#this is also your sign to watch this is spinal tap

[undead-supernova]

I'll Pay the Price, You Won't.

And All at Once / Masterlist

Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

plot: your first song about Eddie is about to drop, leaving you nervous about how he'll react

Pairings: modernrockstar!Eddie x fem!popstar!Reader (curvy!reader, bisexual!reader)

Warnings: a very real conversation about drug addiction and familial death, smoking

wc: 5k

The guy on the screen was uncanny.

         “It's very, very special. Because if you can see, the numbers all go to 11. Look, right across the board. 11, 11, 11, 11."

         "And most of these amps go up to 10."

It was one of the band members of the fake band Spinal Tap, clad in a black cut-off tee with a neon green print of a ribcage. Black jeans. Shaggy brown hair with bangs. A cigarette hanging from his mouth. Surrounded by a dozen guitars.

It was as if Eddie had been cloned with a hair straightener.

“You look just like that,” you murmured, glancing over at him.

He rolled his eyes, not even bothering to look at you. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do,” you argued. “You wear the tightest leather pants I’ve ever seen. And that shirt? The cig?”

         "...you're on 10 on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?"

         "I don't know."

         "Nowhere. Exactly."

“Yeah, but I don’t think I look like that.”

“Maybe not, but you do look like that. And you act like them, too. Don’t make me pull up Wayne’s World either.”

         “Why don't you just make 10 louder, and make 10 be the top number, and make that a little louder."

         "These go to 11."

He burst into laughter. Whether it was at you or the joke on the screen, you couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter to you. His wild laugh was, to put it simply, everything.

“Okay, maybe I do.”

You loved him.

God, you loved him so damn much and you wanted to tell him over and over again. Drown him in your love and affection, get your sticky, glittery goo smeared all over his tattooed arms. Spread it all over him so that he never went a day without it.

But you stayed quiet in loving him despite being on his arm. Despite the photos and the TikTok stitches and the Instagram reels. The Tumblr communities that speculated what you talked about and how you would navigate arguments based off your respective star signs. But never once did you tell him that you loved him. 

It was obvious. Maybe it didn’t need to be said.        

Even if your new single was going to drop in the next few weeks and it was absolutely, positively about how much you fucking loved him.

Eddie had begged you to let him listen to it, but you were too scared. It was a pop song for Christ’s sake, and you didn’t want him to think it was cheesy or stupid or, you know, not good. You’d caught him listening to your music sometimes, so you knew he didn’t hate your sound. But there was always that possibility…

It was on your mind tonight while watching This Is…Spinal Tap on his couch, Oz and Puppet curled into each other on the other side. You leaned further into his side; legs pressed up to your chest. A fuzzy black blanket draped over you. 

“Tell me something true?”

Eyebrows furrowing, you looked at Eddie. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Why are you so scared about me hearing your song?”

You grew bashful. “Well, I mean… It’s about you.”

“And?”

“Well, what if you don’t think the lyrics are good? Or, like, you hate the music? Or you get embarrassed because of how bad it is?”

Eddie snorted. “Are you really that worried?”

“It’s not like it’s a ballad,” you explained, picking your nails under the blanket. “It’s like a fast-paced pop song. I mean, it’s literally called ‘Okay, Now Stop!’ It has an exclamation point at the end.” He chuckled. “The lyrics are very pointed but also vague, and I didn’t know if that would be okay, but now I can’t really change it. And I know it’s not the most poetic thing I’ve ever written. The label really wanted it to be the first single, but I’m nowhere near being done with the album—" 

Eddie interrupted you with a kiss, pulling your chin towards him with his pointer finger and thumb. You lost all sense of insecurity as he deepened it gently, basically swapping saliva as he nearly devoured your mouth.

When he finally pulled back, he gave you a swift peck. “I honestly don’t mind. I know you’re worried that we’ll cause more commotion, but this is your art, you know? You get to say what you want to say and it’s not your responsibility to tell people to butt the hell out and just enjoy the song. And if it’s fun, the lyrics don’t need to be poetic. Cut yourself some slack, sweetheart.” You nodded, knowing he was right. “When did you write it?”

“I wrote it around the time we first started running around.”

You weren’t expecting to see him smirk. “Oh, really?”

“It’s fun,” you said, more confident now. “I like dancing to it.”

“Then I’ll be there dancing with you.”

“I think I’d like that,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Eddie chased your lips again, hands moving of their own volition. And though the night was spent in pleasure, you were still stuck on this idea of failure. Not just from the fear of Eddie’s opinion, but the opinion of the world. And you knew, knew that you weren’t supposed to care. You weren’t supposed to let this stuff get to you anymore after almost losing him. 

And that’s how the guilt settled in your stomach at three in the morning. Because you knew that you still cared. Maybe you would always care.

It was strange, having everyone over at your hidden house.

Usually, it was empty, save for Eddie and Scott. An oasis to escape to whenever there was too much noise. However, tonight was too special, with your entire team and Corroded Coffin there. Even Becky, Este, and Mary had flown in for the special occasion despite finals coming up in the next few weeks. And they didn’t complain about it once, just excited that they got to see you. You could reciprocate the sentiment ten times over. 

Your lavish living room was decked out in decorations, pink and holographic silver streamers galore. Balloons getting tossed around and popped every so often. Grant and Jeff had provided the refreshments, supplying any empty space in the kitchen with liquor, beer, and mixers. Clara had gotten your favorite local restaurant in the city to cater for the evening, even going so far as to bring it all herself to uphold your privacy.  

Your last two albums played over the speakers despite your protests. Eddie had egged it on, poking your sides and telling you how much he loved everything you made. How you deserved to be celebrated, no matter how cliché it was. How you should be proud of your past as it was a part of your future. In the end, you knew he was right.

Everyone was dressed casually, your boyfriend wearing a beat-up Iron Maiden t-shirt with dark jeans and mismatched socks. Everyone’s heavy jackets sat near the back door just in case the party moved. It was November, after all. You’d tried to be just as casual, with a white long-sleeved crop top and jeans. For the first time in a while, you weren’t self-conscious about how different you both looked. If anything, it made you smile that much more.

And Eddie made it a point to move the furniture so the room could turn into a big dance floor, spinning you around to your own music as the night continued. “I’ll take that,” he’d say randomly, taking your drink and placing it on any stable surface before dragging you to dance.

“This is one of my favorites,” he’d add, but you couldn’t help but think he was lying after the third time. 

You were a chaotic pair, bumping hips and swing dancing as awfully as you could at the groans and protests of Jeff, Grant, Gareth, and Ronnie. In the end, they all joined in—Eddie just had to threaten demolish them in their campaign first. Then they suddenly had the urge to congregate and make fools of themselves. 

When you weren’t dancing, Eddie was still all over you, always touching you in some way. Stroking your back, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you spoke to his band. Your friends. Your entire team. Even Scott, which you thought was brave. 

He did it all and whenever you had a pause, his lips littered kisses on your cheeks.

It was still something to get used to. Because though the past stayed in the past, it was a rather usual feeling to be left to your own devices without your partner. Only a hidden shadow in the dark. They came to your events, sure. But they never came close for too long, always aware of pictures and gossip. You were the secret they were too ashamed to keep.

Eddie wanted nothing from you except to be yours.

And you couldn’t thank him enough for it.

“I think you should put it on now,” Este suggested, thirty minutes from the release. You tried to hide your smile. “It’s only fair.”

Clara shook her head. “Nope. No way.”

“Ah, come on,” Eddie said with a playful grin. “Don’t be a grinch! Especially this close to December.”

You giggled, detangling yourself from Eddie to approach her. Clasping your hands together, you mustered up the softest pout that you could. “Let me give everyone an exclusive.” Batting your eyes, you added, “Pretty please?”

Clara gave you a hard stare, clearly calculating whatever risk she saw before sighing. “Fine, but if something goes wrong, you’re to blame!”

Everyone cheered as you skipped over to your phone sitting on your bookshelf, still connected up to the speaker. Pausing the current song, you turned to face everyone.

“Okay! So, before I start this, I want to thank everyone for being here. It’s really lovely to see all the people I adore in one room. It’s an early Christmas miracle.” Your friends giggled. “And I know this is just the first single and we still have an album to finish, but the music I’m writing now,” your eyes flickered to Eddie before looking away, “is maybe the most important writing I’ve ever done. And I can’t wait for what comes next.” 

“A toast,” Eddie called out, causing all eyes to fall on him. “to one of the most talented women to ever walk the earth.” 

Murmurs of agreement sounded from the rest of the party. You bit your lip, trying not to let those flutters in your stomach overwhelm you. And as everyone took a sip, your eyes met Eddie’s, watching as he nodded at you. His smile emitted pride, raising his glass to you before sending a quick wink.

You nodded before pressing play and skipping back over to Eddie’s side.

The song started with you clearing your throat and saying, 

         “Okay, my pretty boy...now move!"

A trumpet wailed before the drums kicked in and the electronics filled the soundscape, an Eighties-inspired beat enveloping the room. Becky, Este, and Mary squealed and started dancing. You couldn’t help but giggle and move your shoulders to the beat.

You deliberately avoided Eddie’s gaze on you at the sound of you calling him a pretty boy. You knew you’d be too embarrassed. And though he didn’t try to directly catch your attention, you could tell he liked it by the way he squeezed your hand. Hopefully he’d keep that sentiment.

         “Would it be crazy to say how deeply I'm into you?

         Would you promise no games, 'cause I always lose."

You continued to feel Eddie’s stare, finally turning your head to find him raising his eyebrows at you. With a quick shrug, feigning nonchalance and secrecy, you decided to sway your hips along to the beat. You hadn’t been kidding when you said you loved dancing to it. 

         “Every day looked the same as the ones before.

         But you nursed your whiskey and said you wanted more."

As the beat built up and dropped into the chorus, you saw smiles on every face. Eddie was even tapping his foot along to the beat, every so often bumping into you on purpose. You held back your laughter.

         “Okay, now stop! Hear me knock!

         There's no hotel room I couldn't find my way into.

         Okay, now stop! Hear the clock!

         We're wasting time, here's to another long goodbye."

When you looked behind you, you noticed Gareth starting to head bang, giving you a thumbs up as the song hit a small instrumental. Ronnie was nodding along, something you didn’t expect. Past him, you noticed Scott watching you with a fond smile on his face. You returned it, sending him an air kiss. 

         “If this is fate, I confess to you that I don't mind.

         And if I ask for something true then please don't lie.

         Can you tell that I miss you whenever I'm away?

         There's only so much time, who knows what can change."

By the time the bridge came, some had latched onto singing along with the lyrics. You’d even caught Eddie trying to learn the melody immediately. It felt good, like all the worry you’d had before was washing away. You’d made this, confident in its production. You never needed to worry because you were proud of it. Sometimes you just forgot where you put your confidence.

“This is my favorite part,” you said quietly to Eddie, nudging him as it began.

         “Hey there! I confess! That there is now an Angel in my bed.

         Hey there! I confess! That I'm the Devil waiting in our bed.

         Okay, now stop!

         We're dancing dirty to The Beatles and the Stones.

         Okay, now stop!

         You're dancing pretty asking me to lead you home."

You put your fingers up, turning to Eddie and pointing to him. There’s a pause in the song before you scream,

         "And I DO!"

Everyone started whooping, the entire house shaking with the bass and the many bodies now dancing along to something you created. You got the same feeling as you did when you toured, always able to feed off the excitement of the audience. The energy, the rush of adrenaline.

It was as electric as Eddie’s touch on your waistline, aggressively nuzzling his face into your neck. It was as addicting as his presence, breath continuing to wash over your skin and into your lungs. 

It felt like magic.

“Baby,” Eddie whispered in your ear as you continued to sway. “I like it.”

You stopped, softening at his statement. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely. It’s cute and fun.” He kissed your ear. “I know every little thing you’re talking about. It’s actually kinda hot.”

“Even if it sounds desperate?” you wondered.

He shook his head into your neck once more before pulling back. “As if I wasn’t.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “You sure never acted like it.”

He shrugged, taking a step back before he moved some of his hair behind his ear. “Well, I had to keep my rizz intact.”

You couldn’t help but lightly smack his stomach, watching as he pretended to take a blow and almost fall over.

“I hate that you said that.”

“You love it,” he whispered, grabbing and pulling you back into his arms. You couldn’t help but laugh when he pretended to bite your neck.

“This is so good!” Jeff exclaimed as the song ended, interrupting your light bickering. You freed yourself from Eddie before hugging Jeff. “I just know the rest of the album is gonna go hard.”

“You think?”

Before he could respond, Scott was approaching you, a grin on his lips. He looked slightly cartoonish, his mustache lifting with his smile.

“Doin’ great, kiddo,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Doin’ great.”

Tears collected in your eyes at his words. Sniffling, you shook your head. “I bet you say that to everyone.”

“Not even close. You deserve it all,” he replied. “And I’m so proud of you for getting this far.”

In Scott’s face, you saw the beginning. When your father decided to treat you like a cash cow, Scott was there to treat you like a daughter. He kept you safe. But more than that, he was there when you needed him. He listened when you had to speak. Was there to cheer you on whenever you doubted yourself. Spoke up for you whenever anyone else doubted you. Made sure that no matter what, you had someone in your corner.

So, you pulled him into a tight hug. Buried your face into his shoulder as the world around you became a source of ease. There was nothing outside of this house tonight. No pictures. No receipts. No accusations. No need for armor. 

No, the rest of the world no longer existed. Not when everyone you held close was right there, living in this moment with you. 

“Why don’t we go out on the balcony?” Eddie asked, grabbing his jacket and your cardigan from the coat hanger.

You raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering around the room at everyone still dancing and drinking. It was midnight, but no one seemed to care. Least of all you and Eddie. 

“And leave the party?” you questioned.

“Yeah, come on,” he said, already starting to pull you towards the door. “I got a present for you.”

Something in you softened. “For me?”

And Eddie was damn near smirking as you pushed through the doors.

“Mhm. Come on, sweetheart.”

And so you did, draping the cardigan over your shoulders and slipping out the French doors. 

The balcony was something you’d spent real money on, always wanting something like it since you were a kid. There was the railing, all while Roman columns. The plotted flowers adorning every lining and every corner. The few benches overlooking the backyard. Land, with woods and everything, for as far as the eye could see. 

It was like your own little Victorian dream. 

Then there was the moon, waxing gibbous, high in the air and brighter here than anywhere else you’d ever been. Sometimes it reminded you of those trips you’d take to your grandparents’ house as a kid, far out in Nowhere, Tennessee. The extensive farmland, with lightning bugs and the low hum of crickets. The stars, the moon—so much closer and more tangible than you could ever fathom.

Though you couldn’t hear or really see anything like that here, it still felt like home to you. You made it feel like home.

“I know you don’t smoke as often as I do, but…” Eddie trailed, breaking the silence. He dipped into the front pocket of his jacket. “I made you something.”

You looked at him curiously as he placed something in your hand. It was a joint, but it wasn’t wrapped in normal paper. Was it even paper at all? In the low light, you noticed its maroon hue, the uneven texture.

“They’re rose petals,” he explained. “I actually made it myself. Pressed it and all that shit.”

You twirled it around in awe. The precision at which Eddie was able to roll a joint was astounding. Sure, it was due to years of practice, but it looked as clean as what you could find at any dispensary near your apartment in the city.

“I love it,” you said, biting your lip to hide your smile. Looking back into his eyes, you suppressed the urge to tell him just what else you loved.

And your pause did something to him, his eyebrow lifting as he waited for you to say something else. 

But you didn’t, the words lodging in your throat.

“Want me to light it?” he asked suddenly, shaking his head.

You peered at him curiously, wondering what he was thinking.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Once you’d gotten the smoke into your mouth, you could taste a slight tinge of something floral. It didn’t taste all that bad. Actually, it was nice. As you exhaled, you noticed the lack of a strong burn in your throat.

“That’s smooth,” you commented. “Did you use a fancy filter?”

“The fanciest.”

As you smoked, you leaned your head on his shoulder, breathing him in as much as you could. The high settled in soft and sweet, taking that high energy and molding it into something peaceful.

“Can I tell you something true?”

You nodded, leaning back. “Yeah, what is it?”

Eddie’s eyes met yours, all signs of humor fading from his face. “I’m really glad to have you in my life,” he said. His voice was lower now, more serious. Deliberate. “Everything is so shitty sometimes and having you through it all has been really…” he trailed, trying to find the right word before shrugging. “I don’t know. Just really something.”

“Me, too,” you said, your smile widening. “Sometimes I can’t believe that you’re not even listening to the world. And when you can’t avoid it, you’re able to just laugh at it. I haven’t seen someone do that before.”

“I just try not to take it all so seriously. If there’s three million people saying one thing but we're still living our lives, then eventually the joke is on them. Not us.” His smile returned then, just for you. “Plus, your laugh is just heavenly.”

“You really think so?” you asked, voice growing small.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I really do.” Eddie’s fingers cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. “With everything that I went through, with the drugs and Wayne and everything… I don’t know. It’s nice, not just to have a friend, but someone I can come home to and, like, cherish. You know?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “You never exactly told me how all of that happened.” Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “The drugs, I mean.”

He looked surprise, dropping his hand to take the joint from you. “Uh, shit. Well. Do you want me to tell you?”

“I do,” you said with a nod. “but only if you want to.”

“Are you sure? Tonight’s, like, your night.”

“And because it’s my night, I wanna hear about it.”

“Here, let me get another hit in before it gets all sad and shit.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re artists. We’re always sad.”

Eddie started laughing which resulted in him coughing out the smoke. You rubbed his back as he caught his breath again. “Yeah. Shit. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Satisfied?”

He nodded, taking another hit before he started. “I knew it was a fucking mistake when I did it. I really knew better. Gesturing towards the bench, you sat down next to one another. “Here, let’s sit down.”

Eddie handed you the joint before he kept going. “I didn’t have anyone there to tell me not to. I don’t blame the guys for using it recreationally. Once, twice—sure. Go ahead. But it’s when you start doing it a loooot more that gets a little tricky. 

“I thought I was smarter than addiction the second I caught my dad’s stash that first time after Mom passed,” he explained. “And, sure, I was smoking weed but that wasn’t a big deal. Weed’s great. Tried mushrooms and acid, sure. Molly once. What can I say? I have an open mind.” He gave you a small smile as you chuckled. “But then Grant said something at a party about trying coke together and I was like, ‘Sweet, let’s just try it once.’ And for Grant, that was true. But not me.

“Narrowly avoided it but, fuck. People just have it all the time.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I haven’t tried it, but it’s been offered to me more times than I can count.”

“Bingo. Exactly.” He tapped your knee with his. It was only then that you noticed the other was bouncing. You couldn’t decipher whether it was from the cold or nerves. 

“I convinced Ronnie to have more parties so Grant could get us some more. But none of them wanted it, so I always took all of it. And I just convinced him that we needed it as a just in case thing.” A sigh left his lips. “That, uh, lasted for two years.”

Your eyes widened, watching as he grew crestfallen.

“Eddie…” you whispered. “That was after your uncle…”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Yeah, it stayed after Wayne passed. But, like, five months after coke made it worse, Grant and the others sat me down and told me that they were worried about me. Ronnie hit me in the face which was, yeah, deserved to say the least. I was acting like a prick, spinning lies about how Wayne passing couldn’t be related. That I was fine when I really wasn’t. Like, clearly I wasn’t, you know? I was using.” You nodded. “Anyways, they convinced me to try and get help.”

“What did they say?” you asked.

“Jeff told me that they decided to stop partying, or at least stop doing it almost every weekend. That from now on we take alone time or find something to do together and just chill. Turn off for a while. See if it helped. Solidarity.” He grinned, something you weren’t expecting, his eyes glazed over in a memory. “Gareth asked me if I still had any of my old D and D campaign notes. I did, do, in a very protected place. Laminated it myself when I got the funds. And Ronnie, well, she told me that they wanted to play again and that if I was coked up, I couldn’t DM. And no one questions if I should be a player or the DM.”

A smirk formed on his lips. “And you know that it meant something to me. Still does. And she told me that once I got out of rehab, I better have a killer campaign to play.” Growing somber again, he took your hand in his. “You know, James Hetfield struggled with a drinking problem for a long time. They called Metallica ‘Alcoholia’ instead ‘cause they got so fucked up on tour.” 

“I didn’t know that,” you admitted. “That’s awful.”

Eddie let out a laugh, but it wasn’t really a laugh. More like a scoff he was trying to cough out. “Sometimes,” he said. “I feel like such a fucking idiot, you know? The signs were there. The warnings. Everyone said it and I just…did it anyways. And I don’t wanna touch that shit again but, fuck.”

You thought back to your cousins, the twins who couldn’t make ends meet after your aunt passed away. They resorted to selling, nearly embarrassed to admit how much it helped them pay their bills. If they were eating, that was all that mattered. It was only when they started using the product that it became something else. When you’d gotten the money to do so, you made sure they each had their own house and paid any expenses for rehab. You couldn’t stand watching them go through something like that anymore. 

“Addiction is handed to people on a silver platter sometimes,” you said. “And you didn’t think doing it once would turn into a problem. I don’t think anyone does.” Lightly squeezing his hand, you added, “I think what the guys did was really awesome. They’re good for you.”

“Yeah, they’re amazing. Saved my life more than once, that’s for sure.”

Eddie grew quiet then, staring back out at the moonlight. The faint sound of “because i liked a boy” by Sabrina Carpenter could be heard beneath a high-pitched laugh, belonging to Mary no doubt. You and Eddie were somewhere else, blanketed by the promise of the truth. Freezing in the mid-November air, particularly brutal this year. But you two stayed there, too wrapped up in your shared words. Some part of you knew it was crazy, but you’d stay out there all night if he asked you to. 

“And, uh,” he started after a few minutes of silence. “I feel very grateful that I found you,” You tried to hide your smile but couldn’t. “Not to sound like I’m high while I’m high, but it just, like.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like the planets and the fates and the stars just kinda align and suddenly you’re somewhere you never thought you’d be. For better or for worse. And I know that with you, it’s for better.”

Tears welled in your eyes, the weight of his words piercing your chest. “You just had to go and make me cry, didn��t you?”

“Crying’s good,” he said, planting a kiss on your forehead. “Enough with the sappy shit. Well, maybe there’s more.”

“What else could you possibly say that isn’t going to wreck me?”

“Well,” he started. “I wanted to invite you on a little trip.”

“Where?”

“Some island off the British Virgin Islands. The details are kinda hazy since Gareth sprung it on us, but we’ll be warm…” He pulled you closer. “We can go snorkeling or jet skiing or whale watching.” A kiss to your neck. “And we’ll have a lot of privacy to do whatever we want.”

“Are you trying to take me on a…ah, fuck…a fuck-cation?” you wondered, trying to keep your voice level. There were people just beyond the door after all. 

“It’s more than just that, sweetheart,” he said, pulling his head away. “I just want to spend some time with you outside of all these cities is all. We don’t have to run around or worry about any cameras. I made sure of that.”

“Did you drop money on something for once?” you asked.

Since getting to know Eddie, you found that he didn’t spend a ton of money all the time. Like you, he donated a lot of it and only spent real money on himself when it came to guitars and jewelry. Maybe a nice meal here and there. But besides that, he still frequented thrift stores and cooked his own food. Still kept a budget for expenses despite practically never needing one again. He’d told you that old habits die hard, and you couldn’t agree more.

A blush tinged his cheeks. “I might’ve.”

“When do we leave?” you asked.

Eddie’s eyes lit up, a smile already growing. “We leave in three days.”

“I think I could do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The two of you stayed out there for another hour, quiet in your contentment. It was like you’d waited for something like this your entire life, always reaching towards something so pure. Your life felt like a series of endings, all hushed demolitions and bitterness tinging your skies. Now it felt as though this was the end to all the endings, a kingdom being rebuilt. And you didn’t mind to declare the man beside you the king.

I am including this amazing image that @strangergraphics designed for my fic (and she made the divider so full credit to her) of what the single would look like! Ugh, I love her. Anyways, here you go!

[gothamslostboy]

Matchmaking for The Lost Boys for me???

Physical appearance: I have dark brown/black hair that nearly goes down to my neck, brown eyes and i have little small earrings. Idk how else to describe my appearance sorry

Style: I usually wear more comfortable clothes like hoodies and baggy pants. I also wear some band shirts. But if I really have to dress up, leather jacket

Favourite food: I'm not picky when it comes to food but if I had to pick a favourite, fried chicken sushi, especially with soy sauce

Gender preference: I like all genders so I don't really mind but I do lean mostly more to men

1-2 hobbies: I like to draw and practise playing my drums. I find it all fun!

Music tastes: Rock and metal all the way. It's just the best music out there in my opinion

Favourite animal: Now this is a weird one but it's a tie between tigers and axolotls. I don't know why but I like them

Favourite movie/genre: For my favourite movie, it's a rough tie between This is Spinal Tap and Bill and Ted. For my favourite genre, comedy, you just gotta have a laugh sometimes

1-2 personality traits: I'm usually pretty quiet but much more talkative when you get to know me. I'm also basically the peacemaker type

Gender: I'm male (ftm)

Zodiac sign: Sagittarius

1-2 traits you look for in partner: I want someone who's like affectionate and likes similar things. It's just my type

A/N:Hey dude! This too way to long for me to post and I’m sorry, hope you can still find it

I SHIP YOU WITH…

Dwayne:] you two have plenty of things in common and your differences complement eachother very well

He’ll ask to borrow one of your earrings, and give you one of his as a subtle way to let others around Santa Carla know you’re both spoken for. He adds a painting of a tiger to the other sleeve of his jacket as well, but that’s more to help with him missing you while you guys are separated. He asks for your permission to paint his favorite animal on your jacket, but if you prefer to have it plain he steals you a hoodie and paints it on there

He himself wears mostly hoodies and baggy pants (his preference is sweats) when lounging around the cave, unless it’s a night he feels like being shirtless, and leaves them around hoping you’ll decide to wear one. (He doesn’t want to ask you straight up, he wants it to be something you do yourself) if you guys share the same taste in bands, which given your music taste I’d say you do, he takes two matching shirts in your guy’s sizes after every concert he sees

He listens to you playing drums everytime you play, which eventually leads to you guys forming a band with Paul(he plays guitar while Paul sings)

One of his favorite date ideas is recreating each other’s previous drawings, though other than this the only art experience he has is painting clothes. He keeps every piece of art you’ve given him in a binder and guards it like it’s a million dollars

He’s a supportive person to lgbtq+ in general, so he knows how to help you. Whatever you want to do he’s there to help. Want to start hormones? He’s making you a list of every specialist in California and helping narrow it down, same with top surgeons. If you’re feeling dysphoric he does whatever he can to relieve you of some of it. Even though hes not normally a big words of affirmation guy, he tells you how handsome you are whenever he realizes you’re struggling. Also points out your masculine features and compliments them.

When you first meet it is a little awkward, both of you are quiet around people you don’t know, but once you warm up to each other there’s never a moment where you two struggle in a conversation with each other. There are still many times you guys sit in a comfortable silence though.

It’s not his favorite genre, but he does enjoy comedies, especially if it means he gets to see you laughing and enjoying yourself. He spends more time watching you than he does the movie tbh

[antique-traveler]

i went to a hockey game yesterday, and ofc the entire time i couldn’t stop thinking ab mattfoggy.

like imagine an au where foggy is a famous hockey player (like celeb level) and matt is his supportive lawyer bf. matt comes to every single game he can and they’re not exactly hiding their relationship, it’s just that it never really comes up in sports interviews. but one day the paparazzi catch a pic of them kissing on a beach somewhere and it BLOWS UP. like everyone is freaking out everywhere about this mystery man.

matt legit lives under a societal rock so he has no idea ab any of this until suddenly he’s at a game and he gets SWARMED bc superfans recognize him.

after the game, foggy gets asked ab who he was with and who inspires him to get through hard games and almost all of his answers are ab matt and he’s just the cheesiest fella ever.

ok i know jack shit about any sports, least of all hockey so i just,, skipped over the actually hockey parts alskfaslfk. also yes i did name foggy's team the ducks just because elden henson was in the mighty ducks, a movie i have not seen (and the other team is the coyotes cause i'm from az lol go team)

hope you like it!

1.1k, T, no warnings

Foggy's used to the sound of Matt puttering around in the kitchen while he watches TV. Tonight is movie night, and Matt insisted that popcorn was absolutely, 100% necessary in order for him to truly enjoy This is Spinal Tap. Foggy's already got the movie loaded up on the screen, and he checks his phone while the smell of popcorn gradually starts to permeate the whole apartment.

It's all normal, for the most part. Family email chain that he won't read, reminders in the team group chat about when to be at the stadium for tomorrow's game, all pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. Against his better judgement, he decides to check Twitter, too.

Foggy's always got tons of Twitter notifications. It's part of being famous, probably, as much as it still feels weird to call himself "famous". But tonight, he's got, like, tons of Twitter notifications. Clicking over to the Trending page, he finally sees it.

Almost the entire screen is taken up by a picture of him and Matt at lunch earlier today. Foggy had gone out of the way to dress discretely, keeping his hair in a low bun and wearing the full hat-sunglasses-baggy clothes ensemble to try and blend in. Apparently, though, that wasn't enough for the paparazzi, as they had apparently seen through his disguise well enough to know that it was him kissing Matt on the patio of that cafe.

Hockey Star Foggy Nelson Caught Kissing Mystery Man, the headline reads. Foggy Nelson, who has tried his hardest to keep his private life private. Foggy Nelson, who's always gone out of his way to avoid paparazzi.

Foggy Nelson, who is still in the closet.

Foggy shoots up on the couch as his heart starts pounding in his chest. Matt, having surely heard his skyrocketing pulse, rushes over from where he was pouring popcorn into a large bowl for them to share. "Fogs, what's wrong?"

"The--" Foggy clears his throat and tries to keep his voice even, "The tabloids saw us today. They saw us kissing."

Matt lowers himself tentatively onto the couch beside Foggy and rests a hand on his shoulder. "I, um, I'm guessing it's pretty out-there by now?"

"Top of the Trending page on Twitter," Foggy quietly confirms.

"Hey, Foggy, baby," Matt says as he takes Foggy's face in both of his hands, "it's okay. We knew this would happen eventually, right? Jenny and the rest of the PR team already had a plan for damage control when we got together, you know that."

Foggy couldn't find a good enough rebuttal for that, but he still needed to panic a little bit. "Matty, you-- they'll know who you are now. They're not gonna leave you alone, they're gonna be coming after you for interviews, and-- and digging into your past, and--"

"Foggy!" Matt shook Foggy's head slightly to shut him up. "I knew that all of that was a possibility when we started going out, and I've made my peace with it. They can do all the digging they like, I don't have anything to hide from them." Foggy raised a skeptical eyebrow and Matt conceded, "Okay, I don't have anything to hide from them that can be found on any sort of public record."

Foggy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leaning his head into Matt's hands. "I know, I know, just... I hoped we'd get a little longer to just be us."

Matt kissed Foggy's forehead and smiled gently. "I think, all things considered, two years of 'just us' is a pretty good run, right? Besides, now I can finally be the arm candy I was always meant to be."

Foggy scoffed and lifted his head out of Matt's hold. "Oh, you just wanna be my trophy boyfriend, is that it?"

"Damn it, you've seen through my plan," Matt said dryly as he retrieved the popcorn bowl from the kitchen island. He kissed Foggy's hair, plopped down onto the couch beside him, and pointedly tore Foggy's phone out of his hand before placing it out of reach on the coffee table. "No more Twitter and paparazzi, I wanna listen to a fake hair band fight with each other."

The game the next day went as well as it could've. Sure, Foggy got a few odd looks in the locker room from the few teammates he hadn't come out to yet, but he brought everything he had onto the ice and it paid off. Everyone and their mother came to see the Ducks face off against the Coyotes, and Foggy could see Matt cheering him on from his usual rink-side seat.

Foggy scored the winning point with a move that felt like it was ripped straight out of some cheesy Disney Channel movie, and he's sure that the pictures of him making it would be the top of his Wikipedia page for years to come. Maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe some sort of post-outing rush of freedom, but after the game is over, Foggy finds himself immediately skating over to Matt.

Foggy calls out his name so he will have an excuse for knowing where he is. Matt stands up and leans slightly over the railing before Foggy places a gloved hand onto his cheek and pulls him down into a deep kiss. The roaring crowd around them fades into the background, and Foggy allows himself to have one single moment of loving his boyfriend in public before the press close in on them.

Foggy pulls away to see Matt grinning wider than he ever has before, and pats his face one last time before skating away toward the locker room.

Foggy takes his time changing out of all his gear, he knows that Matt is waiting for him just outside the locker room door like he always does. Once he finally can't find any more ways to stall, he steps out of the locker room, greets Matt with a gentle, nervous kiss, and they make their way out of the stadium, hand-in-hand.

They're immediately hit by a wall of sound and flashing lights the moment they open the door, and Foggy squeezes Matt's hand as tight as he can. He takes a deep breath and steps forward, chin held high.

"Foggy, Foggy!" One reporter shouts above the rest of the crowd. "Is this the same man you were seen kissing yesterday?"

Foggy takes one more look at Matt's reassuring smile and squares his shoulders. "Yeah. This is Matt Murdock, he's my boyfriend."

Despite the anxiety about the shitstorm of homophobic tweets he's about to get tagged in, despite the knowledge that he's probably gonna be known as "that one gay hockey player" for the rest of his career, Foggy feels his heart fill up with warmth because he knows, he knows, that Matt will be there. For all of it.

[elminx]

Energy Update: May 2022

Numerologically, May is a 11/2 universal month [5 (May) + 6 (2022) = 11 = 1+1=2] in 6 universal year. Eleven is considered one of the master numbers – the repeating ones are a signal of heightened probability – something new and quite out of the ordinary. The number 2 brings things together. You need two to make three and all of the numbers beyond that. There are increased possibilities in an 11-month – insert a This is Spinal Tap references here. This is further indicated for two reasons, one is that the planet of chance and unexpected change, Uranus is sitting in the sign of Taurus, and the other is that we are in the middle of an eclipse season which always has a feeling of divine intervention to it. Doors with open. Others will close. Bring a towel if you’re going to get emotional about it.

Uranus has been in Taurus since May 15, 2018, and will remain in the sign through August 27, 2026. This is an uncomfortable transit that we’ll all be experiencing for the long term but it does, as a general rule, prime the ground for…I don’t want to say disaster. But when we think of the fixed earth sign of Taurus it’s not even off-brand to compare their sudden and legendary anger to that of a natural disaster. Tensions will heighten on our planet the deeper Uranus digs into this fixed earth sign. The eclipses are just a spark, but a spark might also be all that is needed.

This is one of those points where I think that it’s important to remind my imagined readers that understanding the astrological weather should make you feel prepared, not paranoid. When we know better, we can do better.

May is definitely a month to watch out for. It doesn’t have to go badly – for you or for anybody else. But it’s going to be a bumpy ride on the winding road and you might want to keep two hands on the wheel or abandon your normal vehicle altogether. May is going to be a month to only wager with what you can afford to lose. May is going to be a month worth wagering if you have something to lose. May is going to be a month where it’s very important to put on your gas mask and make sure it’s secure before you try to help others.

The Setup

We begin the month with the Sun and Uranus in Taurus, Mercury in Gemini, Venus Mars Jupiter and Neptune in Pisces, Saturn in Aquarius, and Pluto in Capricorn. By the end of the month, the Sun will have moved on into gemini, Mercury will have retrograded backward into Taurus, Venus will be in Taurus, and Mars and Jupiter will have moved into Aries. A lot of going down and shifting at the moment, best get your very best balancing hooves on.

The Nitty Gritty

May begins with a bang one day early when we experience an intense partial solar eclipse at 10° Taurus that will be closely conjunct to the aforementioned Uranus in Taurus. All cards are going to be on the table this weekend and it’s anybody’s game, so you’d better bring your A-Game if you want to play. This is our first solar eclipse in this Taurus-Scorpio nodal cycle so it is likely to set the tone for the next couple of years of solar eclipses. This solar eclipse conjuncts our North Node which makes this extra future facing – this is the best day of the year to set long-term goals so long as you are willing to leave a bit of it up to “fate”. Nothing happens on a straight path where the lunar nodes are involved but that is s part of the magic. On the first of May, Venus sextiles retrograde Pluto in Capricorn, and on the 2nd she enters the cardinal fire sign of Aries and we might assume that she might finally, after a hard start to the year, get her mojo back. Aries isn’t always considered the sweetest placement for Venus, but she needs a heavy dose of confidence after that long march in time with a very cranky Mars. She stars in May but it may be a bit soon to spend too much time enjoying the limelight. If Venus in Aries can be a bit of a starlet, we can see through her month beginning and end with aspects wiith Pluto that sometimes, fame leads to scandal.

The is an undertone of shining too bright throughout the month as both Venus in her role as the Morning Star and the Sun flare dramatically about. The Sun conjuncts Uranus on 5/5, a day which has Caution Lights written all over it. Anything could happen though which means good things or bad things. It’s a good day for a solid dose of chance – whatever that means for you.

With it comes the lesson that echoes throughout all of this month’s energy: take the chance if you want to or need to, but duck and role instead of being flattened. The choice is always up to you. When the Tower card shows up, don’t scream “Not by the hair on my chinny, chin chin.” – let the houses of straw fall where they may.

That said: Be very fucking aware of this month if you know that your house is made of straw. That’s a very specific warning but if you know, you know.

There’s some problematic energy so it would be best if you could avoid getting involved in a problem. Mars in Pisces is sitting in a supportive sextile to the Sun and Uranus at the beginning of the month which is likely to make people quick on the trigger. Mars in Pisces is pretty passive-aggressive though so expect some backpass half insults before there’s outright conflict. Don’t discount the temper of the bull, though, don’t just go around waving red flags for no reason. Somebody’s likely to take the bait. Things may get even more confusing after Mercury retrogrades at 04° Gemini on 5/10. Mercury in Gemini always moves in both directions anyway so I think we’ll notice the retrograde less than average, at least until Mercury retrogrades backward into Taurus on 5/22 but it will still fuzz all of the connections a bit. Expect misunderstandings and some communication snafus. Keep an eye on your tech, check your battery, and proofread thrice before hitting “Send” if grammar matters. Mercury retrograde is a great time to travel if you do not care where you are going or if you will arrive at a particular destination on time, or maybe ever.

Mercury will pass between 26° Taurus and 04° Gemini three times in total: first in the pre-shadow phase, again while Mercury is retrograde (in reverse), and a third time when they move forward again in their post-shadow phase. Pay attention to what is coming up right now as you may have to revisit it at a later date.

The Sun will conjunct our North Node on 5/13. This has a pretty similar energy to our Sun-Uranus conjunction on 5/5 but with less negative impact so long as you are walking your proper path. The North Node is our guiding star; it represents, on a fundamental level, something that we were put here on this planet on the day that we were born to strive towards. Though eclipses are intense, emotional, and often disruptive, they still often right us on our paths.

This is not happening at this time by accident. The next day on 5/15, the Sun squares off with Saturn in Aquarius and we find our egoic version of our journey tested in some fundamental way, and then we are hit with the third blow as we experience a full lunar eclipse at 25° Scorpio on 5/16. The Scorpio full moon is among the strongest we experience and this eclipse will be visible to American residents – this is a night to stay up and stargaze at the blood moon. Spend some time with water if you can. You may be forced to make some choices during that weekend or you may find that your Other’s made some choices that affect you. Things may be completely out of your hands.

Eclipse energies are too unpredictable to properly forecast – they relate a lot to you, your natal chart, your placement of the lunar nodes, and how it relates to your chart, and if you are in alignment with you you really are not. (That’s hard to determine, of course, but I do think most people are intuitively aware when they have stepped off of their path) You can examine these things by sign, house, and aspect to learn more.

Just don’t make any rash decisions. Mars is conjunct Neptune so the way forward may be really hard to see and Mercury is not doing us any favors. They may take on the role of the Wanderer while they walk the low road but that doesn’t mean that they are carrying a lamp. Be your own Hermit. Find your own path. Be true to yourself first.

When the Sun enters Gemini on 5/20, he runs face first into Mercury who is inching back toward Taurus. The two meet on 5/21 so there might, for a brief moment, be light but it will dim even further when Mercury enters Taurus the next day of 5/22.

Great weather for divination, pathfinder, or journeying of any kind. Not so great weather for getting things done, or knowing what day of the week it is, or all of those other mundane little things that we tend to rely on our rational brains (or better yet, computers!) to keep track of for us. There is no time.

Mars enters Aries on 5/24 which will be somewhat of a relief because, by then, we might be itching for any hint of direction. Still, the lack of impulse control of Mars in Aries plus a somewhat blinded to reality retrograded Mercury isn’t the best combo, so I think that we should wait until Venus moves OUT of Aries into peace-loving Taurus on 5/28 before we make any rash decisions. Venus and Mars were not nice bedfellows on their conjunct journey throughout this year (they made war, thanks guys) and I’d rather that they were in separate signs for a while.

The last couple of days of the month are our sweet spot. We’ll have exited eclipse season after our lunar eclipse in Scorpio and as Gemini season arrives, some of the lessons of the lunar nodes will be fading away. With Mars in Aries and Venus in Taurus, we can relax and maybe just get things done now, eh? Work hard to fix what we have to and play hard with our rewards? Mars will conjunct Jupiter as well which is a lucky day indeed. The Gemini new moon on 5/30 will likely be much lighter and airy and a welcome reprieve at month’s end to let us breathe.

You can view the breakdown of the daily aspects on my blog.

Do you like my work? You can support me over on KoFi by tipping me, purchasing an astrology report, or buying some of my art.

[pyroclaststan]

CW: This is the softest shit I’ve ever written

You’d asked Kingsley to come over and do your hair as a joke [mostly]. You knew they were hesitant to be in your space on the best of days, and almost always avoidant of any kind of touch or personal interactions on any given day. It was made very clear very early on in your friendship how high Chrysanta’s walls are but it’s always made you try harder, tease more, push often—never too much.

Not out of disrespect for their boundaries, but because it was also made very clear early on in your friendship that they had no friends, and if there was one thing you could say Kingsley needed in this world it’s friends. Maybe also someone to pry the stick up their ass loose, too, but even your hero self can’t work miracles.

And here they are: ringing your doorbell, hood up over that ratty cap you’re dying to throw away, feet shuffling, and a bag over their shoulder. Maybe the look on your face as you opened the door shouldn’t have been such a cross between excited and shocked, because they flinch immediately upon seeing you stand in the doorway, arms held wide.

“Do you want me to w-wait until you get dressed to come back?” they ask, looking pointedly away towards the bottom of the stairs for someone tailing them.

A mental note to figure out what’s up with the ‘who’ of that situation one day, but for now you take a look down at yourself. Gym shorts and a tank top: who knew they were such a prude? You that’s who, but only when they are outside of their uniform and around you it seems. That’s why you chose to ditch the sweatshirt you’d had on before answering the door… and it’s also the height of summer in this godforsaken city.

“What do you mean?” you cross your arms and tilt your head, playing innocent, making sure your braid falls over your shoulder. “I’m in my own home, firstly, and secondly: I am clothed. Not all of us need to be covered head-to-toe with eighty layers in this heat.”

They shuffle again, and you know the hand that isn’t holding the strap of their duffle bag is in their jacket’s pocket doing their tell: the clenching and unclenching of long, strong hands; vascular and calloused, often bloodied or bruised at the knuckles but still beautiful in their rough way. You squeeze your eyes to cut that random thought right there, disguising it as a reaction to the intense orange-toned daylight bleeding into your cool apartment.

“Chrysantamum, get the hell inside: looking at you is making me overheat,” you chide playfully, pulling them in by the strap of their bag and catching them off-guard, so much so they half-stumble through your front door, ducking lower than even they need to.

Jodidamente gigante…

Pink cheeks are quickly hidden as they reach up to pull their hat down lower, head bent in attempted irritation. Closing the door and setting the lock as they walk past, you watch as their back hunches so much that it makes you worry about their spinal health, and not for the first time.

“Jules, you can, uh, you can just say ‘come in’ like a normal person,” they huff, removing their bag from their shoulder but keeping it in hand.

“I could, but when have you ever accepted an invitation of mine?” The gaze you direct at them is cutting: visual representation of all the times you’ve extended your courtesy and company only for them to shut you down, cold and completely.

And speaking of cold, is that a bead of sweat on King’s face? You figured they were immune to the heat: they’ve never been about anything but dark colours and multiple layers.

Maldito lagarto gigante. You know, you didn’t curse nearly as much before you two became friends. Not as creatively either.

“That’s… fair,” their shoulders sag, defeated by their own admission and unaware of their agreement to your internal insult. You win two in one. “I should’ve expected you to get h-handsy anyway. You’re tactile.”

“I’m tactile? How many times are you gonna squeeze that hand of yours?”

They freeze at your smug face, hand immediately retreating from their pocket and down to their side like they’ve been caught red-handed. Anathema used to keep a tally of how often they did that but the whiteboard turned black.

A small sigh escapes your lips as you step past them to head towards the couch: neutral territory that keeps you from crowding King until they relax. You know the drill by now. “Oh! And you know the rules: no hats on indoors.”

“W-what?” it’s almost a whine. “I always wear a hat when I’m with you guys.”

“That’s at HQ—this is a home, Sidestep, it’s basic etiquette. Were you raised in a barn?”

“On a farm,” they murmur, giving in to your request. They’re a little bit of a shit from time to time, but they’ve always been respectful of basic manners in private—raised right by someone at some point, you suppose. You’ve always noticed how well they set a table, pull out a chair, take a coat. Classic manners instilled young, that much you can tell.

There’s a coat hook that you put up on the wall recently—for them—and after setting their bag by their feet, their top two jackets adorn it. A bomber and an all-weather? They had to be boiling walking out there. That ratty cap is pulled off and placed over them, too, so you watch as they take down their thick curly-coily hair, swiftly collecting strays back into the bun to no avail. Fidgeting begins once they’re done and realise there’s nothing to thread their hair through, unused to being uncovered.

“How do you not melt out there?” you ask in disbelief, fanning yourself dramatically. “Can you seriously not just put on a single t-shirt, like a regular person?”

“I like the weight.” It’s a short tone that tells you that string of questioning is closed, and instead their focus goes to taking off their shoes and setting them down neatly below their jackets, heels against the wall as a sign they’re staying.

Deliberate motions, unsure emotions.

“Sure, okay.” Leaning far to your left you pat the seat of the couch three times, signalling them to sit their ass down which they do slowly, taking their bag back into their hands.

It settles into their lap as you sit back and watch them: eyes running all over—casing for exits—and hands fidgeting nervously. Inviting them over always feels like entering a kennel pen with the way you have to sit back and wait for them to settle into your space with you, but you’re used to it. It’s kind of endearing, really… in some kind of vigilant way you can’t quite explain. Or at least, it’s become endearing. Traitorous eyes once again find themselves settled on Kingsley’s hands.

“What do you want?”

You startle, face flushing at the thought that they caught you staring and got annoyed, but when you look up they’re still staring straight ahead. This is an opportunity to take in their profile, always having been drawn to their sharp jaw and the pronounced line of their cheekbone since they’ve been unmasked—tracking the cloud of freckles on their skin and some faint scars here and there. Counting the numerous ball hoop earrings that cover the entire edge of their ear, you’re reminded of your old therapy tricks, the calm helping as you quickly gather your composure. Keeps you cool and sane while they become a ball of unrest.

Five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste—or whatever combination works best for your surroundings. It’s been a long time since you’ve needed that trick.

Realisation hits that they’re still expecting a response.

“What are my options?” you tease in a soft flirty tone you can’t fight; teasing them is just so second nature nowadays.

King sits a little straighter as they pick up your double meaning, then cover their face by leaning forward into their propped-up palm as if bored—fooling no one in the room. You know they’re anything but bored by how their fingers tap, and soon the leg starts bouncing just as you knew it would.

“That’s up to you th-this time. Just don’t pick anything that’ll have your PR team suing me or breathing down my neck. Remember when, uh, when you dyed it blue?”

“It was temporary!”

“And they still freaked.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you concede with a pout. Not as much freedom as you’d like has came of your stint in the Rangers so far. Sure, you can walk, you can fight, you can muck around to your heart’s content, but you’re still on a leash. One that you’ll be expected to pay off. “I don’t know—I didn’t really plan on you actually showing up.”

A quick frown in your direction. “Gracias por el voto de confianza, polla.”

Okay, geez, so you both rubbed off on each other.

“No offence!” you put your hands up as a gesture of peace. “You just don’t like coming around.”

“I’m not used to coming around,” Kingsley corrects, looking at you, “I like coming around...”

As they trail off your heart leaps at that; your stomach flips, you’re about to respond when—

“…you’ve got A/C” they finish, turning their head, smiling that dammed crooked smile at their own joke.

There’s a quiet huff from you that mimics theirs as your ego deflates a little. That was a jab in true Sidestep fashion, sure, but you can’t help but feel a little… disappointed.

Sidestep—Kingsley, King, Chrysantamum—is looking at you expectantly now. “Well?”

“Dealer’s choice,” you get up, looking anywhere else as you pace. Can’t stand sitting this still this long much less with their gaze on you.

The sound of them lifting off the couch quickly stops you in your tracks.

“What? Y-you’re just gonna let someone do whatever they want to your hair?”

“Not ‘someone,’ you—I’m letting you do whatever you want to it. It’s just hair.”

“It’s not just hair!” they exclaim walking fiercely up the edge of your personal space, surprising both of you. They take a long step back, a pause of quiet as they collect themself and stand straight, making them taller. “Hair is… it’s personal. It’s…” a look of discomfort as they trial off, “intimate.”

You didn’t expect this: for them to get some up-in-arms about hair of all things. Looking at theirs, for the first time you start to think about all the work that goes into those long curls. The care, the maintenance, the time. Cultural and personal significance as well, you assume.

You smile with a softness that melts through you, “That’s why I asked you to do it.”

The look that passes over their face is the closest thing to affection you’ve ever seen. There is sorrow in their brow, but the tiny smile on their lips and the way they hold eye contact with you says… everything. Then it’s gone as quick as it came, eyes averted, hands pulling at the sleeves of their hoodie, their feet shuffling. Those tiny little things that they consist of, live by, exist with. It is always about the little things with them: it occurs to you that this may be a big thing. Maybe they need more time to—

“Alright,” a cracking voice cuts you off before you can ask the question that was still building, “grab a dining room chair, a tall one, and meet me in the kitchen.”

Kingsley’s already moving, mechanically yet fluid in the way they walk over, picking their bag, and navigate around and past you as you’re walking in their path. Nervous muscle and hyper focus—so like them it makes you smile. You diverge by the dining room, heading over to pick up a chair as directed, confused as to why you’re taking it to the kitchen.

“Shouldn’t we be in the living room or bathroom?”

“Living room has nothing we need, bathroom’s too small—I uh, take up most of the space as is.”

You avoid imagining the two of you crammed into that private space.

Looking at them again as you approach, you watch the way they deftly unpack: eyes locked on the contents, right hand grabbing items and tossing them to the left without a single shift in their line of sight. Thinking. These little pieces of themself that Kingsley leaves around your apartment always make it hard to resist inviting them.

It’s too much, too fast for them, sure. But there is something about Chrysanta’s presence in your home compared to anywhere else. It is quiet—it always is despite their size—but it is rooted, in a way they never are to any thing or place or moment. Their steps are slower, their movements more eased, the calm they feel reflected in how little they stutter or panic because they can’t feel you in their confusing telepathic way.

“Where should I set the chair?” you ask softly.

“At the sink.” Not bothering to look at you to respond.

As soon as you set it down, facing the sink, Kingsley’s hand reaches out and turns it around.

“One more, please,” absently said as they set up all of whatever it is they’ve brought, set to boiling water, and wash their hands at the sink.

You muse on how they’ve always reminded you of a surgeon, the way they wash up or are exacting in their ministrations. Absentmindedly, you ponder if they’d have made a good med student, leading you to wonder if they’d ever had plans of what they wanted to grow up to be when they were young—outside of a vigilante. You nearly bump into them with the chair during your daydream before their hand quickly snakes out to catch you by the shoulder.

“This one is for me later, we can leave it over here.”

As swift as they stopped you, the chair is out of your hands, and you realise you’ve never seen Kingsley so… in charge. The way they move through this small space like it’s their own world in yours.

In charge of Charge, you chuckle to yourself at such a dumb joke. Sounds like a tag line to one of those adult movies they make about the two of you. They spare a glance your way.

“Alright, I’m just gonna g-grab some towels. Go ahead and sit.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal, sir,” you call out cheekily as they walk out, following orders with a small laugh.

There is a small well of feelings that has been bubbling in your stomach and you’re not quite sure what to call them. ‘Sir’ sent a small ping of questioning to the back of your mind. The two of you never quite discussed what kind of words Kingsley likes being directed at them. Masculine or feminine, in the way words are gendered. They’ve told you they’re not a woman, but they’ve also expressed that they’re not a man either, or maybe they’re both—it’s new to you, in the sense that you’re not sure where you stand without pre-conceived societal notions as a guideline between the two of you.

Would they like to be called handsome? Or beautiful? Is there something else that fits? Would attractive be a safe word to use? Does anyone compliment them? Should you do it more?

You shake your head, focusing on undoing your braid instead, settling your face back to a small smile as soon as they walk back in. They move the saucepan of hot water off the burner, setting a jar of oil in the centre, then busy themself with a small box they pulled from their bag.

“Shall we?” they ask, looking at you as they put on a pair of tight black nitrile gloves.

“Is this an examination?” you joke nervously, pointing at their hands.

There’s a cringe when you think of your last mod check-up, invasive and impersonal. Your brain can’t help but carry on, thinking of hospitals and your various stays in them. You don’t like them as is, but Kingsley’s proximity to you has made you even more wary of them; the panic they show when you bring up medical attention sometimes is sobering.

“No? I mean… uh, I’m not calling you dirty, but I don’t know how clean your hair is, and you d-don’t know how clean my hands are.”

The look on your face must have been either offence or murder because they take a step back, hands up.

“It’s a health precaution! I’m just being careful,” they croak.

“I wash my hair!” Your tone is indignant.

“I know! I’m just being safe!”

“I feel like I’m going in for a pap sm—“

“Alright alright!” they yell to cut you off, face red up to the ears at your unfinished sentence. “I’ll take them off as soon as I’m done washing your hair.”

“Thank you,” you give their hands one last nervous glance, only eased by the thought of how attractive the gloves makes them look. You sincerely hope the sudden mortification at that is not showing on your face, but they’re already turning their back to you.

“Wait, Kings,” you interrupt, “take off your hoodie.”

“W-what?” You do not miss the look of absolute panic on their face.

“It’s gonna get soaked handling all my hair,” you clarify.

“And my sh-shirt is gonna get wet if it isn’t on.”

“But your shirt will dry faster.”

“You have a dryer—my sweater can be dried.”

“Well… about that...” your exasperated laugh and a wiggle of fingers from your raised hand tells them all they need to know.

“Julia. How the hell did you break your dryer again? I just fixed it!”

“It wasn’t on purpose this time—there was a static build up!” Your hands slap you in the mouth as soon as the sentence finishes. Your eyes widen as Kingsley’s narrow.

“This time?” their voice is low, their eyes sharp.

“I uh, may have broken it to get you over here for dinner that time…” The half-hearted chuckle you let out is fake even to you.

“Julia.” A stern glare.

“…Kingsley?” Utter avoidance of eye-contact.

“That’s incredibly dangerous, first off. And I’m not a maintenance worker. You don’t pay me for that.”

“I can absorb any electricity that comes my way and I pay you in food,” a quick retort, regaining composure. “And I got you to stop avoiding the simple notion of a meal together as if I were threatening you with a gun.”

There is a specific face they make at that, and for the umpteenth time in your life you wish you knew what it was they were thinking.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever—just sit down and shut up.”

From anyone else that would sound rude, but that’s simply Sidestep’s tone. The impact is also lessened by the movement of them removing their hoodie, leaving behind a loose long-sleeve that briefly reveals a long-sleeved compression shirt tucked in beneath. The upper layer had lifted while they were pulling the hoodie over their leaving the outline of Kingsley’s back muscles and bra lines on show before they fixed it.

Just a friendly look at your friend’s back. Friendly-ly.

Mouth not at all dry.

“So what’s on the menu? What are we doing?” you cough as they position themself in front of you, looming even more than usual now that you’re sitting.

They reach behind your head and your heart skips; they gather all of your hair carefully and lift it with the gentlest touch, moving a hand to guide you to sit all the back by the shoulder.

“Luckily your sink is low enough that I can lean you back for this to work,” they hum, setting your hair into the sink and tilting your head back, “I’m uh, only used to doing my hair texture… I’ve never done someone else’s hair.” They swallow hard, suddenly nervous. “First: shampoo, maybe a deep cleanse. An oil or deep treatment mask, heat treatment to that for thirty minutes. Rinse it out, then moisturise, comb, and braid.”

“You’re gonna give me braids?” you smile up at them, the orange light of outside slipping through your blinds against their skin and yours. They look bronzed in the lighting. “Like yours?”

“Not quite,” they laugh. “Something more l-like French braids or not-quite-cornrows. I don’t think your hair could support the protective styles I do. I don’t… think so at least? My curls are much tighter than yours.”

“You don’t know?” Teasing.

“I’m not a, not a fucking aesthetician or cosmetologist or beautician, Ghoulia. I’m a vigilante—I don’t get paid the big bucks to make people pretty, I’m usually the one fucking ‘em up. For free!” They sigh heavily, pulling at their gloves to make a loud slap noise as they let go to shut you up.

You giggle quietly, only for it to grow louder and your shoulders to start to shake as Kingsley pulls you forward to set a towel around your shoulders, then let’s you fall back into place before they lean over to turn on the water and pull out the sink hose, adjusting your hair once more.

“What are you laughing about?” they ask, looking down at you, smiling softly and holding you by the back of the head with one hand.

“Did you just… did you just call me fucking Ghoulia?” you burst out laughing uncontrollably.

“You literally call me Chrysantamum—that’s not a worse pun?” they ask, spraying the top of your head with water playfully before setting to work rinsing the rest thoroughly.

“I mean… yeah! That’s so much worse!”

The laughter carries on for two more minutes, much to Kingsley’s displeasure—and your abs’.

“Sidestep Spa… you could make good money with this.”

“No,” they cut you off. “Hair is… like I said, I’ve never done someone else’s. Hair is personal. It’s trust.”

You stare silently at them, considering their words. Is this you showing trust? Or them? For you, this had been a joke but… not anymore. You understand now, as their fingers carefully and dextrously work through your hair: you feel the mutual connection, respect and trust. It feels like a ritual; some kind of magic never really touched on by most.

A thoughtful look at Kingsley. You think of the things they share with you, and that seem to mean something to them. Food, space, and hair. Those must be their love languages: how swiftly they make sure you’ve eaten and how careful they are right now. How often they sit with you on rooftops for a sunset and a beer. The light pulls and parts; the way their fingers massaging into your scalp threatens to make you melt into your chair, and the rinsing calms you.

You think, suddenly, to your mother. The days of your youth spent sitting between her knees as she pulled your curls and waves into a neat braid before you ran off to cause a ruckus. Of her styling your hair the ways her mother styled hers. Hair that connected to your culture, your roots, your family. It dawns on you that this is what that must be for King, too—especially having grown up viewed as a woman.

Time flies by while you’re lost to the memories and motions.

Even now, as you sit in the chair with a warm towel wrapped around your head and with the hot oil they prepared working it’s magic, they don’t sit still. Instead their hands are busy with small bowls, a brush, and a fork, mixing things together into a larger bowl.

“Making your hair mask,” they comment absently, feeling your gaze on them. “Fresh ingredients are better. It’ll help repair what your stylist’s constant flat-ironing damaged.”

Pelo malo, you remember unkind neighbours saying to you. You remember your mother yelling at them in turn, before pulling you close on your walk home, petting your hair.

You think of your mother’s hands as they mix with a fork. It takes you back to a different kitchen, to the sounds and smells of pancakes sizzling on the cast iron griddle. The ingredients they mix reminding you more of a meal than a hair product: honey, avocado, yogurt, brown sugar, banana, apple cider vinegar. You don’t even bother to ask how they came across some of those ingredients here in the west, you know they have more tricks than they let on.

Chrysanta’s movement back into place directly in front of you drags you back into the present fully, tracing details of their face in the rarest moment of absolute openness. No shields, no walls, no topics. Just their hands as they carefully unwrap the towel, taking great care not to pull your hair or have anything drip onto you instead of the towel.

As they rinse your hair, once again focused on threading fingers gracefully and massaging your scalp and hair, your eyes close.

You wonder what Kingsley’s life is like, outside of you and the Rangers. What their childhood was like. What their youth was like. What their teen years were like. You’re not even sure how old they are now. You wonder about questions you know you can’t have answers to, because you know they won’t tell you. Questions you think might hurt them if you asked.

More so, you wonder what their family was like. Your eyes open and you wonder if Chrysantamum ever sat in a chair like this, with their mother lovingly washing her daughter’s hair at the kitchen sink like a right of passage. If kind hands cared enough to catch every curl, with kind eyes at her child like they were the sun—the light of her life. If she’d smooth down King’s baby hairs with the same long, swift fingers and small smiles, or brush them down just-so. You think she would have been beautiful: both young Kingsley and her mother. You look at them again, while they’re focused, and wonder if their grandmother is in their features like your’s is in yours.

You think about how Kingsley can’t cook: was she not there to teach them? Was their mother not there either? With their hunger now, you bet they needed to eat so much as a child, and it hurts to ponder if they ever went hungry from the way you see them ration their leftovers.

You close your eyes as they part sections of your hair, cool bare skin on your scalp now, and the occasional rat tail of a comb catching stray hairs. Part, a dab of oil, a clip to hold the section: you can practically hear the steps light up in their head. As careful and precise with hair as they are with machines.

You think maybe they like machines because they don’t muddy the waters with feelings. Feelings—accepting or giving—do not come easy to them. And you have learned by now that what they feel is best determined by their actions, not the words they use as sword and shield against others. You wonder how they feel. Looking up at them does not make it any clearer, but…

They rub the mask between their palms to warm it, and you know somewhere in you this is love. This is as close to love as they know, and that is enough for you.

There may be lingering confusion in your feelings: you have always been attracted to men, and they are not a man—but they are also not a woman. There may be some hesitation to take a step from friendship with someone who means so much to you. But whatever you both have to give, when you’re both ready, will be enough for you.

You can imagine that little girl: too tall and lanky and active for their own good. Bruised knees and scratched arms and torn dresses every time they came back into the house in the evening, like you when you were young. Maybe the two of you would have been good friends back then, too. Maybe the world wouldn’t have gotten to Kingsley so much if you’d been there with them. It’s nothing you can change now: you know better than anyone that the past stays behind where it can only hurt you if you try to go back to it.

They look down at you now, the mask application finished, and survey the soft look in your eyes, the light smile on your face with a mirrored one of their own. You too, see the small traces of confusion flash by, but it melts away. The eye contact held as their bare hand comes up, brushing against your forehead softly as if to move stray strands away you know they’ve collected, then down the side of your cheek as if to catch some oil left behind they never dropped. Excuses for intimacy that does not come naturally to them. And right now that is enough.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?” you ask softly, hoping they see in your eyes how much their opinion truly matters to you. More than anyone’s ever has.

The question brings a sharpness to their brow, eyes still soft and searching.

“Do you want to? If you want to, do it—I’ll help. However I can.” Their face hardens. “Don’t ever let those stylists tell you what you can and can’t do for yourself. Don’t ever let them make you their doll.”

The last sentence is spat like venom; there’s a deep bitterness in those words, in that choice of words, but you know that’s a question you cannot ask.

You reach up and gently pull a curl that freed itself from Kingsley’s bun. You watch it stretch, far longer than it looks, and let it rest again, pushing it from their brow. You wonder what Kingsley looked liked with hair as long as yours, or what they’d look like with it even shorter. You wonder what colour they’ll braid in next, what length of braids, and if anyone ever gets to help them.

Their soft gaze breaks, reaching for the hose one last time to rinse the mask from your head. There is a new kind of quiet blossoming between the two of you as they rinse: a maybe, an almost, a sort of. An electricity even your mods can’t match, a feeling in the pit of your stomach even hunger couldn’t touch.

And when they begin to carefully dry your hair you ponder what it will mean in the future—what it means now. There is a soft tap on your forehead, twice, and you know that means to lift the mask but you’re not the one who wears it, so you turn your gaze upwards instead. Chrysantamum is leaned down, far enough to be close to your face, and their face is soft and their ears are red. That bright green gaze looks to your lips and back to your eyes, the tilt of the head a question, one you know well: may I kiss you? Your question. Just as you know the answer as you smile softly like they do, and lean in for them to catch your lips, always soft and questioning—never wanting to lock you in, never asking for more than you’re willing to give, never staying long. You part slowly, smiling softer than you have all night.

They suddenly knock the towel off your head and flee to the living room cackling, knowing you’ll give chase. Always one step ahead. You don’t disappoint, throwing the towel after them and bolting over to catch them in a kiss as they turn around. Charging in. For just a few minutes more you stay entangled, hands at the back of each other’s necks—another small intimacy with grand connotations.

When the two of you settle back into the living room— King on the couch and you between their knees—you wonder if this will one day become a memory you can fondly look back on. If you will remember the sepia tone streaming in through the window, the feeling of their fingers as they separate your hair—moisturising and combing, and of the soft pulls as they carefully weave braids along your scalp.

“Think PR would be pissed if I p-put a teal ribbon in your braid?” they ask with a surprising cheekiness.

“I’m a hero, not a cheerleader,” you complain with no actual objections. “Put a piece of jewellery or something instead.”

You hear their hands ruffling in their pocket, so you turn to look, curiosity piqued. They remove a few small charms, the kind you’ve seen in their own braids, twists, and locs. Pumping their brows at you cheesily, they put the hair tie in their hand between their teeth, moving to get a better grip on the braid they’re working on.

A few pulls you don’t quite feel later and you hear a little “Ta-da!” as your braid falls over your shoulder. You lift it up to get a better look and you see a charm woven in seamlessly: a small piece of turquoise more teal than blue.

You lean forward a little, drawing your knees to your chin with an arm around them, fiddling with it as the two of you fall into silence. The sensations of their hands on you, and the comfort of your home around them.

Right now, this is more than enough for you.

[pendragonsandbuckleys]

hold me like the moon holds onto the tide (2/3)

Summary: Kidnapped and locked in a cell with no escape. Alex and Michael are faced with an ex-Caulfield employee who is prepared to do anything to get alien powers of his own. (Inspired by the Daisy/Sousa scenes in Agents of Shield 7x06)

Word Count: 3,203

[Also on AO3] [Part One] [Part Three]

Barely any time had passed before Hughes had returned to collect his prisoner, with two soldiers following close behind ready to do the grunt work.

Michael had been forced to watch as they released Alex from the wall and used the chain to lead him out of the room like some obedient dog. He listened to the threats being made towards them, how if one of them tried anything the other would be punished and as much as Michael wanted nothing more than to send Hughes flying into the wall, he didn’t so much as move an inch from where he was sitting in the hopes that it would save Alex from further pain.

Now he was sitting alone in the cell, his back still pressed against the cold stone, waiting for Alex to return.

It had been silent behind the door since they’d left. No footsteps, no murmurings and mercifully no screams. It was bad enough letting his imagination run wild with what Alex was enduring but he didn’t think he would have been able to handle it if he had actually heard Alex’s cries of pain.

Finally, after far too long in the deafening silence, Michael was ripped from his thoughts by the door slowly opening.

Hughes entered first with a smug grin on his face. The crisp white apron he was wearing had several splotches of blood down its front and Michael had no doubts that he had kept it on just to taunt him.

The sight of the man made his blood boil but the sight of Alex completely took his breath away.

The same two airman as before had a grip on each of Alex’s biceps and hauled him into the room, his head lolling weakly against his chest and his feet dragging behind him. His skin was uncharacteristically pale and there was blood seeping through his t-shirt and the many bandages wrapped around so many parts of his body that Michael had to wonder if there was anywhere that Hughes didn’t touch.

Michael shuffled onto his knees as he watched them drop Alex unceremoniously to the floor and resecure his chains, completely uncaring of the pain their actions might cause.

“What did you do?” He demanded as his eyes roamed over every covered wound that was visible from the angle that Alex was laying. He hadn’t actually expected Alex to be in such bad shape.

“Took as much blood and spinal fluid as I thought he could handle, a couple of glands,” Hughes began rolling his sleeves down from where they had been kept safe from the mess of his experiment. “Now I’ve got to synthesise it all and transfuse it to me.”

“You really think it’s going to be that easy to give yourself powers? You’re insane! It’s never gonna work.” Michael gritted his teeth as Hughes nodded at the two airmen as permission for them to leave the room.

“Maybe not. But if his cells fail, at least I’ve got a back up ready and waiting for round two.” Hughes shrugged with a smile as he turned to leave, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

Michael instantly crawled over to where Alex was lying on his side on the cold floor and closed the gap between them.

“Alex?” He whispered, as he placed a gentle hand against the back of Alex’s head. He watched as Alex squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath before attempting to push himself up onto his forearms, his weak limbs shaking with the effort.

“They can’t take you. I won’t-- I won’t let them take you.” He muttered as his muscles gave out and he dropped the small distance back to the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael whispered reassuringly. His heart was pounding at the sight of how frail Alex looked but also at the words he just spoke. Barely conscious and Alex was still ready to protect him. “Just stay still okay.”

Up close, the fine sheen of sweat against Alex’s forehead was hard to miss, as was the quick, shallow breaths it seemed like he was struggling to take. Michael delicately pressed the back of his hand against Alex’s forehead fully expecting an unnatural heat but instead the skin felt strangely cold and clammy.

There were bandages wrapped around his wrists, his elbows, even some gauze tapped to the side of his neck, each with their own small stain of blood that luckily didn’t look to be growing. Peering at Alex’s back, Michael grimaced at the blood sitting prettily in the middle of his t-shirt. Liz had mentioned to him before about the pain that Jenna had gone through with her involuntary spinal tap. He didn’t even want to think about how much suffering Hughes’ spinal fluid extraction was causing for Alex.

With closed lids and a furrowed brow, it was hard to tell if Alex was unconscious or just too drained to open his eyes, but he was breathing and right now that was all that mattered.

Michael leant against the wall once more and huffed at the inconvenience of having to rearrange the chain to the other side of his body as he carefully coaxed Alex’s head to rest against this thigh. Alex let out a low moan of pain but quickly settled as gentle hands began to card through his soft hair.

“So, while you were gone I was thinking about how we managed to get ourselves kidnapped and I remembered what we were talking about before we were rudely interrupted.” Michael pressed his fingers to Alex’s neck, being mindful of the bandage, to check his pulse. “You were talking about that stray cat that’s been hanging around your place and my weak attempt at persuading you to stop feeding it was clearly not working."

Alex let out a small noise not far off a chuckle.

“Well, I never got round to bringing out the big guns, you know, the thing that was going to blow your measly, animal loving side of the argument out of the water, the-- you know the--,” Michael’s eyes roamed towards the ceiling as if the word he was thinking of would be helpfully written there in capital letters as his brain tried to grasp what was on the tip of his tongue. “Ugh, remember when we had to do that dumb debating at school? I swear there was a word for it. Anyway, yeah, I was gonna tell you about the time that a cat managed to sneak its way into the airstream.”

Michael shuffled over slightly so that Alex’s neck was better supported. His back protested at the odd angle he had now positioned himself in but he was prepared to ignore it for as long as it meant that Alex’s pain eased even just a fraction.

“You know me, I don’t bother shutting that door half the time when I’m working in the junkyard, so it could have been in there for hours by the time I finished. It was certainly long enough to make itself at home though, as I soon found out when I tried to get into bed that night. I was just minding my own business and this mangy thing attacks me out of nowhere! Scratched all up my arm and the side of my face but then it went crazy trying to get out, bouncing off the walls and messing up all my paperwork, causing way more destruction than was necessary before trotting out the door. And, okay, maybe it scratched me because I happened to ruin it’s evening by sitting on it while it was under the sheets, but I choose to believe it’s because cats are evil, evil creatures that are plotting Earth’s demise.”

Michael leant closer to Alex as if preparing to reveal a secret, his hands still carding through Alex’s hair as he dropped his closing statement.

“And that is why you should stop feeding the stray, because soon it’ll want more than your little scraps of food. Soon it’ll invite itself in and make itself at home and then it can take you down from the inside.”

Michael looked down at Alex’s face. His ashen cheeks growing steadily paler. His closed eyelids, twitching occasionally, but still beautiful even in sleep.

“But then again, I can’t imagine any cats hating you, so maybe you’re safe.” He added softly.

-

Several hours later and with no sign of Hughes returning anytime soon, Michael had rambled on and on in a shaky attempt at keeping Alex awake. He talked about Isobel’s latest dining room decorating plans and Maria’s most recent cocktail creation and the new milkshake idea that Liz had run by him. As soon as the stories starting involving Kyle he knew that he was running out of material. All the while, Alex barely moved besides the occasional groan or violent cough.

Michael didn’t want to admit to himself that he was scared but honestly, he had kind of betted on being rescued by now and the longer that Alex went without help, the more bleak their situation was looking.

Alex had squirmed several times under his hands but still his eyes remained closed. Feeling Alex move again, Michael watched as he scrunched his brow and pressed his forehead to Michael’s thigh. “Need to help Michael,” he muttered quietly against the material, his hands weakly trying to push against the floor.

Michael felt a pull in his chest at the words. Alex was so out of it with probably zero awareness of his surroundings, but as always the man’s selfless natural was pushing through to do the one thing he always did without fail. Protect others.

“Shh, it’s okay Alex, I’m right here. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Michael tried to reassure him, the sudden lump in his throat making it difficult to get the words out. “Just gotta hold on a bit longer, okay? I’m sure after last time they’ve got an entire search party out looking for the pair of us.”

He placed his hands back on Alex’s head and resumed the soothing actions of running his fingers through Alex’s hair.

“I’ll do you a deal. You hold on until we get out of here and I’m gonna finally take you on the best first date you could possibly imagine. I’m gonna pull out all the stops, I’m talking flowers, champagne, a candle lit dinner at some super fancy restaurant. After everything I probably owe that to you anyway, don’t I? I mean it’s definitely my fault it’s taken us this long for us to actually become an us.”

Alex’s hands weakly reached up to feel at the gauze on his neck but Michael gently caught them and guided them back to the floor before he could do any damage.

“I mean let’s be honest, we’re both as bad as each other, constantly running away from it. But then at some point you stopped running and I still didn’t do anything. And it’s not that I didn’t want to, I just think after everything, I didn’t want to get it wrong. Because I’ve always loved you Alex. There’s no point denying it. But no matter how much we loved each other back then, it just went so wrong last time. Maybe we just weren’t ready, we were both dealing with so much and keeping so many secrets. And then I keep thinking, if we couldn’t make it work in the past decade then maybe the smartest thing to do would be to move on completely, to not even risk repeating it all over again.”

Michael’s head shot up as he faintly registered a sound beyond the door. It was hard to make out what was going on, but his breath instantly caught in his throat and he felt his hairs stand on end at the thought of Hughes entering the cell.

His powers hadn’t returned yet and with the chains not going anywhere anytime soon it was going to be impossible to protect Alex. He’d try, of course. He’d rather die than not try to protect Alex.

But he knew what was about to happen. It was playing out so vividly inside his head.

Hughes must have discovered by now that Alex’s cells were no more than human and no-one hates an inconvenient test subject more than a madman on a mission. He would have no problem with disposing of Alex and moving onto his next lab rat.

The noises continued outside but Michael closed his eyes and focused on the feel of Alex’s hair caught between his fingers.

“But we tried to do that as well,” He continued softly. “And yet, here we are back at the beginning. I guess that’s just the thing about your first love, isn’t it? Your first love always hurts the most. It gives you the biggest rush and the most incredible feelings and the greatest heartbreak. And there might be other loves, but none that quite compare to your first. And I just can’t seem to walk away from you Alex, no matter how hard I’ve forced myself to.”

His heart was pounding now. He could practically feel it slamming against his ribcage.

Why did he ever think he could get over Alex?

Why did he think he should try?

They had wasted so much time dancing around each other and now that they’d finally made it to the same page it was going to be torn away from them.

The noises quickly turned into shouts and Michael naively hoped for a second that maybe something else was going on. Maybe some other poor soul was being tortured and Alex would be spared for a little while longer.

But then the unmistakable sound of footsteps stopped right outside the door.

Nothing happened for a moment and Michael could feel his palms getting clammy. Then it creaked opened carefully to reveal the last person Michael had expected to see.

Flint Manes.

There the man stood, in the doorway, in his usual army attire with an unreadable expression on his face as he looked down at his little brother.

Michael held his breath as he and Flint locked eyes, his hands gripping Alex a little bit tighter. He had been ready to put up a fight with Hughes no matter how short lived it would have been, but if Flint wanted to get to Alex, he’d have to kill Michael first.

Months ago, when Jesse was still alive, Michael had had no trouble believing that Flint was capable of kidnapping his own brother. But since then, Alex had been trying so hard with Flint, trying to encourage him to leave their father’s ways behind and become his own man.

And he had succeeded. Or so Michael had thought.

To see him standing in the doorway filled Michael with so much anger he could have exploded in that very moment. Or at least sent Flint flying into the nearest wall had he still had his powers.

Michael opened his mouth ready to unleash his fury at the man if he dared take a step closer, when Flint barely turned his head - his eyes not wanting to stray far from his brother - and shouted loudly out of the cell.

“Valenti!!”

Michael barely had a chance to be confused before Flint swiftly crossed to the other side of the small room and dropped to his knees with a loud thud. His hands came close to Alex but stopped a few inches away, hovering hesitantly as if unsure of where to touch that wouldn’t hurt his brother further.

“What happened?” His voice quivered as he looked up at Michael with such a pained expression that Michael couldn’t believe the rage he’d felt at the man only mere moments ago.

Before he could answer, Kyle appeared in the doorway with Isobel right on his heels. They both looked flustered and were breathing heavily as if they’d been running but no amount of cardio could stop the pure joy from crossing their faces at seeing their friends.

Kyle immediately switched into doctor mode as he joined Flint in kneeling next to Alex, his hand going straight to his neck to check for a pulse. Isobel dropped down next to Michael and used the key she was gripping to unlock his and Alex’s cuffs.

“You’re okay.” She smiled as she gently cupped his cheeks for a moment, the look of such relief shining in her eyes. “We’re gonna get you both out of here.”

“How did you find us?” Michael asked as he rubbed at his wrists. Now that he was free of the cuffs he noticed just how heavy and uncomfortable they had been.

He glanced down at Alex, desperately wanting to reach out to him again, and watched as Kyle gave a careful glimpse under a few of the bandages.

“It was all Flint.” Isobel helped Michael to his feet. “The guys who took you used to work with him at Caulfield. It’s a long story, but as soon as we realised you were missing, he worked it all out and managed to track them down.”

Michael glanced down at Flint and watched as the man’s eyes shone as his focus stayed on his brother. He wanted to thank him. In fact, his mouth did its best impression of a fish as he tried to find the right words but it just felt so strange to be so immensely grateful to a man who had been willing to kill him in the past.

As if Flint could sense his hesitation, he looked up and gave a short reassuring nod, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“You can explain the rest in the car. We need to get Alex out of here, now.” Kyle nodded at Flint as he stood up.

At the confirmation that Alex could be moved, Flint wasted no time in getting his brother off of the cold floor. He couldn’t stop the grunt from leaving his mouth as he lifted Alex up and into his arms. He may be made of muscle from his many years in the army, but Alex was just as tall as him and probably weighed just as much.

He shifted his brother slightly into a more comfortable position, being extremely mindful of his many injuries. Alex’s head rolled into the crook of his neck and Flint could feel his soft breaths as they ghosted against his skin.

Michael quickly followed as Flint led the group out of the cell, a sickly feeling settling in his stomach once more as he watched Alex’s legs swing so lifelessly as he was carried.

He barely registered the sheer number of empty cells they passed as they hurried through the corridors and towards the exit, Isobel’s protective hand on his lower back reassuring him more than he could admit.

There was no one in sight as they left the Caulfield-like building and as much as Michael wanted to know what had happened to everyone, the priority of that question was way lower down on his list than Alex’s wellbeing.

In that moment, as long as Alex was breathing, nothing else mattered.

[nickdempsey]

R054 Ch. 1(?)

So, I wrote a thing. For lack of better terms, it’s a fanfic of a fanfic.  Ha.

All kidding aside, full props to the original AU this is based on, @lab-raised-steven . The person running it is a really awesome dude who helped out a lot with the lore and writing process as I wrote this.

The idea is that Jason Stross, a character of mine, waking up to find himself locked away in the Lab of Dr. Robert Wendell, at the mercy of said sadist.

This all stemmed from me reading how much of a bastard one of the scientist characters are and thought, “Hey, it’d be kinda cool of Jason met this guy.

So, without further ado,  I hope you find this piece entertaining, but most importantly, I hope you give @lab-raised-steven / @lab-raised-archive / @societyslostone (Main) a visit! 

Have a great day!

WARNING: Contains violence and mention of severed limbs.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

There were many times Jason had felt this way.

A splitting headache, drowsiness to the point he was unsure if he was conscious, his entire body was engulfed with pain, and pure confusion of where he was.

The last thing he remembered was the explosion he caused by destroying the Warp Pad he warped in through. Then falling into this planet’s ocean. He was sure that he was going to die.

 At least, he was unsure if he was still alive.

 When he did eventually wake up, everything from his environment to clothing was different.

He found himself in a dark and cold room. His prosthetic arm was taken as well as his regular clothes. He found himself in a sort of teal hospital scrubs. His organic arm was handcuffed to the metal chair he was sitting on, along with his feet.

He tried to stand, but the handcuffs and his weakened state proved that the effort was fruitless.

 It did however receive a reaction.

 Jason’s attention was pulled away from the chair as he saw a door open, flooding the room with a blinding white light. A humanoid being walked in. As soon as Jason’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, he was met with a man standing above him. A human male. He held with him a decently sized briefcase, to which he placed on his own size of the table.

The contact caused a short clanging sound as it hit the metal surface.

He was a paler man under his lab coat. He kept staring at Jason through his glasses, windows to an icy cold stare looking up and down Jason’s body. Examining him. Studying him.

Not saying a word, his gaze left Jason and looked over to the briefcase.

The man opened it, angled so that Jason could not see what was inside it.

The man pulled out a small plastic rectangle. A voice recorder.

 The man brought the voice recorder close to him as he looked over at Jason again.

“Doctor Wendell’s log. Ruby 19, Year 7019 After First Contact. Two nights ago, a life form was found off the shore of the Empire State. Unconscious and barely alive.” The Doctor spoke into the voice recorder. He was speaking as if Jason was not in the room, but it was clear that he was talking about him.

 “The life form is human-like.” The Doctor continued. “Same physicality. Similar DNA matches. However, it is clear that the life form, a human male of military age.” He looked up at Jason with his eyes. “His apparel and other equipment also suggest military background for whatever planet he hails from.”

 He looked back at the recorder. “Judging by the condition of his body, he did not arrive to this planet willingly. When stripped of his suit, bruises, cuts and signs of head trauma were found throughout his body. He now seems awake and conscious.”

He looked back at Jason, “I am going to now attempt to extract further information.” He kept his gaze on Jason, placing the recorder down. He rested his hands on the metallic table, ensuring distance between the two.

 There were a few seconds of silence before he spoke.

“You are not of this planet.” Doctor Wendell said, the sound of his voice bounced off the walls of the small and cramped room. “Is that correct?”

 “Who are you?” Jason asked hoarsely. “Where am I?”

 Wendell groaned, sighing in disappointment. “I am asking the questions.” He said, clearly forcing himself to remain calm as he eyed Jason with more intensity.

 “Where the hell am I?” Jason demanded. While his energy was still low, he was able to rise from too tired to a tired aggravation.

 Wendell did not answer. In a quick motion, he stood from the table, keeping his eyes on Jason.

He reached into the briefcase again, pulling out a baton of sorts.

 It was odd to Jason, for he recognized it, but did not at the same time.

It reminded him of the Destabilizers that were left by the Gems on the planet Kul-Baris, but it looked different. It looked far too primitive to be made by the Gems. It almost looked as if it was built by human hands. Humans of this planet.

 Wendell walked around the table with the baton in hand, growing more frustrated with each step.

By the time Jason processed the Doctors intentions, it was too late to defend himself. After two heavy and fast hits of the baton, the first to his head and the second onto his chest, Jason felt as the voltage violently traveled through his body. He yelled in pain as Wendell kicked at his chair, pushing him into falling to the ground.

 Jason could only watch as Wendell walked over the table and began to stomp on him rapidly over his body, his legs and even his head.

Once the Doctor decided it was enough, he hit Jason a final time as he pulled the chair to stand back up. Jason spat out a significant amount of blood.

 “I believe you are unaware of your situation.” Wendell said as his hand gripped Jason’s jaw tightly. “Whatever significant life you believed you lived before coming to this planet is over.  As far as anyone in this universe is concerned, you are dead.”

 He threw Jason’s jaw, causing his head to grow sore from the sudden jerk. “And on this planet, you do not exist.”

 Jason looked back up to Wendell.

 The Doctor looked back at Jason as he returned to his end of the chair. “You are my property. You belong to me now.”

 Wendell put the baton back into the briefcase. “Perhaps if you behave, I will eventually give you your arm back. Continue this aggression.” He looked at Jason’s organic arm. “I will take the other arm. I will ask again. You are not of this planet. Is that correct?”

 Jason could only look at Wendell. The echoing pain told him to comply, as if it was a survival instinct.

“That is correct.” He said, groaning from the pain Wendell presented him with.

 “What is your planet of origin?” Wendell moved to the second question.

 Jason was quiet for a few moments. “Requiem.” He spoke, unsure of the point of answering such a question.

 “Where is this planet?” Wendell asked Jason. “Where is Requiem.”

 Jason looked over to Wendell, his eyes grew more tired from the question. “I studied engineering.” He said to Wendell. “Not navigation.”

 Wendell held a deep sigh as he looked over his notes.

“Perhaps we can talk about something you do know about.” Wendell said as he flipped through some of his notes.

 “The device on the back of your head. Imbedded in your spinal cord. On this planet, we call it the Atlas Vertebra.”

Jason froze. The already cold temperature of the concrete room and metal chair he was handcuffed in felt as if it dropped a few more degrees.

 The Neurolink, a device most of the populace of the Requiem Republic use for better control of devices and communication.

His left arm shot up to try and reach the back of his neck to confirm but was painfully reminded of the four-inch handcuffs connecting him to the chair.

 “Handcuffs.” Wendell sarcastically reminded Jason. He went bac to flip through his notes. He pulled out a page and placed it on the table in front of Jason.

 “Surgical procedure.” Wendell said as he presented the page. The main one was of Jason, post procedure. It only showed the back of his head, a blood-soaked bandage where his Neurolink once was.

 Jason began to feel soreness in that area, now realizing the removal of the device.

 “We found bits and pieces of information.” Wendell said as he pulled the photo away. “Some audio. Some visual. Saved in such a small piece of technology. For lack of a better term; memories. Judging by the recorded brain waves, memories of significance.”

 “Huh? You went through my Neurolink?” Jason asked, finding the task to be near impossible, even by the standards of Requiem technology. “How- “

 “My organization specializes in studying and reverse engineering Alien technology.” Wendell interrupted Jason again. “Until your arrival, it was only Gem technology.”

 Wendell then pulled some more pages from his notes and placed them in front of Jason. “Activating your ’Neurolink’ took a dull afternoon.”

 Jason was silent as he looked down. They were more photos. However, they weren’t just any images. They were memories. His memories. Moments he remembered from his life.

By the looks of the photos, less than perfect memories.

 “We chose these particular memories.” Wendell said. “Of the few we managed to recover. Based on the heightened brain activity. Some of which are obvious why.” He pulled up a photo and placed it in front of Jason.

 The picture was from Jason’s perspective. Filtered through the HUD display of the helmet he wore that day. However, he was well aware of the event shown. It was such a long few years ago, but it felt so recent, as a pain began to grow on what remained of his right arm.

 He was lying on his back that day. Forced down onto the cold icy surface of the cavern in the photo. He remembered his entire body was in pain that day. Standing above him was a figure that clearly wasn’t human, but humanoid.

The figure looked as if they were encased in a full body suit of black armor, which had a purple glow coming off of it.

What made the memory as significant as it was, however, was the figure in question, now covered in Jason’s blood as it held his severed arm.

 “Such as this one.” Wendell said as he tapped on the arm in the picture. “I can only imagine losing an arm in anyway could be traumatic.”

He pulled another photo out, nowhere near as chaotic as the previous. “Let’s try something more recent.”

 Jason was not wearing a helmet in this memory, as the photo lacked a HUD display. It was a rather peaceful scene; the memory was of Jason was sitting on a couch in a rather nice home.

The majority of his vision held another face. It was a blue woman, silver hair ran down her head, down to her shoulders. Her blue eyes glistened as she smiled at Jason.

 “This one, and another, I found interesting.” Wendell said, jotting a few notes regarding Jason’s facial expression to the photo, which oddly seemed more distressed than fond of the seemingly peaceful memory.

Jason’s face grew pale, his eyes fixated on the photo.

 “Same amount of brain activity.” Wendell said. “Nearly identical to the rest. However, the chemical balance suggests happiness. That you are at peace.”

Almost immediately after the statement, another picture was placed on top. “Fifteen hours later. Or at least that was what was logged, this happens”

 The picture was once again of a blue woman. The same from the previous. Her face, however, was from happy. She looked in pain. Her eyes filled with despair. Sorrow.

 Betrayal.

 She was looking straight at Jason, even through the photo. Jason tensed up as he looked at the photo. He was silent, but visually distressed from the photos.

 “Who is she? Why is she so important to you?” Wendell asked Jason, detecting the distress. “The Blue Woman.”

 Jason exhaled uneasily. “Please.” He said in a defeated tone, desperate to get away from the photo. “No. Not this.” She softly said in nearly a begging manner.

 “You do not have a say in this R-054.” Wendell said as he reached for his baton, visually warning Jason. “Who is she? A Gem?”

 Jason remained silent, paying no attention to Wendell as he kept looking down at the photo.

 “Was she just some whore? Don’t remember her name?” Wendell asked. “Perhaps your planet allows that?”

 Jason violently tried to stand up from his chair to argue but was still confined to the handcuff. Such a thing did not matter however, as almost immediately, Jason was met with another attack by Wendell’s baton.

The force from the blow caused Jason to fall to the ground, his chair clattering on the floor.

 “You don’t want to behave?” Wendell asked as he walked around the table toward his fallen and handcuffed prisoner. His baton shot sparks out. “Fine.”

 Not waiting for a response, Wendell repeatedly struck at Jason, not seeming to show any signs of backing away anytime soon.

Chained to the chair, Jason had no way to defend himself. He could only look up to see Wendell repeatedly hit him until his vision began to black out as he lost conscious.

  Jason wasn’t sure how long he was out for, but when he woke back up, he found that he must have been out long enough to be moved.

He was no longer restrained, but he might as well have still been. He was now in a small room that was barely more lit. There were three concrete walls. One of which had a door, presumably locked.

The fourth wall, however, was made of a thick sheet of glass. The other side of the window held another room. The light was off, all Jason could see was utter blackness. As if he was looking out into the void of space.

 AS if on cue, a loud siren played off as the light turned on, showing the parallel room’s occupant.

The room was nothing more than another cell, identical to Jason’s. He found himself stunned as he found who or what was in the other cell’s bed.

 A child. A boy. Until the siren, he was sound asleep.

The boy had curly black hair, and he wore the same hospital gown as Jason, minus the bloodstains from beatings. What received the most attention from Jason, however, was the boy’s eye. His left eye remained closed, bearing only a scar down it.

Jason shuddered, as he couldn’t bare to consider if the scar was a cause to what the people behind this facility did to him.

Better yet, why was the boy here?

 Sure, Jason was from another planet. While he wasn’t fond of his stay in his current location, he did understand it.

 The boy awoke. Stepping out of the bed, he did not seem to notice Jason at first.

That was when Jason saw the Gem imbedded in the boy’s abdomen. A large pink Gem. Almost looking like a Quartz. He wasn’t sure what specific cut of Gem it was, but he knew it was a Gem. Such a thing only served to cause Jason more confusion. Was the boy a Gem? Could Gems even be organic?

 Jason was so wrapped up in his questions, he failed to notice the boy finally seeing him.

Understandably, as his sight was on a grown stranger with one arm, wearing a blood-soaked gown, he began to panic.

 The Boy backed into his bed, falling over as he looked at Jason.

 As Jason looked at the panicking Boy, he began to sit down on his own bed, slow and calm.

 “It’s ok…” Jason said to The Boy, unsure if he would even hear him. “I won’t hurt you…”

His arm was raised, almost like he was giving The Boy a lowered hand wave.

 The Boy began to calm down as he saw Jason was not a threat. He readjusted himself, sitting down on his own bed, studying Jason.

He raised his own hand, thinking they were waving at each other.

 Jason only responded with a weak and tired smile.

[bcbdrums]

Torment

I am sad, therefore, I have written angst.  Enjoy the pain, yo!

FFn link --> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13659553/1/Torment

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

Drakken stood on the balcony of his apartment in Japan, looking out at the light pollution that blocked the view of the stars from the sky. He was glad for it. He felt he could live the rest of his life without seeing the stars again.

When the vibration of his PDA indicated an email he looked down and noted first, his boss was scheduling an emergency staff meeting in the morning, and second, that it was past midnight. He closed the PDA and stood with a yawn and a long stretch that made the bones in his back crack. Yet another night spent awake far beyond the time he would need to go to bed to get a healthy-night's sleep. Yet another night spent...lamenting his life.

After he had changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, he began punching the tiny buttons of his PDA's keyboard in reply to his boss.

"Hi Mr. Nakasumi,

"I see that I neglected to mark tomorrow as a personal day on my calendar. I always take June 16th off and I need—

Drakken paused in his composing and deleted the last line, thinking for a moment.

"I need June 16th off every year. I'm so sorry for the late notice but I won't be able to attend the meeting.

Sincerely, Drew Lipsky"

He read over the brief and matter-of-fact email a few times, grateful for the ability to choose words carefully in written communication before hitting send. And after it was done he set the PDA on his nightstand and lay on his back in his bed, dropping the back of one hand over his eyes.

How could he have been so foolish as to forget to block out the date on his calendar?

He felt a familiar and warm sliding sensation as the parasitic mutant vine that was attached to his spinal cord slithered out of its sheath within his back. Drakken lowered his hand and watched the pink flower bloom and hover above his head, as if asking him a question. Drakken scowled at it.

"You could have reminded me, you know!"

The flower jerked slightly, as if indignant to Drakken's scolding. Just then the PDA vibrated on the nightstand. Drakken sighed silently and the flower moved over as if immune to gravity, the vine coiling around the small electronic device before bringing it the short distance to Drakken's hand. He flipped up the cover and opened the new email from his boss.

"We need you at the meeting. I'm sorry, but you didn't block out the date."

Not even signed. Drakken closed the device with a scowl and tossed it aside on his mattress before throwing back the bedcovers and sitting up, running his fingers anxiously through his hair.

He glanced at the TV, with its promise of old sitcom re-runs and bad infomercials. He glanced down the hall toward his kitchen, where peanut butter stickies, cocoa-moo, and practically any number of gluttonous delights awaited. He looked at the computer sitting on his desk, with its beckoning of Minesweeper or solitaire.

He stood and walked back to his balcony, pushing the doors open roughly before stepping out into the slight chill of the night air. The sounds of traffic and city life that had been slightly muffled by the walls were suddenly very present, almost crushing to Drakken's ears. He stepped all the way to the railing and peered down.

Nine storeys. He was nine storeys up.

It wasn't quite enough for the blue splat he desired. He turned away with a disgusted scowl and headed back indoors.

The flower tapped his cheek then as if reminding Drakken of its presence. When he turned to look at it, it appeared as though the bloom was judging him.

"Don't give me that look! This is all your fault!"

And it was the flower's fault. Without the flower, he wouldn't have saved the world. He might also be dead, but... He was more and more frequently coming to the conclusion that dead would be better.

He left the bedroom and headed down the hall to the kitchen, as if he could somehow escape the flower. But he knew...it would always be there. As if he needed the reminder.

In the kitchen he opened the fridge and stared at its contents. There wasn't...anything he wanted. He closed it again and set his forehead against the smooth white door.

He felt the flower move again as if trying to look at him. When Drakken dared glance to the side it was indeed there, staring and questioning if it was capable of those things. Drakken wondered briefly if it did have a sentience, as he'd wondered so many times over the years. But his genius had been too much for even him to decipher, and so he was stuck with a mutant plant parasite, and the world was protected by its many minions.

"What do you want?" he asked the flower. It only continued to face him. "You know I would be better off if you weren't around? I should have just let the doctors try to operate... I'd be better off dead, than...than..."

He trailed off as he closed his eyes and turned his face back into the cool door of the refrigerator.

The morning was going to be hell.

He cringed as he realized he could have just called in sick and no one would have been the wiser. But now that he'd requested the personal day and his boss knew, he couldn't.

"Nghhyah!" he roared out, causing the flower to quickly retreat. He lifted his fists and slammed them into the fridge door, and then turned and set them on his kitchen counter. He bent his aching back forward and rested his forehead on his fists as he tried to figure out what to do.

June 16th. He couldn't work on June 16th. He couldn't do anything on June 16th. And now he had no choice, and it was nearing one o'clock in the morning, and he had to wake up at five, and—

He took a slow breath. Maybe...it was better. Maybe falling asleep during whatever meeting was suddenly so important, and then doing a lack-lustre job for the rest of the day would be enough distraction. It wasn't as if he'd ever found adequate distraction enough in years past, staying home or going out.

Drakken sighed and stood, his aged back protesting even the brief time in the hunched position, and turned to go back to his bedroom. Another night staring at his ceiling fan and wondering where he had gone wrong seemed to be his only option.

He lay down in his bed again, his PDA falling forgotten to the floor as he adjusted his blankets, and then stared wide-eyed at the spinning device on the ceiling that kept the air moving.

June 16th wasn't where he had gone wrong. It was somewhere between that date, and ten days prior—the day he had accepted a medal at the United Nations, and then a pardon.

She... She had smiled at him. She hadn't even been that mad about his vine spinning around them and pulling them tightly together, the image a paparazzo's dream.

Was it later when so many magazines printed that image on the cover? She had looked increasingly startled by them each time a new one came in the mail, but otherwise...he didn't know what she thought. She'd never said a word about them.

Was it after that, when he had told her he was going to take the job with their one-time victim in Japan? A six-figure salary and state-of-the-art technology was hard to argue with, especially when he had learned that it wasn't toys he was making; no, he was to be part of one of the lesser-known branches of the conglomerate that dealt with cybertronics. It was a dream come true!

She had sounded...interested. She'd asked him all sorts of questions about it, at the time. She had even agreed it was the best choice between all of the other offers he had received. She had been completely supportive.

So had he said something wrong...on the night of the fifteenth? It had been her idea to watch movies together. She'd even...

Drakken felt tears running down the sides of his face as he stared up at his ceiling fan, which was slightly shaking in an oscillating pattern one would only notice if they were looking.

She'd even asked him to make cocoa-moo.

They had had fun.

Drakken quickly got up and sat on his heels, bending his face over the bed as his tears fell in large, hot droplets and dampened the blankets.

"What did I do wrong?" he choked out.

After a few heaving breaths he turned his bleary eyes and peered through the dark at his nightstand. The vine emerged from his back again, knowing his thoughts before he even had them, and moved slowly to the nightstand drawer and pulled it open. The flower scooped out the small folded paper that was the drawer's only content and carefully brought it to Drakken, presenting it almost reverently.

Drakken lifted the paper off of the pink petals with shaking hands. It was a receipt; old, and dated back to March of 2006. He'd long ago memorized what was on it. 'Hot stone massage and salt glow package - $140 - Mount Olympus Spa.' Not that that mattered. Or did it? No, it didn't. It was just a piece of paper she had found.

He unfolded the thin receipt and read the words she had penned boldly on the back. He had found the note on her pillow the day after their movie night. June 16th.

'Going solo. Have fun in Japan. —Shego'

Below the words was the imprint of her black lipstick that shone with an iridescent green he had discovered the one time he had looked at the note in sunlight.

He didn't need to see it. He had memorized everything about it long ago: the way she pressed the pen more firmly on downward strokes than upward; the way she didn't quite dot her 'i' but made more of a careless slash above the vowel; the way her lower lip had pressed more firmly than the upper, and how her lips had been slightly parted when she left the final sign of her presence in his life.

He had stared at the note for more hours than was healthy. And if anyone knew he still had it after three years, they would probably say he was losing his mind.

Well...they wouldn't exactly be wrong.

June 16th. She never came out of her room that day. And then he had found the note.

She had just...vanished. Completely. As if off the face of the Earth.

Japan had been willing to wait for him since he was a 'world hero,' and he'd spent months doing nothing but looking for her. He tried every villain connection he had, including those he was on bad terms with. He tried requesting help of government agencies, who were happy to help since he was a 'world hero.' He had finally and desperately asked for help from Kim Possible. But even her computer whiz kid couldn't find Shego. No sightings. No security recordings. No crime reports. She was just...gone.

He folded the note carefully and leaned over to place it back in the drawer, a muscle in his neck spasming as he did so. He winced as he pushed the drawer closed and then sat up slowly, reaching a hand back to massage the aching muscle.

Possible would call in the morning. He would probably miss the call, since he would be yawning through a meeting. But if he was able to take her call, he knew exactly how it would go. He would hold his breath and ask the question. And she would answer sadly that no, there was still no trace of his former side-kick anywhere. Drakken knew without a doubt, that would be the answer. Because Possible wouldn't wait for the anniversary of her disappearance to call if she'd found her.

Drakken stood up and straightened his pajamas and then smoothed out his blankets. He glanced at the TV with its promise of pay-per-view and violent movies. He looked at the hallway to the kitchen where he kept various bottles of spirits that he'd barely ever touched in his villain years. He turned toward the computer on his desk where Internet pornography beckoned.

With a shaking yawn, he crossed the room and stepped out onto his balcony once more. He looked up at the sky that should have been black and dotted with stars, but was instead a golden-gray; nature's beauty interrupted by the ever-present hum of humanity. But he didn't mind.

He could live the rest of his life without ever seeing the stars again.

He brought his gaze down as he stepped to the railing of the balcony and looked over.

Nine storeys. Not enough for the blue splat he desired.

Or, well...perhaps.

Drakken turned back and headed inside, closing the doors behind him. He stared around his darkened apartment again, his gaze finally resting on the ceiling fan as he crawled back upon his bed and lie down, not bothering to slide under the covers.

The flower rose up on its vine and blocked his view of the spinning object on the ceiling. Somehow it looked compassionate, though he still wasn't sure how it could have emotions or how he could know what they were. Its soft petals came down to his cheeks and began drying his tears.

Drakken scoffed at its effort. The flower would be at the task all night.

[wolfofwinchester]

♛. THE WOLF OF WINCHESTER

The birth of a title.

WARNING: Contains heavy descriptions of gore.

They’d half a mind to speed for the hills when they found the girl waving her blood-smattered arm along the side of the dirt road, their horses startled by the enormous wolf meeting her hip in height. The entire sight gave the humble folk and their steeds a terrible chill.

“Wait!”‌ The driver’s son grabbed his father’s shoulder, giving him a shake before he could slap the reins. “Pa, wait! That’s The Earl’s daughter, innit? It’s Lady Claudia!”‌

The much older man adjusted his dusty spectacles, then gaped and dropped from the wagon. “My Lady, what are you doin’ out here lookin’ in such a state?‌You poor thing, you–”‌ He stopped, cautiously, nervously, eyeing the beast at her side who seemed strangely docile, but highly aware of the man’s moves. The nerves rattling the farmer’s skin wanted to send him scattering from the beast alone, from its maw to its coat wet with crimson - but, there was white, dirty cloth wrapped around one of its legs. That, too, was red. The wolf was injured.

“I‌ had an unfortunate event occur to my poor self, good sir.”‌‌ Claudia spoke with a hand resting on her chest, teeth red and face a mess with what looked like dirt and mottled bruising, dressed with smears of blood. Someone struck the girl hard, her cheek was swollen. That was the sight that put the old man to ease, drawing out the compassion and the concern. “I‌ need to get home somethin’ terrible. Would ya help a Lady out?” Her hand rested behind Gelert’s head, giving him a good scratch. “He ain’t going to harm ya, I promise.”

The farmer called for the boy on the wagon and he leapt off, scuttling to the back to let the panel down for the weary girl who hitched a burlap sack over her shoulder, the older man’s caging her shoulders to provide some semblance of comfort.

“Let me take that for you, miss,” Spoke the son. “I‌ can-”

“No.”‌ Claudia cut him off short. “I‌ appreciate that, but I‌’ll be carrying this.”

The skies of April 5th, 1947 rumbled, earning the farmer and his son urgency. No Lady of Phantomhive was to be left in the rain.

Her exposure to rain was the least of Hawthorn Phantomhive’s, the father and the man who was almost burning tracks into the carpet he paced in his office, arms crossed behind his back. The man had a face of stone for the most part, never giving way to any emotion and always donning a frown. Only drastic measures made his brow ever so slightly twitch. Right now, there was a terrible twitch that was beyond his control.

“Foolish.” He cursed.

“Now now, M’Lord,”‌ Spoke a voice that made even the stoic Earl’s spine tremble. It creaked like an old door on rusted hinges, cracking with age — you could practically feel the dust tumble off the tongue it belonged to. “the last thing you want to do is let out such grievances while the dear girl has yet to be found. Men have been in your place and came to regret letting their mouth speak without the mind’s leash.”

A look like ice flew in the funeral director’s direction, who merely canted his head, hands that’d been crept close to his chest clicking their talons. That grin of his was absolutely unchanged by the look that made many crumble. Made the few others in the room feel grateful such intensity was not rested on them.

“Keep your penny dreadfuls behind your lips.”‌ The Earl stalked past the giggling man, pouring over his desk and peeling through the files. Photos laid scattered, files laid opened. He swatted aside the uncharacteristically bright green bag, wrapped by silver string and a tag with “do m'iníon milis*” attached. “Woolwich.”

“Not a peep, Lord Phantomhive.”‌ Piped a man with black hair, puffing on his pipe. “The only trading is in tobacco and weaponry from America.”

“Twyford.”

“Nobility’s not been in their stock for some time,”‌ Piped another with blond hair, rested languidly on the deep rich blue couch. “Druitt’s kept me sharply informed.”

“Norwood.”

Again, the funeral director spoke, traipsing to one of the long windows that peered over the front. “M’Lord, have I given you reason to doubt my information?”‌ He could see it, even if the others didn’t. He’d long since grown to recognize the subtle signs in the great Earl — the man was frantic.

“If I‌ find nothing in West Ham, I‌ want to know where to look next. Alternatives.”‌ Lord Hawthorn answered sharp. “Trafficking highborn is fast-paced. If my men can’t find her in the auctions tonight, I‌ will have others stationed elsewhere. Norwood.”

‌Tension laid thick, exchanges of glances between the two quiet nobles. The reports went on as the Earl listed off location after location, shouldering his coat and drawing ‘x’s on some parchment. The funeral director, on the other hand, had grown silent; his attention was quite preoccupied, watching a humble wagon roll up to the Estate.

“Well now,”‌ The Undertaker lilted, pricking every ear in the room. The tapping of a black nail on the glass drew Hawthorn’s eye. “the long lost pup has returned of her own volition.”‌

The mortician was all but shoved by the Earl’s rush to his side, which earned something of a frown that would’ve translated to “rude”. “Are you sure?‌ Are you certain?”‌ Hawthorn eyed, watching as his heir hopped to her feet, joined by that infernal wolf of hers. There was no mistaking it, it was Claudia.

“Good God,”‌ Uttered one of the two stray nobles, joining at the window. “The girl looks like she was dragged through the shambles. What did they do to her?”

“Oh, ‘to her’ you think?”‌

“Look at her, Undertaker.”

“I am. Are you?”

A strange look, but all interjected with the Earl’s quick turn on the heel as he strode from the office, the other three in curious tow. It didn’t take long to come across the girl, who walked clear through a gaggle of maids and footmen keeping their distance due to the growling Gelert.

“Claudia –”‌ Hawthorn barely got to speak, the bloodied progeny bore into him with a fiery leer the second their eyes had met. His heart pierced, looking at the mottled discoloration on her cheek of purple, and the crimson drench on her jaw stained to her neck and soaked deep into her collar. There were remnants of pearls in her curls, but the strings had obviously been busted, leaving wild raven blue flowing free in disarrayed waves. Her emerald dress was soiled in long-dried gore, the leading stench of iron that permeated and baked into her clothing from the Spring sun.

He didn’t see a wound on her, strike aside.

His arms rose, and Claudia silenced him immediately; she flung that burlap sack with enough force to make him grunt when it struck him in the gut, embracing that instead in confusion. He pressed it, and smelled the same whiff of iron; strong. Strong enough to make the two noblemen at his side gag.

It was also Claudia that spoke full and first, and also last. “Stiúradh glan uaim, fear Béarla*.” The Lady snarled, smeared mulberry-painted lips tucking into a snarl to show her teeth, the sharp canines with their white only seen in streaks through the ichor. Gelert in turn gave the same warning with a guttural growl. The two sounded too in-tandem to be comfortable. Made gooseflesh rise.

Locks flew with the storm that was the Bastard of Phantomhive, turned on her heel and surging down the opposite hall. The wolf lingered only a moment, adding to the edge Hawthorn felt cementing his feet to the ground, seeing to the father not following before padding after his mistress.

“— Lord in Heaven.” Came gagging when the burlap was peeled open, heads veering while the mortician peered closer with a coo.

“Might I, M’Lord?”‌ Lilted Undertaker, whom received no verbal permission, but the slow glance from those icy sapphires was all he needed to pry into the sack and draw back the bloodied noggin to cradle delicately in his palms. He rolled it, he examined it, grinning ear-to-ear with fascination of the wounds upon the facial features. Skin ripped from the nasal bone to show off shattered cartilage and strings of torn, and to his sharp eye, missing muscle. Half an eyelid hung over a lifeless grey orb, while the other was clearly ruptured beyond recognition; practically blood yolk.

The gap of freshly missing front teeth, bloodying the pencil mustache of the upper lip. Then the matter of the decapitation itself; how delightfully visceral! Only a bit of spinal cord hung, violently broken.

The Lords grimaced at the sight, and one even uttered a noise of disgust when the Undertaker clenched the bone with two nails and tilted it for closer inspection.

“Alexander Moore.”‌‌ Hawthorn noted, taking a cool moment to study the gored features before putting a name to it. “The Trader from West Ham.”‌ Notorious in the Underworld for his.. requested “stock”, of highborn and those of wealth. His trade knew no restrictions other than those who paid him in advance; he was feared because his men never left a trace when they took someone, and because he himself took part in the act.

He was not a man known for his mistakes, and he wasn’t one to be reckoned with, either. No matter the guard and no matter how high you were in the eyes of society, people died in pursuit of him. He was better off paid than trifled with. Hawthorn Phantomhive, however, did not bend to anyone.

As such, Claudia paid the price.

And then, Alexander.

“Wolf did a number on him. I’ve never seen a lopping like that.”‌ One of the men traced the outline of the broken spinal cord. It wasn’t clean cut at all, and the sharp of an edge pricked the noble’s finger with a hiss and a fast withdraw.

The Undertaker giggled, turning the head upside-down so the men had a better look. His fingers splayed around the neck, tapping a black nail to bone. “Take a closer look, m’lords — do these marks look like the dear Lady’s beasty?” Squints all around, and then the draining of color in two faces, joined by a hardness in the Earl’s. “These are human.”

The quick scuff of shoes as the two lesser nobles cleared from around the macabre viewing. “You’re mad if you think we’re going to believe—”

“Are you suddenly undertaker, Carlyle?”‌ Hawthorn cut, side-leering. There was no response to that. “If I remember correctly, you work as my bloodhound — so fetch:‌ find me Moore’s warehouse.”

The sun set, and would find itself easing into the horizon once the stated warehouse was found. In the middle of nowhere as to be expected, and it was thick with the odor of decay. The door to the place was wide open, and flies had set to buzz and whizz about as three men investigated the sight for themselves; Hawthorn, Undertaker, and of course, Carlyle, who must have been the palest of the trio as they stepped over the death scene.

It was a massacre. The bodies all had signs of mauling, there was not one man laid here that hadn’t been torn into by teeth, or sharp implement. Some were pelted with bullet wounds, and one unfortunate fellow hung strangled by chain with the ceiling. The main event was the office in the building, where a headless corpse laid in a heap upon the floor as the most violent death of them all; his stomach was busted into, and that, by the Undertaker’s inspection, was the work of the wolf, down the half-eaten intestines. His arms were broken, and the leather holster for his gun was empty.

“Think it was quick?”‌ Carlyle inquired, giving a kick to the Trader’s very stiff leg.

“No.”‌‌ Hawthorn answered, examining the wreck of the office. A struggle was evident, and the print of blood on the wall meant the man has his head slammed hard into the concrete, because the wounds on Claudia’s bod were lacking outside of a few bruises. There was no dire injury to be found. “I‌ think it was slow.”

“Very slow, at that.”‌ The Undertaker hummed, examining the neck more closely. “and excruciating! She chewed through his neck, see?‌ The muscles are strong, especially in a man like the late Alexander‌ Moooore. He was a man of fine physique. I’d reckon he lived well until she went for the main artery.”‌ A titter. “How terrible.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it, you goddamn madman.”‌ Carlyle muttered, exchanging clashing looks with the chipper funeral director. “That’s a corpse you’re hunched over.”

“Aye, and corpses are my work, Mr. Carlyle.”‌ A tilt of the silver-mopped head. “Don’t you ever feel exhilarated by your field of expertise?”

“I’m not entertaining that with a comment..”‌ The more Carlyle was exposed to this man, the less he felt he’d sleep at night. A shake of the head, and he glanced to the Earl. “What’re you thinking, Phantomhive?” 

The Earl had given the neck a good, long look. One could only imagine what boggled through his mind, knowing this was the work of his heir, his daughter, without doubt. Teeth snapped through the bone. A slow, agonizing death. The girl rejected it so strongly, but there was no doubt in his mind that the cruelty of a Phantomhive was deep in her blood. Their family’s cruelty, after all, was something inherited. “I think I have a wolf from Winchester succeeding me.” Whether that was a very rigid and awkward attempt at humor was anyone’s guess. 

A beat, and he rephrased himself. “I think I have the Wolf of Winchester succeeding me.”

‌--

Irish translations;

*‌ for my sweet daughter. *‌ Steer clear of me, Englishman.

[thatsnotcanonpodcasts]

Space Movie, Space Cement & PokeCoin

Nanoo Nanoo.

Ryan Gosling is going back to space for Andy Weir's next book, which isn't even out yet but is already casting actors. This one has a working title of Project Hail Mary and features a lone scientist on a spaceship trying to save the world. Slightly higher stakes than The Martian, but Andy's books are always great.

Astronauts are also going to use pee to build houses on the moon. Let's hope NASA has a large surplus of air fresheners to send up with them, because this cement is probably the most useful way to use human waste on the moon, but it's going to smell.

Back on Earth, Niantic are trying to deflate the Pokecoin economy by severely lowering the minimum wage. Nobody seems to be happy with this, but Australia is just the test site, so it's coming to a phone near you soon.

This week Professor took a trip to a far away planet to care for slimes, and DJ found out what happens when you swim with the cardsharks.

Check in next week for probably less pee jokes. Probably.

Andy Weir’s Space Film starring Ryan Gosling

-https://variety.com/2020/film/news/phil-lord-chris-miller-ryan-gosling-astronaut-movie-1234607851/

Introducing….Piss-ent: the new space cement

-https://www.sciencenews.org/article/astronauts-lunar-exploration-cement-urine-urea-3d-printing

-https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0959652619340478?via%3Dihub

PokeCoin: Gotta cash them all

-https://www.reddit.com/r/TheSilphRoad/comments/glcywi/tales_from_the_front_one_players_experience_with/

Games Played

Professor

–Slime Rancher – https://store.steampowered.com/app/433340/Slime_Rancher/

Rating: 2/5

DJ

–Legends of Runeterra – https://playruneterra.com/en-us/

Rating: 4.5/5

Other topics discussed

The Martian (The Martian is a 2015 science fiction film directed by Ridley Scott and starring Matt Damon. The Martian, a 2011 novel by Andy Weir, served as the screenplay adapted by Drew Goddard. The film depicts an astronaut's lone struggle to survive on Mars after being left behind, and efforts to rescue him and bring him home to Earth.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Martian_(film)

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is a 2018 American computer-animated superhero film featuring the Marvel Comics character Miles Morales / Spider-Man, produced by Columbia Pictures and Sony Pictures Animation in association with Marvel, and distributed by Sony Pictures Releasing.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spider-Man:_Into_the_Spider-Verse

Andy Weir (American novelist whose debut novel in 2011, The Martian, was later adapted into a film of the same name directed by Ridley Scott in 2015.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Weir

Sean Bean Death Scene Compilation 1986-2016

-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lnzk5qAaNLk

First Man (First Man is a 2018 American biographical drama film directed by Damien Chazelle and written by Josh Singer. Based on the book First Man: The Life of Neil A. Armstrong by James R. Hansen, the film stars Ryan Gosling as Neil Armstrong and follows the years leading up to the Apollo 11 mission to the Moon in 1969. Steven Spielberg serves as an executive producer.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Man_(film)

Interstellar (2014 epic science fiction film directed, co-written and co-produced by Christopher Nolan. It stars Matthew McConaughey. Set in a dystopian future where humanity is struggling to survive, the film follows a group of astronauts who travel through a wormhole near Saturn in search of a new home for humanity.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interstellar_(film)

Raid: Shadow Legends (freemium mobile and PC game developed and published by Israeli game developer Plarium Games.)

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raid:_Shadow_Legends

-https://raidshadowlegends.com/

Girl being hit by a truck while playing Pokémon Go

-https://time.com/4405221/pokemon-go-teen-hit-by-car/

Pokémon Go disrupt a funeral

-https://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-08-08/pokemon-go-blamed-for-brisbane-funeral-disturbance/7700332

List of highest-grossing mobile games

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_highest-grossing_mobile_games

Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery forces you to pay - or wait - to save a kid from being strangled.

-https://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2018-04-27-harry-potter-hogwarts-mystery-is-ruined-by-its-in-game-payments

Harry Potter mobile game maker defends child-choking scene which asks you to wait or pay money

-https://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2019-05-31-harry-potter-mobile-game-maker-defends-child-choking-scene-which-asks-you-to-wait-or-pay-money

Pokémon Go Hits $3B in Lifetime Revenue

-https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/pokemon-go-hits-3-billion-lifetime-revenue-1250983

Wall-E: Do not Return to Earth Scene played by Fred Wllard

-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNXNkdZVqs4

Groucho Marx’s look

-https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/68/Groucho_Marx_-_portrait.jpg

RC2014 is a simple 8 bit Z80 based modular computer originally built to run Microsoft BASIC. It is inspired by the home built computers of the late 70s and computer revolution of the early 80s.

-https://rc2014.co.uk/

Sgt. Slaughter On The Time Andre The Giant Fell Asleep Mid-Match

-https://www.mandatory.com/wrestlezone/news/1060153-andre-the-giant-sgt-slaughter-zzzz

Andre The Giant (2018 TV documentary film based on the life of French professional wrestler and actor André René Roussimoff (better known as André the Giant).)

-https://www.imdb.com/title/tt6543420/

Star Wars Day (Star Wars Day, May 4, celebrates George Lucas's Star Wars media franchise. Even though the holiday was not created or declared by Lucasfilm, many Star Wars fans across the world have chosen to celebrate the holiday. It has since been embraced by Lucasfilm and parent company Disney as an annual celebration of Star Wars.

-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Wars_Day

An Assemblage of Grandiose and Bombastic Grandiloquents (TNC podcast)

-https://thatsnotcanon.com/grandiloquentspodcast

Heavenly Shows and Unnecessary Letters (TNC Podcast)

-https://thatsnotcanon.com/heavenlyshowspodcast

Shout Outs

15 May 2020 – Fred Wilard passes away at 86 - https://www.forbes.com/sites/marcberman1/2020/05/16/comic-fred-willard-dies-at-86/#5461bf6d7f10

Frederick Charles Willard, was an American actor, comedian and writer. He was best known for his roles in the Rob Reiner mockumentary film This Is Spinal Tap; the Christopher Guest mockumentaries Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, For Your Consideration and Mascots; and the Anchorman films. Willard’s other recurring sitcom roles included Family Matters,Sister, Sister, Mad About You, and Everybody Loves Raymond (the latter which resulted in Primetime Emmy nominations for Best Guest Actor in a Comedy for three consecutive years). He even appeared as the only human character in the animated film "WALL-E," a first for a Pixar film. Willard was one of Hollywood's busiest comedic actors with a career that lasted more than 50 years, playing clueless characters such as sidekick Jerry Hubbard on the satire "Fernwood 2 Night" in the 1970s. He recently finished filming the Netflix series “Space Force,” where he played actor Steve Carell’s father. He died from natural causes in Los Angeles, California.

18 May 2020 – Ken Osmond passes away at 87 - https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/18/arts/television/ken-osmond-eddie-haskell-dead.html

Ken Osmond, who played the duplicitous teenager Eddie Haskell on the long-running sitcom “Leave It to Beaver,” one moment a smarmy young man when talking to parents, the next moment a devilish troublemaker when the adults were out of sight. Mr. Osmond appeared in all six seasons of “Leave It to Beaver,” 1957 to 1963, one of the most-watched television sitcoms of the era, then reprised the role as an adult version of Eddie in the Disney Channel revival series “The New Leave It to Beaver” in the 1980s. After Leave It to Beaver ended in 1963, Osmond continued to make occasional appearances on such television series as CBS's Petticoat Junction, The Munsters, and a final return appearance on Lassie in the episode "A Matter of Seconds" as a motorcycle delivery man who offers the hitchhiking collie a lift in his sidecar. However, he found himself typecast as Eddie Haskell and had difficulty finding steady work. In 2008, Osmond told radio host Stu Shostak in a radio interview, "I was very much typecast. It's a death sentence. In Hollywood you get typecast. I'm not complaining because Eddie's been too good to me, but I found work hard to come by. In 1968, I bought my first house, in '69 I got married, and we were going to start a family and I needed a job, so I went out and signed up for the LAPD. As an officer on motorcycle patrol, he grew a mustache to disguise himself. In 1980, he was shot three times in a chase with a suspected car thief but escaped serious injury: One bullet was stopped by his belt buckle, the others by his bulletproof vest. He was put on disability and retired from the force in 1988. He died from complications of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and peripheral artery disease in Los Angeles, California.

19 May 2020 – Red Dead Redemption Celebrates Its 10th Anniversary - https://www.gamespot.com/articles/red-dead-redemption-turns-10-years-old/1100-6477391/

On May 18, 2010, Rockstar Games released Red Dead Redemption, an open-world Western video game, on the Playstation 3 and Xbox 360. Universally acclaimed for its artistry, dramatic storytelling, and freedom of choice, the game sold 17 million copies. But despite the game's reputation today, it's important to remember a time when its success wasn't certain, and Rockstar's developers sought to distinguish it from the studio's prior accomplishments. It subsequently attained a 95 on Metacritic and received over 170 Game of the Year Rewards. It led to a revitalized interest in the Western genre, especially the "Spaghetti Western"revisionist works by Sergio Leone and Sergio Corbucci. And after eight years, players got a sprawling prequel, Red Dead Redemption 2, which built upon and deepened the themes of its predecessor. Taken together, the two games are an American epic about modernization, betrayal, and the demons of the past. The West may be dead, but that won't stop us from reminiscing and keeping its memory alive.

Remembrances

19 May 1825 – Henri de Saint-Simon - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_de_Saint-Simon

Claude Henri de Rouvroy, comte de Saint-Simon, often referred to as Henri de Saint-Simon. He created a political and economic ideology known as Saint-Simonianism that claimed that the needs of anindustrial class, which he also referred to as the working class, needed to be recognized and fulfilled to have an effective society and an efficient economy. He said the primary threat to the needs of the industrial class was another class he referred to as the idling class, that included able people who preferred to be parasitic and benefit from the work of others while seeking to avoid doing work. Saint-Simon stressed the need for recognition of the merit of the individual and the need for hierarchy of merit in society and in the economy, such as society having hierarchical merit-based organizations of managers and scientists to be the decision-makers in government. Saint Simon's conceptual recognition of broad socio-economic contribution, and his Enlightenment valorization of scientific knowledge, soon inspired and influenced utopian socialism, liberal political theorist John Stuart Mill, anarchism through its founder Pierre-Joseph Proudhon who was inspired by Saint-Simon's thought and Marxism with Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels identifying Saint-Simon as an inspiration to their ideas and classifying him among the utopian socialists. He died from suicide at the age of 64 in Paris.

19 May 1935 - T. E. Lawrence - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._E._Lawrence

Colonel Thomas Edward Lawrence, British archaeologist, army officer, diplomat, and writer. He was renowned for his role in the Arab Revolt and the Sinai and Palestine Campaign against the Ottoman Empire during the First World War. The breadth and variety of his activities and associations, and his ability to describe them vividly in writing, earned him international fame as Lawrence of Arabia, a title used for the 1962 film based on his wartime activities. In 1916, he was sent to Arabia on an intelligence mission and quickly became involved with the Arab Revolt as a liaison to the Arab forces, along with other British officers. He worked closely with Emir Faisal, a leader of the revolt, and he participated, sometimes as leader, in military actions against the Ottoman armed forces, culminating in the capture of Damascus in October 1918. After the war, Lawrence joined the Foreign Office, working with the British government and with Faisal. In 1922, he retreated from public life and spent the years until 1935 serving mostly in the Royal Air Force, with a brief period in the Army. For the RAF, he participated in the development of rescue motorboats. In the inter-war period, the RAF's Marine Craft Section began to commission air-sea rescue launches capable of higher speeds and greater capacity. The arrival of high-speed craft into the MCS was driven in part by Lawrence. He had previously witnessed a seaplane crew drowning when the seaplane tender sent to their rescue was too slow in arriving. He worked with Hubert Scott-Paine, the founder of the British Power Boat Company (BPBC), to introduce the 37.5 ft (11.4 m) long ST 200 Seaplane Tender Mk1 into service. These boats had a range of 140 miles when cruising at 24 knots and could achieve a top speed of 29 knots. He died from a traffic collision at the age of 46 in Bovington Camp, Dorset.

19 May 2009 - Robert F. Furchgott – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_F._Furchgott

Robert Francis Furchgott, Nobel Prize-winning American biochemist who contributed to the discovery of nitric oxide as a transient cellular signal in mammalian systems. In 1978, Furchgott discovered a substance in endothelial cells that relaxes blood vessels, calling it endothelium-derived relaxing factor (EDRF). By 1986, he had worked out EDRF's nature and mechanism of action, and determined that EDRF was in fact nitric oxide (NO), an important compound in many aspects of cardiovascular physiology. This research is important in explaining a wide variety of neuronal, cardiovascular, and general physiologic processes of central importance in human health and disease. In addition to receiving the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for the discovery of nitric oxide as a new cellular signal—shared in 1998 with Louis Ignarro and Ferid Murad. Furchgott's discovery, that NO gas causes blood vessels to dilate, provided a long sought-after explanation for the therapeutic effects of Nitroglycerin used to treat Angina pectoris and was later instrumental in the development of the erectile dysfunction treatment drug Viagra. He died at the age of 92 in Seattle, Washington.

Famous Birthdays

19 May 1942 - Gary Kildall - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_Kildall

American computer scientist and microcomputer entrepreneur who created the CP/M operating system and founded Digital Research, Inc. (DRI). Kildall was one of the first people to see microprocessors as fully capable computers, rather than equipment controllers, and to organize a company around this concept. Although his career in computing spanned more than two decades, he is mainly remembered in connection with IBM's unsuccessful attempt in 1980 to license CP/M for the IBM Personal Computer. Kildall and his wife Dorothy established a company, originally called "Intergalactic Digital Research" (later renamed as Digital Research, Inc.), to market CP/M through advertisements in hobbyist magazines. Digital Research licensed CP/M for the IMSAI 8080, a popular clone of the Altair 8800. As more manufacturers licensed CP/M, it became a de facto standard and had to support an increasing number of hardware variations. In response, Kildall pioneered the concept of a BIOS, a set of simple programs stored in the computer hardware (ROM or EPROM chip) that enabled CP/M to run on different systems without modification. CP/M's quick success took Kildall by surprise, and he was slow to update it for high density floppy disks and hard disk drives.After hardware manufacturers talked about creating a rival operating system, Kildall started a rush project to develop CP/M 2. By 1981, at the peak of its popularity, CP/M ran on 3000 different computer models and DRI had US$5.4 million in yearly revenues. He was born in Seattle, Washington.

19 May 1944 – Peter Mayhew - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Mayhew

Peter William Mayhew, was an English-American actor, best known for portraying Chewbacca in the Star Wars film series. He played the character in all of his live-action appearances from the 1977 original to 2015's The Force Awakens before his retirement from the role. When casting the original Star Wars (1977), director George Lucas needed a tall actor who could fit the role of the hairy alien Chewbacca. He originally had in mind 6-foot-6-inch (1.98m) bodybuilder David Prowse, but Prowse chose to play Darth Vader. This led Lucas to cast Mayhew, who was working as an orderly in the radiology department of King's College Hospital, London. He became aware of a casting call for Star Wars which was filming at Elstree Studios in Hertfordshire. The 7-foot-3-inch (2.21m) tall actor was immediately cast as Chewbacca after he stood up to greet Lucas. Mayhew continued working as an orderly—at Mayday Hospital (now Croydon University Hospital)—in between filming the original Star Wars trilogy. Mayhew modelled his performance of Chewbacca after researching the behaviour of bears, monkeys and gorillas he saw at London Zoo. Lucas said Mayhew was "the closest any human being could be to a Wookiee: big heart, gentle nature and I learnt to always let him win". The character did not have any lines, the sounds he made being derived from sound recordings of animal noises. While Mayhew portrayed Chewbacca in Star Wars: The Force Awakens, he was not in Star Wars: The Last Jedi but was listed in the credits as "Chewbacca Consultant". He was born in Barnes, Surrey.

19 May 1946 – André the Giant - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andr%C3%A9_the_Giant

André René Roussimoff, best known as André the Giant, was a French professional wrestler and actor. Roussimoff stood at over seven feet tall, which was a result of gigantism caused by excess growth hormone, and later resulted in acromegaly. It also led to his being called "The Eighth Wonder of the World". He found success as a fan favorite throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, appearing as an attraction for various professional wrestling promotions. During the 1980s wrestling boom he was paired with the villainous manager Bobby Heenan and feuded with Hulk Hogan in the World Wrestling Federation (WWF, now WWE). The two famously headlined WrestleMania III in 1987. Outside of wrestling, he was best known for appearing as Fezzik, the giant in The Princess Bride. After his death in 1993, he became the inaugural inductee into the newly created WWF Hall of Fame. He was later a charter member of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter Hall of Fame and the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame; the latter describes him as being "one of the most recognizable figures in the world both as a professional wrestler and as a pop culture icon." Towards the end of his career, Roussimoff starred in several films. He appeared most notably as Fezzik, his own favorite role, in the 1987 film The Princess Bride. Both the film and his performance retain a devoted following. In shoot interviews, wrestlers have stated that he was so proud of being in "Princess Bride", he carried a copy of the movie everywhere he went, to watch whenever he could. Roussimoff has been unofficially crowned "the greatest drunk on Earth"for once consuming 119 12-US-fluid-ounce (350ml) beers (in total, over 41 litres (72imp pt)) in six hours. He was born in Coulommiers, Seine-et-Marne.

19 May 1955 – James Gosling - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Gosling

James Arthur Gosling, often referred to as "Dr. Java", Canadian computer scientist, best known as the founder and lead designer behind the Java programming language. He wrote a version of Emacs called Gosling Emacs (Gosmacs) while working toward his doctorate. He built a multi-processor version of Unix for a 16-way computer system while at Carnegie Mellon University, before joining Sun Microsystems. He also developed several compilers and mail systems there. He is known as the father of the Java programming language. He got the idea for the Java VM while writing a program to port software from a PERQ by translating Perq Q-Code to VAX assembler and emulating the hardware. He created the original design of Java and implemented the language's original compiler and virtual machine. He also invented an early Unix windowing system called NeWS, which became a lesser-used alternative to the still used X Window, because Sun did not give it an open source license. He is known for his love of proving "the unknown" and has noted that his favorite irrational number is √2. He has a framed picture of the first 1,000 digits of √2 in his office. He was born near Calgary, Alberta.

Events of Interest

18 May 1980 – Eruption of Mount St. Helens - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1980_eruption_of_Mount_St._Helens

On March 27, 1980, a series of volcanic explosions and pyroclastic flows began at Mount St. Helens in Skamania County, Washington, United States. It initiated as a series of phreatic blasts from the summit then escalated on May 18, 1980, as a major explosive eruption. The eruption, which had a Volcanic Explosivity Index of 5, was the most significant to occur in the contiguous 48 U.S. states. It has often been declared the most disastrous volcanic eruption in U.S. history. The eruption was preceded by a two-month series of earthquakes and steam-venting episodes, caused by an injection of magma at shallow depth below the volcano that created a large bulge and a fracture system on the mountain's north slope. An eruption column rose 80,000 feet (24km; 15mi) into the atmosphere and deposited ash in 11 U.S. states and significant ash in two Canadian provinces. At the same time, snow, ice and several entire glaciers on the volcano melted, forming a series of large lahars (volcanic mudslides) that reached as far as the Columbia River, nearly 50 miles (80km) to the southwest. hermal energy released during the eruption was equal to 26 megatons of TNT. Hundreds of square miles were reduced to wasteland, causing over $1 billion in damage (equivalent to $3.4 billion in 2019), thousands of animals were killed, and Mount St. Helens was left with a crater on its north side. More than 4,000,000,000 board feet (9,400,000m3) of timber was damaged or destroyed, mainly by the lateral blast. At least 25% of the destroyed timber was salvaged after September 1980. In areas of thick ash accumulation, many agricultural crops, such as wheat, apples, potatoes and alfalfa, were destroyed. As many as 1,500 elk and 5,000 deer were killed, and an estimated 12 million Chinook and Coho salmon fingerlings died when their hatcheries were destroyed.

19 May 1999 – Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace was released - https://www.scifihistory.net/may-19.html

On this day in 1999, Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace was released theatrically ... and most of us came crashing understandably back to Earth. Employment consultant firm Challenger, Gray & Christmas estimated that 2.2 million full-time employees missed work to attend the film, resulting in a US$293 million loss of productivity. According to The Wall Street Journal, so many workers announced plans to view the premiere that many companies closed on the opening day. The release on May 19, 1999 of the first new Star Wars film in 16 years was accompanied by a considerable amount of attention. The Phantom Menace was released almost 16 years after the premiere of the previous Star Wars film, Return of the Jedi. The film's premiere was extensively covered by media and was greatly anticipated because of the large cultural following the Star Wars saga had cultivated. It grossed more than $924.3 million (equivalent to $1.42 billion in 2019) worldwide during its initial theatrical run, becoming the highest-grossing film of 1999, the second-highest-grossing film worldwide and in North America (behind Titanic), and the highest-grossing Star Wars film at the time.

19 May 2005 – Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith was released - https://www.scifihistory.net/may-19.html

George Lucas brought his Prequel Trilogy to its tragic close when Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith finally showed audiences what exactly went down when Jedi Master Anakin Skywalker embraced his inner demons and took the path to the Dark Side of the Force. Luke and Leia were born, delivering the film's only true hint of what things would inevitably lead to their father's redemption, but an Empire was forged in darkness once and for all on this day. Its theatrical release in most other countries took place on May 19 to coincide with the 1999 release of The Phantom Menace (the 1977 release of A New Hope and the 1983 release of Return of the Jedi were also released on the same day and month, six years apart).

Intro

Artist – Goblins from Mars

Song Title – Super Mario - Overworld Theme (GFM Trap Remix)

Song Link - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-GNMe6kF0j0&index=4&list=PLHmTsVREU3Ar1AJWkimkl6Pux3R5PB-QJ

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[mojoflower]

My child with CIDP (a chronic neurologic illness)

Thank you for asking, @sunshinemeansmylove.  I’m always happy to share our story -- it’s cathartic.  And also, *I find it interesting, so I assume others do, too ;)

Almost ten years ago, when Phoenix had just turned 5, he started walking oddly.  We didn’t think much of it for a day or two, because he didn’t complain of anything hurting.  It got bad enough that one of his preschool teachers asked about it, so we took him in for x-rays and whatnot.  But they found nothing.  They put him in a boot for possible Kholer Disease, just in case (I don’t even know what that doctor was thinking), and with the boot, he essentially stopped walking altogether, and kept saying he didn’t want to go to preschool anymore:  so I took him out.

Within a week he’d stopped playing as much.  He appeared quite content just watching everyone else play.  He’d only stand on sidewalks instead of going on the grass.  (You need to know that he already had a long history of medical shit, because he didn’t walk until after 2, and didn’t talk until late, and was diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Delay and “symptoms relating to autism” and had had 3 years of intensive therapies and Early Intervention by this point.  So I figured the grass thing was sensory, instead of balance.)

He started doing stairs on his bottom, instead of walking, and one day he fell down them.  (We’d moved into a new house... with stairs... only 4 months earlier.  Of course.)  The next day, he was on the living room floor, playing with his matchbox cars, and couldn’t get up.  That was the last time he stood for weeks.

All this time, he remained sweet-natured and amenable and never said that anything hurt.  But now he couldn’t walk and couldn’t stand.  We rushed him to the Children’s Hospital (which in Atlanta is very reputable, thankfuckinggod).  They ran tests.  Oh, god, they ran tests.  He didn’t have reflexes at all, and couldn’t feel his hands and feet.  This is hands-down the most terrifying period of my life, ever.

Finally, with a spinal tap and a horrifically invasive and ghastly and painful EMG test (wherein they jab a pin into your thigh muscle, poke another further down the leg and run an electrical current between the two to measure degree of  blockage in the transmission).  Phoenix had complete nerve conduction blockage (100% paralysis of his legs... it was moderately better in his arms and hands).

He cried and screamed and begged me and Daddy to help him while the doctor was doing this (it took something like half an hour).  But they couldn’t give him pain killers or tranquilizers of just knock him out, b/c that would have messed with their results, so we had to hold him down.  It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and to this day I won’t go to the hospital without a bottle of xanax in my purse, because the doctors can’t prescribe it for the parents, even though EVERYONE NEEDS IT, because you have to be calm for your kid.  Fuck, I’m crying just thinking about it.

We brought him everywhere in a little red wagon, which CHOA uses instead of wheelchairs, all nestled up with blankets and his lambie.

(One utterly thoughtless fucker -- not his neurologist -- said if his nerves didn’t work and it was progressive, it’d eventually move up his arms and legs until it reached his heart and lungs and suppressed breathing and then he’d die.  Which is factually true, but jesus christ.)

We thought he was going to die.  Over less than 20 days he’d gone from normal(-ish) healthy kid to a lump in a hospital bed who couldn’t move his legs at all and couldn’t wrap his hands around anything, couldn’t hold you back when you held him.

CIDP in children is incredibly rare.  It’s a super-rare condition regardless, but usually people get it as adults (average age 50).  It’s something like .000005% of the population.  Like, maybe there are 20 kids in the entirety of metro Atlanta who have it.  CIDP is a neuropathy in which the person’s immune system begins attacking the insulating sheath (myelin) around nerve cells, starting at the peripheral nervous system (hands/feet, legs/arms).  Without this fatty sheath, electrical signals from the brain simply don’t transmit to the muscles.  In many cases, there’s intense, phantom pain associated with it, but thankfully, Phoenix has only ever been numb, and I pray with my whole atheist heart and soul that it never changes.

But we lucked out, and the neurologist we got at CHOA identified CIDP fairly quickly (within a week, during which we never left the hospital, of course) and started him on IVIg.  IVIg is intravenous immunoglobulin -- essentially strained human plasma -- to remove all but the specific antibody Ig.

(SO PLEASE:  GO DONATE OR SELL YOUR PLASMA, it’s keeping kids like mine out of wheelchairs.  It costs more than gold, it cannot be synthesized or taken from animals.  They don’t know the exact mechanism by which it works (they call it a “black box”) but it does, and it’s fucking miraculous.)

With sufficient IVIg, the myelin sheath is repaired fairly rapidly.  At first, he needed infusions every three days.  (Generally, specialists told me, kids his age will go into remission after a year or two.  Phoenix, bless, is special and never has, even though I kept waiting and waiting.  Almost ten years later, and he’s steady like clockwork, remission never on the horizon.)  Over the years, we’ve managed to stretch the intervals to 15 weeks.  Which is great, because insurance HATES US:  the pharmacy cost alone is easily $100k+ a year, not to mention hospital stays and clinics.  Annually, we have to defend his need to go at whatever interval it is at the time, they’re always pushing us to stretch it further.

So he’s been on maintenance for many years.  There are some visual cues if he begins to decline, like his feet slapping when he walks, or using the bannister with two hands when he goes upstairs, but it’s not always that obvious.  This week, I asked him if it was the CIDP when he tried to get out of band practice for the third time, and he said yes, but I don’t see those other cues (although he’s been laying on the sofa for a few weeks and has stopped hanging out with his friends and is sleeping longer) so I don’t know if I just handed him a really good excuse to stay home and play computer games.

He’s been low-key complaining for about a week, and our next IVIg appointment isn’t until Oct. 1st.  You have to schedule months in advance so rescheduling for earlier isn’t possible, not to mention insurance will gleefully not pay if it’s earlier than 15 weeks (which means $9-$17k out of pocket, depending on the whimsy/voodoo of the hospital billing department).

So.  Yeah.  This is what it’s like to have a child with a chronic illness.  (CIDP is Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy, btw.  It’s essentially the lifelong version of Guillain-Barré, that thing you see warning signs about when you go get your flu shot.  It can only be maintained, not cured.)  This is a good example of why it’s so vital for laws to prevent insurance companies from turning people down due to preexisting conditions.

It’s hard, as a parent.  He could be a typical teen who’d rather not spend all day in school... or his nervous system could very literally be slowly deteriorating.  I have to make judgement calls all the time, and sometimes I’m wrong.  It’s kind of terrifying.

[iniochos]

> Iniochos: Get to Work

You’ve had a good few weeks. You can confidently say that. In fact, you wouldn’t feel like it’s a stretch to say that this has been the best time off you’ve had since you started helming. Looking back, you didn’t really do much, but you did get the chance to reconnect with Aradia. It had been way too long, and you know it was mostly your fault for staying holed up in your apartment all the time. At least now that the seal’s been broken, it’ll be easier for you to reach out to her the next time you’re planet-side.

Your next assignment isn’t nearly as long as your last. You’ll be gone for only a week, and you’ll get a couple more days off before you’re space-bound again.

You hate these shorter trips. By the time you get adjusted to the rig, it’s time to unplug, and you spend almost as much time in the acclamation ward as you do in space. “Acclamation” is a stretch. It’s more of a formality than anything else. They keep you at the spaceport for a couple of nights, and run a few tests and simulations to make sure you’re still in shape to do the job—getting your sea legs if you’re going for the nautical analogy. This is where you’ve been.

You leave tomorrow morning, 24 hours from now, which is why you’re heading from your pre-rig physical to “Decontamination” which is what they make you call the showers here. The hallway is long, and more brightly lit than it needs to be, but you’re walking quickly. 

It only takes you a minute before you reach the door and scan your fingerprint. The scanner beeps, and the door slides open. You shuffle in, making your way to your locker, again using your fingerprint to open it before you strip down, shoving all of your clothes and shit haphazardly inside. You won’t be seeing this stuff until you get back. If it were a longer trip, you might have folded your pants at least, but it’s only a week so you don’t bother.

You’re alone in here. Most flights launch at night, and for a luxury spaceline such as yours, morning launches are rare—for the passengers’ benefit. You would have been surprised to see anyone else here at this time. Honestly, you prefer it this way, you don’t have to see or be seen by anyone, and you can claim your favorite showerhead.

Slowly, you walk to the shower. The squeak that accompanies your turning of the knob is followed by a burst of cold water, and like always, it surprises you more than it should. The initial shock subsides as you adjust, and the water heats up soon enough, leaving you little else to think about besides scrubbing yourself down.

Once clean and dry, you scan yourself into a different locker, where you’re met with your uniform—customized for easy access to all of your ports, and with your name embroidered on the chest! You slip on the jumpsuit, double-checking that the port-holes line up right, then move through another door into a narrow hallway.

The lead engineer on your assignment is waiting for you. You’ve worked with her before, you recognize her face; Skeveros, if your memory serve’s you, is her name. “Iniochos Diaskour…” She mumbles as she checks her tablet and compares your uniform’s convenient label to what’s on her list, nodding to herself before saying “follow me.”

She leads you down the hall, into the hangar, and onto the ship where she quickly introduces the two other engineers on this assignment while you all move to the helmsman’s quarters.

“This is where you’ll be stationed for the duration of the flight,” Skeveros says, gesturing to the empty rig. “When you’re ready-”

“I know the drill,” you tell her, already moving into position.

“I’m aware,” she says. “And I’m sure you know that I’m still required to explain the rigging process every time.” She points to her tablet. “Regulation.”

She continues on with the spiel, and you tune her out, instead taking this time to mentally compare this short-term rig with the one you were in for almost half a sweep. Most rigs are pretty much the same, now that everything’s been heavily regulated. The biggest differences are usually in the quarters as a whole. These quarters are pretty ugly, but you wouldn’t say they’re uglier than your apartment. Really it’s just bland, but for a week, that’s not really a concern.

You tune back in just in time to hear her explain how to log into the ship’s network, which you already know how to do. You also know this means she’s pretty much done.

“I know your file says you’ve only ever opted to stay awake for this part,” Skeveros says, tapping through pages on her tablet. “I still have to offer you the option to be put under.”

You shake your head. “It’s faster awake.”

She nods, checking a box before turning the tablet to you. “Sign here.”

You take her stylus and scribble down your name. The “I” is squiggly, due to your habit of almost signing your hatch name every time you have to sign anything. You wonder if you’ll ever stop doing that.

With that, the other engineers move into place, expertly connecting wires into your ports while Skeveros watches and checks things off her list. They start with your vital ports, the ones on your chest and abdomen. “Vitals online,” Skeveros says, and the engineers begin plugging into your arms and legs. With each additional connection, you feel a familiar tingling building up just underneath your skin—the rig beginning to draw on your psionic power.

“Clear rig for test charge,” Skeveros says. The engineers step back, and that’s your cue to give them a small psionic pulse, which you do. You don’t actually know how they do the test charges when the helmstroll opts to go under for the rigging. That would’ve been covered in the engineers’ training, but not yours. If you had to guess you’d say they probably just induce a sneeze. That’s how you would do it, anyway.

“Carry on. Central ports.”

The engineers nod and continue their work. They plug in the first of four spinal ports, and the tingling escalates from mild to annoying. Connecting the second spinal port brings it up to uncomfortable. The third port is when you start trying to distract yourself with the nice memories from your break. Unfortunately, it doesn’t really help much, because your brain keeps reminding you about the times Aradia got weird about your job. Maybe you’ll just try thinking about flying planes instead.

Your muscles tense, bracing for the surge that comes with connecting the fourth port at the base of your neck. Your jaw clenches as the tingling starts to feel like what you assume fire would feel like, spreading through your body as though your nerve endings were made of kindling. This part is why they offer the unconsciousness option. You remind yourself that this is where the pain spikes, and it’ll stop hurting in a few hours as the ship draws enough of your power to have some on reserve.

You can hear the engineers talking, but you can’t focus on what they’re saying, at least not until Skeveros addresses you by name. “Iniochos, focus, we’re almost done.”

You nod, a small grunt escaping you as you move. “I’m fine, just keep going.”

“We’re waiting for another test charge.”

You clear your throat, take a deep breath, and do as your told, releasing another small psionic pulse. Skeveros taps a few times on her tablet before she gives the engineers their final instructions. “Give him the helmet, then you two are good to take off until the rest of the crew boards tomorrow morning.”

Before she’s even finished her sentence, the helmet is fastened onto your head, and as the engineers double-check that everything is secured, Skeveros addresses you again. “Don’t forget to log onto the ship’s network, and try to get whatever rest you’ll need before take-off. I’ll be on standby in case any issues arise in the next 24 hours.”

With that, she leaves, followed by the other engineers, and you’re left in the rig by yourself. 

There’s nothing left to do but log onto the network, as you’ve been instructed. While you’re here, you might as well use the network to update your social media.

[brandonatrandom]

3 Solid Movies to Check Out This Halloween

Now I’m sure it’s safe to say if you’re big on horror movies, you’re probably at least aware of the more commonly mentioned titles in this genre. Your “The Exorcist”s or your “Halloween”s, your “Friday the 13th”s or your “Nightmare on Elm Street”s always seem to come up. And don’t get me wrong, I love those movies like anyone else, but I’m hoping to point you in the direction of some lesser-seen, perhaps even lesser-heard of flicks. I will not be spoiling any movies in this little review, so you can proceed with the comfort of knowing you will have none of these movies ruined for you beyond that of an IMDb plot synopsis, if that.

Black Christmas (1974)

I put off seeing this movie for a long time for some reason. The first time I ever heard about the movie was when they came out with a remake, which seemed like a bad sign. My intuition was all wrong and I really regret not checking this one out sooner.

Black Christmas is the story of a sorority house getting what initially appear to be harmless, but pretty perverted prank phone calls. Naturally the calls escalate or why the fuck would this even be a movie?

Olivia Hussey has a solid performance in the lead role, which is also, gasp, well-written? What am I getting you into? I recognized Olivia Hussey from the 1968 film adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet” that Mrs. Harris made us watch in Brit Lit in 10th Grade. She had to cover the TV with a folder during the nude scenes.

The other familiar face in this movie was that of Margot Kidder. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, she is best known for playing Lois Lane in all four Christopher Reeve “Superman” films. She was also in another horror notable: the original “Amityville Horror”.

Black Christmas features some creative kills, builds genuine suspense, and leaves you with a real feeling of terror even after you’re done watching (which should be exactly what you want in a good horror flick). It’s very well made, and there’s a reason it’s on so many “best horror movies of all time” lists. Don’t feel the need to wait til December to watch it. It’s currently free on Amazon Prime Instant Video.

Sleepaway Camp (1983)

Now let me preface this one by saying this is not what you’d call a “good” movie. But I also don’t think I’d call it bad. I originally heard about it because my favorite podcast “How Did This Get Made?” did an episode on it. On the surface, this movie appears to be a simple “Friday the 13th” rip-off, with another run-of-the-mill story about a string of slayings of camp-goers at a lakeside camp. But “Sleepaway Camp” manages to be so much better than that. But it’s not really what I’d call scary either. Honestly, this is also free on Amazon Prime, learn as little about the plot as you can before you watch.

You’ll have a hard time spotting familiar faces here, as many of these actors did not have huge careers outside of blockbusters like “Sleepaway Camp”.

What We Do In The Shadows (2014)

This one’s on the lighter side, it’s a mockumentary -style borrow comedy in the vein of Christopher Guest movies like “This Is Spinal Tap” and “Best in Show”. The plot centers around 3 vampires who have been roommates for about 100 years. The movie parodies many elements of vampire mythos, as well as references to pop culture depictions of vampires, and run-ins with their werewolf rivals.

As far actors you might know, it’s mostly unfamiliar New Zealand actors. But Jrmaine Clement from the TV Series “Flight of the Conchords” He’s pretty well-known and has played small parts in quite a few movies in the last several years.

“What We Do In The Shadows” has since spawned a TV series of the same name which is created and written by Clement but is set in NYC. I haven’t watched it yet, but I would like to see how it turned out.

That’s it, the 3 that were promised. Hopefully you haven’t already seen them and hopefully you like them if you watch them. Aaaaand hopefully if you read this and thought “fuck that, I’m not watching any of these fucking movies I’m gonna go outside or something” then I hope you enjoyed the reading and your fucking obnoxious high horse. Some of us are going fucking blind and writing little internet articles for no reason in particular other than to pass the eternally slow time here.

[queengeekrose]

My silent struggle

I have a secret.  It’s one no one, not even my own family, who lives in the same house with me, has figured out, until very recently when I talked to them and told them, and it’s one I’m not proud of.  It’s time I talked about it.

It’s not exactly a secret that I’m overweight.  I have been my whole life.  I was even a very large newborn.  I get it.  And with my other health restrictions, I can’t exactly get a lot of exercise or move around a lot.  I have never been a gym rat or a fitness queen.  Everyone who knows me knows this.  Having asthma didn’t help these matters any either -- it’s hard to get excited about trying to do something that makes it hard to breathe.  I was also never particularly gifted at most sports or coordinated.  Let’s call a spade a spade here.  I’m clumsy and some of the other things going on in my life made that worse.  Anyway, I’m not athletic.  I don’t exercise much.  It’s hard for me to lose weight.  So I’ve always been called fat or chubby, or tubby, or plump (one of the kinder ones, usually by friends parents), or round, or rolly polly, or chunky, or some other, less than kind way of saying the same thing.  I mean ALWAYS.  It started when I was three, for fucks sake, going to a storytime at a public library, and other kid asked who the new fat girl was.  It beat me down and wore on me, year after year, decade after decade, become an ingrained part of who I was, what made me feel bad about myself in some way. 

It’s also not a secret I struggle with major depressive disorder.  Or PTSD.  Both of them are major factors in my life at this point and getting them diagnosed and starting treatment for them has helped me a lot.  I still have bad periods, like I’m going through now, where things just seem like an endless struggle to do the most basic tasks, but I know I can get through this because I have before.  My mental health will always be a factor in my life, I suspect, just because I have been through so much, even if the rest of my life were to suddenly be all sweetness and light.  Actually, that would probably make me a bit mistrustful too, just because of some of my history, but that’s a story for another time.  Today we are focusing on something more important.

Anyway, depression, self-image, a heft dose of self doubt, a smattering of self-hatred for being overweight for so long, and me, listening to some of those voices from my past, telling me I wasn’t worth the effort, the time, the expense, the love, the FOOD, ended with me silently spinning into a cycle of self abuse.  At first, it was things like literally picking at scars, cuts, or my skin until I bled, as close to cutting as I ever got.  Then, when I realized what I was doing, and I was diagnosed as a diabetic, and was forced to change my diet, I stopped.  Diabetics are more prone to getting infections because we heal slower and our body can be more at risk, so I decided it wasn’t worth it.  Instead, I decided to make a different change.  Now, please, keep in mind, none of this was actually done with me consciously thinking about it.  My brain just decided it would be the best way to handle things without me really making a choice that I knew of, other than to alter my diet to eat a more diabetic friendly diet.  I thought I was just cutting out sugars and carbs.  What I was really doing was starting down a very slippery slope.  One I’m still struggling on today, four years later.

The decision to cut carbs and sugar seemed easy for me.  I had a lot more willpower than I realized it seemed and suddenly I was just avoiding a lot of foods entirely and my blood sugar came under control in no time flat.  It amazed the doctors.  They had to take me off ALL the medicines, insulin included, except the very minimal maintenance medicine I still take now.  My blood sugars and long term blood sugars (A1C’s) measure more like someone who is not diabetic at all, most of the time, well below 100 daily (and below 5.8 for my A1C).  In other words, I no longer needed to maintain that super tight control and even push further.  My initial A1C had been very high, partly due to an infection, which as I understand it, often throws your body off, and I didn’t know I was diabetic at the time, so I hadn’t been taking very good care of myself either.  Now, I was doing better and going to the doctor, getting things checked, and trying to make a positive, or so I thought, change in my life.  I was even losing some weight!  That was an unexpected bonus. 

Now, as some of you no doubt know, at the same time I was diagnosed diabetic, my legs started giving out on me, due to an unrelated neurological condition.  The doctors have spent several years, countless procedures, and innumerable hours looking at me, my medical charts, going over my spine (they did multiple spinal taps and MRI’s), my legs (nerve biopsy, nerve conduction study, and countless tests of every sort imaginable), and even just focusing on my feet.  They found that the nerves were dead and dying from the inside out, but couldn’t find the cause (and the way they were dying, perfectly evenly on both legs, was extremely odd).  I definitely had something wrong, but they were all stumped.  Oh, and I had a VERY severely crushed spine that I hadn’t known about, probably from a car crash many years ago.  So I was told I needed to use a wheelchair whenever I was outside the house, so I didn’t fall, and even in the house, I should be careful.  My legs can randomly give out on me.  This didn’t help my mental well being, as it seemed like the doctors were kind of just giving up on me, saying “Oh, well.  Yeah, there’s something wrong, but we don’t know what.  Too bad for you.  Hope it gets better.  We’ll be interested to watch, if you let us.”

That was really the beginning of the dark times in my mental struggles.  I became passively suicidal.  I stopped eating almost completely and was often nauseous when I did eat.  I didn’t realize at the time what that was the beginnings of.  What I was starting to struggle with.  What I am still, two and a half, nearly three, years later, still struggling daily with.  ANOREXIA.  To look at me you wouldn’t think I had that problem.  I’m still overweight.  But here’s the thing, you can’t tell by looking at someone what’s going on in their head, heart, or body, most of the time.  I have had several extended family members struggle with anorexia, but I don’t think anyone in our family ever even thought I might be close, even when I said I hadn’t been eating.  No one paid attention.  I was giving them subtle warning signs, looking back, but the red flags all went unnoticed and flew under the radar.  I don’t blame them.  It took me a long time to realize I had been doing this to myself. 

So now my real work begins.  I need to find a way to somehow cope that isn’t so self destructive.  Hopefully, this time around things will be a little easier, as far as that goes.  Some of my stressors are gone.  My life is still rough and rocky, but such is the nature of life.  Some people just have more of an uphill battle than others.  I just wish mine were less of a mountain to climb at times.  And I know some of this is self-inflicted now, but it was never my intention to do this to myself, or to anyone in my family.  I now have to try extra hard to remember to eat everyday, and not skip, just because that’s what seems easier, and more what I want to do.  I can’t say it felt bad losing over 40 pounds in a year, even without much exercise, but that should have been a clue to everyone too, I think.  Even for someone who’s very overweight, that a lot.

Well, I’ve rambled long enough today.  I just wanted to get this out here.  If anyone is going through something and needs to talk, my DM’s are open, and I do have a Discord.  Send me a message and I can send you a link.  Depression, mental health, and eating disorders are all heavy stuff, but they need talked about.  I’m a firm believer that by keeping this stuff in shadowy back corners, we give it more power.  Bringing it into the light helps people and takes the stigma away.  It helps more people understand it too.  ANY ONE can suffer from an eating disorder.  ANY ONE can struggle with mental health.  You never know.  People wear masks in public to hide their innermost thoughts and feelings, so we don’t know what’s going on inside.  Sometimes reaching out is all someone needs.  Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need help, or to reach out if you think someone needs it.

Peace Folks. <3

[msoutherngirl-blog]

Transverse Myelitis

This past winter, February to be precise is when my symptoms began and I knew without a doubt something was terribly wrong. It started out as stiffness in my knees and progressed over the next week to my calves, then my feet and thighs. It was terrifying trying to continue to function that way, but I have bills to pay the same as everyone else. I couldn’t not go into work, it was not an option. For several weeks I suffered through it assuming it was a pinched nerve, taking ibuprofen and trying to tough it out. Nothing was getting better.

After two months nearly had passed of living this way I broke down and made an appointment to see my Doctor. I wasn’t even sure that I should drive myself at that point as I could no longer feel my feet even on the pavement much less a gas or brake pedal. My parents came to get me, thankfully they live close and I was able to start the slow process of taking care of that ‘pinched nerve’.

My primary care physician referred me to a neurologist here in the small town I live in and wanted me seen right away so a few days later, parents in tow, I went to the appointment that did nothing but make me angry. You see I am not a barbie doll, not afraid of a cheeseburger, however, I had no idea what was coming next. Once called back and in this ‘room’ a term we will use loosely since it looked more like a closet to me, to be honest, He took one look at me and even before attempting to do a TENS type electrode nerve test on me, he stated that I should go home, lose a hundred pounds and come back then to be seen. First, I wasn’t sent to see him regarding my weight. Second, I have a TENS unit at home that I use for arthritis in my knees weekly and have never had a single issue feeling it. I was furious. So was my mother who was in the room with me at the time. Needless to say, we walked out, as we did I told my mother that if I got a bill from him I’d march it right back in there and feed it to him. What can I say, he pissed me off?

*My angry face*

My mother had an appointment of her own a day or two later with our family doctor and told him what happened when he asked about the referral. He was not in the least happy either and promptly referred me to an orthopedist. I made calls for that specialist and as he would not be in my town for a good month plus, I made an appointment to go see him in Huntsville, Alabama. After a few minutes chatting and checking my balance etc, he ordered my first MRI. At LAST, I thought I was getting somewhere. Maybe this time I wouldn’t have to fight for my own well being?  The first MRI was for the lumbar spine as it was assumed that after the Xrays came back showing no pinched nerve perhaps there was a disc or something going on. Oh boy, was I in for a party!

Now let me preface this with - Read it ALL - not just my initial experience but the whole MRI journey. I have often referred to it as MRI Hell. The first MRI was to be done in my local hospital. Simple enough I thought, the machine was weight limited at 350 pounds, plenty past my personal weight so no problem! Or at least that is what I thought. We arrived at the hospital nice and early, filled out all my paperwork, and waited patiently for them to call me back. I walked back with the technician chatting a little as we made our way into the room and there it was. The tiny opening they claimed would house a person up to 350 pounds. Ummm only if they are seven feet tall. That thing was tiny. I thought I am here, let’s suck it up and get this over with though, so I tried. I lay on the table,  pressed my arms as close to my body as they would go and as she began sliding me into it my shoulders hit the opening. It was like being pressed into a sausage skin. I pressed the little panic button and she answered over the intercom as if everything looked just peachy. “Are you okay?” she asked as if she couldn’t SEE me being rolled into that tube. “Nope.” I replied flatly. “Nope, not happening. Get me out of here. There is no way I can lay in here for an hour I can’t move and this isn’t going to work.” I could feel the panic welling up in my chest with every inch further she sent me into that thing. It was horrifying and I am not a big baby.

Out in the sign-in area, the lady there asked if everything was okay and I explained to her the issue. Thank heavens for her because she explained to me that the imaging center at the hospital in Huntsville had the larger bore machines and that perhaps I could be seen there. Thank heavens is all I can say. Not only do they have a nicer facility but they have machines rated to 550 pounds that are far newer and take half the time for the exact same image. Easiest twenty minutes I have ever spent as a burrito. It would not be the only, however.

Once the images were ready, I went back for my follow up with the spinal doctor only to hear him tell me that there was nothing there. All was well and the issue must have resolved itself. ‘Since I wasn’t having pain, only complete numbness SURELY there couldn’t be anything wrong with me...’ Right? WRONG. If you know there is something wrong, if you truly FEEL like your body is not your own, you have to be your own best advocate. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s all in your head just because they would like an easy answer to get to their next case. Had I done that, I could be paralyzed right now as I type this. The only pain at that time that I had was a small spot on the lower part of my spine just above my tailbone. It just felt like it was bruised or something. It wasn’t excruciating. I wasn't in tears from it, after all, I was numb. I still stood my ground insisting that something was NOT RIGHT. The numbness had subsided a little after my primary doctor gave me a steroid shot, but it hadn’t cleared up and I knew in my heart this simply was not right. It scared the hell out of me thinking that all these people thought I was crazy and by this time I think even my parents were beginning to wonder if I wasn’t making some of it up to avoid yard work that desperately needed to be done.

Apparently, I pushed enough because he ordered a second MRI. This time it was of the thoracic spine. I knew when the imaging was finished his time that something was there. I was not crazy. When the technician came in to take me out of the machine, she brought another person with her. The two of them were very specific about me taking my time to get up and not allowing me to rush or merely get right up. With the look on her face and the clear empathy for my struggle to get up and lay still for the procedure, I could tell there was something this time that had not been seen before. This time within a couple of hours I got a call from the specialist telling me that he was immediately referring me to a Neurologist and I would be seen in a matter of days.

Now for the scary wake-up. The morning of my Neurology appointment I got up went to work and came home in time for my parents to pick me up and take me once again to Huntsville. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I was still hoping it was something that would be the easy shot and rest and you’re all fixed but that was not to be. We walked in and I filled out my paperwork, when they called me back my mom offered to go with me but I didn’t know of a reason since it seemed like I finally might have an answer. After all of the frustration and tears, all of the struggling for three months by this time, I was finally going to get something done. It felt like relief until the doctor walked in and scrolled through my MRI in detail as I watched. I still don’t recall everything he said as he went through it all so quickly, thoroughly, but quickly. When the words  “immediately admitting” and “hospital” sank into my ears panic set in, it was all I could do to tell him my family was in the lobby and they needed to be in the room.

When they came in, he went through it once more. Your daughter has a large lesion on her spinal cord. This is called Transverse Myelitis, it is nothing to leave or put off on treating. One of the larger ones(lesions) I have seen. This is usually seen in people who have Multiple Sclerosis. She needs to be admitted to the hospital today for 5 days of high dose steroids and rounds of testing. He continued about a spinal tap, blood work, a number of other things and the only thing I could think about was my dog at home. How Buddy would never understand if I simply disappeared and I burst into tears. In all of this, my first thought was for my sweet boy at home and how I could not just leave him. Yes, the test listing scared me, but the last time anyone I know was in the hospital for something treatable, was my Aunt. She went in for a simple procedure and they instead punctured her heart which resulted in months in the hospital and her death. I just kept seeing her, I couldn’t stop the tears.

He gave me until the next morning to check into the hospital as he needed to get a room for me on the neurology floor. Which also gave me some time with Buddy who my parents agreed to take home with them while I was in the hospital. Mom even sent me updates and pictures of him which eased it a bit, but since I rescued him, he had never really been away from me his whole life, so it was a bit like handing my child to people he barely knew. He was all set though, dad even made him pancakes.... spoiled much? Okay back to the initial path to my diagnosis.

I was dehydrated, so the IV was not easy. Luckily I had some great nurses while I was there and they took good care of me. For 5 days I was given a full bag of steroids daily which made even water taste bitter. It was in no way pleasant, I can assure you that. I will, however, say the worst part was the spinal tap. I wouldn’t wish that one many people, but let’s be honest... we all have that one person who we wouldn’t mind huh? *chuckles*

On the fourth day of steroids, my doctor came in to check on me as he did almost every day there and said the preliminary spinal fluid test seemed clear but it was still being sent to the Mayo Clinic as that is a requirement for such tests. I was exhausted all of the time. I slept the majority of the time I was in the hospital and more when I came home.  Transverse Myelitis can take anywhere from 6 to 36 months to fully heal once treated. Some people regain all their faculties and others have lasting deficits. It is also an illness that although it is rare affects less than 15,000 people a year, can recur in very rare cases. I hope that I am NEVER that lucky. Once was enough for me to be that scared out of my mind.

[heisenbergchronicles]

APPRECIATION & INTERVIEW

Better Call Saul episode posters by Matt Talbot After 4 nearly years, I thought it was time to catch up with Matt Talbot about his Better Call Saul poster project. The last time we talked during Season 1, Matt was deep in the hustle of making his name as an illustrator: juggling a full-time job, freelance projects, as well as band. Finding time for personal projects like this one can be a significant challenge. (Not to mention surviving the death of your tools: During Season 1 his Mac laptop died, and this season, his Wacom tablet bit the bullet). But despite these challenges, the 43-year-old New Hampshire native has persevered to create a clever and thoughtful series of episode posters that has garnered considerable attention, and brought with it new high-profile clients and art exhibitions. 

First, congratulations on all of your success and recognition with this series of posters. It’s well-deserved. What’s been the most gratifying feedback you’ve received? Thank you! Every interaction I’ve had with anyone from the show has delighted me. I've been surprised by all of the cast and crew members who have said nice things – every note I’ve gotten has meant a lot to me. That being said, Michael McKean randomly tweeting at me that he has my poster for Chicanery hanging in his home blew my mind. I was eating dinner when my phone showed the notification and I literally jumped up from the table. I’ve been a fan of Michael’s since I saw Spinal Tap in the ‘80s and never in a million years would I have guessed I’d make something he valued enough to hang in his home.

Tell me about your contributions to Gallery1988 exhibitions. How does that process work? It's a pretty simple process. They invite me to be part of a show, and I make something to send them. I’m very excited for the opportunity to show there, and I feel like it’s a milestone in my art-making career.

Across the 4 seasons, which BCS posters are your favorites? Which one are you most proud of? I’m particularly fond of Rebecca, Rico, Marco, Switch, Sunk Costs and Something Beautiful. Oh man, it's hard for me to evaluate my own stuff. I tend to like the posters where I find a way to get a different take on something they did in the episode. I would say that “Sunk Costs” is also one of my favorites because I did something differently than how they shot it, and because Mike is so recognizable even from the back. I was also pleased with “Off Brand” because it was when I finally figured out how to draw Bob Odenkirk.

How has your process for creating these posters evolved over 4 seasons? When I started this project I had a vague idea that I would focus on scenes rather than portraits or likenesses, but that didn’t even last half a season! The characters were too good not to include. In that way, the posters have evolved in my willingness to draw characters, and also, hopefully, my ability to draw them. 

My process is now something like: Watch the show on Monday; think about it on Tuesday, figure out what stood out to me and do a thumbnail sketch or two; draw it on Wednesday night; post it Thursday afternoon. I’m a bit faster at drawing these now compared to when I started. And I’m a bit more decisive on choosing which subject matter to depict.

There have been quite a few changes on the visual side of Better Call Saul over the last 2 seasons. New directors (Minkie Spiro, Daniel Sackheim, and Andrew Stanton), a new cinematographer Marshall Adams, even new cameras. What are your thoughts on how the show’s visual grammar has evolved? Has any of this impacted your posters from Seasons 3 & 4? I try not to just redraw literal scenes from the show, and I don’t need to tell you that they shoot the show in an incredibly beautiful way. I mean, they always, always, pick the best angle, the best shot to capture something. For that reason, it’s sometimes hard to to come up with another take on a moment from the show.

That being said, the visual style hasn’t really impacted my posters as much as the evolving subject matter has. The show, I think, is substantially darker than it was in the early going. It was easier to depict Jimmy’s hi-jinx in the first couple seasons. But with Chuck’s deteriorating mental state, the cartel stuff, Mike going deeper into Fring’s world and of course, Jimmy’s loosening sense of morals, the funny moments are harder to spot. That’s lead me to some more somber layouts and color choices.

We didn’t discuss this in our first interview. Which typeface are you using in your posters, or is this custom typography? The main logo and episode titles are set in Sign Painter, from the excellent House Industries.

The Heisenverse is known for it’s color theory and use of color. How has that impacted your color choices in these posters? I’ve kind of adhered to their blue=good/red=bad symbolism, but I also try to balance out colors between episodes and not repeat myself in sequential posters.

Many of your posters (especially ones this season) use a monochromatic, or simple palette of 1-2 colors. Tell me more about why you chose that approach. Is this a signature of your style? I’ve seen this approach in a lot of your work. You know, in the early seasons, I was trying to use simpler color palettes, but I wasn’t very disciplined and I got away from that. I’m trying to stick to a more consistent style in season 4. It is a conscious decision. I also feel like with the week-to-week nature of this project, it helps quickly set apart each poster. And, I really do love limited color palettes. Giving myself color constraints helps me figure out different ways to solve layout problems.

I’ve heard other illustrators say that Bob Odenkirk’s facial features are tricky to capture. Do you share that sentiment? Which characters are more challenging to illustrate? I do agree with that. I had a really hard time with him at first. I kind of think I have a better handle on it now, but I’m always trying to get better. I feel like if you can get his mouth right, it goes a long way.

I found Hector hard to capture both times I drew him. Mike, on the other hand, is just pure fun to draw. Jonathan Banks is so distinctive and iconic.

What’s been the most difficult poster thus far? Why was it challenging? Maybe it’s because a lot of time has gone by, but I can't think of one that stands out as having been really difficult.

Francesco Francavilla did alternate posters for some of his Breaking Bad posters. Inevitably, when artists look back at their work, they consider revising or redoing it because of a variety of reasons – their point of view has changed, their skill/style has evolved, or maybe they were never truly content with the final product. Looking back at 4 seasons worth of posters, are there any that make you want to scratch the revision itch? Yeah, more than I would care to admit. I would really like another crack at Amarillo. I know I could do a better job and that drawing is just super flat. In season two, I decided to to experiment with style and I kind of wish I hadn't. I like Cobbler, but I wish I had drawn it in my normal style. I would redraw Nailed for sure. Oh man, if I start going down this road it's not going to end well, so I'll just stop.

You mentioned earlier this season you were excited to draw Track Suit Jimmy. Who or what haven’t you drawn, that you are eager to illustrate? Howard! It bums me out to no end that I haven't drawn him, but it just hasn't worked out. And I need to include Kim more. It's kind of criminal that her face only appeared for the first time in a poster this season.

What’s your opinion of Season 4? Tell me about your favorites – episode, scene, character. I think season 4 is brilliant so far. The Kim/Jimmy relationship has deepened so much this season, and feels so real, but full of inevitable heartache. Oh, the flash-forward to Breaking Bad’s timeline was amazing. Mike doing his audit in the Madrigal warehouse. Really, anything Michael Mando does on screen. It's hard to pick. I so enjoy the deliberate pace of this show.

Where’s your favorite place to discuss the show? I honestly don’t talk about it too much online, though I lurk in a few places and read a lot. I actually discuss it mostly with my wife!

I know you get this question a lot, so let’s cover it here so folks understand: Do you have plans to sell any of this work online? I really appreciate that people like it enough to want to buy it or hang it, but I don't plan to sell the Better Call Saul posters online. I’m doing this for fun, not to make a buck off the show, and I don’t own the rights to sell it anyway.

What’s next for Matt? Do you have any other poster or illustration projects in the works? Is you band performing soon? I have several more pieces for Gallery1988 shows coming up. I’m pulling together an art show at a local brewery for whom I design all of their labels and stuff. I’m patiently waiting for a t-shirt I designed for one of my all-time favorite movies to be announced. And for the past several Octobers, I spent the month drawing a horror poster per day. I’m not sure if logistically I can do that again this year, but I’ll probably fit at least a few in. We’ll see how it goes. Sadly, with all of my illustration work, I haven’t had any time for music making, but someday I hope to get back to that!

Follow Matt: Web site / Tumblr / Twitter / Dribbble / Instagram / PosterSpy

– Interview by Shayne Bowman, Heisenberg Chronicles