on his neck, appearance, too, as I said earlier, was not always an indicator. But still, I noticed that Adrian’s behavior is a little more characteristic of Eno than his husband’s behavior. In any case, it was he who spoke more often about Rina and with great warmth.

As the atmosphere in my office became more laid-back, I suggested the Coleman play a little. First I needed to establish the level of aggression of all family members. Aggression is not always directed outward, and I, as a psychologist, understood this very well. It can also be directed inward, in other words, towards itself. This is exactly what happened with Rina. Cuts could be a sign of auto-aggression. I wanted to understand if this is true. For identification, the Wagner test was useful to me. However, I immediately stipulated the principle: everyone takes a piece of paper and writes his answer in this charade. And then he hands it to me. In fact, this test is not carried out, but I was not sure that I would meet all the family members again. I needed to understand: could Rina adopt the level of aggression from one of the parents, was this level high or not.

Eric just rolled his eyes, Adrian nodded, and Rina folded her hands and put them to her cheek, like children do during sleep. I regarded gestures with signs of consent. He began to show one hand drawings in different poses one by one, asking the same question: “What does this hand do?” This was the test. Looking at images of hands in various poses, patients talked about their personal associations, albeit subconscious. They kind of projected their emotions onto drawings with hands. The drawings themselves depicted only hands in one or another pose, without any context or background. Nothing complicated. Simple work of associations. But only in this case the test took a lot of time.

I showed one card and waited until everyone wrote something on my sheet. A couple of times I saw Adrian peeking at Eric or Rina's sheet and indignantly resented that this answer was incorrect. Well, the answer itself was not voiced, limiting itself to exclamations: “Nonsense!”, “But she doesn’t do that!” Now I understand why Rina left the fathers a little distance. Another test I offered was for her. As if in jest.

“Rina, you're an artist,” I remarked. - There is such a test, Lusher test. Do you know him?

The girl shook her head.

“Choose the colors you like best right now,” I laid out a few cards on the floor. - You can choose them yourself and put them in order from the most attractive to the least. Just choose them precisely according to the “like” principle, and not according to the principles of combination, tradition and other things. Good?"

Rina nodded and enthusiastically began to choose the colors she liked.

This test took very little time. A minute later, in front of me was a table of the following order of colors: blue-green, black, brown, dark blue, violet, red and orange. It turned out that on the one hand, Rina was a very confident girl, but on the other, her aggression most likely had an internal motive. This was evidenced by the dark colors that followed the first blue-green. Another tick in the direction of depression.

Due to the speed of choice, I had no doubt that it was made exactly as I requested, without any association with fashion or any traditions. The only thing, I still had a little doubt about the black color. Rina herself was dressed in a black dress with white ruffles. But I still decided to accept these results. Nobody bothers me then to conduct this test again as a control check.

After the charade, I invited the Coleman to tell the story of their family. It would be nice to get an anamnesis, because I could not rule out a single variant of the occurrence of such a state of my young patient. At that moment, Rina looked at her fathers and pointed to her album. She did not utter ten phrases for the whole meeting, plunging into her drawings.

“Exactly,” cried Adrian, “forgot!” You have a lesson in the studio today! Sorry, petty! ” Rina shook her head - they say it’s fearless to be a little late - and, taking her father's hand, she went to the door.

- I trust Eric! He is our family's walking encyclopedia! Will tell you everything! - shouted Adrian, hiding from sight.

“As always ...” Eric sighed, sitting comfortably in his chair. - He likes to shift concerns to me.

“And in my opinion, he trusts you very much,” I remarked, sitting opposite my interlocutor. - Can you tell how Rina appeared in your life? It will be very important for me now to know how your daughter grew up. Perhaps the reasons for her behavior are in some event from the past.

Another sigh - and my interlocutor was immersed in the memories of almost thirteen years ago.

[withastolenlantern]

The brown fields of the western midlands sped by in a near blur as the train left the Birmingham conurbation and passed into rural Herefordshire. It was mid-autumn now, and the harvests completed. The apple orchards had all been picked clean of their fall fruits and sent off to market or crushed and juiced into seasonal ciders. Small herds of sheep meandered in their pastures, grazing at grass now browned as the weather cooled towards winter, their coats grown out to guard against the chill.

The one thing she didn’t see much of was people. Britain proper was prosperous, of course; the pound sterling still traded at the world’s highest exchange rates. The UK parliament had balked at the prospect of a unified currency, and so the rand and various dollars had remained, although pegged at a fixed rate relative to the central denomination. But in due course, the farmers and farriers had all migrated away from the rural midlands and taken up new employment as merchants and marketers in the more urban centers. The land was still fertile here, for some time at least, but now it belonged to the machines. The drone tractors and tillers and threshers were all idled now under barn roofs or lean-tos, their summer works finished, as if resting before taking up winter duty as plows or salt-trucks come the snows. Prayers to Demeter or Aine had been replaced with swears at Deere and AGCO, although they often carried the same futility. Even the bees had been replaced, after the great dying; their tiny buzzing wings now traded for the low hum of rotors as their simulacra flitted about carrying pollen and confusing predatory birds. 

As they passed Gloucester and into Wales, the River Severn emptied into Bristol Channel and she could see all the way out to the Atlantic. The seas had risen here too, of course, as no effort of man could yet hold back them back, but Britain was largely immune from the worst. London had been bulwarked for a thousand years against the flooding of the Thames, and the port cities all braced or barricaded against the advancing surf. Wind and tidal generators dotted the horizon all around the coast, turning Nature’s fury into man’s gain. Britannia rule the waves, indeed. Some seaside properties had moved; the poorer communities had to relocate inland, and the new littoral real estate was gobbled up and repurposed into pricy condominiums or resorts for upper class holidays. The ports, again as vital to commerce as ever in earlier centuries, had multiplied, their piers expanding out over the breakers like the long fingers of industry stretching over a swirled tumbler of gin.

The train pulled into Cardiff station and Chatham exited into the station, grabbing some take-away kebab and sitting down at a wrought-iron table to take stock of her situation. The meeting with her superiors had not gone well, and she replayed the events in her head as she considered her options.

DCI Ratnayaka was supportive, at least, but they were joined in his office by a liaison from the Home Office. Whoever he was, he’d been introduced by both name and title, but she couldn't be bothered. They were all interchangeable, the bureaucrats, at least in her experience. She'd been to Westminster once to receive her Military Cross; it reminded her of a giant ant colony in both form and function, and that was before she'd been paraded around like a prized crumb stolen from Grandmama’s biscuit cupboard. The fellow might as well have been Undersecretary for the Ministry of Peace for all it would matter to her; she wouldn’t waste the effort, and anyway she was sure the relevant details had already been transmitted to her mobile. Much like those ants, she was apt to find the bureaucracy exactly where she least wanted it. 

She’d recounted the details as best she could recall, and explained her concerns given the situation she’d found below deck and the deadly potential. Clearly further investigation was needed, and the Lord Swansea should be called before a HeRMES inquiry panel.

The government’s man was unswayed. It was a time of great economic distress, his counter-argument had gone, and the Government was leaning heavily on major players like the Ross Consortium to assist them in navigating the increasingly new fiscal reality. Besides, His Majesty had a personal stake in the Ross board, and it would not do for Him to be associated with untoward activities, especially of a potentially terrorist nature. The tabloids would have a field day. No, MI5 could control the message via the social networks; better to leave it alone, and stick to the cover story, than risk what might become an… indelicate investigation.

“What about the lives of the men in the skiffs?” she asked, barely masking her contempt. “Or does their indelicacy not rate investigation?”

“The pirates and smugglers? Hardly,” the Home Office man replied. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“And you’re not at all concerned about the fact that we found some kind of uncontrolled toxin in Ross crates?” she said.

“My concern, Detective,” he said, chewing on her title as if it were a crisp, “is that you and Leftenant Ayobe disabled terrorists carrying weapons and illicit drugs. The world is an increasingly dangerous place, but your brave actions represent the type of inter-service collaboration that His Majesty’s father envisioned when the Union was formed, God rest his soul.”

“Yes, and I’m sure The Old Ginger would be thrilled to know his progeny was using it for political gain.”

“Detective!” her superior snapped. “Decorum, please.”

Home Office waved him off. “Your concerns are not without merit. DCI Ratnayaka argued strongly for your character and your experience in certain… high profile investigations. Given that input, the Government will allow you to continue your investigation as it relates to stolen, and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “potentially hazardous Ross goods.”

Chatham started to object, but her governor raised an eyebrow from across the desk, beckoning her to remain seated.

“You will not mention terrorism to any party. You will forward any findings outside of your jurisdiction, which includes only crimes against His Majesty’s Government or its Citizens, directly to myself and MI6. And above all, you will be discrete,” the Government’s man said with finality, rising to leave the office.

“We’ve arranged for you to meet with Lord Swansea at the Ross headquarters tomorrow,” Ratnayaka said, hoping to defuse the situation.

“And one more thing, Detective – you and Leftenant Ayobe are to be honored for your service at a ceremony at the Ministry of Defense,” Home Office continued, “on the week-end. Obviously you will be on your best behavior,” he cautioned, before closing the office door behind him.

“Fokken idioot,” Chatham swore breathlessly towards the door. She blushed as she realized her superior was still sitting at his desk, glaring. “Sorry, sir.”

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked quietly, sighing.

“The same thing you’ve always done,” the detective replied, flashing a faux-smile. 

“Be careful with this one, Detective. I’d advise you not cross the powers that be, but I know you likely won’t listen. I don’t know what it is that drives you to this disrespect for authority that you cultivate, but mark my words, one day it will get you into trouble that neither I nor your record will get you out of. I just pray it’s not the kind that comes staring down the barrel of a gun,” the chief inspector cautioned.

She gathered her things and stood to leave, lingering briefly in the doorway. “I’ve been shot before, gov,” she scoffed. “Can’t say I’d much like to relive that experience, either.” 

She’d boarded the train then, straight away, to return back to Cardiff, where it had all begun. She still had no idea who had called in the tip about the gun-runners, but HeRMES had been investigating arms trafficking into the Subcontinent for several months, and when the informant had mentioned there’d been a possible theft of Ross property, her governors saw a fortuitous opportunity. She’d been stationed in Wales since mustering out of the SBS; having made her peace with her father’s untimely demise, she felt she owed it to him and herself to return to the other half of her ancestral homeland. 

Her Welsh was terrible but she found the climate more amenable to her complexion, and the pace of life significantly slower than the crowded streets of Cape Town. HeRMES was happy to oblige, as they’d needed someone to take up the Welsh region; the office still carried a reputation as a “backwater” even though its economy had been carried forward with the rest of the Union’s. The British crown had claimed the Welsh marshes for nearly as long as it had existed, and even though they’d mined out all the coal years ago, the Union’s industrial backbone still ran through the Brecon Beacons, whether Westminster remembered it or not.

She missed her mother, some days, but the SAR was only a holo away, and she hadn’t left behind any real friends when she’d left. Not that she’d made any here, or in university, or the service. There’d been colleagues and workplace proximate acquaintances; of course she would have, and in fact had, taken a bullet for any of her fellow soldiers. Along the way there’d even been brief affairs and lovers, men and women and whatever in between, but none so serious as to tether her in time or space. No, she was alone here, just herself and the spectre of her father, when she let herself acknowledge it, and that was how she liked it. 

Can’t be disappointed if there’s no one to disappoint you, she thought to herself, huddling in the doorway of the station as a light, cold rain fell onto the streets outside. Tightening her coat around her shoulders, she stepped out into the drizzle long enough to jump into the first empty black cab she saw. The detective spoke aloud the address and the cab sped off toward her flat, throwing gentle splashes across the pedestrian walks as it rumbled through the late afternoon storm. 

She sat in the car and composed herself after the long day, smoothing the strands of her hair that had come free in the rain and loosening the tie on her uniform. The route from the station took the cab down the A432 passed the dockyards, and she could see several tall Ross crates and containers, the crimson R stenciled prominently, being maneuvered throughout the gantries by the drone lifts, and it gave her an idea. She paged through the contacts list on her mobile, laughing quietly to herself as a particular name scrolled past. Opening a text dialogue, she typed out a message of exactly the type Ratnayaka had cautioned her against. “Flynn: I need a favor.”