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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

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82, Sternclay, NSFW if possible? Ty so much for all your great fics <3 -☀️

You’re welcome! I hope you enjoy the fill. It’s NSFW, and involves mating cycles, because my A03 stats suggest a lot of y’all like that.

82. you knock on my door at 2 in the morning because your very white cat got out and you need help trying to find them in the three feet of snow we have

He has no one but himself to blame.

Stern is always so careful about shutting the doors in this cabin, as the old hinges and worn frames can send them swinging open when coupled with a strong wind. He thought he had that same care when he came in with more firewood from the basement, which can only be accessed through by going out of the house and then down to the locked door.

Apparently not. At one, he went to check on Yeti and found the back door open and the faintest shape of feline paws leading into the darkness.

They’ve got two feet of snow on the ground, with another foot forecasted to fall by morning. And Yeti is sleek and snow-white.

He’s wandered the perimeter of the house, left her favorite blanket out on the covered porch, and tried in vain to follow the tracks, filled in by the falling snow. He’s been outside for an hour now, with no sign of her. Not even the jingle of her collar in the cold air. He’s shivering, but he can’t stop the search; Yeti is out here, cold and scared and it’s all his fault.

As he’s crunching through the snow, warm light spills onto the trees. His neighbors (a loose term out here) house. He couldn’t stand waking Barclay up to help him, but if he’s already awake…

Stern raps on the door, and four seconds later it opens, his neighbor looking like a lumberjack centerfold given life, even in his sweatpants and brown sweater.

“Joe? Is something wrong?”

“It’s Yeti, she got out without me noticing and I can’t find her, I’ve been out here an hour and there’s no sign. I, um, I know it’s a stretch but can you help me look for her? We can cover more ground that way.”

Barclay gives a small, worried smile as he nods, “Yeah, of course, lemme get enough on so that I don’t freeze and I’ll join you.”

He waves Stern inside, passes him a box of tissues before disappearing upstairs. Here he’d hoped the tears from his brief panic and self-blame spiral hadn’t left evidence. He’s good in a crisis, has handled much more stressful incidents with grace and calm. But for some reason every time he musters up those emotions, gult rips them to shreds. Yeti is his to look after, he’s supposed to keep her safe, and one careless move has her out in the woods, in freezing weather, with predators, or thin ice, or, or, or-

His brain is excellent at generating contingency plans on the fly, but tonight it directs that ability to making him think about all the bad things his error could cause.

“Okay, got my headlamp so I can keep my hands free. You got a light?”

Joe holds up his flashlight.

“C’mon, let’s go find the Yeti.” They set off side by side in the snow, “where do you want to look?”

“Fan out near the creek, I think. The snow isn’t as deep there, so she might have gone that way because it was easier to move.”

“She’s a climber, right? So how about this; we go on either side of the creek, you look on the ground and I’ll look in the trees?”

“That makes sense.”

It’s slow going, both of them being meticulous, shining their lights on every branch or under every bush. Stern’s always appreciated how careful Barclay is; he assumes it comes with a profession where being messy slows you down, but the first time he saw his well-organized kitchen his heart did a little dance of delight.

In the month and a half he’s lived here, the cook invites him over at least twice a week to try out a recipe. He works at Amnesty Lodge in the nearby town of Kepler, and spends some of his nights there. Still, he’s at his cabin often enough that Stern’s been able to invite him over some evenings. Though it’s odd he’s up so late on a work night.

“Do you not have to go in tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m taking this week off. I have some vacation time and when I get back it’ll be the holiday break rush until New Years. I got caught up in the latest Agent X novel and didn’t see how late it was until you knocked. How about you, staying up researching again?”

“Yes. I was trying to keep the fire going because it’s nice to work in that little living room but, um, going out to get the wood is how she got out. If I’d just gone to bed-”

“Whoah, hey, none of that.” Barclay stops, turning to face him, “shit happens, even when you’re careful. This isn’t your fault, Joe.”

“I know. It still feels that way.” He starts forward again, feet freezing in spite of his snowboots (chosen for optimal weight to insulation ratio). Part of him wants to keep talking, because Barclay is interesting to talk to, his years playing “Lodge dad” giving him endless anecdotes and the ability to be honest without being cruel.

It helps that his baritone voice makes Stern think of brown sugar; rich, complex, just the right kind of sweet.

After a solid hour of searching, Stern is so cold he’s having trouble getting words out. Barclay sets a big hand on his shoulder, guiding them towards Sterns cabin.

“Joe, you’ve gotta take a break. Worried your lips are gonna go as blue as your eyes, and then tonight will really suck.”

“But I haven’t found her.”

“And you won’t if you freeze to death or get so chilled you can’t think straight. At least sleep for a few hours.”

Stern’s about to protest as they reach the door, but then his knees buckle and he slumps against a broad chest.

“I’ll do one more spin into the deeper woods on my way home, and leave some blankets out on the porch in case she makes her way to me. She’s smart, just like her owner; I think she’ll get home okay.”

“Right. Okay. We’ll be okay.”

Barclay hesitates mid motion, then pulls Stern into a hug. Stern is not small, and at Six feet zero inches he’s used to being the tallest person in a room. Barclay always feels like he’s dwarfing him, though right now that’s the most comforting sensation in the world.

“I’ll check by in the morning.”

“Thank you, for everything.” He mumbles into Barclay’s scarf.

“Any time, Joe.”

----------------------------------------

Barclay waits until Joe is inside and the upstairs light switches on to leave the back porch. God, it’s so fucking cold tonight. He doesn’t blame Yeti for getting curious, but she could’ve picked a less awful time to do it.

He’s glad the other man came to him for help; he hates the idea of Joe out here alone and stressed, searching carefully and kicking himself the whole time. He’s glad Joe took the suggestion to sleep.

He’s glad the other man came to be his neighbor.

Ironically, they’d met when Joe came over and asked to borrow a cup of sugar. The dark-haired man was short on what he needed to cook, and Barclay was happy to supply it. It’s not everyday a cute guy asked him for some sugar.

They ran across each other in town, and Joe even came to eat at the Lodge, usually at off hours where Barclay had a chance to talk. That’s how he learned Joe was here to research a recent Bigfoot sighting.

“I used to be in the FBI, investigating the same thing. Then I got so frustrated, no one really believed in the possibility of unknown creatures, and the few who did saw them as having some sort of use to the department of defense. Great idea, find something so rare it’s existence is unproven, and then lock it away or blow it up.” The sip of coffee is more aggressive than usual.

“Won’t they get mad if you spill their secrets?” It was only half a joke.

“I doubt it. They weren’t too interested in my theories when I worked there; odds are they’ll keep an eye on me a little while and then ignore me. Unless I find Bigfoot, of course, in which case they may want me back. I’m not interested, from now on I monster hunt in the name of science.”

Barclay hopes Stern never finds Bigfoot and stays in his cabin, writing and researching and consulting and coming over to Barclay’s for dinner twice a week. He has a whole menu in his mind titled, “foods for seducing Joe” that he’s going to whip out in the next few weeks, he swears it.

He’s been swearing it for two weeks.

Joe is sophisticated, smart, has really good taste in books and food, and Barclay feels so listened to when they talk. Barclay starts blushing whenever Joe smiles at him, which would be embarrassing except Joe does the same thing whenever Barclay drops his voice a little. Besides, he likes it when Joe smiles.

Barclay would give anything to make Joe smile tonight. Which is why he’s tromping into the spot where they lost the last of Yeti’s footprints. He stands, listening for any sign of human life.

Then he slips the woven bracelet off his hand, and his foot-prints almost double in size.

It’s a bad idea, he’s not all that far from other houses or the road, but in this form his sense of smell is twice as strong and his night-vision a bit sharper. It’s also the reason he’s taking this week off work. Yes, he likes to rest up before the winter rush; but his heat, which comes ever fourteen years, is due in the next few days. He’s actually a little worried turning into his Sylph self will make his brain fuzzy enough to forget his mission. So he reminds himself, as he tromps through the growing blizzard, that he is doing this for the person he’d most like to impress in this world, and that does the trick.

A whiff of the same, non-human scent he stole a noseful of when hugging Joe catches his attention. He follows it to a disused burrow, gets down on his belly, and finds reflective eyes blinking back at him.

The animal hisses.

“Man, please be Yeti and not a bobcat. Duck’s gonna fucking kill me if I harass the wildlife.” He reaches into the burrow and hears a telltale jingle. Yeti, surrendering to her fate, goes limp in his hold. When he puts her against his chest she chirps, curiously sniffing him. As soon as the bracelet is on she blinks once, then purrs as he bundles her into his coat. She’s cold and damp, but she’s in one piece.

“C’mon cousin, let’s get you home.”

The lights are all still one, and the front door is wedged open the exact amount a cat would need to get inside. He steps in, kicks the wedge free and shuts the door. The fire is low, and there’s no sound of anyone moving around.

“Joe? Whoa, careful Yeti, I know you wanna get warm but we should show him your okay.”

“Mew!” Yeti bites the fringe of his scarf.

He tries again, “Joe, you still up? Got someone for you?”

A scuff and groan from the kitchen, “Huh? Oh, shit, I fell asleep, one second”

Yeti shifts her focus while Barclay is distracted. In one graceful leap she rips his bracelet away, lands, and bounds to the kitchen.

“Yeti! Thank the lord, there you are my little cryptid, I was so worried about you, don’t ever do that again, thank god you’re okay.” Joe’s voice goes muffled, as if he’s holding the cat to his face and talking into her fur. Barclay is frozen, not wanting to be seen but even less wanting to have Joe spot Bigfoot dashing into the trees.

“What do you have--Yeti, it’s rude to take things from the man who saved you from being-” Joe rounds the corner, cat in his arms, and gasps. Yeti, uninterested in the unfolding drama, tumps to the floor and scampers upstairs. Joe’s hands fly over his mouth the instant she’s no longer in them.

“Hey” Barclay waves.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m, uh, I’m Bigfoot.”

“What the fuck?” Joe isn’t moving, and Barclay decides now is his best chance.

“I’m just, uh, gonna go get my bracelet back.”

“No, you’re going to explain everything.”

“I really, really can’t, some of it isn’t mine to explain. I mean, uh, I can explain some bits later-” He creeps toward the stairs. Joe steps in front of him.

“Barclay, this can’t wait. You, you’ve been him the whole time, my entire world view is simultaneously being proven and flipped over, would you please just talk to me?”

“Mew?” Yeti is halfway down the stairs, watching them with the bracelet still in her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, Joe reaches up and out, plucking it from her teeth.

“You’re not getting this back until you explain.”

“Babe, please, I promise we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“No, wait, what did you call me?”

“Uhhhh” Barclay lunges for the bracelet instead of answering. Stern twists out of the way, sprinting for the kitchen. Barclay gets an arm around his waist and yanks backwards, sending them both over the back of the couch. Joe elbows him and scrambles up. Barclay only just manages to block him from going up the stairs, stalks him back onto the rug and tackles him. It succeeds in bringing the man down and keeping him pinned.

It also sends the bracelet flying onto the floor, where Yeti snatches it up and disappears up the staircase.

Barclay realizes he’s growling, stops so that he won’t frighten Joe, only for it to start up again as a reflex.

“Barclay, I swear, if you hurt my cat-”

“I won’t, I, that’s what not that noise is for. Or, uh, I mean I’m pissed you played keep-away with something I need, but I also have some bad news about Sy--uh, Bigfoot biology. Uh, so, first thing: I have a heat, which is why I was trying to stay away from people. Second thing: my kind uses a very intense game of, uh, chase as part of courtship.”

Stern shifts his thigh, “That explains what I’m feeling.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Look, can you go get the bracelet and then we can, like, have some tea and talk about this? I’m sorry, I feel so bad for making you deal with this.” The growl rumbles up again. He gears up another apology when he notices Joe’s blue eyes getting wider.

“Is this, um, only because of your heat? I mean, if you tackled some passerby, would the same thing be happening?”

“No.” Barclay squeaks.

“Then I’m not seeing how this is a bad thing, big guy.” He grinds his thigh up, making Barclay yip and pin him to the rug while touching as little of him as possible.

“Joe, this doesn’t make me like, mindless or anything, but if you say you want this you are signing up for several days of as much fucking as I can manage.”

“I don’t have any deadlines.” Joe’s eyes remain fixed on Barclays crotch.

“I’m serious, if you say stop I will, but if you don’t you won’t be able to get out of bed for days. And, uh, I can put my disguise back on, you don’t have to fuck me like this, I know it’s weird.”

“Barclay, I built my life’s work on weird.” Joe pets his arm.

“Yeah but not on fucking it.”

“How do you know? Lots of my time with the UP is classified.”

“Joe…” it’s a warning, the heat in his brain suggesting a dozen things to do so the human can’t be touched by another cryptid ever again.

“I want you, Barclay. In both forms. As long as you promise we’ll talk after, I’m okay with doing this first.”

“I promise”

“Good, because otherwise I was going out to see if there’s another bigfoot in the area who was interested.” Joe smiles, moves to pull off his shirt. He doesn’t get to; Barclay snarls possessively and drops onto him, biting his neck and ripping his clothing into a flurry of fabric scraps. The human moans, gasps when Barclay makes short work of his own pants and reveals what’s waiting beneath. Barclay doesn’t give him time to process, shoves his legs as far apart as they’ll go, and finally sinks into him.

“JesusfuckingCHRIST, ohfuck, ohmyfuckinggodAH!”

His cock is more thick than long, splitting the human open while bottoming out on every thrust. Joe’s fingers knot into the rug, his words morph into sharp, ecstatic sounds. Every creature in the forest can probably hear him.

Barclay clamps his hand down over the humans mouth, “shut up babe, don’t want anyone else in the woods getting any ideas about how good a fuck you are. You’re fucking mine.”

A muffled moan and, when he pulls his hand back, “Y-you really think I, fuck, I can keep quiet when you fuck me like this?”

“Thought they taught FBI agents discipline” he drags his claws across Joe’s chest, relishing the shaky, happy noise that gets him.

“There’s discipline and, AAHnnn, there’s inhuman restraint.”

Barclay slams the hand down again and growls, pleased, when Joe’s posture turns submissive.

“Here’s the deal; you keep quiet and take it like a good mate, and after I cum in you, can be as loud as you fucking want, because anyone who gets near you’ll know belong to me. I mean” he jerks his hips, “they’ll be able to tell that from the fact I’m balls-deep in you too, babe.”

Joe nods, replaces Barclays hand with his own as the Sylph hooks his knees over his shoulders. The next minute goes in a heat haze, his brain and body united in the desire to cum in Joe, to claim him, while the human stifles his screams and grows slicker with each thrust.

He tips his head back with a howlgrowlpurr as he cums, leaving faint clawmarks in Joe’s legs as he holds them open to make sure he takes every bit.

“Lord almighty” Joe’s hand falls to the floor, “that, that was amazing, why on earth were you acting like this isn’t something I’d waaAAAAAntohgod.” He whimpers as Barclay starts up again, fucking his cum up into him.

“Shoulda known you’d like it; you’re perfect, Joe.”

A blush and a shy moan, and he leans down to kiss him gently.

“You are. You’re the perfect man, the perfect mate, and we are gonna have so much fucking fun together.”

“And fun fucking?” He looks pleased with the wordplay.

He snorts, “Glad to know that sense of humor sticks around when I’m filling you up, oh, ohfuckyeah” another orgasm hits, milder this time.

“Are they near constant when you’re in heat?” Joe eyes the trail of cum sliding back down Barclay’s cock.

“No, just easy to have. So” he flips the human over, squeezing his ass appreciatively, “let’s try it from behind this time; wanna find out how it feels to cum in you while I get you off.” He slips his hand over Joe’s thigh and between his legs, “and you better fucking do it too, of I’ll drag you outside and fuck you against a tree so anyone passing by can see how fucking eager you are for me.”

“Please, we’ve spent so much time outside tonight.”

He thinks as kisses along Joe’s shoulders, “You’re right. I’ll fuck you against the door instead.”

-------------------------------------

When Stern wakes up, snow is falling in the grey light and his clock reads 2:30 P.M. Downstairs there’s a homey clink of pots and pans, and the smell of coffee winds it’s way to him.

He fell asleep around five, he thinks, when the cumulative exhaustion of his day overpowered the thrill of being with Barclay. Honestly, he’d have kept going, but Barclay was adamant he rest. So they finished with him fucking Stern’s slack, sleepy mouth, before the cryptid bundled him into bed and snuggled up to him with those deep, rumbling purrs that Stern now loves.

The bracelet is gone from the nightstand (Yeti didn’t eat it, thank god), so the chef must be making breakfast in his human form. Now would be a good time to go down and talk.

“Mew” A weight lands on his chest as Yeti kneads the blankets, purring when he reaches you and rubs her head.

“You know, little monster, this almost makes the heart attack you gave me worth it.”

“Mew?” The cat stares hopefully out the windows.

“Not a chance. I can’t take that stress again. Besides” he scoops her up, “we need to unbox that new toy I ordered. Barclay and I need some time to ourselves today.”

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #winter fills #taz amnesty

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protierras · 6 years ago

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jaydier-blog1 · 8 years ago

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Jason sighs and runs his hands through his hair, scanning the crowd. No one here is particularly important, their ratios glowing above their heads. 0.04, 0.04, 0.06, 0.04... oh, there! A 0.13, and Jason slinks forward, making sure no one is looking at him. A small kid in the middle of a crowded sidewalk isn’t going to garner much attention. Jason comes up behind them and notices the man’s wallet halfway out of his jeans pocket. Bingo.

Reaching forward, Jason waits until the man is distracted by something, and then he smoothly slides the wallet out of his pocket and turns at a sharp ninety degrees, disappearing into the crowd with his prize. Jason ducks into an alleyway and opens the wallet. About fifty dollars in cash, a credit card, a driver’s license... it’s decent. Jason tucks the wallet into his jacket pocket and hurries away from the crowds. 0.13 is right, this will feed him for a couple days if he budgets it right.

Jason is looking for an ATM in a corner so he can withdraw from the credit card before the guy realizes Jason stole his wallet and cancels. He turns the corner and stumbles over a cardboard box. The noise of it makes the other teen sitting at the end of the alley look up -- and they both freeze. The first thing Jason notices is the band around his bicep, the needle in his hand. Jason grew up with his mother’s heroin addiction, he knows exactly what’s going on.

But the needle isn’t even the most interesting part. Jason can barely believe the ratio above this guy’s head. 0.97. He’s never seen a ratio so high. He’s never heard of a ratio so high. He can only imagine the guy is seeing the same number over Jason’s head. They stare at each other for several moments before the guy scrambles up, bolting out of the alley in the opposite direction. Jason takes off after him. “Hey! Wait!”

soulmate au for @trickarrowd

#trickarrowd #v;; soulmates

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stranger-who-writes-fiction · 8 years ago

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That One Time Kara Visited Charm City

Fandom: Supergirl/Powerless Rating: K+ Summary: What it says on the tin, folks. *points to title* A/N: Ridiculous nonsense, as per usual. Spoilers for Powerless and Supergirl.

...

Meanwhile, in scenic CHARM CITY...

Van Wayne has a brilliant idea.

“No, really,” Emily says, shortly after Van holsters his finger guns and retreats to his office. “This might actually be a great idea.”

“He stole it from Lex Corp,” Jackie says, taking a languid sip of coffee. (Black and bitter, much like her feelings for this job.) “Oh. Sorry. L-Corp.”

“So pretentious,” Teddy mutters.

“I know. Like knocking off the 'e' and 'x' is going to improve stock prices,” Ron shakes his head.

“Did you guys know that even after it was revealed that Lex Corp was run by a raving megalomaniac, their stock prices were still better than ours?” Wendy says with her patented deranged cheer.

The group sighs.

“So much for morale,” Teddy quips.

“Hey, hey,” Emily grins, making sure to engage in at least three seconds of meaningful eye contact with her team. Only three out of four squirm in discomfort, which is progress. “That's why Van's idea is so great! We'll have a chance to show the world we aren't run by some...crazy billionaire with morally questionable secret agendas! And then we'll have an edge over Lex Corp!”

“L-Corp.”

“Whatever.”

The team doesn't look entirely convinced, but then, they rarely do. They wander back to their respective cubicles, while Emily and Jackie remain close to the elevators; Van's made them agree to meet the reporter. Something about aesthetically pleasing face symmetry and an article he read on BuzzFeed.

“So, do we know anything about this...person?” Emily asks, smoothing her sweater and skirt, in spite of the fact that both are immaculate.

Jackie shrugs.

“Just that it's the same person who did the L-Corp spread. I told you. He literally stole this idea from L-Corp. The entire thing.”

Emily's smile dips at the corners, just for a moment, but it's enough to earn a knowing nod from Jackie. And Jackie looks as though she's about to say more, but the elevator dings, and both turn on reflex.

A tall blonde neither of them recognize enters the bullpen hesitantly, adjusting her glasses and looking around.

“Um,” she says, spotting them, and hurrying over. “Hi. Sorry. I'm—I'm look for a...Stan Wayne? Am I in the right—”

“Van Wayne,” Jackie tells her.

The reporter's forehead sports a confused crinkle. “...What?”

“Hi!” Emily doesn't wait for Jackie's dry follow up, “Emily Locke, SVP of Research and Development.” She sticks out her hand and puts on a winning smile. Which is essentially the same smile she's been sporting all morning, but if asked, she'd argue that this smile has ten percent more 'Go Get 'Em' and at least forty percent more 'Charm City Charm.'

“Kara Danvers,” the reporter says, returning the handshake with a grip that seems...oddly measured. “CatCo Magazine.”

“It's so great to meet you,” Emily gushes. “I love CatCo Magazine. That series you guys did on vigilantism in the age of digital surveillance...inspired.”

“Oh, well, it's so great to meet you,” Kara gushes right back. “That rubble umbrella thing? So great for super battles.” She tugs at the sleeve of her cardigan.

Jackie watches the entire scene unfold with mild horror.

“My God. Two of them.”

Kara raises an eyebrow.

“I—sorry?”

“So!” Emily hurriedly guides the reporter away from Jackie—the object here is to portray Wayne Security in a positive light, and Jackie simply isn't built for a such a task. “You're here to talk to Van, right?”

“Um, yes,” Kara says, squinting once more at a Post-It note that she tucks back into the pocket of her slacks. “Since apparently 'Stan Wayne' is not a thing.”

“It might be a thing,” Emily replies helpfully. “I mean, Charm City's a pretty big place. There's probably a Stan Wayne out there somewhere.”

Kara offers a grateful grin as the two enter Van's office.

And Van...

Van is spinning in his desk chair.

Which...is probably the best that could be hoped for, in light of the fact that it's Van.

“Mr. Wayne,” Emily clears her throat. Van abruptly stops spinning, and Emily's sure she hears Kara suppress a giggle. “The reporter from CatCo Magazine is here.”

Van stares at her blankly.

“...Ah-hmmm.” And Emily can't believe this. He was just talking about this. Not even fifteen minutes ago.

But then again. ...It's Van.

“L-Corp spread!” Jackie yells from the bullpen.

Comprehension dawns at last. “Right! Right, yes, L-Corp reporter.”

“CatCo reporter.”

“Yes. Well! So great to have you here, and I would love to stay but I actually just received a call from my dear cousin, Bruce Wayne—” Van stands behind his desk, and looks pointedly at Kara. “...Are you writing this down?”

“...Um.”

“Bruce Wayne. Capital 'B', little r—”

“I'm pretty sure she'll know how to spell it, Mr. Wayne.”

“We're very close,” Van tells her. “Me and cousin Bruce. Which is why I have to rush off, unfortunately! But I'm sure Emily here can show you around, and if you have any questions—”

“Well, this is an interview,” Kara tells him. She looks over to Emily. “It's...entirely questions.”

“She can handle them!” Van finishes smoothly, ducking out the door. Emily laughs nervously.

“Ah-ha! Would you, um. Excuse me for just...?” She rushes off before Kara can respond, catching Van before he can get in the elevator.

“Van!” she hisses. “What are you doing?!”

“I believe they call it 'fleeing the scene,'” Van says, jabbing the 'up' button several times.

“You can't flee from your own interview!”

“Technically, it's not an interview with me,” Van points out. “It's merely a piece on the company. Ms. Dangers—”

“Danvers.”

“—Was never promised a sit down with yours truly.” Van straightens his jacket. “...Also...Jackie might have...kindly reminded me that I have a tendency to...offend—”

“He means 'piss off,'” Jackie calls from the bullpen.

“—Various news outlets.” He casts a frosty glare in Jackie's direction. “So she...suggested that I fabricate some sort of...cover story, and leave the schmoozing to you.”

Emily doesn't argue with Jackie's very sound logic, but she does have one question.

“Why me?” she asks. Don't companies usually have people for this sort of thing? Last she checked, 'schmoozing' was not in her job description.

“Because you, Emily Locke, are a model employee. The very picture of all that Wayne Security stands for.” Emily's irritation begins to fade, expression softening as she's warmed by the praise.

“Aw, Van—”

“No one else would do it,” Jackie yells.

The warm fuzzy feeling is gone in an instant. Emily can practically hear Ron chiding her. Congrats, you played yourself.

The elevator announces its arrival with its usual 'ding.' Van slides between the doors. “...Okay bye!”

And Emily has no choice but to wander back to the abandoned reporter in a mild daze. This has to be a record—have any of Van's other plans gone this south this fast?

She's somewhat surprised to see Kara standing at Jackie's desk, as opposed to inside the office, where she left her.

“Ah, Emily,” Jackie says, with the same manufactured professionalism Van had used on both her and Kara mere moments ago, “Kara here was just showing me a rather riveting...cat video.”

Her tone screams, 'save me.'

“Is it the one with the lightsabers?” Emily is genuinely curious.

Kara nods enthusiastically. “You've seen it?”

“Uh, of course I've seen it, it's amazing.”

Jackie's lament is just barely audible. “God help us all.”

Once a sufficient number of cat videos are shared, Emily bites the bullet and takes Kara on a brief tour of the main floor. She makes sure to keep the entire affair light and fluffy—this is a puff piece, after all.

Kara seems to pick up on this (really, how could she not, given the altogether unprofessional beginning of this endeavor) and is happy to adjust her questions accordingly.

And, though Emily has been actively trying to avoid the lab, inevitably, they find themselves standing before the reinforced steel doors.

“...And this is the lab...” Emily gestures somewhat weakly towards the yellow and black diagonal bands along the door frame that urge 'caution.'

Kara jots down a note on her pad, and Emily hesitates. Because behind those doors, ready and waiting to cause a PR nightmare, is her team.

And while she's certain they'd be able to offer some valuable insight, maybe even some cute anecdotes, they could also offer some very unflattering information that would get her into all kinds of trouble with Van.

She's debating whether or not to risk exposure to the troublesome trio when the doors slide open and suddenly there's no other option.

Teddy, Ron, and Wendy emerge from of the lab, engaged in a lively debate involving Calendar Man and Cat Woman.

“Okay, but the ratio of puns—” Ron is saying.

“Hold up,” Teddy stops him, throwing out his arm. “You,” he points to Kara. Kara flinches slightly. “I don't recognize you.”

“Is this the reporter?” Wendy asks.

Emily sighs.

“Ye—”

“Hi,” Kara nods in greeting. “I'm Kara.”

The trio rattles off their names, and Emily is already planning a hasty exit, because Ron suddenly, desperately needs Kara's opinion on the acceptable number of puns in regards to a three minute super-battle and—

“Sorry, I don't mean to change the subject, but...” she's looking towards the workbenches in the lab, squinting slightly. “Can I ask what you guys are working on?” Emily notices that Kara's put her notepad in her bag.

Is this off the record?

“Well you can ask us,” Wendy says brusquely. “But we might not answer.”

“You can totally ask us,” Teddy declares with his usual bravado. “Are you familiar with the Anti Joker Venom in sangria—” But Wendy's not finished. She shoves Teddy aside and scrutinizes the much taller reporter.

“What's your angle, blondie?”

Of course. Of course it would be Wendy to go and ruin this, but Kara doesn't so much as bat an eyelash at the woman.

“I just think this stuff is really neat,” she says, with such open sincerity, that the entire group is fairly swooning with sudden affection.

They rarely receive outright praise from Van, and any and all credit seems to always migrate upwards on the food chain.

And here's Kara, eager and engaged, with her head cocked to one side looking for all the world like a curious puppy.

How could they possibly resist?

“Forget the joker venom. That's so last year. What we've got now is ten thousand times better.”

“Um. You did sign the nondisclosure agreement, right?” Emily could kiss Ron...if not for the mountain of sexual harassment violations that would generate. But bless the man all the same for remembering company policy.

“I did,” Kara says. “I promise. Entirely off the record. I just...” she shrugs. “I'm really interested in...keeping the world safe.” she chuckles—almost to herself, really, and adds, “Superheroes...have a tendency to make a mess, you know?”

The trio nods.

“We do!”

They show off the Atlantis tech first. Teddy practically prances and most definitely preens; he's so pleased to have someone other than Ron fawning over his work.

“This is amazing,” Kara says, adjusting her glasses and flipping through the schematics. If anyone notices that she seems to scan the documents a little quicker than the average human, they don't say anything.

“You see those paint chips?” Teddy points to some of the design notes on the side. “My suggestions. “Ultramarine. Perfect for Atlantis, amiright?”

“Is this the frequency you're using for the force-field generating equipment?” Kara asks suddenly.

“Yes?” Wendy says.

“This will interfere with Aquaman's powers,” she says.

“...Huh?”

“It will?”

“How would you even know that?” Teddy demands.

Kara practically jumps back from the drafting table.

“Oh, well, uh—” Emily watches as she fiddles with her glasses—it's becoming more and more apparent that it's a nervous tick. “...I read an article.”

“Pssh!” Teddy flaps a hand. “You read an article.”

“Um, she's right,” Ron pipes up from behind one of the laptops. He flips it around and there, on the screen, is The Daily Planet logo, accompanied by the headline: He Speaks with the Fishes! An Interview with the King of the Sea and, in much smaller letters below: By Clark Kent. “Aquaman uses a very specific frequency to communicate with aquatic lifeforms.”

Teddy and Wendy stare at Kara.

“I told you,” she says. “An article.”

That Kara doesn't seem very enthused by the Kryptonite glass project is presumed to have more to do with the rather boring 'glass' aspect of the project.

Because it's not like it could be the 'Kryptonite' part. Come on.

“So we're trying to get a contract with this company out in Central City,” Teddy's saying. Somehow, they've all ended up in the cafeteria downstairs. Emily's not complaining—the whole visit has gone remarkably well.

“Oh yeah?” Kara takes a bite of her sandwich, making sure to chew and swallow before she continues. “I have a friend out in Central City!”

“Have they ever seen the Flash in action?” Wendy leans forward. Kara coughs.

“Erm. Well.”

“You know...” Now all three of them are leaning forward, dropping their voices conspiratorially. Emily laughs.

“Guys...” she says, but they won't be deterred.

“Ron's pretty sure he knows Flash's true identity.”

Kara takes another bite of her turkey on rye.

“Yeah?”

Ron doesn't bother with a dramatic pause—it's just not his style. “It's Bruce Wayne!”

Kara chokes on her sandwich.

“You'll have to excuse them,” Emily tells Kara, once they've all finished their lunch. “They've got a ton of superhero conspiracy theories.”

“Can you really blame us?” Ron asks.

Kara considers their place of work. “Well, no, I guess not...”

“They thought our co-worker was a superhero. Just because he'd suddenly vanish anytime there was some sort of disaster,” Emily shakes her head, recalling the recent fiasco.

“O-oh, you guys...noticed that?” Kara shifts her weight from foot to foot.

“Of course we did! It was so obvious,” Ron tells her. “In fact, I'm still not entirely convinced he isn't a superhero.”

“Ron, we've been through this,” Wendy says with a long-suffering sigh. “The test results proved he wasn't a superhero.”

“Test results?” Kara pipes up.

“Wendy...” Emily isn't sure how to phrase this, actually. “She applied some...force?”

“She hit him with a chair,” Ron blurts.

“Very scientific,” Teddy says.

Emily's shaking her head as Kara eyes the group of Wayne Security employees with obvious confusion. “...And this...disproved the theory...how?”

“See, if he was a superhero,” Teddy begins.

“He would've broken the chair.” Ron states with a firm nod. Wendy smiles pleasantly.

“But the chair broke him instead.”

“Well what if he was just faking?” Ron challenges. “A superhero would know about the chair rule, and would totally fake an injury to protect their secret identity,” he turns to Kara. “Right?”

Kara throws up her hands. “Pffft, why would I—I certainly wouldn't—” she clears her throat. “A-hrm. I...I wouldn't know. Nope. Not me.”

He gives her an odd look. “...It was...more of a rhetorical question.”

Emily eventually has to put an end to the socializing—she feels bad about it, truly, but there is work to be done, and she's pretty sure Kara could keep these guys talking for hours yet.

“It was so nice to meet you all,” Kara tells them. Ron ducks his head bashfully, while Wendy and Teddy respond with variations of 'I know.'

“And so great to meet you, Kara,” Emily says, flashing an annoyed look at two thirds of her team before smoothing over her frown. “Again, sorry about Mr. Wayne's...sudden...cousin emergency...”

“Oh, no worries,” Kara says, gathering her things. “I...know how that goes, actually.”

“Still, I feel like—”

Emily's response is interrupted by a sudden flurry of beeps. The entire group is startled.

“Um. What's...?” Kara starts to ask. Teddy huffs.

“That's Ron's Jack-O-Lert.”

“...A jack of what now?”

“The Jack-O-Lert!” Emily cries. And again, she could kiss Ron, because she's been so preoccupied with making sure the visit goes off without a hitch, that she hasn't thought to talk about the company's most recent success. “It tracks one of Charm City's most troublesome villains using a very specific odor—”

“Wait—like that thing Batman uses?” Kara asks. “...Did you guys steal this from him?”

“Batman stole it from us!” Ron says.

“We should move away from the windows now,” Teddy says as the beeping grows louder.

“Oh, yeah.” Emily says, and promptly shoves Kara to the floor.

(Which is a lot harder than it looks—the girl is solid. Like a brick wall.)

The windows explode in a spray of broken glass mere seconds later, and the entire office groans.

“Not again.”

“Ow?”

“Someone call Janice.”

“It's just a flesh wound.”

Manic cackling follows shortly thereafter as Jack O’ Lantern streaks across the sky. Emily cautiously peeks over the nearest desk.

“Sorry about this,” she mutters to Kara. “But, hey, it's not a true Charm City visit until you've seen the—”

“She's not here,” Wendy says.

“...What?”

“Said she had a severe pumpkin allergy and took off towards the elevators,” Wendy explains further. Emily glances behind her and, sure enough, the reporter is missing in action.

“...Oh,” Emily frowns. “That's...really weird, actually.”

“And that's insensitive,” Ron lightly reprimands her.

As he says it, a muffled 'boom' sounds from outside the shattered windows. Almost like...a jet, breaking the sound barrier.

“Oh my God,” Ron breathes. He's on his knees, looking over the adjacent desk. “Oh my God.”

“What, what?!” Teddy scrambles to look past him.

Emily follows his line of sight and gasps.

“Oh my God!”

“It's Supergirl,” the entire office seems to yelp in unison.

An A-List superhero.

In Charm City!

“SOMEONE TAKE A PICTURE!” Teddy shouts.

And Emily smiles fondly, remembering her first day in the city, when an entire train full of commuters couldn't be bothered to even look at the superhero battle outside.

Nice to know there was still some wonder left in the world.

“I can't believe Kara's missing this,” Emily says, fumbling for her own phone. Teddy waves her off.

“Aw, she's from National City, she probably sees Supergirl all the time.”

The heroine in question grabs the super villain and hurls him...up and away from the buildings.

Emily's never seen a superhero do that before.

As he tumbles back down, Supergirl grabs him again and Emily's pretty sure she hears some faint, terrified screaming coming from the man. The duo disappears from sight as Supergirl flies off with the apprehended Jack O’ Lantern, and the office breaks out into riotous applause.

“That was amazing!” Ron says.

“A shame Kara missed it,” Teddy adds.

“Missed what?” Kara asks, a little breathless, fidgeting slightly with her cardigan.

The group regards her with surprise; they hadn't noticed her return.

“Supergirl showed up to take down Jack O’ Lantern,” Ron fills her in. “And stuff like that never happens here.”

“Well, okay, stuff like that actually happens all the time. But! Never with an A-Lister like Supergirl,” Teddy amends. Kara grins.

“Supergirl's an A-Lister?”

“Duh.”

They make sure to share the video with Kara before she leaves, not caring one iota that this is probably small potatoes to a National City resident, such as herself.

She assures them that it's very exciting, really, and she's thrilled to see that Supergirl's popularity isn't limited to one county.

One of the other employees overhears the conversation as they begin sweeping up the broken glass. “Are you kidding?” she interjects. “Supergirl's awesome.”

If anyone notices that Kara's face goes a bit pink at that, they don't say anything.

And then it's time for true goodbyes. Mercifully, these aren't interrupted by any supervillains.

Kara promises the write up will be ready by next month's edition, and Emily promises to get Van to send some sort of apology.

The troublesome trio are devastated to see her go.

“She was so interested in our research...” Teddy says with a wistful air.

“Yeah, that was cool, right?” Emily says.

Jackie wanders over, another cup of black coffee in hand.

“Did Supergirl leave already?”

Emily furrows her brow at the question.

“Yes?” she looks around at the ruined office. “...That was at least twenty minutes ago, Jackie.”

“Not the fight,” Jackie says without missing a beat. “I mean did the reporter leave.”

“Kara?”

“That's what I said.”

“You said Supergirl,” Ron crosses his arms.

Jackie narrows her eyes, and raises her coffee mug to gesture at the four of them. “...Because Kara is Supergirl,” she says. Slowly, of course, like they won't understand, otherwise.

“What?”

“Oh, come on!”

“Don't be ridic—” Emily starts to say, but.

It...is a little...coincidental...that an A-List superhero—who's never visited Charm City before—shows up on the same day as a reporter from National City.

A reporter who was very interested in civilian safety.

And who seemed to know an awful lot about various big-name superheroes.

All four of them are replaying the reporter's visit in their minds, synapses firing and dots being connected.

“Oh...my...God,” Ron breathes.

Jackie snorts.

“Like anyone was fooled by that pair of glasses,” she shakes her head, sipping her coffee and striding away. “That stuff only works in comic books.”

#stranger writes #supergirl fic #powerless fic #crossover #kara danvers #emily locke #let's pretend they're all in the same universe

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 5 years ago

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum VI

CW: Murder, blood, vomit, starvation, fear, attempted suicide, police brutality, maiming, abject poverty, foul language, ableism, hopelessness, despair, references to medical experiments, war, battle, death, and war crimes

“Quantities, and the ratios of quantities, which in any finite time converge continually to equality, and before the end of that time approach nearer the one to the other than by any given difference, become ultimately equal.” – Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Sara felt a brief euphoria, like drunkenness but momentary. It was when she saw the body of the soldier, the look of shock on his face, his gaping mouth filling with rainwater, his spilling blood clouding the water around him a sanguine hue, the gun in her trembling, blood-soaked hands, they all pointed to the inescapable truth that, one way or another, her life was over. The moment ended with shouting, although she couldn’t make out the words. She looked over to the girl prostitute she had recklessly defended and saw her petrified, her soldier assailant fleeing the scene, hastily pulling up his pants as he ran. As soon as the soldier disappeared around the corner, the girl fell to her knees and vomited her latest meager meal, adding a soup of half-digested synthetic protein and simple carbohydrates in a gastric acid base to the growing puddle of rainwater, filth, and blood stewing in the alley. Sara would probably have done the same if she had eaten anything that day.

She couldn’t stay here. She had just killed a member of the Realizador class – someone who contributed to society, unlike her – and that was something the military could never forgive. She started to run – it didn’t matter where, as long as it was far enough away so that the soldiers wouldn’t find her when they began searching the area for a scapegoat. This was one of those incredibly rare moments when being a life-long street rat was advantageous – to the army, she’d look no different from any of the millions of other Probs living in the “rehab ward” slums around Minneapolis. She could even keep the gun for herself, to defend herself or intimidate others, or even sell it for a good price. If they can’t find her, then how could they find the gun she stole? She turned one corner, ran into the crowd at the Martian charity clinic, and snuck around to the supply shed, where she rooted around for something to clean the blood off of her hands. She had seen the doctors use disposable wet towels to clean up body fluids before, but all of these boxes looked the same to her. Maybe the words printed on them would help, if only Sara could read them. Her search was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a spotlight patch illuminating the area in front of her. She heard the familiar shouting of men, and knew that they had found her. She had to find a safe place to hide, and quickly. Abandoning the search for towels, Sara ran down another alley and ducked into a housing block. These crumbling concrete edifices, which were centuries old, were mass-produced dormitories half the size of a city block, and were notable for having no aesthetic value at all. Each built to house nearly 3,500 people, they were invariably overcrowded and often housed twice that number. She could lose them here. She did her best to blend in with the wretched masses packing the corridors, and began to negotiate her way to the roof – she knew that they’d have a rain catchment tank or something she could wash her hands with. She could hear commotion from behind her, and she saw an army patrol enter, searching for anything suspicious. One of them turned in her direction and beckoned his teammate to follow him as he made his way towards her. She tripped and stumbled away from them toward the nearest staircase, which unfortunately drew their attention. Scrambling up the stairs over the bodies of the unconscious indigents littered along the walls in her bid to escape, she could hear more shouting from all around her. She had to keep going. The staircase ended on the fifth floor without leading to the roof. She knew that there was a separate rooftop access staircase in the middle of the hallway – these housing blocks were all the same. The rooftop staircase was usually hidden behind a locked door, but with any luck it would be like the block she lived in, where the door lock had been broken for longer than anyone could remember. She ran down the corridor. The door was locked. Fuck! She considered using her new gun to shoot it open, but she didn’t know how many bullets she had left, and she had no way to get more. Still, the gun was heavy – maybe she could use it as a hammer. She gripped her gun by the barrel and she swung it downward with both hands as hard as she could, striking the handle with percussive force. It took the liberal application of centrifugal force to break the lock, but she was able to duck inside and close the door before the soldiers came up the stairs. Opening the door at the top of the staircase was easy – these doors opened from the inside – and she was on the roof in no time. The rain had worsened, leaving Sara drenched in the deluge. She ran to the edge, toward the building’s counterpart on the same block. She rubbed her hands, using the rain to wash them clean while she looked for a way across. She saw the utility umbilical pipes that connected the two buildings – stout steel superstructure that was big enough for her to cross it to the other side. She started to traverse the makeshift bridge. The door she exited through opened with a crash, and soldiers began to rush out, shouting. She had to hurry. A few steps into this hastened pace, and the slickness of the rain made her slip and fall onto the pipes. That was close. If she had fallen off, it would have been a 15-meter drop onto solid concrete. She scrambled up onto all fours and hastened her flight across the bridge. More spotlight drones rose above the lip of the housing blocks, shining their blinding white gazes onto the rooftops and onto her. The rooftop access door on the other building slammed open, kicked by another soldier who was the first of many to come through. She ran over to the HVAC outlet to get away from the soldiers. She could get to the drain pipe on the other side of the building and slide down it to the ground, where she could finally disappear. Before she could get there, the deafening buzz of an army hovercraft heralded its descent to a graceful few meters’ suspension above the building. The side doors opened, and thick black ropes whipped to the floor. More soldiers rappelled down from above, denying her even that avenue of escape. With a precipice to her back, the soldiers surrounded her in a semicircle – black armored menacing men with enclosed black helmets aimed their submachine guns at her, red beams of laser light projecting from next to the barrel. They kept shouting at her in English, French, and Spanish, although she couldn’t make out the words. This was how her life was going to end – death from a hundred gunshots and thrown onto concrete from a five story drop. She was going to die just as wretchedly as she had lived. That is, unless she had anything to say about it. There was only one way out. She pulled out her gun, and in a final, grand gesture of defiance, she pressed the barrel up to her temple. Fuck you, Federales, she thought, You won’t get the satisfaction of killing me, motherfuckers! She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Fuck. The soldiers took a step forward. She was out of bullets. There was no way out. No one who was taken by the army had ever been known to return, and most people believed that they were just taken out somewhere and shot. She screamed in disappointment, despair, frustration, and rage as she threw the gun away and turned to jump off the roof. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she began to leap to her death. She heard some little pops above the buzz of turbofans and the hammer blows of raindrops, and then several sharp, cutting pains in her legs as bullets struck her flesh and bones. One of her feet caught on the lip of the building. She tripped and fell, cracking her head on the wall, and spent the next eternal second and a half tumbling to her sundering rendezvous with the ground. The impact made everything hurt – apparently God would deny her even a death from a fall of five stories. How cruel of Him, that dick. One of her legs was bent in a way it wasn’t supposed to be, and she could see a jagged bone sticking through the skin and muscle of her left arm. She couldn’t move her head, and her right arm was completely limp. It was hard to breathe – she felt stabbing pains with every breath, and she kept weakly coughing up blood. There was a lot of blood all around her, and she felt her strength fade. It was getting harder for her to keep her eyes open, not that there was much for her to look at. All she could see was her mangled arm and a growing pool of thick, red liquid that smelled like iron. She was getting cold. Her vision grew darker and blurry. Yet somehow, she felt more at peace than she had ever felt in her life. She began to drift off. This was nice.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Sara was jolted awake when the Earth Forces guards tossed her into the holding cell, and she hit her head on the cold metal deck. She heard the door slide shut behind her, and she began to pick herself up, still trying to get a handle on her sense of reality. She looked up and saw the ebony giant from before – Tallen, she thought his name was. “‘Sup,” Tallen said after a pause. Sara got back up to her feet and staggered her way to one of the cots and collapsed. She was so desperately tired. “How did your interrogation go?” Tallen asked her. “I’ve been better,” Sara replied, “Mostly they kept telling me that y’all are Martian terrorists.” “I don’t know about terrorists,” Tallen said off-handedly, “but we are definitely a Martian ship. Sorry you got dragged into all this.” “They’d probably have interrogated me just for surviving if you hadn’t come along,” Sara grumbled, “I’ve been in trouble with the law since the day I was born.” “Is that why you were in the station’s brig?” he asked. “Naw,” Sara dismissed, “it’s ancient history.” Tallen scoffed. “What are you laughing at?” Sara muttered. “Just that you’d describe something that couldn’t have happened more than fifteen years ago as ‘ancient history,’” he replied. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Just that you’re far too young to be talking like that.” Sara rolled over onto her side to face Tallen. “‘Too young?’” she asked, “You don’t look much older than 50.” “In fact, I turn 72 next month,” Tallen answered, “In Earth years, that’s about 134.” “You’re fucking with me,” Sara said in disbelief, “Nobody lives that long!” “On Mars, human life expectancy is 177 Earth years,” Tallen explained, “I’ve had biological and cybernetic modifications that, among other things, gives me an extended lifespan.” “How long?” “I don’t really know,” Tallen sighed, “I might live for centuries, maybe even see the dawn of the next millennium. When I had these mods, the scientists who changed me were more concerned with enhancing my physical capabilities than my lifespan. It’s my advanced regeneration system that’s greatly slowed my aging.” “Why did they do that to you?” Sara asked, curious. “It was war,” Tallen said, “I wasn’t much older than you are now when I was converted into a supersoldier. The Colony Wars had ground to a bloody stalemate – even with Mars’ technological advantage and the resources of the outer planets, Earth’s overwhelming manpower and industrial war machine made every colony assault a meat grinder that usually resulted in the colony’s destruction – not unlike how your colony died – and we needed a way to make our troops the most effective we could. That’s when a noted biotechnology researcher, Dr. Mireille Louvois, proposed what would become known as the Louvois Enhanced Operator Project – to improve the physical and mental capabilities of our soldiers through the use of synthetic hormones, cybernetic implants, the installation of artificial organs, advanced psychological conditioning, and other, more esoteric methods.” “That sound fucking awful,” Sara said. “When you consider that when shooting inside a space colony, you’re guaranteed to hit something,” Tallen replied, “it’s better to make sure that you hit your target instead of something fragile like life support equipment.” “Right.” “I was one of the first three hundred servicemen who volunteered for the procedure,” Tallen continued, “After three months of surgery and drills, pretty much all that was left of our old identities was our names, but we proved to be unstoppable on the battlefield. “Are all Martian soldiers like you?” Sara asked. “No,” Tallen replied bitterly, “It turned out that the most effective way to counter our battle prowess was to put us in the position of having to commit war crimes in order to accomplish our objectives, and once the Earthers figured that out, that’s exactly what happened at the Battle of Challenger City.” Sara was aghast. “What the fuck did you do?” she whispered. “The Earth Forces entrenched themselves in the main habitat, and had fortified positions throughout the cratered terrain in the Taurus-Littrow Valley, with heavy artillery in Camelot and Henry Craters,” Tallen recounted, “STRATCOM ruled that a ground assault with the entire LEO corps was the best plan – once we were inside the city, we’d be safe from their artillery emplacements, and they would have to fight us in urban close quarters battle, where we had the mobility and firepower advantage. “We landed in Mare Serenitatis and negotiated our way south, through the Sculpted Hills under the blinding cover of daylight. When the time to attack came, our supporting ship, the destroyer Ibn Al-Hazan, was intercepted by Earth Forces strikers and missed its scheduled bombardment pass. The enemy shelling began after we advanced down into the valley. We took heavy casualties in the three kilometer charge toward the city – out of the 2048 of us who landed, 430 of us were killed or incapacitated before we got close enough for their artillery to stop firing for fear of hitting the city, but we were able to reach their outer defense perimeter and break through into the industrial sector. Fighting factory-to-factory took its toll, but we made our way through to the main habitat and began to secure it room-by-room. “We should have known that it was a trap the minute we saw that the hab hadn’t been evacuated. When we took the Cernan Promenade, all hell broke loose. A concentrated artillery barrage from outside the colony shattered the pressure dome and rained fire upon everything inside the habitat.” Sara was appalled at the gruesome tale that was unfolding. “The captain gave the order to take cover,” Tallen continued, “but there was nowhere to go except into the residential blocks we had just cleared. We told ourselves that we weren’t using the colonists as human shields because they would be dead from space exposure in seconds anyway, but I can still vividly recall the look on the face of the young Selenite mother as she cradled her dead infant in her arms – weary despair, her eyes asking me, ‘Why? Why did my child have to die?’ The truth was that we were hiding behind innocent bystanders in an attempt to survive the shelling, but not even that stopped the enemy – despite all their hue and cry about the civilian casualties in that battle, it was obvious to anyone who bothered to look that the Earth Forces didn’t give a shit about 25,000 Selenites – the shelling continued for hours, wearing us down and keeping us from moving elsewhere. “Fortunately for us, the Al-Hazan began its next counter-bombardment pass, destroying the artillery sites in Henry, Emory, Trident, Shakespeare, Van Serg, and Horatio Craters. The Al-Hazan’s supporting fire bought us the time we needed to regroup and retake lost ground, only to take fire from enemy rifle teams and mortars positioned on the cupola of the dome. “It took us 15 hours to break out and completely take the city,” Tallen concluded, “By then, little of the city was left standing and half of the population was dead. On our side, all that remained of our assault force was 359 LEOs. In addition to the civilian casualties, the Al-Hazan’s space bombardment also destroyed the Apollo 17 landing site, which was a cultural heritage site for the Earthers as well as the Selenites. Instead of liberating Challenger City from the Earthers, we ended up destroying it. United Earth’s propaganda machine spun the battle as a massacre of innocent civilians at the hands of Mars’ inhuman supersoldiers – monstrous butchers who place no value on human life and who slaughter without remorse. The Louvois enhancement technique was banned as a concession to end the war, and we’ve had to live with what we had to do back then ever since.” “I… I-I don’t know what to say,” Sara said, breathless. “Of course, the fact that they were officially an Earth colony didn’t mean that they’d help rebuild it,” Tallen appended, “In fact, a point of contention in the post-war colony affiliation negotiations was whether or not Challenger City should go to Mars, given how many resources we had dedicated to rebuilding it while Earth refused to lift a finger to help them.” “That’s awful nice of Mars to help an Earth colony like that,” Sara remarked, “Your people must have sacrificed a lot.” “It pushed the terraforming project back 46 sols,” Tallen dismissed, “I don’t think anyone but the admin cyphonts even noticed the difference. No one’s deprived on Mars.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Poverty, like what’s on Earth, doesn’t exist on Mars,” Tallen explained, “It’s a core part of Martian culture to make sure that everyone gets to make the most of their lives.” Sara didn’t quite know whether to believe him. “What,” Sara began, trying to put her limited vocabulary to work articulating her question, “What if their lives aren’t worth that much?” “Then we help them do better,” Tallen replied calmly, “Mars doesn’t leave anyone behind. We’ve even improved on Louvois’ neurochip technology and now everyone uses it to compensate for poor natural intelligence and to augment it even further.” “You mean they can make people smarter?” Sara asked in disbelief. “The human brain uses electrical impulses to make connections between neurons,” Tallen explained, “A few million of those synapses fire in the right order, and suddenly you remember a moment of happiness, or you figure out the solution to a problem, or you learn something new. Neurochip implants make that process faster and more efficient, although there are physical limits on how much the brain can be upgraded before it stops being a cognitive organ and becomes a computer system with wetware processing components. It’s a limitation we haven’t yet overcome.” “And everyone on Mars has them?” Sara asked. “All except for very small children,” Tallen answered, “Why, are you interested?” “No way,” Sara said nervously, “I can’t imagine being smart like you people!” “Suit yourself,” Tallen said as he reclined back onto his cot, “I suppose you have all kinds of prospects for your future…” Sara knew she didn’t have any. Her life was over. The door opened, and an Earth Forces soldier shoved Jon into the holding cell. “You know, I would have left voluntarily!” he shouted as the door slammed shut behind him. “That had to be the worst case of intellect envy I’ve ever seen, mattaku!” Jon ranted before plopping down onto a cot by the door, “By the way, Tallen, I might have let slip an insinuation about your knick-knack collecting hobby.” “Damn,” Tallen joked, “They know about my spacer trunk full of Magical Space Princess Hoshi-chan memorabilia. You really screwed the pooch this time, skipper!” “Meh,” Jon muttered, “I’m only human, you know.” The door slid open again, and an Earth Forces soldier tossed Misty into the cell. Jon leapt out to catch her, but only ended up breaking her fall onto the cold metal floor. “Are you all right, Misty?” Jon asked. “I’ll live,” Misty answered, “somehow.” Captain Kaur entered, followed by her Filipino yeoman. “I must protest the treatment we have received,” Jon said angrily, “This woman here is a Spaceborn – her body can’t handle this gravity unassisted!” “It couldn’t be helped, Commander Orvar,” Kaur said dismissively, “This is an Earth ship, after all.” “Enough with the bullshit, Senior Captain Whatsyourface,” Jon growled as he struggled to get Misty to her feet, “We’re in a spin gravity section – I can feel the Coriolis motion. You could have slowed our rotation by half as a consideration to our physiotypes. Why didn’t you?” “I suppose that if we were on Earth, you’d ask us to turn off the gravity, or something equally preposterous,” Kaur countered, “Regardless, this is not the reason why I am here. I am Senior Captain Aisha Kaur, commander of the Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan, and I am here to deliver the terms of your release.” Another Earth Forces soldier ushered Ayane into the cell. She was gently seated onto the other cot near the door. “First,” Kaur dictated, “the freighter Manju Ray and its crew will take Ayane Miyamoto aboard and immediately proceed to Grimaldi Station. You will deactivate the artificial intelligence system installed aboard and navigate under expert system control only. You will not reactivate it until your ship is further than 1.5 million kilometers distance from the Earth as measured by Earth Defence ranging lasers. The Earth Orbital Defence Grid reserves the right to acquire a target lock if your vessel does anything suspicious, such as disregarding space traffic control orders. “Second, you will not take on any new cargo while within Earth-controlled space, and upon departing from Grimaldi Station, you will immediately set course for Mars by way of the EML-3 high eccentricity orbit vector, and you will not enter the Earth Sphere again until February 1st, 2298. “Third, you will, at the earliest opportunity, inform your government that further incursions into our territory by artificial intelligence systems will no longer be tolerated by the United Earth Peacekeeping Service, and that in future, any artificial intelligence systems discovered in Earth-controlled space will be dismantled and their human operators imprisoned for a time chosen at our discretion. Is that understood?” Tallen raised a finger. “I assume that since you’ve had a chance to look over Manju Ray’s systems,” he asked sarcastically, “you’re aware that it’s impossible to turn her off?” Kaur ignored Tallen’s insolence with practiced poise and lady-like grace. “And before you offer any other ‘solutions,’” Tallen continued, “she’s been integrated into the ship’s systems since 01 Sagittarius 176 After Satellite, immediately after her hull was completed. This makes it impossible to disconnect her CLC from ship’s systems. It would be like extracting your brain and expecting your body to just walk out the door.” “With that in mind,” Jon interjected, “I must ask that I not be required to irreparably damage my ship, and in exchange, I will conduct all maneuvers in the Earth Sphere under hands-on flight control.” “Granted,” Kaur agreed, “I’m aware of how important your automatons are to you Martians.” “I doubt it,” Jon said with taciturn stoicism, “but I appreciate your willingness to compromise.” “Well,” Kaur concluded, “we still have some preparations to make before you can get underway. You will remain here until further notice.” She turned about-face and marched out of the cell, her yeoman in lockstep behind her.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Misty had been watching Sara for several hours, and she could almost feel her fear, despair, and anxiety regarding her future from clear across the holding cell. It was such a powerful sensation that she hurt in sympathy.

“Anata,” Misty whispered to Jon in the next cot, “could you please help me over to that cot over there?” She weakly gestured in Sara’s general direction.

“As you wish, dear,” Jon answered. He pulled himself upright and climbed to his feet, wavering slightly as he adjusted to the motion of the room. He took Misty’s hand, pulled her upright, put his other arm around her waist to support her weight, and lurched over to Sara’s cot.

“Pardon me,” Misty asked Sara, “may I please sit with you?”

Sara looked up at her absently.

“Why?” Sara asked.

“You seem like you could use a friend,” Misty replied with a wan smile, “Also, the one with whom I’m married is getting tired from carrying me all this way, and he could use a rest.”

Sara grunted affirmatively. Jon carefully let Misty down next to her, and Misty promptly collapsed onto Sara’s shoulder. Sara shied away slightly at first, but relaxed a little at the softness of Misty’s touch.

“Was that unwelcome?” Misty asked her, “I can lean on something else, if you prefer.”

“No, it’s cool,” Sara muttered.

“What’s the matter?” Misty asked, “You’re so very tense.”

“Call it a lifestyle,” Sara said with feigned strength, “You live like I have, and it just becomes part of you.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Misty said tenderly, “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Why do you care?” Sara asked.

“Kākou,” Misty replied.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a form of love, as described by my people’s Earth-bound ancestors, the Hawaiians,” Misty explained, “Kākou is the love that says, ‘we are all in this together.’ It’s an important kind of love for living in space.”

“‘All in this… together?’” Sara mulled, “I think I’d like that.”

“You’ve never felt that way before?” Misty asked.

“No,” Sara replied with a hint of sadness in her voice, “I haven’t. I’ve always been alone.”

Misty was also saddened at Sara’s words.

“My mother hanged herself when I was 5,” Sara recalled bitterly, “and I know that ‘cause she tried to take me with her. I still have nightmares where I can hear her neck snap before she drops me into the river. I killed a man in self-defense, and they caught me in 10 minutes flat. They could find me no matter where I ran, all ‘cause they were tracking that goddamn gun in my hands. No one’s ever made me feel like I mattered. I don’t know how it feels to be part of something, but I don’t really have anything to lose reaching for something better, do I?”

“How can I help you?” Misty asked again.

“I can’t go back to Earth,” Sara whispered, “They’ll execute me, or worse. And I don’t think they’ll send me to work at another colony, not after all this. My life is over. There’s no way out.”

“Do you want a way out?” Misty asked earnestly.

“There isn’t one,” Sara despaired, “I’m completely, royally fucked.”

“What if I told you there were?” Misty assured, “Would you take it?”

Sara turned her head to face Misty as much as she could.

“What do I have to do?” she asked Misty.

At that moment, the door to the holding cell opened, and two Earth Forces soldiers marched in, followed by Captain Kaur, who was followed by two more.

“It’s time,” Kaur declared, “Follow us, please.”

“I’m sorry for imposing on you like this,” Misty whispered to Sara, “but would you please be so kind as to carry me to the ship?”

“Okay,” Sara said. She got up in front of Misty, squatted, grabbed hold of Misty by the thighs, and then hoisted her up as she stood erect. Misty wrapped her arms around Sara’s shoulders, and they proceeded toward the exit.

In the time it took for Sara to honor Misty’s request, the others were already on their way out. Jon, Ayane, and Tallen passed through the threshold without incident. When it came to Sara and Misty’s turn, they were restrained by the guards.

“Not you,” Kaur ordered, “You are to be transferred to a different facility for further questioning.”

Jon, Tallen, Misty, and Sara were all shocked and appalled to hear the captain go back on her word like that.

“I demand to know why you intend to hold a member of my crew prisoner in violation of our agreement!” Jon barked resentfully.

“Not your wife, Commander Orvar,” Kaur clarified, “the other one.”

Misty could feel Sara’s knees shake and her heart quicken at this revelation. Even though Sara put on a brave face, Misty could tell that she was absolutely terrified.

“What should I do?” Sara whispered to Misty.

“Ask him,” Misty urged Sara, “Ask my captain the question.”

Sara fought to summon the courage to dare to hope that things could get better for her in this miserable world, this wretched existence forced upon her by a cruel and capricious God, or callous fate, or whatever cosmic force condemned her to a life of despair and futility without once giving her the chance to make something of herself. She had been lied to and cheated and betrayed and wounded too much to take someone at their word, and yet this 40-kilogram woman with a childlike body that she carried on her back was the most sincere person she had ever met, and somehow, she believed that this impossibly kind person genuinely wanted what was best for her.

Whether she asked and was denied, or didn’t ask at all, it would end the same anyway. But if she did ask, there was a chance, however small, that he might say yes.

That possibility was worth the risk.

“I…” she began, “I want to join your crew! Take me with you!”

Jon looked at Misty in disbelief. Misty smiled and nodded once. That one gesture told him all he needed to know.

“My original demand still stands,” Jon said to Kaur sternly, “Do you intend to hold a member of my crew prisoner, and if so, why?”

“This ‘crewmember,’ if you can call her that,” Kaur maintained, “is a convicted criminal. Her fate is none of your concern.”

“She’s a member of my crew, and I cannot leave her in your custody,” Jon argued, “If she is a criminal, she won’t be returning to this part of space for at least five Earth years, so what does it matter if she takes up prison space here or leaves with us?”

Kaur could see the logic behind his request, but knew that she’d have a difficult time justifying her personal desire to honor it.

“If it would help your decision-making process,” Jon offered, “I’m confident that I can have her rehabilitated. If it’s a matter of paperwork, I have a friend at the embassy who owes me a favor.”

“She’s a psychopathic murderer and a thief,” Kaur countered, “I doubt that Mars would be interested in taking on that burden.”

“Central to the Martian philosophy is helping people where we can, when we can,” Tallen chipped in, “After all, our government is still committed to providing civilian aid and resources for your environment and space construction projects despite your planet’s aggressive military buildup and gunship diplomacy policy.”

“Besides, she’s been in the same room as Tallen for the past 8 hours and hasn’t even tried to kill him yet,” Jon added.

“That’s just ‘cause I haven’t inflicted my cooking on her yet,” Tallen quipped.

“All right, you’ve convinced me!” Kaur relented, “But I will be in contact with your embassy regarding this issue, and if Mars does not honour your request, I will expect her to be remanded to the custody of the local authorities without delay.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jon agreed, “Are we free to go on our way?”

“I insist,” Kaur ordered. The soldiers released Sara.

Sara turned to Kaur. “Why are you letting me go?” she asked.

“I have a daughter about your age,” Kaur answered maternally, “Unlike you, she has a future here on Earth. I’d like to believe that someone as young as you can still find a place where you belong.”

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adambstingus · 7 years ago

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The 5 Oddest American Trends That Other Countries Stole

America is the great melting pot. Generations upon generations of disparate cultures, all just stewing together in the tasty broth of freedom. That’s what made the country what it is today: A barren hellscape patrolled by Corporate Overbots, murderous brand-enforcement drones whose every thundering step sends fear into- Oh, sorry, that’s tomorrow. We skipped ahead a bit in the chronology. We meant to say, “That’s what made the country what it is today: a cultural powerhouse.” In fact, America Americas so hard that even other, less-American countries have to get in on this All-American action. Like …

North Koreans Hate America (But Love American Brands)

North Koreans are taught that everything wrong with the world — and especially everything wrong with North Korea — is solely the fault of America and the evils of capitalism. That’s why it’s so odd that, when French photographer Eric Lafforgue toured the country to capture a photographic essay of its people, he came back with pics like these:

Eric Lafforgue “Just Do It … Or You Go To Gulag.”

All across Pyongyang, Lafforgue encountered people sporting distinctly American corporate logos: Nike, McDonald’s, Mickey Mouse, and … Bart Simpson?

Eric Lafforgue Better to eat shorts than to eat nothing at all.

When asked about the products, citizens didn’t see any problem: They told Lafforgue that they were Chinese in origin. And that’s not entirely wrong — the vast majority of North Korea’s goods are imported from China, aka “America’s sweatshop.”

It doesn’t end at clothing: Here’s an obvious rip-off of America’s favorite soda, creatively relabeled “Cocoa Crabonated [sic] Drink.”

Eric Lafforgue GET CRABS.

After six successful trips to North Korea, and smuggling out hundreds of photos, Lafforgue was eventually banned from the country — whether for exposing its rampant poverty, its hypocritical love of Western products, or just to keep Coke from sending Copyright lawyers to Pyongyang, we simply do not know.

American Subcultures Never Die; They Just Retire To Japan

Japan has no shortage of unique subcultures, ranging from people who dress like dolls, all the way to people who dress like other, more disturbing dolls. But there’s plenty of America in that mix: Take, for example, Chicano Rap, coming at you straight from Tokyo (by way of East L.A., by way of Mexico). It all started when record label owner Shin Miyata became fascinated with everyone’s sixth favorite ’70s cop show, CHiPs, and the Chicano culture depicted therein. The subculture has since grown into a veritable phenomenon, complete with lowriders, black-and-white tattoos, and seriously on-point makeup.

They’re repping Eastside. No, farther east. Farther still …

Performers in the genre don’t mimic cholo lifestyle lightly — they full-on embody it, adopting entirely new identities like MoNa aka Sad Girl, El Latino, and GARCiA. But even Tokyo’s Cholos aren’t as dedicated as Tokyo’s Rockabillies.

This is revenge for Elvis’ “kimono” period.

Unlike America, where Rockabilly has been largely forgotten, the genre saw a huge resurgence in ’80s Japan, and it only grew in the ’90s. Now, on any given Sunday, you can find the Tokyo Rockabilly Club in Yoyogi park. Don’t worry, you can’t miss them: They’ll be the ones decked out in full leather, rocking out to the finest of the ’50s, and sporting duck’s ass hairdos you could — nay, should — ramp a DeSoto off of.

The line between “pompadour” and “anime lightning hair” is a fine one.

European “American Parties” Feature Red Solo Cups And A Million Calories

If Instagram is any indication, “American Parties” have taken Europe by storm, presumably landing at Normandy before sweeping south and to the east.

And you thought they hated us!

Everyone knows the only thing Americans love more than Old Glory and casual racism is fueling their ever-growing waistlines, so one of the most important aspects of an American party is the food: Sloppy Joes, hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, donuts, popcorn, French fries, soda, and anything else with at least a 500:1 calorie-to-nutrient ratio. But the single most important element of any American Party is, of course, the humble red Solo cup.

And their version of beer pong is somehow more American than ours.

As any ’90s teen comedy film can tell you, it is literally impossible to throw a party in the U.S.A. without red Solo cups. They’re so crucial to the experience that Europeans have taken to begging their U.S.-bound friends and relatives to bring back as many packs of them as their luggage can handle.

That’s presumably also how they smuggle in their party attire, because there’s simply no other way to dress so authentically American:

That cop is missing, like, three layers of riot gear.

Of course, there’s a thin line between authenticity and “wildly offensive.”

Actually, this is pretty authentic too.

Germans Have A Strange Obsession With Playing Indian

Adult Germans have an inexplicable obsession with playing Cowboys and Indians. Well, with the “Indians” part, anyway.

Hey, if your most memorable cultural stereotype was the Nazis, you might widen your net, too.

Actually, digging into it a bit, it may be more explicable than we first thought: When American soldiers liberated Berlin at the end of World War II, they were surprised to find that, just like the kids back home, German children loved to play at a romanticized version of the American Old West. This was largely due to the work of German author Karl May, who drew upon his vast experience of having once read The Last Of The Mohicans to pen a series of novels recounting the thrilling adventures of Old Shatterhand, a German immigrant to America who travels the plains with an Apache leader known as Winnetou.

Those books, in turn, inspired an immensely popular series of 1960s films, and that’s how you wind up with countless Germans — who already have a “thing” for nudity — citing authenticity as an excuse to barely cover their dongs with miniscule strips of leather.

“Hey, baby. Wanna help me use every part of the buffalo?”

Germany is host to hundreds of hobbyist clubs in which “thousands of Germans with an American Indian fetish drink firewater, wear turquoise jewelry and run around places like Baden-Wurttemberg or Schleswig-Holstein dressed as Comanches and Apaches.” These enthusiasts spend their weekends camping out in teepees, reenacting battles between tribes, giving themselves native-sounding names like “White Wolf” and “Great Eagle (but not the Nazi kind),” and just generally doing lots of things involving feathers.

“THIS IS SHAWNEE!”

Brazil Has An Annual Festival Honoring The American Confederacy

If you’re a shitty person looking to flee the consequences of your own shittiness, look no further than South America. You might think we’re referring to its notorious infestation of Nazi war criminals, but they were just following in the grand tradition of defeated racists before them …

Eighty years before the Nazis fled to the sun and fun of Brazil, at least 10,000 Civil War Confederates did the same. Today, their descendants, known as the Confederados, honor their Southern American roots every April at the Festa Confederada in — no shit — Americana, Brazil.

In direct contrast to literally everything you’d rightfully assume about it, the “Confederate Party” is actually a multi-ethnic celebration, where people of every skin color gather to eat fried chicken, dress in period-appropriate clothing, square dance, and remain entirely oblivious to the bigoted roots of the culture they’re celebrating.

“We were told it was about states’ rights and nothing else, yes?”

If anything, the celebration is actively anti-hate, with festival organizers instituting a gate check where burly bouncers filter out anyone displaying the SS, the swastika, the KKK insignia, or any other imagery commonly associated with white supremacy … the obvious exception being, you know, all the rebel flags.

Follow Alyssa on Twitter.

Also check out 5 Bizarre Subcultures Way Crazier Than Anything From Japan and 5 Insane Subcultures That Might Become The Next Hipster.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out Why Americans Suck At Partying, and other videos you won’t see on the site!

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/21/the-5-oddest-american-trends-that-other-countries-stole/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/168769089737

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samanthasroberts · 7 years ago

Text

The 5 Oddest American Trends That Other Countries Stole

North Koreans Hate America (But Love American Brands)

Eric Lafforgue “Just Do It … Or You Go To Gulag.”

All across Pyongyang, Lafforgue encountered people sporting distinctly American corporate logos: Nike, McDonald’s, Mickey Mouse, and … Bart Simpson?

Eric Lafforgue Better to eat shorts than to eat nothing at all.

It doesn’t end at clothing: Here’s an obvious rip-off of America’s favorite soda, creatively relabeled “Cocoa Crabonated [sic] Drink.”

Eric Lafforgue GET CRABS.

American Subcultures Never Die; They Just Retire To Japan

They’re repping Eastside. No, farther east. Farther still …

This is revenge for Elvis’ “kimono” period.

The line between “pompadour” and “anime lightning hair” is a fine one.

European “American Parties” Feature Red Solo Cups And A Million Calories

If Instagram is any indication, “American Parties” have taken Europe by storm, presumably landing at Normandy before sweeping south and to the east.

And you thought they hated us!

And their version of beer pong is somehow more American than ours.

That’s presumably also how they smuggle in their party attire, because there’s simply no other way to dress so authentically American:

That cop is missing, like, three layers of riot gear.

Of course, there’s a thin line between authenticity and “wildly offensive.”

Actually, this is pretty authentic too.

Germans Have A Strange Obsession With Playing Indian

Adult Germans have an inexplicable obsession with playing Cowboys and Indians. Well, with the “Indians” part, anyway.

Hey, if your most memorable cultural stereotype was the Nazis, you might widen your net, too.

“Hey, baby. Wanna help me use every part of the buffalo?”

“THIS IS SHAWNEE!”

Brazil Has An Annual Festival Honoring The American Confederacy

“We were told it was about states’ rights and nothing else, yes?”

Follow Alyssa on Twitter.

Also check out 5 Bizarre Subcultures Way Crazier Than Anything From Japan and 5 Insane Subcultures That Might Become The Next Hipster.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out Why Americans Suck At Partying, and other videos you won’t see on the site!

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/21/the-5-oddest-american-trends-that-other-countries-stole/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/12/21/the-5-oddest-american-trends-that-other-countries-stole/

0 notes

allofbeercom · 7 years ago

Text

The 5 Oddest American Trends That Other Countries Stole

North Koreans Hate America (But Love American Brands)

Eric Lafforgue “Just Do It … Or You Go To Gulag.”

All across Pyongyang, Lafforgue encountered people sporting distinctly American corporate logos: Nike, McDonald’s, Mickey Mouse, and … Bart Simpson?

Eric Lafforgue Better to eat shorts than to eat nothing at all.

It doesn’t end at clothing: Here’s an obvious rip-off of America’s favorite soda, creatively relabeled “Cocoa Crabonated [sic] Drink.”

Eric Lafforgue GET CRABS.

American Subcultures Never Die; They Just Retire To Japan

They’re repping Eastside. No, farther east. Farther still …

This is revenge for Elvis’ “kimono” period.

The line between “pompadour” and “anime lightning hair” is a fine one.

European “American Parties” Feature Red Solo Cups And A Million Calories

If Instagram is any indication, “American Parties” have taken Europe by storm, presumably landing at Normandy before sweeping south and to the east.

And you thought they hated us!

And their version of beer pong is somehow more American than ours.

That’s presumably also how they smuggle in their party attire, because there’s simply no other way to dress so authentically American:

That cop is missing, like, three layers of riot gear.

Of course, there’s a thin line between authenticity and “wildly offensive.”

Actually, this is pretty authentic too.

Germans Have A Strange Obsession With Playing Indian

Adult Germans have an inexplicable obsession with playing Cowboys and Indians. Well, with the “Indians” part, anyway.

Hey, if your most memorable cultural stereotype was the Nazis, you might widen your net, too.

“Hey, baby. Wanna help me use every part of the buffalo?”

“THIS IS SHAWNEE!”

Brazil Has An Annual Festival Honoring The American Confederacy

“We were told it was about states’ rights and nothing else, yes?”

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Also check out 5 Bizarre Subcultures Way Crazier Than Anything From Japan and 5 Insane Subcultures That Might Become The Next Hipster.

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from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/21/the-5-oddest-american-trends-that-other-countries-stole/

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