#this kind of bizarre excuse is not uncommon with her

[pancakeke]

a bunch of stuff happened that interrupted my complaining but did i ever mention that one long time salesperson recently pretended that she didn't know how to view a ticket as an excuse for not reading a ticket.

she said that no one ever gave her a zendesk login so obviously she wasn't able to access any tickets. we were like, only supply chain uses the zendesk website. you do everything via email responses like you've already been doing for the past decade.

[faithhearted]

The last several weeks had been a maddening waiting game. Once Benjamin was deemed a viable candidate, plans for the official insemination were quickly made.

Rebekah hadn't opted for him to be in the room with her when the procedure took place, mostly because it felt too bizarre to have him standing beside her after he'd been forced to get off into a cup (for the second) time only minutes beforehand.

Now, however, as they sat in the asylum white office of Dr. Rosenthal, she couldn't help but be glad he was there, anxiously nudging her leg against his as she'd crinkled up the pamphlet she'd grabbed to occupy her hands. The thing looked more like a sad excuse for a makeshift fan now.

When he'd grabbed her hand, it prompted her to glance up at him, finding him to be just as nervous as she presently felt.

Ever quiet and preoccupied, Dr. Rosenthal tapped her acrylic nails against her clipboard as she perused its contents, leaving both participants in agonizing suspense, until finally, Ben broke the tortorous silence.

"Well?"

Rosenthal sighed, perhaps partially because she didn't like being rushed and partially because she had disagreeable news to deliver.

"The insemination...was unsuccessful."

Though she tried to hide just how deep her disappointment had cut with a curt nod of understanding, Bekah's heart sank, and she lightly squeezed Ben's had for some kind of affirmation.

"As I've said before, this is not an uncommon occurrence, which is why we recommend scheduling a few attempts."

Swiveling in her chair, Rosenthal reached for a binder and opened it to the appropriate page, skimming over the surface with her index finger as she adjusted her glasses,

"Your next ovulation is in twelve days, which would be the optimal time to --"

She hadn't time to finish before Bekah had gathered up her purse and stood from her seat, the crumpled pamphlet falling to her feet as she drew in a quick breath.

"Thank you for your expertise, Shirley. It's been incredibly appreciated, but I think I'm going to head home and..."

And what?

"And think this all over. I-I'll call you."

On that pathetic note, Bekah turned on her heel and exited the office, unable to get out of the clinic, away from all its fertility posters and painful reminders of her failures, fast enough.

Rebekah's disquiet was palpable. She paced around the island counter, then ultimately leaned against it while avoiding his gaze. "Look, I know we've already talked about this, but if you're having any second thoughts, any at all, it's okay," she said. "It wasn't fair for me to expect you to be 100% okay with something so huge, especially when I haven't even told my dad about it."

Ben blinked at her. "That was a bit of a surprise, I'll admit... Is there a reason you haven't told Elias?" Brow puckering, he leaned back in his seat. "I haven't changed my mind, Beks. So long as you keep your dad from killing me, I think this will be good. I, uh..." Trailing off, his mouth quirked and he laughed, shaking his head. "Well...I've already humiliated myself at the clinic, so if you walked out on me now, I think that would be pretty cruel. Shouldn't we at least try it out?"

He leaned his elbows against the counter. "Come on. Don't make me pull out the big guns, aka the 'Tallmadge Pout.'"

--

As luck would have it, no pouting was necessary. Ben sat alongside Rebekah in Dr. Rosenthal's office, his knee bouncing out of nervous habit while the doctor pulled out a chair and took a seat. She sighed, the pearl chain from her glasses dangling against her chest as she appraised their file.

Anxious, Ben reached over and grasped Rebekah's hand -- surely, she was more nervous than he was? -- and unbidden, both of his legs started jiggling as he awaited the verdict. Did this woman have any tact? Couldn't she just say something?

"Well?" Ben asked, finally unable to stand the silence.

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Jealousy (oneshot)

Harry Potter marauders era 

Request: Hello, I was wondering if you could write a oneshot, where the reader and Regulus have a friends with benefits thing going on and they have feelings for each other but he won't admit it, so a random boy asks the reader on a date and Regulus gets super jealous and admits his feelings and they start a proper relationship. You can decide whether you want it fluffy or smutty. 

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader 

Rating: M- smut

Songs in Story:  Songs in Chapter: Tiring Game by John Newman and You and your Hand by Pink

________

Our love is just a tiring game, I never want a thing to change, Our love is just a tiring game. I'll never give it up,

“Y/n, wake up. We fell asleep again.”

You yawned before yanking the blanket over your head. The last thing that you wanted to do at the moment was to think about going to potions class. All that you wanted to do was lay in the nice warm bed that you had been occupying for hours.

“Quiet yourself, Regulus. Still sleepy.”

You heard Regulus chuckle as he pulled his abandoned pants on. He sat back down on the bed and shook your leg.

“If we don’t get to class, Slughorn will figure out that we are out together. If he starts watching us then there will be no more fun.”

You knew exactly what Regulus meant by “fun.” The two of you had been in a "friends with benefits relationship" for over a year and a half. Fun meant the two of you sneaking off to some hidden section of the castle or the room of requirement to fuck your frustrations away. The arrangement had worked just fine for the most part. Both of you acted as friends during the day (with the hint of mutual pining) then at night both of you would be all over each other.

No one seemed to notice anything different about your relationship with Regulus and if any had any suspicions they didn’t speak of it. Regulus had been glued to you since your first year so it wasn’t uncommon to see the two of you together constantly.

Everything about the arrangement had been just fine for you until you started developing feelings for Regulus. The realization hit you like a brick to the stomach around month five of the “arrangement.” You had started to look beyond Regulus’ good looks to see the man who he was beneath it all. He wasn’t the shrewd, sarcastic boy that everyone else saw. With you, Regulus was gentle and cared about what you wanted or needed. He knew how to please you and often left you crying out underneath him (or on top of him).

The problem was Regulus didn’t seem interested in taking this relationship up to the next level. You would have been thrilled if he would have asked you to be his girlfriend...but it never happened. He instead seemed happy with just keeping you under his watchful gaze with the title of “best friend.”

Sitting up, you knew that if the two of you didn’t get a move on there would be no time for breakfast. Pulling your shirt on, you froze the moment that you felt Regulus’ hand on your shoulder.

“Wait, I forgot to cover up a love bite.”

You sighed as he took out his wand and pointed it to the very noticeable bite on your neck. What you didn’t say to Regulus was that you wanted to stop hiding the bites. You wanted to be able to kiss him in public...but how could you when he didn’t seem interested?

What you didn’t know was Regulus was feeling the same way. He had been silently brooding over feelings of love and desperation for the past few months and didn’t know how to deal with them. Never in his life had he had these feelings before. Now that he had them, Regulus had no idea what to do with them.

What if you didn’t love him back?

What if saying how much he loved you turned you off and you wanted nothing more to do with him?

Was Regulus ready to risk losing the chance to give you physical love if you would accept the romantic side of things?

There were so many “what ifs” that Regulus was left deciding to keep all of his feelings on the inside and suffer in silence. Suffering in silence was, after all, what he was good at. You would be yet another reason for him to keep quiet. Regulus didn’t want to lose the one bright spot in his life. The last thing that he wanted was to lose the one real friend that he had in his life. You had been his best friend since first year and hell would freeze over before Regulus let you get away from him.

“Reg, are you ready? We need to get going?”

Your voice pulled Regulus from his thoughts. He quickly looked up and nodded before throwing on his robe.

Slipping into the great hall, Evan was the first to look up when you sat down beside Regulus. He looked up over his half-eaten breakfast. You gave Evan a warning look as if begging him not to say anything. Evan was the only person that remotely knew of your “true” feelings about Regulus and had been sworn to secrecy. That didn’t mean that he had to be quiet about it in private. Evan had encouraged you multiple times to talk to Regulus but you never did.

“Good morning to the both of you. Where have you two been?”

Regulus didn’t turn to look at you. He took a sip of the drink that Evan shoved in front of him.

“Sorry, my brother and his idiot friends were pranking some poor Ravenclaw. It was such a disaster that we couldn’t look away.”

Evan chuckled.

“That is highly believable. It's like watching a world-class disaster.”

You nodded, rolling your eyes.

“Detention is their second home. If you two will excuse me a moment. I need to go talk to someone.”

Regulus knew that you were going to talk to one of your female Slytherin friends. You didn’t have many of them but the few that you had were halfway decent. Regulus didn’t feel bad giving up some of his time for the two.

“When are you going to ask her out?”

Regulus looked up at Evan’s comment.

“What?”

“You heard me. The two of you have it so bad for each other.”

Regulus snorted.

“You’re full of shit.”

Evan shrugged as Jacob Brown from Ravenclaw walked across the great hall to where you sat with Ameile Adams.

“Yeah, well, how do you feel about that boy talking to your girl?”

Regulus immediately sat up straight and frowned as he watched Jacob’s mouth moving. You, meanwhile, sat appearing stunned. Regulus didn’t like that look on your face. Was Jacob making you uncomfortable? Did Regulus need to kick his ass? If so, he didn’t mind. He was bigger than Jacob. It was more than a fair fight.

“Come on.”

Regulus snapped before getting up and storming over to where you sat with Evan on his heels like a puppy.

Jacob barely looked up when Regulus sat down beside you.

“I’ll talk to you about it soon. Thanks for the consideration.”

Jacob grinned before turning and walking off looking freakishly proud of himself. Before Regulus could ask what happened you turned to face him.

“How bizarre, Jacob asked me on a date.”

Regulus immediately felt his stomach drop to his feet. Evan’s mouth had dropped too and he didn’t dare turn to his best friend. He didn’t have to look at Regulus to know that the boy was in an internal panic.

“And you said?”

Regulus questioned. You shrugged.

“Well, I said yes. It’s just a lunch date on Saturday.”

“But my quidditch game is Saturday. You always come to that.”

Regulus immediately snapped. You frowned, slightly taken back by your best friend’s sudden horrid mood. If you didn’t know better, you would think that Regulus was jealous. You knew better than that though. That would mean that Regulus would care about you in a more than friendly way. He was probably only upset because you were going to miss his quidditch match. You, of all people, knew how much that meant to him.

“Reg, it's just one match. I come to them all.”

Regulus’ eyes were darker than normal as he glared at you. He sat a moment before muttering “whatever” under his breath before standing up and storming off.

“What the hell was that?”

You questioned. Ameile, seemed as surprised as you did. She didn’t respond as Evan laughed.

“I think Reggie is feeling a bit jealous.”

Regulus avoided you for the better part of the day. He was literally nowhere to be found and it was starting to bug you. If Regulus was so jealous of some other guy dating you then why didn’t he man up and ask you himself?

You are overthinking this. This is just about the stupid quidditch match.

You thought angrily as you stormed down to the quidditch pitch. Practice for the Slytherin team should be over within the next few minutes. If Regulus thought that he was going to get away without the tongue lashing of a lifetime then he obviously didn’t know you too well. The last thing that you were about to be was some “poor pitiful” soul.

Regulus stood talking to another teammate when you finally spotted him. Normally, you would have patiently waited for him to come to join you. As much as you didn’t care for anything athletic, you knew how much quidditch meant to Regulus would come to watch him practice or his matches. That’s what good friends did.

You could see Evan sitting in the stands in your typical place with Barty Crouch Jr. He automatically grinned before elbowing Barty in the ribs. You of all people knew that Evan was waiting for some kind of “show.” If he pulled out a bucket of popcorn, you wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.

Regulus had finally looked up. His gaze met yours before quickly looking away. He said something to the other boy and turned to go off in the opposite direction.

“Oh hell no, you didn’t”

You grumbled before going after him.

“Regulus, wait!”

He didn’t turn. Regulus apparently decided that he was going to refuse to acknowledge your presence.

“Regulus Arcturus Black, I said fucking wait! I swear to god if you don’t stop ignoring me I am going to fucking hex the hell out of you and you know that I can do it.”

Regulus finally glanced over his shoulder.

“Whatever, sweetheart. See you tonight.”

The little jab about sleeping together quickly got under your skin. Is that how he felt? Did he think that he was going to get to be inside of you after treating you like this?

“Whatever right back to you, sweetheart.”

Regulus laughed at that. His next comment was about to be very crude but he didn’t care.

“So how do you think that your little boyfriend is going to like knowing that I feed you my cock every night? Do you think Jacob will like knowing that you are fucking another guy on the regular?”

You turned and stormed off in the opposite direction before you said something that you were really going to regret later.

Ameile looked up when you barged into the common room. She was surprised to see the angry expression on your pretty face.

“Okay, Y/n?”

You shook your head.

“Hell no. I hate Regulus.”

Ameile looked totally surprised by the comment that came out of your mouth. You never said anything bad about Regulus. Ameile had literally never heard you say a single bad thing about Regulus. When Ameile began a friendship with you, she thought that the two of you were Regulus’ girlfriend. She was honestly shocked when Evan told her differently.

“What did he do?”

You sat down and slammed your head onto the headrest.

“I can’t tell you everything. He’s just being a jealous shit.”

Ameile raised an eyebrow.

“Oh come on, Y/n. We tell each other everything. I can assure you that there is nothing about you that would honestly shock me.”

You knew that you didn’t need to tell Ameile your biggest most guarded secret but at the moment you needed advice from someone who wasn’t Regulus.

“Fine, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone or I will hex you. Regulus and I have been friends with benefits for a while...well....well...fuck I have feelings for the git. He’s been a seething jealous little shit since Jacob asked for that date. Well, me being the joyful person that I am, decided to call him on his garbage and you know what the ass said? He had the nerve to say, see you tonight, sweetheart AFTER FUCKING AVOIDING ME ALL GOD DAMNED FUCKING DAY!”

Ameile looked totally surprised by your outburst. She had honestly figured that you were sleeping with Regulus and now that she had the confirmation she was thrilled.

“That was a little bold on his end.”

“A little bold? I want to punch his fucking face in then kiss him. What is wrong with me?”

Ameile giggled.

“Nothing. There is nothing wrong with you at all. What did you tell him?”

You laughed.

“Whatever right back to you, sweetheart. I should have said it was going to be just you and your hand but I was so mad that I didn’t think of it.”

Ameile smiled before getting up.

“Come on, let's get you a drink. Evan has some whiskey and I have access to it.”

Half an hour later, you were pleasantly buzzed yet still feeling ready to fight. Ameile had put on some record and the lyrics hit perfectly.

“Feeling better?”

Ameile asked. You nodded.

“Feeling saintly.”

You replied as Regulus stepped into the common room with Evan behind him. Both boys automatically winced at the volume of the record that was blaring. In fact, they had heard it as soon as they stepped into the dungeons.

“That noise is coming from here.”

Regulus groaned. Evan noticed his bottle of whiskey in your hand and decided that it wasn’t worth losing a limb or getting a black eye over.

“Are you two drunk?”

Evan shouted over the music. You shook your head.

“Just buzzed and enjoying our boy hating music.”

You said the last part and focused your eyes right on Regulus who was clearly hearing what the song was saying..

I'm not here for your entertainment. You don't really want to mess with me tonight. Just stop and take a second. I was fine before you walked into my life. Cause you know it's over before it began. Keep your drink, just give me the money. It's just you and your hand tonight…

Regulus waited all of three seconds before realizing this was your drunken way of telling him to piss off and that he wasn’t getting a goddamned thing from you that night.

The next morning, you awoke in your own bed for the first time in a week. Groaning, you sat up. Just what the hell had you been doing the night before and what did Ameile give you to drink?

“Hey, are you awake?”

Ameile’s voice was super cheerful and loud. You winced before moving to get a clean uniform on.

“I’m alive if that is what you are asking. Where the hell did you get that booze?”

“Rosier.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course, it was Evan. Evan was the guy that you didn’t take booze from. Whatever he had would knock you on your ass and leave you drunk as fuck singing songs about stuff that made no sense.

“A word of advice, never take alcohol from Evan Rosier.”

Ameile shrugged with a grin.

“Come on, let's go get some food in you. I’m sure a nice piece of toast will make you feel better.”

Stepping into the great hall, you groaned at all of the loudness that was surrounding you. Regulus was staring right at you when you finally looked up. It didn’t take you being his friend to know that he was ticked off about something.

Probably me telling him that it was just him and his hand for company.

You thought before sitting down beside Ameile. Evan was cheerfully talking to Barty about something as he turned to you.

“Good morning, star shine. You look a bit rough.”

You didn’t hesitate to flip Evan off to his face.

“Fuck you and your booze, Rosier. If I wouldn’t puke on you, I would come over and beat the shit out of you.”

Evan looked a bit taken back as Regulus took his place beside you.

“That’s rude.”

Evan commented as you whined when Ameile started scraping butter on the piece of toast in front of her.

“Would you stop?”

You snapped. The sound of the knife scratching the toast was about to drive you nuts. How long did it take someone to put goddamn butter on a goddamn slice of toast? Ameile put the bread down before putting her hands in her lap.

“Y/n.”

Regulus’ voice was soft. Finally, something that wasn’t making your head throb.

“What?”

You replied as his long fingers wrapped around your wrist.

“Can we go talk? Alone?”

“I guess.”

You said as he stood up and gently pulled you along after him.

Walking in silence, you didn’t realize where you were going until the room of requirement’s door closed behind you.

“Here, drink this.”

Regulus said before handing you a cup. You looked down at it before snorting.

“Yeah, so you can poison me?”

It was Regulus’ turn to scoff.

“Would you stop it? I wouldn’t harm you.”

You finally took a sip of the drink and felt instantly back to your normal self. Looking up, you shook your head.

“Better?”

Regulus questioned. You nodded.

“It's a good thing that you are so wonderful at potions. I felt like death. What the fuck is wrong with Evan to drink that?”

Regulus laughed.

“It's Evan that we are talking about. Look Y/n, I wanted to apologize about yesterday. I was...I was a dick and you didn’t deserve it.”

“Why did you act like that?”

You questioned. Regulus shoved his hands in his pockets before his eyes rolled up to you innocently.

“Because I love you...and knowing that you are going to go on a date with Jacob is destroying me because it's not me.”

You knew that you had to be staring at Regulus with your mouth open for a while.

“You love me?”

Regulus nodded. He knew that he had to get his feelings out before he lost you for good.

“I do. I’ve been afraid to tell you because I thought that you would reject me. It looks like that is what you are doing by going out with Jacob so I fucked everything up anyway.”

“I never told Jacob yes...for what it's worth. Furthermore, I love you too, Regulus. I’ve been in love with you for so long. You just never seemed to be interested so I kept it myself.”

Regulus reached out to cup your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you. I want to be with you.”

You placed your hand on top of his.

“I want to be with you too. Regulus, I’m yours.”

Regulus looked as if he had won the lottery.

“I’m yours too.”

The kiss was soft and timid at first before growing needy. Neither of you was the least bit worried about the need to breathe.

“The bed...get on the bed.”

Regulus moaned against your lips as your hand gently palmed him through his trousers. You didn’t have to be told twice. This was the quickest that you had undressed in a long time. Sure, sex with Regulus was enough to get you naked anytime that he asked but this time it was different. The two of you weren’t just having sex as friends with benefits anymore. You were making love as a couple.

You quickly lay down on your stomach bringing your leg up giving Regulus access to your waiting core.

“Get inside of me.”

You ordered. Regulus didn’t have to be told twice. He was on the bed behind you in an instant. His fingers gripped your hips pulling you up enough to bury himself inside of you.

Fuck, she’s dripping wet.

Regulus thought. He knew that he was going to have to stop thinking or he would explode quicker than he needed to. Regulus wanted to take things slow. He wanted to watch every moment of pleasure that graced your face. Knowing that he was going to be the only one to make you smile this way was more than enough to stroke his male ego.

Regulus set a punishingly slow rhythm. You were clearly getting annoyed with his slower than normal teasing and tried to speed Regulus up by pressing back into his body. Regulus was not about to let that happen.

“If you don’t be a good girl then I’m going to flip you over and lick your pussy nice and slow. I think you know me well enough to know that I won’t let you come.”

“I want to hold you.”

You moan as Regulus slowly pumped into you again. Regulus considered your request for a moment before pulling out enough to gently roll you onto your back. He was back inside before you had enough time to come up with something crafty. At the moment, all Regulus wanted was to show you just who you belonged to. It was him...not that Jacob guy whose name you wouldn’t remember by morning.

“Reggie.””

You cried his name before tangling one hand in his hair and the other arm around his back. Regulus’ mouth was on yours. The sounds of skin slapping skin filled the room along with your cries of completion, as with each thrust of his hips, you were coming closer to falling off the edge.

“Damn it, sugar, you should feel how you're spasming around me. I’m so close baby. Would you like me to finish you off?”

You feebly nodded as Regulus reached between your joined bodies to tease your clit. His middle finger went from rubbing in a up and down pattern before switching to a circular pattern then back to the original.

“Fuck, yes. Regulus, please.”

You cried out, not caring if anyone in the castle could hear the two of you fucking like bunnies. Regulus picked his speed up abusing your already spasming core over and over.

“Good girl.”

Regulus praised as you finally came. His eyes had closed as he focused on his own release. Regulus wanted nothing more than to keep fucking you until you begged for mercy but...today...that wasn’t going to happen.

“You’re too fucking good, sweetheart.”

Regulus cooed, feeling his own release building. Your hand was on his cheek silently begging him to look into your eyes.

“Let me on your lap.”

Regulus silently agreed to whatever plan that you had to make him come. He sat up, stroking his length as you positioned yourself over him. Regulus groaned when you slid down onto him. Right as Regulus started to thrust again, you shook your head.

“No. Be still.”

Regulus groaned as your body gripped him tighter if possible. He wanted nothing more than to thrust up into you but he did as he was told. Regulus could be the perfect most devious of a dom but with one of the flip of the switch, he could be an obedient submissive.

“Be still, darling. Just relax. Enjoy the feeling of being inside of me. I’m still so wet, Reggie.”

He had a good idea what you were going to do. You were going to make him come just by being inside of you. This was one of your favorite activities when Regulus was desperate to come. You would sit snuggled on his lap with his cock inside of you while you stroked your fingers through his hair and whispered erotically to him.

“Not tonight.”

Regulus replied before snapping his hips one final time and coming inside of you. You moaned as his mouth closed on yours sealing the moment.

It was Regulus that was the first to move. He gently moved to lay you on your side. You only had to wait a moment before Regulus had his arms wrapped around you. Snuggling your face into his chest, you yawned happily.

“So I guess I should properly ask you to be my girlfriend?”

Regulus said with a truly happy smile. You quickly responded with a kiss.

“That’s me saying yes.”

________

@amelie-black @truly-insatiable @fandomsxxregulus @realgaytrash @spiderxalmighty @teletubiswszpilkach @whymyparentscheckmyphone @fific7 @jessyballet @knreidy1 @criminalyetminimal @rubyroscoe1 @acciosiriusblack @bennyberry @hazncalsgal @exhsle @lucasfilms77 @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @fandom-trash-worth-it @hankypranky @summer-novak @shaylybaby2032 @emiwrites3reads @li0nh34rt @tas898 @marichromatic @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @knight-of-gleefulness @stuckinsaudi1 @untoldshortsofthefandoms @sprnaturallover @deanwherescas @shitfaceddaniel @wontlookaway @mycuddlycorner

[rq-s]

Title: Lucid Dreams - Chapter 1

Word Count: 2680

Warnings: Mingyu is featured heavily in the first few chapters and is directly involved in significant plot events. Due to recent events, I understand if reading these chapters may make you uncomfortable, but be aware that you’d be missing core story elements by skipping them. (Details)

Lucid Dreams Masterlist

Prologue | 

It was an hour after dawn, the streets were busy with students and workers on their commute. Yn gazed out of her apartment window, forlornly missing when she would do that. Why wasn’t I doing that? I should still be in college, worrying about scores and my social life.

She was still slowly waking up, with unfocused eyes and bad balance, as she sat at her desk. She shifted in her chair and faced her journal again, with two blank pages staring up at her.

It started as a school project, but it turned into a habit that Yn kept through her youth.

Yn stood and left it open without having written anything, frustrated with herself. If she had dreamt last night, it was long gone from her mind, and she had nothing else to write. There were more days like this lately. Update-less, absent days.

Eventually, Yn left the apartment complex with her phone and wallet and walked the familiar path. For weeks she had been going on walks around town, and she’d always somehow pass by the same peculiar store. She found herself lingering there, wanting to go in just to have her questions answered, but something within herself always stopped her. Online searches turned up very little. Just some patents, an under construction website, a local news article, and a few social media postings by previous customers. Everything she found only made her more curious.

The town seemed quiet, though it wasn’t ever busy. It made the journey to Dream Store a peaceful one, even as Yn's nervousness began to bubble.

She arrived a few hours before noon, the sunlight warm and shining brightly past the cartoonish and fluffy clouds. The well-tended potted plants, power washed sidewalk, and neon sign all had a strangely comforting feeling to them that welcomed her. Even the grey layered siding was sweet, despite how it clashed with the surrounding architecture. Yn stood on the sidewalk, facing the front patio, and hardened her resolve. Today would be her first time seeing what it was like inside; she refused to put it off anymore.

Yn approached the door in quick strides and read the print on the window before entering. “Dream Store | keeping hold of our hearts.”

Her breathing went still as soon as she pulled the door open. It was more spacious inside than the exterior led on, having a pastel pallet and being well lit. It felt like the door way was more then just the entrance to a business.

The first thing to see was the bar. A fairly long one, taking up most of the far wall, yet was still tucked in the corner. From the left wall towards the center were eight different taps, and on a counter behind the bar were two large blenders, a sink, and a small ice cream station with five flavors.  A small Bluetooth speaker on the end of the counter was playing instrumental lo-fi, and somehow the air itself felt light and bubbly against her skin. On the wall above the bar was a large LED menu with what appeared to all be beverages in narrow-necked glass bottles. On the little space that was left against the far wall was a freezer, decorated in stickers and notes. So it’s a juice bar? The tweets just mentioned ice cream. There was a hallway by the fridge, presumably leading to bathrooms and the staff area. In front of that and against the right wall were wood tables and chairs with mismatched cushions. There were similar tables meant for two on the left side, with what seemed to be medium sized square lockers, and two vending machines full of those same bottled drinks from the LED screen. It all felt surreal, it was too perfect.

“Excuse me?” Yn’s attention was brought back to reality by the voice of man, one she hadn’t even seen standing behind the bar until that moment. His fingers were intertwined and rested gently on the bar while he leaned forward, as if he’d been calling her for a while. Once he saw he had her attention, he stood upright and smiled sincerely.

“Welcome to our Dream Store!” It was as if the entire scenario was a prank, he was an actor and this business was a set. Everything was still and quiet, with nothing and nobody in existence but this store and the two of them.

Finally, Yn approached the bar.

Instead of a name tag, the name Mingyu was sewn onto the collar of his white dress shirt. He was very tall, and his uniform was clearly tailored for to fit him perfectly. His smile was kind and courteous as he spoke to her.

“Is this your first time here?” He asked gently, but with no less energy in his voice than before. Yn nodded.

“Gotcha, let’s find you a table then.” He chirped, and walked around from behind the bar, grabbing a physical menu from somewhere behind the register. “Do you like to sit by the window, or in the corner?”

“Anywhere that lets me see the exits, please.” She answered softly. Mingyu didn’t seem phased by her request and tapped his chin in thought while looking around. Only then did Yn notice one of the benches by the hallway was taken, where two teenage girls were fast asleep. It wasn’t uncommon to see college kids or overworked employees taking powernaps at cafés, but seeing them sleeping so peacefully while hunched over the table was something Yn found odd. Are those pillows matching the seat cushions?

Mingyu decided to seat her at one of the tables for two, the one closest to the taps on the bar. She could observe the whole store there, and had a clear view of the front door and the hallway, while sitting snugly in the corner by the vending machines. Yn sat down carefully as Mingyu set the menus in front of her. Sitting down brought her attention up, making her notice the peculiar ceiling with exposed beams, cords, pipes, and ducts, all painted white to match the ceiling itself. Something about the unconventional look of it was comforting for Yn, as if the establishment itself was being laid bare for her.

“First, thank you for coming in, we really appreciate your interest,” He smiled awkwardly for a moment before continuing, “I’m going to get someone from the back to watch the register for me, feel free to look at that menu in the meantime.” Mingyu lowered his head a tiny bit then swiftly headed down the hallway.

Thank you for visiting our Dream Store! All the staff here are proud of our beverages, passionate about our purpose, and excited to give you a safe, enjoyable experience when you spend time with us. We believe that we offer your community something special, not only with our drinks, but with our potential to give each visitor a unique and individualized experience.

Mingyu came back before she could read further, with another tall young man behind him, who promptly went behind the counter and washed his hands after smiling in acknowledgment to her. He seemed familiar, but she didn’t know why or how. Mingyu sat himself across from her with a sigh, feeling very nervous and struggling to act like he wasn’t.

“Alright, sorry about that. Did you get a chance to look at the menu?”

“Only the first paragraph.”

“Okay cool, the way the menu explains it is kind of weird, so it’s better that I do it.” Yn only grew more confused. She watched as Mingyu glanced over towards the other man, she wanted to look back to see what was going on, but didn’t. Instead, Yn watched as Mingyu squinted, shook his head in confusion, and then silently gasped in realization, all within a few moments. Mingyu swallowed and nodded to himself before redirecting his focus back to her.

“Is it alright if I know your name?”

“Uh, sure? It’s Yn.” He nodded formally and put on awkward smile.

“It's nice to meet you, I’m Mingyu. Like I said, thanks for coming in today.” He failed to fight the cringe on his own face and hurried past it.

“Essentially, we can offer you different kinds of drinks: juices, sodas, and smoothies. They’re all made by us, with our recipes, and you can either have them made for here or to go, or even from the coolers right here.” He leaned over and patted the cooler that had a variety of colored drinks in sturdy glass bottles.

“Why do you need to explain that to me?” She asked without thinking, having already picked up on the fact that this was a place that sold beverages. It was a selling point that they concoct them themselves, and that they can do all this seemingly without a big brand to fund them, but she doubted that it required introduction to every new customer. Yn heard the man behind the register chuckle, then try to hide it with a cough.

“I was getting there.” He stammered, his face flushing a soft red.

“If you’d like to have something here, there’s the option to make it a sleep aid. We call it a Sleepy. With those, we prepare the drink as we usually would, but instead of the liquid sugar we usually use, we use a mix of liquid sugar and drowsiness medicine. We’ve been able to use that in a low volume but effective dose to allow our customers to have a refreshing drink, followed by a recharging nap.” Yn watched him cringe again as he tried his best to explain it without making it sound as bizarre as it was. He continued as soon as she tried to comment, eager to get it the introduction over with.

“You don’t need to worry though! When a visitor picks one of our sleepy drinks, we give them a key to their corresponding table, and that key opens one of those lockers. You can put your things there beforehand so you know they’re safe while you sleep. We have cameras in here and outside, and there’s always at least one member of staff on duty who's trained to handle altercations of any kind, and all of us are trained in first aid and emergency procedures like CPR.” There was another chuckle from behind her, and he didn’t even try to hide it this time. Mingyu glared at him, and this gave Yn her opening to speak.

“So you take safety seriously, that’s good…” She was at a loss of what to say, having been bombarded with information, all of it outside of what she’d expected. She wasn't sure what the odds were leaning toward: him having a scripted yet speedy and thorough defense to any worries or questions she’d have, or that he’d flounder as soon as she asked for details.

“Of course we do. We know it’s a risk to just take a nap at a café. Especially one run but a bunch of young adult guys. But we’re trying something new that no one else in the world is doing, and we really believe in it.” Mingyu’s sudden sentiment was sincere, and his nervousness looked more like vulnerability now. Something compelled her to trust him. Maybe what he was saying about having something completely unique wasn’t true, Yn had no clue, but it might as well be for a town like theirs.

“You’ll notice that we have 13 distinct drink options available right now, each one named after a member of the staff.” Mingyu  opened the menu and flipped a few pages till Yn could see depictions of each of the drinks. They were colorful, and beautifully presented on the pages, with descriptions of each one. He stopped on a page of cool toned drinks.

“Let’s say you come in and decide to order a Sleepy Mingyu, that’s this one,” He pointed to the deep purple iced drink and tapped its picture fondly. “It’ll come in a medium glass bottle, with a straw and napkin of course, along with a locker key that corresponds to whatever table you pick. While we’re making it, you can put your stuff in the locker, and inside the locker will be a small pillow, but you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. We switch the covers after every use and wash all of them each night, so don’t worry about that either. You can decide to keep the key with you, or give it to whoever’s at the register for safekeeping.” He began to ramble again, wracking his brain to make sure he mentioned everything Yn could possibly need to know while to keep himself from growing too embarrassed. She sat there patiently, listening as he helped her understand. He seemed to grow more uneasy with each word.

“You’ll probably want to wait at your table till the drink is done, it usually takes less than five minutes. We’ll bring it to you.”

Mingyu paused and took a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek in thought, picking his words carefully. He hadn’t looked at her since his sentiment about safety and now it seemed like he was actively choosing not to look up at her.

“The Sleepys only come in medium because the drowsiness medicine is fast acting, and we try to make sure that you’ll have enough time to finish it all before you fall asleep.” He looked to the man behind the counter, and this time Yn dared to look at him too. But he only looked at Mingyu, giving his coworker an encouraging, albeit aggressive, thumbs up. Mingyu shook his head.

“This is really weird, Jun. How do you guys explain this kind of thing without seeming creepy?!” He seemed deeply upset, frustrated and on the verge of tears. It suddenly felt like Yn was intruding on something private.

“Take a breath, okay?” The man came around the counter and spoke gently to his colleague, kneeling to the ground like a father would when speaking to a child. He was close enough now that Yn could read the name on his collar as Junhui. He put his hand on Mingyu’s knee and squeezed it a few times, urging him to relax. Then he turned to Yn.

“Once you finish your drink, you’re gonna fall asleep, and we’ll watch over you while you do. You’ll have a great dream, and we’ll wake you up at whatever time you told us to when you ordered, or after you’ve been asleep for 2 hours.” Junhui stood back up, and patted Mingyu’s shoulder while still looking at Yn.

“Mingyu is a really great guy. He cares a lot about people and about what we're trying to do here. And if you ask me, his drink is one of the best.” Junhui’s smile was warm and his tone of voice was calming as he praised his friend. Mingyu still couldn’t look at her, facing away from her entirely and looking downtrodden. Yn didn’t know what to say and instead decided to read the blurb about Mingyu's concoction.

A sweetly rich concord grape flavored soda! Mingyu’s soda brings one’s imagination to life, while remaining proud and inspired.

“I’ll try it.” She spoke casually, trying to imagine what such a drink would taste like. It had been so long since she’d had a grape flavored drink of any kind, and something carbonated sounded great in that moment.

“You don’t have to.” Mingyu said pitifully, assuming she chose his drink to help him feel better.

“The picture looks really pretty, I wanna see if it really looks like that.” Her bluntness stunned him, and he wondered if she was bluffing. Even so, he resolved to grin and bare it, standing up from the table. Junhui stepped back and smiled, leaving silently as Mingyu went back behind the counter.

“Alright… Let’s get it ordered then!” He bolstered, ready to reaffirm himself in the form of a fancy looking grape juice.f

[turnaboutimagines]

Aaa Hello! -w-/ I'm new to the blog, and I fell in love with your writing!! May I ask headcanons of what Simon, Athena and Juniper would do with their S/Os in rainy days?

Hello!  ヾ(^u^)  Welcome and thank you v much for the kind words!!!  This was such a cute request and thank you for request Juniper!  First time writing for her and she’s an absolute sweetheart. 💚

Simon Blackquill.

He thoroughly enjoys curling up with you and a good book with Taka perched nearby on his day off as the rain patters pleasantly on the roof overhead.  It’s cozy and safe.

If you ask nicely, he will read for you aloud, but only after thoroughly teasing you first (”Hmph.  Can’t read on your own?”).  You’re likely going to be learning a lot about traditional Japanese history and folklore or swords since he really enjoys studying them in his free time.

However, he won’t tease you as much if you were together before the UR-1 incident, he used to read.  It’s rather nostalgic for him

If you also enjoy the Steel Samurai franchise, he’d be willing to marathon it with you!  He is absolutely going to make commentary about what the show does and doesn’t get right about samurais and history.

On days when he still has a lot of work to do, he’s probably going to try and hide out at his desk combing through the evidence and case files.

Enjoys it if you just sit nearby and do your own thing, there’s something very intimate about it for him.

If the two of you go out, Simon will hold the umbrella for you and he may huff a bit and tease you if you place your hand over his to “help” but there’s a subtle smile on his face.

Athena Cykes.

It may be raining outside, but her attitude is just as sunny as always!  Rain or shine, Athena is going to make sure you have plenty to do and have a mostly active rain day.

She’d be delighted if you join her for her exercise routines, either working out yourself or just keeping her company as she goes.  You’re going to be dragged in for at least some stretches or yoga poses.

Games with PvP modes like Mario Kart and Smash Bros. and board/card games are going to get busted out.  Along with some board games, too!

Loves making pillow/blanket forts with you.  Usually, they result in getting into pillow fights before taking a nice, long nap.

Speaking of naps, they’re going to be a rainy afternoon staple for you.  There’s something about the soothing sound of rain.

It’s not entirely uncommon for the two of you to fall into Youtube rabbit holes, watching absolutely bizarre content by the time you decide to get off the app.  It’s… research, right?  It counts as research.

If the two of you go out, she’s absolutely going to get sidetracked by jumping into puddles and may get lost seek them out if you don’t keep a close eye on her.  It’s a very small, simple thing yet it makes her eyes light up and brings out her inner child.

Juniper Woods.

Knitting is her go-to rainy day activity and she’d love it if you. Juniper loves to knit and she loves spending time with you.  It’s an ideal combination.

If you’re a knitter (be it a self-taught novice or a Pro), the two of you will maybe put on an audiobook or a podcast you enjoy and knit for a spell.  Other times you’ll talk about anything and everything as you keep count of your stitches.

If you don’t know how to knit and would like to learn, she’ll spend these days teaching you and helping you work on your early projects.

Otherwise, she doesn’t mind it one bit if you do your own thing as you sit together and enjoy the comfy atmosphere together.

If you’d be willing to help her do her gardening for the day, she’d be most grateful!  It can be a bit more of a handful for her on rainy days and sometimes she almost slips in the mud.

Baking or cooking together is another thing that she absolutely adores on rainy days.  Things are liable to turn more playful than usual and you can start things like flour fights more easily than usual.  It may be gloomy outside, but the kitchen is filled with laughter and delicious smells.

If you enjoy documentaries (especially legal ones) or romantic flicks, she’d love to have a movie night with you!  There’s a lot of movies she hasn’t been able to see, so she has a good time watching them, cuddled up with you and enjoying a nice cup of tea.

If the two of you go out, she’d like to hold onto your arm underneath the umbrella, using it as an excuse to be affectionate and close with you.

[monicaaaaatje]

DaisySous drabbles - The one where he becomes an inhuman

It was dark on the inside of her brain.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  She should have checked the books. She should have checked the goddamn books.  “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Daniel, stay with me. Stay with me, do you hear me?”  They had been back in 2020 for a good three months. They had rebuild their lives for as far as humanly possible. Mack had retired from SHIELD, May had started on a teaching program for new cadets, Daniel Sousa had been given the gig of new SHIELD director and she... She was feeling something for the man from the 1950′s she hadn’t felt in a long time: Love. Sickening, fluffy love. If her life had been one of those romantic movies, she would have been puking all the way through the movie. That kind of sickening love. And best of all: That love was mutual. Through the past three months, Daniel Sousa had emerged as a true champ when it came to adapting to her era and she could truthfully say that she was proud of him. 

“I got these books from some inhuman friends. They should help with rebuilding afterlife 2.0. You wanna help me go through them?”  As Daniel didn’t know everything quiet yet about what there was to know about the 21st century (He still had to ask if it was certain that he couldn’t kill anyone with an ICER, every damn time), he co-shared the directors position with May, who, when all the gaps where filled, wanted to get some well deserved rest when SHIELD was rolling again. That meant going on a well deserved vacation with LMD Coulson, then starting a new SHIELD academy program in a permanent building, with Coulson his knowledge to help out.  So it happend that sometimes, Daniel had the day off, which he spend with Daisy, getting to know more things about her time, watching weird movies, or just plainly cuddling up together in bed. Since a few weeks, she had taken up an entire new project: Rebuilding afterlife, a place where all inhumans (or people with the gene) could be safe from mankind. She liked to call it afterlife 2.0, but Fitzsimmons and YoYo had disagreed with her. “Afterlife is the name your psychotic mom gave to the place. You should name it something that shows the goodness coming from it.”  To give her building tools, she had asked around her inhuman connections, for materials that still originated from Afterlife 1.0. It had turned out to be quite a stack of books, so she definitely needed some help. She probably did Daniel a favor by asking him for his help. Might remind him of his past.  They had spend the entire day going through the books, looking for information and research. On a plus side, the books had been the perfect opportunity to explain Daniel more about her background and life story.  They’d been having pretty much fun, spending time together like this, but then he had started on some older books, and a terrigenisis crystal had fallen out.  “Don’t be scared, it’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”  Before he had known what happend to him, he had been covered in a husk.  “I need some help over here!”  Simmons had come running to her aid, looking at the entire situation with a mixture of surprise and horror on her face.  “The books had a fail safe,” Daisy squealed. “He didn’t sign up for this, I should have checked the books. Fuck, I should have checked-”  Daisy was ripped from her thoughts when the husk cracked open and Daniel fell out of it, quite literally.  “Daniel, are you okay? I’m so, so incredibly sorry.”  He was opening and closing his eyes again. When his muscles started to convulse, Daisy realized she was panicking: This wasn’t how a normal inhuman transformation went.  “Daisy, step away”, Simmons ordered. All Daniel could do was produce a soft moaning, what changed into screams of pain.  “His leg- This is highly uncommon.”  The two young woman looked in shock to each other, realizing that what was currently happening- “Shh, shh, you’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You need to get his prothesis off, Simmons. Ssshh, ssssh. It’s all gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine.”  The moment he had started to scream, Daisy had positioned herself behind him, holding him, stroking her fingers through his hair.  The transformation probably hadn’t been able to complete as he had still been wearing his prothesis. So it was completing itself... Right now. Completely regrowing a new limp could be nothing else then painful.  Simmons was busy taking the prothesis off while Daisy kept holding him, knowing very well how scary all of this could be. She saw how his legt kept growing, how a foot started to form, and how after the leg had completed growing, Daniel fell back in Daisy her arms, exhausted and eventually unconscious.  “Poor man.”  What happend after passed by Daisy in a blur. She remembered how Simmons got her assistants ready to transport Daniel to the medical floor in the lighthouse while she kept staring to the empty space in front of her. She should have checked the damn books. 

_________________________________________________

When Daisy headed to medical, she had put her own feelings aside.  She would, at length, apologize to Daniel when the time was right and he could handle it. Right now, she needed her rational side to maintain in order. A new inhuman needed her help.  “Daisy, good, you’re here.”  Simmons shooed her assistants away from the lab, where she had put Daniel in an isolation chamber.  “It’s quite bizarre, but the scans showed that the transition has made him regain his leg for the full 100%. He should be mostly sleeping off the transition right now, and after... After, he’s more your department.”  “Thanks Jemma.”  Daisy passed the lab space, entering the isolation room and closing the door behind her. She sat down next to his bed, squeezing his hand in hers.  Besides the fact that he was sleeping off the transition, he still looked like he was exhausted.  An hour passed. Two. Three. She played  with her phone, stroked his hair, spoke to the others, who asked how he was doing. Even little Diana had showed up in the lab.  “Is uncle Daniel going to be okay, auntie Daisy?”  Everyone on the team -or what was left from it- was an aunt or uncle to the 3-year-old. Period.  “We’ll have to see, pumpkin,” Daisy had answered the girl who was way too smart for her age. “He is more like me now.”  When the evening had fallen, he had woken up with a gasp.  “Hey hey hey, you’re okay. You’re okay. Jemma!”  Daniel tried to get rid of all the stickers and wires he was connected to. Daisy tried to push him back into the pillows, trying to get him to calm down- “Don’t.”  He had gasped for air. Slowly, Daisy moved back in her seat. Panting, he put himself back on his side. Now he started to realize what had happend to his leg.  “My... What the... What the hell?”  “I’m so sorry,” Daisy blurted out while Simmons checked his vitals. “The books had an inhumanity fail safe-”  “Daisy, it’s not your fault,” Simmons replied. “Daniel, can you tell me how you’re feeling so far?”  “I... I...”  He stared at his right leg, slowly started touching it, like he could get stung by bees any minute.  “We-”  He put his finger in the air, a move human Coulson used a lot back when she got a lecture. Don’t talk.  “What happend?” He asked hoarsely.  “You were going with Daisy through some inhuman archival books”, Simmons answered before Daisy could say anything.”One of the books was triggered with a failsafe: A terrigenisis crystal had been hidden inside, to prevent anyone without the inhuman gene from opening it and surviving it. By opening the book, you broke the crystal. The moment your body got covered in an inhuman husk, your transformation started”.  Daisy couldn’t read anything from his face. What was he thinking? “And after? I imagine that this-” He said, while pointing at his regrown leg “did not happen without reason.”  “Our best guess is that it didn’t take hold during your transformation because you were still wearing your prosthetic. That is why it happend after, but to be sure, we’d need to run some tests.”  “Thank you”, Daniel answered. “Would you mind-”  “Of course,” Jemma excused herself. “I assume you and Daisy will be having a lot to talk about.”  She left the room, leaving Daniel and Daisy on their own. Daisy noticed he was still staring at his leg. Knowing how sensitive the subject was to him, she decided he might want to be alone. “I... If you want to be alone, I totally get it. This must be quite a shock-”  “Daisy, you don’t have to pity me. We’ve been over this before, the leg and everything-” “Wait, what?”  She wasn’t following.  “You just said that you were doubting if you had to leave me alone for a while or if you would drop all the other stuff that comes with becoming an inhuman on me.”  “I didn’t say that.”  She had not said that. She had only thought about it...  “Don’t tell me how confused you are. Don’t-” Now he was staring at her face. At her lips.  “I can hear you.” “But I’m-”  “Shh!”  He kept focussing on her face. She could see his eyes narrow, while he focussed on her.  “Your lips aren’t moving, but I can hear you think.”  “You... Hang on a minute.”  She moved her seat closer to his bed, away from the windows, so they could look around the lab. The lab was empty, despite Simmons and a few of her assistants.  “Can you- Does anything come from Simmons?”  Daniel looked at her. His eyes widened.  “She... She’s contemplating if she should talk to you about what happend with me.”  The pair looked at each other and they both knew what had changed.  Daniel had received the inhuman gift of reading minds.  Hey loves, this is a drabble where the lovely @agentofmarvel084 will be writing a multi chapter fic about! I wrote this drabble because I wanted to play with ideas and everything and wanted to look at how crazy we’re gonna get with the multichapter fic. Duely note, this drabble won’t be canon with the fic we’re going to write. This will be posted on ao3 drabbles with parts about Daniel learning to control his gift. 

Enjoy your evening :) 

[firesoulstuff]

4+8 for Killervibe?

4. Mistaken for a couple

8. Amnesia

Forget Everything

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177960/chapters/45586183

He blinks.

That’s… That’s pretty much all he knows how to do. That and breathe, He must know more, right? Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, buried deep down somewhere, there must be something else. A skill, some facts, at least a name, right?

Shit, what is his name?

“Excuse me?”

“GAH!” He jumps and spins around with the loud, rather undignified, screech, and his arms held out in front of him as if to attempt to fight off whatever owns the hand that just tapped his shoulder, though he probably wouldn’t win with this spastic form.

Why does he know anything about improper form?

It doesn’t matter, the newcomer isn’t a danger, or he doesn’t think so at least. She’s a woman about his age, with honey colored hair and a frightened frown. There’s something about her that’s more than familiar to him, something more than maybe he’s seen her before or even maybe he knows her. He can’t put his finger on it, but something about her just puts him at ease.

She looks like home.

“I’m sorry.” She cringes, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just wondering if you know where we are?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He answers, “Sorry I uh… I don’t even know my own name right now.”

She gives him a sympathetic little smile, and a huff.

“Me either.” She admits.

He nods, and then he finally starts to look around. There are buildings not too far off in the distance, and freshly mowed grass around them, along with other people busy living their lives.

The word park comes to mind. He doesn’t really know what it means, but it feels right.

“So uh, do we stay where we are or walk around?”

She’s frowning when he looks back to her, one hand perched over her eyebrows to block out the sun as she too surveys their surroundings.

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to stay put when you’re lost.”

“Whose gonna come looking for us?” He snarks before really thinking about it, “Two other amnesiacs?”

Oh sure, he remembers what amnesia is but he can’t remember his own name.

At least she isn’t offended by his remark, the opposite, actually. She gives him a smile that is all white teeth framed by red lips and accompanied by a soft chuckle.

“Fair point.” She says, and then without any further hesitation she starts walking.

He falls into step beside her, the smile her smile put on his face still there.

They walk through the park until they reach the end and then decide to venture into the city, deciding they might have a better shot there at running into someone who can explain to them what is going on, who they are, and/or why they can’t remember anything.

They speculate the whole way on all of these points. This woman, whoever she is, is smart. Like, really smart. She rattles off the most common and uncommon causes of amnesia like it’s nothing, and when he asks how she knows these, she shrugs and says she has no idea but then starts explaining freaking brain chemistry to him.

“Ok,” He says as they round the corner of yet another city block. “Well whoever we are you’ve got to be a doctor or something, that or you watch an unhealthy amount of… what’s that show called?”

She shrugs, “I have no idea. Amnesia, remember?”

“No,” It’s a cross between a groan and a laugh. “No it’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s some kind of weird… it’s this thing you watch, other people on a screen and all the stuff if fake, and the fake stuff is called a show… crap. I can’t think of it, but it’s this thing all about doctors, and there are like, ten of them. Not ten doctors, ten shows about them, and you must watch a lot of them if you aren’t a doctor.”

She shrugs again, “I think I know what you’re talking about, though I don’t remember watching anything with doctors in it.”

“Then you are a doctor.” He decides firmly, but she’s stopped walking, staring up at a sign on a building. “What is it?” He asks, also looking up at the sign.

C.C. Jitters

“I… I think I know this place.” She says, and yeah, he thinks he does too.

He feels around his pockets until he finds a lump and fishes out a wallet. Idiot, why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? He’s looking for money, which he does find, but more importantly he finds an I.D. with his face and name on it. Cisco Ramon.

“Hey,” he says, showing it to her. “Do you have one of these?”

Her eyes widen briefly at the sight of his, and she starts to pat herself down in search but then quickly realizes that her dress didn’t come with pockets.

“No, I must have left mine somewhere.”

He nods, then leafs through his again to make sure he has enough money for both of them, even if he can’t remember exactly how much is enough.

“Well why don’t we go in here, maybe it’ll jog something? My treat.”

“Ok, thank you.”

He nods and then follows her into the shop. It’s fairly crowded, but he gets the feeling he’s seen it much busier.

“Ok, you get a table, I’ll get the drinks.” He says, then he pauses, his face screwed as he looks at her. “What do you like?”

She gives a very dramatic shrug at that, which is fair.

“I don’t know. Uh… Just get me whatever you get.”

Right, ok, he can do that. Soon as he figures out what he likes.

Two customers in front of him, and then letting a third cut in order to buy himself more time, is not long enough to read the entire menu AND figure out what it is he might want. He eliminates the more expensive stuff right away, along with anything green. There are a few things with bizarre names and he rules out maybe half of those, and then it’s his turn.

“Hello.” The barista greets him, voice cheery and smile big, though it drops a bit when he approaches and he’s going to attribute that to the absolute confusion that is likely on his face.

“Hi,” He says, “Uh….” Oh forget it, he has no idea what to order. “Ok this, this might sound a little weird, but have I been here before?”

The barista actually laughs at him, but he’ll count that as a good sign. She doesn’t laugh long, clearly realizing he isn’t joking and she quickly composes herself.

“Yeah, you and your girlfriend over there are here all the time.”

At that he whips his head around, his eyes searching the café for the woman he’s spent the day with, and when he finds her he turns urgently back to the barista.

“That’s my girlfriend?” He asks in a hushed whisper, as if he’s afraid she’ll overhear from across the dining room and come set him straight.

The barista, meanwhile, suddenly looks panicked.

“I… I mean we all thought so, I’m sorry, we shouldn’t assume. My mistake. It’s just you guys have been coming in here together for years and you’re always so close to each other, we all thought you were a thing.”

His heart is pounding. There’s no way that she is his girlfriend. He may not remember a whole lot about himself right now, or about her for that matter, but he can tell she is WAY out of his league. She’s obviously a genius, throughout their speculating of their lives he’s determined she’s incredibly sweet, and not to mention she’s gorgeous. He could never be with someone like her, no way.

“Do you just want your usual’s?” The barista asks, yanking him from his thoughts, and he nods, frantic.

She soon returns with two lattes, and she’s kind enough to tell him which one is his and which is “his girlfriend’s.” He’s afraid to ask if she knows “his girlfriend’s” name, so he doesn’t; he’s humiliated them both enough for one day.

“Ok,” He says when he reaches the table and slides the drink for the woman (he can’t think “his girlfriend” one more time without exploding into happiness) in front of her.

“The barista apparently knows what we order, so here you are. One iced vanilla latte.”

“She knew us?” She asks; her drink going mostly ignored as he sits down. “Does she know anything about us?”

He winces, maybe he should’ve asked for her name.

“She um-”

“Guys!”

Oh thank God.

He looks past the woman, who turns around. There are three people rushing towards them, two men and a woman; they all look vaguely familiar.

“See? I told you they’d be here!” One of the men, tall with spiked blonde hair, says.

The other two don’t pay much attention to his exclamation, instead they start asking for how much they remember and then start some weird half explanation of a meta, whatever that is.

“Come on.” The woman finally says, “We can explain everything back at S.T.A.R. Labs.”

S.T.A.R. Labs, that sounds familiar.

He looks from her to the woman he’s been with all day, he won’t go if she doesn’t want to. She seems to have the same sentiment in her eyes.

“Here, look.” The other man, the skinny one with a baby face, says as he holds up a small screen for them both to see, swiping his thumb across it to reveal new pictures containing any combination of the five of them with each swipe. “We’re friends. We want to help you.”

He does believe that, especially upon seeing the pictures, but he looks to the woman again and this time she nods and gets up.

“Ok,” she agrees, “Lead the way.”

With bright smiles the three newcomers do just that, and Cisco makes sure to take his time taking one last sip of his drink so it’s just him and the skinny guy a few feet behind the others.

“Hey,” he says quietly to the guy, “Might be a weird question, but is she my girlfriend?”

He points discreetly to the woman, the one he’s been with, not the one who had shown up with the two guys.

The guy laughs, “Caitlin?” He asks, “Nah man, you guys are just good friends.”

His heart sinks.

[magichats-fr]

Haunting

The creature had grown in size, and while dragons were still sick, life moved on.

Life had been irreparably disrupted, but they couldn’t put their entire lives on hold solely because they became host to a creature who was practically a walking wyrmwound in of itself. Sure, the fact that everyone had now acquired a bizarre array of chronic illnesses beyond what they already had before that creature had shown up wasn’t great. At the very least all they could do was wait, and most of the dragons didn’t like to wait idly.

Hallows nervously paced around. Dragons had been better about keeping to their individual corners of the clan’s lairgrounds, to keep effects from spreading. Supposedly that creature was the second worst thing to run afoul of. All anybody spoke of with the very worst thing was that you don’t leave the settlements at night at all if possible, and always to take care that you stay on marked paths. Still, having what was best described as an active living biohazard that is constantly having waves of infections coming off of it was still pretty terrible. On top of that, there was a rumor that now someone or something had died. More accurately that there was now a ghost and it liked to throw things at unsuspecting dragons.

“You’re sure she’ll know what to do to get rid of it?” He asked.

“I’m Positive, assuming it’s a real ghost of some kind and not just an angry amphithere” Thickhead replied.

The two dragons were in mid-forms, and of the two Thickhead was the one who was built like a small fort. Tall, with broad shoulders and muscles. Perhaps too intimidating for any dragon to date, but Hallows had thought that she was still a good friend. It certainly helped that as the local smith, she also had fire privileges that not all in the clan were allowed. He knew, logically, that fire safety was important when you live in plants, but sometimes it sucked how serious the rules were about it. If he could befriend her he would also (hopefully) have fire privileges. That, and it was reassuring that it wasn’t just him who had a nebulous black shape with bright eyes appear in his room and throw a rock at him.

His attempts at making friends hadn’t gone so well. He was pretty sure Thickhead only tolerated him at best, but might have just been too nice to tell him off about being weird.

Once they entered the abode, Hallows was taken aback. This was definitely a place that ran a business out of it, and not necessarily one that was lived in.

“Hey, I got the other one Loretta” Thickhead practically shouted

“Good! We could use the extra claws to figure this out” Hallows heard from behind a desk.

Loretta seemed oddly imposing for such a finely dressed Coatl. There was something about her attitude, or perhaps just her eyes, that seemed to show a dragon that would absolutely try to fight anything. It wasn’t that uncommon, many of the dragons here were considered pretty hardy and perhaps fighters in their own ways.

“So you’ve also encountered the rock thrower?” She’d asked.

“Yes…?” Hallows responed back, unsure of how to respond to such a blunt question.

“Did you do anything to bring it on, like taunt throwy?” She asked back.

Before he could respond, the three dragons heard a thump at the door.

“Excuse me,” Loretta stated as she quickly walked around the desk and around the two dragons standing in the middle of her business.

She stuck her head out the door and shouted “SORRY BUT WE DON’T ALLOW GHOSTS HERE, QUIT THROWING THE ROCKS!” before shutting the door and turning to face the pair.

After a pause, she gestured at a couple of chairs that had been moved to the side. As Thickhead and Hallows sheepishly grabbed them to set them around the desk, Hallows jumped as he heard something trying to yank on the doorknob before making an unearthly noise.

“And here I thought you just bothered the clan’s kids enough for them to throw rocks at you,” Loretta blurted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hallows shot back.

Before Thickhead could respond in earnest, Loretta cut her off.

“You show up, out of nowhere, with literally one of the sketchiest dragons in the clan, and now you’re the shadow representative? I know it was considered a little odd that I decided to make the move here but that’s just a little,”

She shook her claw a bit. The universal signal for kind of sketchy.

“I didn’t think all light dragons were like that,” Hallows said in a clipped voice.

“Now, let’s not get defensive here,” Thickhead tried to start, raising her claws in an attempt to mediate.

“I didn’t think you lived under a rock, yet here we are,” Loretta shot back, without missing a beat. She accented the comment with a well-placed shrug as she sat down.

It infuriated Hallows that she’d managed to keep a chipper yet level tone with him this entire conversation. It especially sucked since he really couldn’t help the fact that his parents had sheltered him, and then he ran off to join pirates. It was the worst decision of his life, and he was making an effort to move past that segment of his life. He had to learn the hard way that he really didn’t know anything about real life outside of his own little circle. He hadn’t realized he and Thickhead had already sat down at this point, just that he’d almost reflexively crossed his arms.

“Anyways, I guess that proves that it is in fact a ghost, and not just hatchlings who should know better” She said, quickly opening up a scroll she had on the table, likely to jot something down.

That was the most alarming thing about her to Hallows. He hadn’t really interacted with that many dragons from outside of the shadow flight prior to getting caught up in that mess and moving out here in an attempt to distance himself. He’d completely avoided light dragons entirely out of a nervous fear that they really were as snobbish and cruel as they’d say that light dragons were. Loretta didn’t give an impression of being above it all, but rather she’d just seen it all and refused to let that stop her.

After a brief pause, Thickhead finally got a word into the conversation.

“So, it’s a ghost. What do we do now?”

“Depends,” Loretta began.

“I feel like banishing it would perhaps be the wisest move here, but on the other hand we don’t really know what this ghost is capable of beyond being a pretty standard poltergeist. If we had a medium it’d perhaps be easy to work out what it wants,”

“Isn’t that something you’re good at?” Thickhead asked.

“Not necessarily. I’ve got a background and in necromancy as well as exorcism, but I’m not much of a jack of trades in these kinds of occult affairs,” Loretta stated.

“… Why was I even invited?” Hallows asked to nobody in particular.

“You’re the one who seems to be getting the most rocks thrown at him. I think the ghost took a liking to you,” Loretta replied.

Hallows shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You also need to get out and talk to people more,” Thickhead added quickly.

Hallows squirmed, internally and externally. This caused Loretta to snort.

“She’s not wrong there” Loretta said while trying to fight back a laugh.

[sending-the-message]

Atonement for Water by survivalprocedure

They say great minds think alike. It’s an anecdotal cliche spouted by two people who are about to say or do something similar. It’s an empty expression, though. Because great minds do not think alike. Not at all. That’s not what makes them so great or unique. Great minds will see the paths others failed to consider. Only ordinary minds think alike.

Great minds work differently. And I’m left wondering whether the mind of Thomas Jenkins was a great one or a heinous one. His mind was not like yours or mine.

My first encounter with Mr. Jenkins was not what you would call “favorable”. He sat in his hospital bed with a blank stare of anguish directed at me. If I had met him on the street I’d assume he was a lost man with a few loose screws in his head and try to maintain a safe distance.

“Cut if off.” It was one of the first things he said to me. His voice shook with reluctance, yet there was still a hint of conviction behind his tone. “It’s the only way she’ll love me again...the only way I can atone. I’ll do it myself if you won’t.”

The bizarre request upset my foundations of reason. It isn’t uncommon for hospital personnel to witness some rather outlandish cases of medical marvel. A rare disease; survivors of horrific injuries; even the humorous cases where obscure items became lodged where the sun doesn’t shine. Just yesterday a patient was admitted after her husband insisted on having intercourse through her stoma. Day in and day, nurses and doctors see it all.

But this...this I had not seen before. None of us had.

“E-excuse me? You want me to amputate your arm?” Using his right index finger, Mr. Jenkins drew an imaginary line across his left bicep. “Right here. See this line? That’s where the cut should be.”

Ordinarily a situation like this would lead to the conclusion of either a mentally imbalanced patient or a neurological disorder. I immediately thought of apotemnophilia as a potential explanation for the rash desire I observed in my patient. It wouldn’t be my first case handling the urge to cut off one’s own limbs. A young couple had previously came in after deciding to simultaneously bite off the first joint in the others’ pinky finger in a sexually motivated stunt.

Mr. Jenkins, however, did not exactly fit the bill. Most reverends wouldn’t. And it wasn’t just his request to be mutilated. Originally he had been brought to the hospital to have his stomach pumped after ingesting an entire bottle of painkillers. He was clinically dead for three minutes during the entire ordeal. Bringing him back was a challenge.

Actions such as these were not expected from a man of God.

I squinted back at him as he sat with that cold, cemented stare. “Is there something wrong with your arm? Are you in pain?” “No pain.” He shifted his head and stared longingly out the window as his eyes welled with tears. “‘...whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’" “Is that from the bible?” Jenkins nodded. “John 4:14.” He inhaled deeply through his nose; his snot-filled nostrils blocking the flow of air and erupting into a moist commotion that filled the room. “I’ll never get to drink that water if I have this arm.” “Would you...like to speak with someone?” “You mean a shrink?” “A psychiatrist, yes.” Jenkins’ face turned stern, his voice raising in volume. “I’m not crazy!”

The sudden outburst clouded my thoughts with uncertainty. How should I proceed with this? A man once filled with such enthusiasm for life was abruptly showing signs of mental deterioration. A man who aided many families in overcoming hardship was now viewed as the town villain. Beating your wife in her sleep will do that to you. It doesn’t matter how many people you’ve helped in life. One night can forever alter the perception society has on someone. The years Mr. Jenkins had helped others were now distant memories of a completely different person than the one who sat in the hospital bed today. He was no longer seen as kind and gentle. He was a wife-beater who had tried to kill himself, and now he was asking to be mutilated.

The number of times we help others in life becomes meaningless when we need help ourselves. And no one wanted to help Revered Jenkins. His value to the world was gone. The community tossed him aside like stale bread, feeding the languished remains to birds as they shoved their beaks into him and ripped him apart.

“I think it might be best for your mental health to speak with someone.” “I don’t need that! I need you to cut my arm off!” “I’m afraid I don’t visibly see any reason for amputation. You need mental care, not physical.” Jenkins slouched back into the bed, defeated, his voice calming. “I met him...in the afterlife...before you pumped my stomach...I met him. He whistled at me.” He stopped speaking and mimicked a whistling noise, first holding a high pitched tone for about two seconds before dropping the pitch an octave and holding for another two seconds.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

“Just like that. I think he was trying to intimidate me.” “Who was this man?” “He calls himself Patrick.” “And who is Patrick?” Mr. Jenkins lightly tapped the right side of his head with his right index finger. “Right here. On this side of my brain. The right side is his. He’s the other man that lives inside of me. Inside my head. That’s who Patrick is.” I masked the internal feelings of pity with a coy smile at the reverend. “I see. Are you familiar with multiple personality disorder?” Jenkins furrowed his brow and spoke sharply, “It’s not multiple personality disorder.” “It would appear that way to me.”

The left arm draped over Jenkins’ lap twitched, jerking around as though he were trying to alleviate a numbness. It flopped like a fish out of water momentarily before promptly raising itself and casting the obscene gesture of a middle finger pointed directly at me.

The Revered immediately expressed regret for the action. “I-I’m sorry, doctor.” His hand lowered and draped itself over its owner's lap once again. “That was Patrick. Not me.” “It’s quite alright. I’ve had patients do far worse.” I buried my face in the patient chart and documented his actions. “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation. I’ll send someone to speak with you shortly so we could get a more precise diagnosis.” “You believe me, don’t you doc? You have to cut my arm off before Patrick emerges again!” “Don’t worry about Patrick, Mr. Jenkins. You’re in great care. Just let us do our job.”

I spun and ignored his cries as I walked out. After I closed the door to his room I could still hear his muffled cries from the hallway. “Patrick is real! Patrick is real!” he shouted over and over. The words faded as I walked away, heading straight for Dr. Quinn’s office, the hospital psychologist.

Later in the day, despite my attempts to shake Mr. Jenkins from my mind, his condition piqued my interest and remained in my thoughts for the remainder of my shift. What could possibly drive a normal, God-loving man to such extremes?

”It’s not your problem,” I’d tell myself. ”There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Perhaps it was my previous studies in neurology, or perhaps it was the slight scar I noticed under his hairline, but Thomas Jenkins found a cozy little spot to set up camp within me. Patrick was surely just a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. It was Mr. Jenkins’ mind that engaged the braquial plexus nerve and primary motor functions to give me that middle finger.

The image of that finger stuck with me even after I had left the facility and went home for the evening. Something just didn’t quite fit. Why had his left arm twitched the way it had before giving me that finger like it was struggling? Like it had a mind of its own?

Mr. Jenkins had tapped the ride side of his head with his right hand when he proclaimed that specific side as the area where Patrick resided. It was the left hand that had twitched and shot the middle finger at me. The right hemisphere of our brains control the left side of our bodies. Not many people were aware of that fact. Was it a pure coincidence that Mr. Jenkins tapped that side and then gave me the finger with his left hand, or had he done some sort of research beforehand? Could he really be that desperate to convince someone to amputate his arm to thoroughly study neuroscience?

I went to sleep that night still thinking of the reverend, promising myself to look more into his case the next day.

But when I arrived for my evening shift that day I was met with a rather grim situation. I remember first seeing the carpet in the lobby being completely stained with blood upon my entrance through the sliding glass doors.

The event was later played back to me on security camera footage. Mr. Jenkins had been discharged in the morning, went home for some time and came back to the hospital with an electric knife, the kind you would use to cut the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. He walked into the lobby of the emergency room with his shirt off, pulled the knife from his pocket, plugged it into a nearby outlet, flicked the switch and immediately dug the blade into his left bicep, sawing away at his own flesh in front of horrified families all waiting to be seen

I was told his screams were so intense that his vocal cords went into paralysis. But it didn’t stop him from cutting away as much as possible before the saw began to struggle cutting through the bone. He twisted the blade around, desperately trying to completely sever the limb. When it became clear to him that the blade was not strong enough to finish the job he began cutting through tissue vertically down the length of his arm, ripping through the flesh from his bicep all the way to the tips of his fingers in jagged zig-zags.

Eventually a security guard was alerted and took action, tackling Mr. Jenkins to the floor to prevent further damage. But by then it was too late. There was simply no saving the mangled remains of his left arm. It had been turned into a useless lump of meat. He was rushed into the operating room where surgeons completed the amputation.

While the whole ordeal was odd and frightening to watch, what really caught my attention was Mr. Jenkins’ face and his actions moments before he was tackled. During the process his face was filled with agony, but at one point something changed. The agony washed away and it was replaced with a burning hatred. He stopped cutting his arm and glared at everyone in the room as though he were about to turn the knife on an innocent bystander.

But, he was taken down before anything else could happen. Ultimately, I suppose you could say Mr. Jenkins got his wish. His left arm was now gone.

“Why do you think he did this here?” Dr. Quinn asked me, her voice shaky with uncertainty as the two of us looked through a window into the room where Mr. Jenkins was sedated and resting peacefully while a nurse checked his vitals. “Why didn’t he do this at home?” “Probably knew he was going to need immediate medical attention,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on Mr. Jenkins. My focus landed on the subtle scar in his hairline once again. “Did he ever have brain surgery?” “I believe so. Had some sort of procedure done to treat epilepsy around ten years ago, if I recall.” My eyes narrowed, squinting at Mr. Jenkins. “So he’s a split-brain?” She shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, Kenny.” “A split-brain. You know...to treat epilepsy the corpus callosum is severed, leaving both the left and right hemispheres in the brain independent from each other.” “Oh, well, why does that matter? That doesn’t have anything to do with his mental state.” “Well, actually...it does. Sort of. Studies have shown that split-brain patients experience a second personality, so to speak. The right hemisphere controls the left side of the body and will act independently from the left hemisphere, which controls the right side of body. At times the two sides will disagree with each other. There were cases where the left hand would swat away food it apparently did not want to eat. In one case doctors had trained the right hemisphere to answer questions by pointing at words laid out on a piece of paper. The left hemisphere, our conscious, vocal selves, answered on a different piece of paper with the right arm. The man was asked simple questions and provided mostly the same answers with each hand, until they asked whether the subject was male or female. The right hand pointed to male, while the left pointed to female.” Dr. Quinn shot me a menacing glare. “So you’re saying his procedure ten years ago birthed a whole new person?” I gave a frown. “I don’t really know. No one does for sure. There’s conflicting conclusions drawn from the experiments conducted on split-brain patients. Some say the idea is nonsense and that the two hemispheres are a collective, single person. Others tend to think that there’s always another person or soul or whatever you want to call it attached to the right hemisphere...that the mind houses two separate people at all times...and that the corpus callosotomy procedure somehow unleashes the right hemisphere as though it were a caged beast dwelling within our whole lives.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You observed him yesterday. What do you think?”

I recalled the events from yesterday - the twitch in his left arm, the middle finger he gave me, the tap he placed on the right side of his head. The truth was hard to deny.

I finally took my eyes off Mr. Jenkins and turned to meet the gaze of Dr. Quinn. “Patrick is real,” I declared.

Our discussion was interrupted by a scream inside the room. Dr. Quinn and I quickly turned our attention inside to see the nurse bent over the bed at the waist. Mr. Jenkins had buried his head into her neck. The nurse struggled and screamed again, frantically flailing her arms around in a frenzied panic. In one swift jerk, Mr. Jenkins pulled his head away. Hanging from his mouth was a thin slab of skin that dangled in between his teeth. Its red texture glistened in the flourescent lighting above as he leaned over and spit the skin out, projecting it forward onto the floor beside the bed.

The nurse rolled over onto her back and instantly a stream of blood shot upwards as though it was propelled by a super soaker. Repeated surges of blood squirted into the air with each beat of her heart, quickly painting the blankets in bright red gore.

There was only one reason for blood to shoot like that. Mr. Jenkins had bit into the nurse’s carotid artery. If we didn’t immediately help her she would soon bleed out.

I rushed into the door, eager to aide my fellow medical co-worker. Her screams persisted as I reached her side, pressing my hand against her neck.

“I need to stop the bleeding…” I advised, hoping it would calm her and keep her from squirming like a worm cut in half. “Hold still...please...oh Jesus…”

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

Whistling. The second pitch an octave below the first. Just as Mr. Jenkins had described.

I looked up and found Mr. Jenkins standing over us on the opposite side of the bed in his hospital gown that was now drenched in blood. He looked down at us both with a raging fury in his eyes, making it abundantly clear he intended on causing further harm.

I quickly grabbed the nurse by her arm and began dragging her towards the door. We needed to get to safety, and I had no intention of leaving this poor nurse alone to be devoured. As I pulled the nurse away, I heard the whistling again.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

The location of the noise had moved slightly. I looked up and saw Mr. Jenkins was walking towards us slowly, stepping with left foot first, then dragging a stiff right leg behind him. The remaining stump of his left arm raised itself as though he were reaching out to us. His right arm retaliated, balling its fingers into a fist and thrusting itself into Mr. Jenkins’ face. His breathing labored and he began taking short, quick gulps of air.

The right hemisphere of ours brain is not capable of controlling speech. Although a few hospital personnel would later argue that he whistled because of his vocal cord paralysis from earlier in the day, I knew the real reason. It was the only way the right hemisphere could communicate. Patrick was announcing himself to us.

Mr. Jenkins was clearly no longer in charge. The will of Patrick had somehow taken over. I was seeing an internal struggle where the right side of his brain overpowering his left. It was Patrick, frustrated by the removal of his arm that was now acting out. And all Mr. Jenkins could do to fight this monster was to keep his leg stiff and beat his own face in, hoping it would slow Patrick down.

Dr. Quinn rushed into the room with another doctor she had hailed down. Together the three of us pulled the nurse out and placed her on a gurney. I pulled the door shut behind as we exited and after watching the other doctor wheel the nurse away I looked back at the room and saw Patrick standing right up against the window looking back at me and Dr. Quinn. The anger that had shaped his face was now replaced with frustration. Without a working hand, there was no way for Patrick to turn the knob and exit the room.

“P-Patrick? Is that you?” I asked, hoping to confirm my suspicion.

He didn’t whistle this time. Instead he widened his eyes like a madman and curved the left side of his mouth into a small smile.

Maintaining the mad look on his face, he pulled his head backwards and then violently thrust it forwards into the window. The blow cast a spiderweb of jagged cracks in the window and sent the piercing sound of broken glass echoing through the hallway. He repeated the act again. And again. And again. Rapidly he bashed his own head against the window over and over, each blow spreading more cracks through the glass. Blood began to flow out of numerous laceration in his forehead, covering his entire face.

With one powerful blow the glass finally shattered. Patrick’s momentum sent him tumbling through the new opening and crashing against the tile floor. He lay there, unable to pick himself up with just one working leg. Instead he rolled onto his stomach and began pushing himself forward with his left leg, slowing inching his way towards me, breathing heavily with his mouth open wide, all too eager to sink his teeth into another person.

I stood frozen, unsure if I was believing what I was seeing until a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me backwards.

“What’s happening to him?” Dr. Quinn urgently asked me.

A team of police officers rushed into the hallway from around the corner. They pulled their weapons and aimed them directly at Patrick, but before they could say or do anything Patrick abruptly stopped. His body went limp and his heavy breathing ceased. An uncomfortable silence took over the scene, all of us standing over the body in awe.

“Mr. Jenkins is gone,” I said, answering Dr. Quinn.

We have a long history of associating evil with left handed people. In biblical times it was considered a sign of moral compromise. Matthew 6:3-4 reads, But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.…

For Mr. Jenkins, his left hand cost him his life.

The official cause of death was a ruptured brain aneurism, the result of severe head-force trauma. The area of the aneurism was on the right hemisphere which leads me to speculate as to whether Mr. Jenkins had somehow caused the aneurism from within.

Since that day a lot of questions have been asked by many people, some of which believe that Patrick was real, and some that refuse the notion. The most intriguing so far has been where split-brains end up in the afterlife if one hemisphere is considered worthy, and the other is deemed evil. Would they both go to heaven? To hell?

I can’t answer that for certain. I can only hope that Mr. Jenkins got his wish. I hope he achieved atonement for his water.

And most of all, I hope the strangers dwelling inside us all won’t prevent us from doing the same.

[journalxxx]

January 17th, 2013

Albeit coded with my most complex cipher, the delicate and personal nature of the events that have occupied my mind for the past hours makes me hesitant to record them in writing. However, my thoughts have been spinning in circles for so long that I think that even the simple process of establishing a chronological and causal narrative order among them could be of some use to me.

First off, something I had genuinely forgotten until this evening. During my travels, I once found myself temporarily detained in the small jail of a local custom house, for reasons which have no bearing on the topic at hand. The cell opposite mine was occupied by two fascinating jellyfish-like creatures, whose appearance strongly resembled that of our Pelagia Noctiluca species here on Earth, except nearly as tall as an average human being and perfectly adapted to terrestrial survival and ambulation. Since my translator had been confiscated by the authorities and we were such fundamentally different organisms, all my attempts at talking with them were unsuccessful, and the three of us spent the long hours of imprisonment without interacting in any meaningful way. That is, until they started interacting with each other.

To this day, I have no idea what they were actually doing. They may have been fighting, or playing, or even simply communicating. What I do know is that their actions were extremely intriguing to watch. Each movement seemed incredibly slow and cautious, almost lazy at times. They kind of drifted towards each other at first, lightly and gradually, as if they were somehow fluctuating in an immaterial sea current. Their thin and lucid tentacles brushed, then slid along each other, and finally tangled and coiled like the strands of a rope, or the superhelix of a protein. Their appendages seemed to meld as they grew closer and, at one point, when their limbs were so deeply tied that they appeared impossible to unravel, their bells flipped sideways and their rims adhered perfectly, creating a roughly spherical shape above their bodies. They stayed like that for quite a while, at least half an hour, squirming and ondulating slightly against each other.

I remember wishing that the room had been more brightly lit, to allow me to observe the phenomenon more clearly, maybe even catch a glimpse of their inner anatomical structures through their translucent tissues. I remember squinting in the darkness to make sense of the dim reflection of the outer light on their skin, trying to gauge whether their position had changed or the situation had evolved. I remember the strange, subtle scent that slowly pervaded the area, something akin to ammonia. I remember most vividly the noises they made, the soft and wet rustling of their fringed tentacles sliding and knotting, the sharp smacking sound of their bells suddenly misaligning, and then quickly sticking back together like powerful suction cups. I remember, not without shame, my interest gradually turning into something other than purely academical, something of much less intellectual nature. I did not question it at the time, nor would I know how to interpret it even now. I can only imagine that something in their attitude, regardless of what their actual intent may have been, must have resonated with my own human schemes of behavioral interpretation. What may have been the most normal and ordinary social interaction in those aliens' society did look to me as... uniquely intimate and suggestive. I wish I could say I only went as far as acknowledging that bizarre interest, and then promptly and discreetly shrugged it off. I did not. I wish I could blame the hours of boredom, or the years of loneliness, but the recent developments warn me to be wary of such simplistic excuses. As much as it pains me to admit it, I did allow that peculiar sight to rouse me beyond reason and dignity, to the point that I couldn't do anything but relieve that troubling pressure as I could, then and there. The creatures didn't seem to notice in any way, nor did the curious incident have any kind of material or moral consequence. It may have indeed remained buried in my memory for another decade or forever, if something deeply different yet somehow similar hadn't sparked its recollection. I have already written about Stan's penchant for indulging in brief and casual dalliances in most of the towns where we happen to dock. It isn't uncommon for him to spend an entire night out once in a while, nor to display unexpected familiarity with the most diverse individuals, in spite of every and any linguistic or cultural barrier. He is as discreet about it as any man with my brother's particular character and brazen sense of humor might be, though I'm glad to say that this habit of his has never caused us troubles or misunderstandings. However, I now find myself incapable of thinking about this matter like I did before, like an innocuous and abstract piece of information about his usual past-times. And once again I can't help but draw the conclusion that I don't know my brother nearly as well as I thought. I didn't notice anything remarkable about the plain diner we went to yesterday evening and, on Stan's suggestion, today as well. Everything from the food, to the furnishing, to the friendly waitress taking our orders looked absolutely nondescript and ordinary. I did notice the abundance of warm smiles and lingering glances the two were trading but, well. I surprised Stan practising cheesy pick-up lines both on his pet axolotl and on a miner copper statue, so I've always thought that flirting comes as natural to him as breathing. I definitely didn't notice anything strange when he excused himself to "take a leak", as he eloquently put it. Therefore, when I went to the bathroom as well a couple of minutes later, I didn't expect in the slightest to catch a glimpse, behind an ajar "Staff Only" door, of him and waitress clutching at each other, his mouth latched on her neck and his hand under her skirt. Paradoxically, the most remarkable aspect of the whole thing was how strangely unremarkable it was, in some ways. They remained mostly quiet for the entire time, save few hushed encouragements and instructions. As strange as it may sound, it looked like they barely moved, once they started properly. They barely even looked at each other, or rather they did, but only at their bodies, cheeky winks and bright smiles unexplicably gone. For some bizarre reason, the incident in the custom house popped in my mind, and, just as inexcusably as that time, I simply observed, instead of discreetly going my way. I left only after they were done, and I finally headed to the bathroom to gather my thoughts for a minute. I must confess that, if I had witnessed such a scene just few months ago, I fear it would have left me completely unimpressed. I probably would have spared it very little thought, and many denigratory judgements. However, I believe - I want to believe - that I have learned something about Stanley since my return, and that's that he is, despite the appearances, a very whole-hearted man. It boggles my mind that he may be so careless and superficial with something that, in the life of every human being, I believe should be treated with at least some modicum of consideration. I may be reaching, but I feel that, just like with the jellyfish aliens, I may be missing some crucial contextual element, something critical to let me understand exactly what the hell have I stumbled into. Otherwise, it just... doesn't make sense to me. For the sake of honesty, I can't omit the fact that, despite all these puzzling and troubling thoughts, the sight didn't leave me unaffected. I did not indulge my 'interest' - for lack of more delicate definition - like the last time, as I also want to believe that I have some modicum of consideration as well, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't consider the idea, however briefly. Whatever the source of this questionable fascination may be, it wasn't remotely slighted by the fact that one of its objects was my own kin. I don't really know what to make of this either. When I got back to the table, Stan was casually picking the last fries from my plate, calm and cheerful as ever. Not a single word or gesture was out of place when we paid, and the amicable looks and smiles were back in their place. Sometimes I forget how much of a good liar my brother is. If his good mood was even a facade. Maybe not. I honestly have no idea. We set sail to our next destination a few hours ago. I never quite noticed how utterly unaffected Stan seems to be by the idea of leaving his occasional acquaintances for good, people whom he must have bonded with to some degree, I suppose. It strikes me as beyond odd, now, though I may be just overthinking it. We're scheduled for almost a full month of navigation before hitting the next port, so I guess I'll have plenty of time to try to make sense of my doubts.

[yanderedev]

Clearing Up Misunderstandings, Part 7

Occasionally, I see “callout pots” that make a lot of strange claims about me. These callout posts are always composed of out-of-context screenshots, or misinterpretations of my words. I want to write a blog post to clear up some of the worst misunderstandings that were commonly posted in 2016. “YandereDev said that pedophilia is just another sexual orientation!” That’s not what I said. I said that nobody chooses to be a pedophile, just like nobody gets to choose their sexual orientation. I used the words “orientation” and “pedophilia” in separate sentences of the same paragraph, but I did not say that pedophilia IS a sexual orientation. “YandereDev treatened to dox someone into silence!” That’s not how it went down. I said something I didn’t mean while I was fired up up in the middle of an angry rant about someone who had been harassing me for several months. Obviously, it shouldn’t have been taken seriously. It was an “in the heat of the moment” statement, not a genuine threat. “One of the rivals in Yandere Simulator is a pedophile!” Pedophiles are attracted to pre-pubescent children (younger than 14), and Mida Rana is attracted to boys that are older than 14, so this statement isn’t accurate, but that’s beside the point. Sometimes, video games have antagonists who do bad things, and allow you to punish the antagonists for their evil ways. Some villains kill, some villains kidnap, some villains are sexual predators. If you don’t like Mida Rana, just punish her however you see fit, like any other villain in any other video game. “YandereDev said that pedophilia is ‘forbidden love’!” That’s not what I said. I was referring to love between a student and a teacher as forbidden love. Student/teacher relationships are forbidden, irrespective of the age gap between the student and teacher. “YandereDev reads lolicon manga!” There was a thread on 4chan where people were editing this image by putting different things in the bag. It was a meme. I could tell that the image had been taken from a sexual manga, but I didn’t care. To me, it was like any other “reaction image” featuring a character making a silly face. The meme was about putting something funny in the bag, not the character’s age or situation. I edited the image and used it in a blog post. Just because I posted a “reaction face” that came from a manga, this doesn’t mean that I read the manga, or enjoy the content. Reaction faces are reaction faces. Memes are memes. “YandereDev liked a pornographic image of one of his underage characters!” I give “likes” to almost all of the fan art I see on Tumblr, because I am happy and flattered to see people producing artwork based on my creations. This doesn’t mean that I’m aroused by everything that I give a “like” to, or expressing approval of the subject matter of every post that I give a “like” to. “YandereDev accepted nudes from a minor!” That’s not how it happened. The story is pretty long, and probably deserves its own separate blog post, but I’ll give you the short version. In 2009, I had a chatroom. One of the members of the chatroom was a very strange young woman who did a lot of weird things for attention. One day, she sent a private message to every male in the chat. The message was just a link and a “<3″ emoticon; she didn’t even say what was in the link. The link lead to a bunch of nude pictures. This was 8 years ago, so it is hard to remember specifics, but I do recall thinking that she definitely did not look any younger from 18. Eventually, she stopped coming online. Some people theorized that maybe she stopped coming online because she was actually underage, and her parents had taken away her computer after learning what kind of things she was doing online. In 2010, somebody asked me about that situation. My response was very brief and oversimplified. Some people found this chat log from 2010, read my brief and oversimplified explanation, and chose to interpret it as evidence that I “accepted” nudes from a “minor”. This is probably one of the most ridiculous of all the weird rumors that people like to spread about me. There is no way to know for sure who that girl was, or how old she really was. In reality, it was probably just a guy trolling by pretending to be a flirtatious girl. Maybe one day, I’ll write a longer blog post about that weird incident. “YandereDev made fun of suicidal people!” In 2015, someone asked me if it would be possible to drive girls to suicide in Yandere Simulator. I answered, “Yes.” Then, they asked me if girls would commit suicide for silly reasons, or serious reasons. I explained that I did not want people to commit suicide for petty reasons in Yandere Simulator. As an example, I posted a screenshot of a news report about a teenage boy in Russia who committed suicide because his favorite anime character had died. This was not me “making fun of suicidal people”, but providing an example of something that should not cause enough emotional distress to cause a suicide. “YandereDev wrote rape stories!” Game of Thrones has rape scenes. Is Game of Thrones a “rape show”? No, it is a TV show that has very dark subject matter, and characters who are put through traumatic and perilous situations. I have written stories with dark subject matter. Some of my stories involved sexual assault. The sexual assaults were never meant to be “sexy”. A more elaborate answer can be found here. “YandereDev refuses to add dark-skinned characters to the game!” That’s not true. I want the ethnicity ratio in Yandere-chan’s school to match Japan’s ethnicity ratio in the real world. In the real world, 98.5% of the population of Japan are ethnic Japanese. This means that if you went to Japan and encountered 200 people, only 3 would not be ethnic Japanese. If you go to a high school in Japan, you are simply not going to encounter dozens of dark-skinned students. With all of that said, I do plan to include a dark-skinned character in Yandere Simulator’s school in the future. “YandereDev used a transphobic slur!” I have used the term “trap”. However, this term has nothing to do with transgender people. The term “trap” refers to a male who dresses as a female and attempts to trick people into thinking he is a female, as a prank. This word describes someone who is attempting to trick others, not someone who genuinely identifies as another gender. I have used the term “tranny”. This is because I was directly quoting someone else’s statement word-for-word. This is not because I was using the word to demean anyone. I have expressed a dislike for “dickgirls”. Dickgirls - or “futanari” - are a type of Japanese fetish porn. Dickgirls are female anime characters who acquire a dick through a magic potion or some other fantastical reason; the term is not used to describe males who identify as female. “YandereDev steals 3D models and textures!” I sometimes put temporary placeholder assets into the game, with the intention of replacing them with original assets as soon as possible. This is not an uncommon practice for early prototypes of video games. Yandere Simulator is no longer in an “early prototype” stage, but some temporary placeholder assets are still lingering in Yandere Simulator from its earlier days. I am still in the process of removing these assets from the game. “Theft” and “stealing” are very disingenuous ways of describing the situation. It should go without saying that I have no intention to ship the final game with models or images that I don’t have permission to use. “YandereDev doesn’t pay his volunteers!” Please look up the definition of the word “volunteer”. “YandereDev used the word ‘autistic’ as an insult!” A strange person had been harassing me for several months. Eventually, I learned that they were actually an autistic child. This helped me to understand the behavior that I had been observing from them. I proceeded to tell them that I had identified their autism, but also firmly stated that their autism wasn’t any excuse for the behavior that they had been demonstrating for the past several months. This was interpreted as some kind of attack on their autism. It wasn’t. “YandereDev wants to abolish the age of consent!” I never said that. One time, someone told me that they theorized that Yandere Simulator was banned because of having underage characters in certain situations. I said that it would be dumb to ban the game because of an arbitrary number that changes in every country. After I made this statement, this person assumed that I was a pedophile who advocated the idea of having sex with young children, and began asking me very loaded questions in an attempt to demonize me. They challenged me to propose an alternative to age of consent laws. I attempted to come up with a solution, but ultimately, I couldn’t think of any idea better than having age of consent laws. I never advocated for the abolition of the age of consent; I was simply responding to their question. In Conclusion

I have noticed a trend among all of the “Callout Posts” that make bizarre claims about me. The “evidence” in these posts is always:

A heavy exaggeration of the truth

A misinterpretation of my words

An out-of-context screenshot

The contents of these “Callout Posts” is always something that I can clear up with just a paragraph at the most, or a single sentence at the least. The authors of these “Callout Posts” never bother to contact me. They never ask me for clarification. They never ask me to explain myself. They never check with me to verify if something is true. They only do one thing; they interpret my words in the most negative manner possible, frame whatever I’ve done as if it’s a horrible atrocity, and then spread their propaganda as if it’s gospel truth. They've all completely brainwashed themselves into thinking that I’m some kind of evil demon-monster, and they refuse to consider the possibility that they may be mistaken about me. The authors of these “Callout Posts” have constructed a fake YandereDev in their minds. In their imaginations, I am a homophobic, transphobic, racist, sexist, misogynist pedophile. Basically, every bad thing in the world, wrapped up in one package. It’s actually pretty absurd. The “YandereDev” that they have invented is worse than a villain from a Disney film. This is really one of the most bizarre things that has ever happened to me. The authors of these “Callout Posts” truly believe that they are “the good guys”, fighting against “the bad guy”, and that shaming me and slandering me is the right thing to do. The most dangerous type of person is someone who is convinced they are 100% justified in what they are doing, and that there is absolutely no possibility whatsoever that they might be making a mistake. The sad thing is, this post won’t make a bit of difference. The authors of these “Callout Posts” will read this entire post, dismiss the entire thing, and continue to firmly believe that “YandereDev” is some kind of Hitler-Satan-Trump creature. They will probably never, ever stop. They will probably continue doing this forever. For as long as I make video games, I will have to put up with weirdos who dedicate absurd amounts of their time to stalking me, attempting to dig up dirt from my past, and spreading weird propaganda about me. It’s quite a disappointing thing to realize. So, why do they do this? It’s very easy to explain. The reason is simple; they do this because it’s fun. It’s fun to hate. It’s fun to shame. It’s fun to ridicule. It’s fun to make other people look bad. It’s fun to talk trash about others. It’s fun to “expose” other people. It’s fun to ruin someone’s life. It’s fun to ruin someone’s career. All of these things are super fun...if you’re a sadistic scumbag who takes pleasure in harming others. To keep having fun, all they have to do is keep brainwashing themselves to believe that I’m a horrible monster, and dismiss everything I say when I attempt to explain myself. As long as they follow those two simple little rules, they can have unlimited fun. And, as long as they can keep having fun, why would they ever stop? I wonder if you’d like to try a thought experiment for a moment. Please imagine the following scenario: imagine that you’ve spent the past 32 months of your life working on a project that is supposed to make people smile, make people happy, and let people have a good time. Then, someone digs through your entire Internet history, finds every single thing you’ve ever said that can make you look bad if it’s out-of-context, and convinces people to hate you, based on a series of misunderstandings that you could easily clear up, if they simply spoke to you and asked you to explain what you were saying. Sounds like quite a nightmarish scenario, doesn’t it? I wonder how you’d feel if you found yourself in that situation. I wonder how you’d handle it. I wonder what you’d do about it. In closing, here’s what I’d like to say: If you’ve ever come across a screenshot of something I’ve said, and you think that this screenshot makes me look really bad, you are fully welcome to personally contact me - through tumblr private messages or through e-mail - and ask me to explain or clarify whatever is bothering you. I know I’ve said “I’m busy, don’t e-mail me!” many times in the past, but I’ll make an exception in this case; you’re totally welcome to contact me any time if you’d like me to clear up some bizarre rumor that you’ve heard. Thanks for taking the time to read this post.

[bwprowl]

It’s a bit of a slow news week as we inch towards the twin titanic reveal-fests of Winter WonFes and Toy Fair, but we’ve still got a few things to check out, with superstar Sentai and Russian-style Rangers from either side of the pond, plus some surprising new Marvel drops. I’ll also mull over available Transformers bootlegs, plus a recent release from a line I haven’t looked at enough. All that and an adorable, Nendorable Korra-ble, here on Tuesday Night Toys!

New Stuff: Cosmonauts

A new blockbuster movie means an explosion of new, previously-unheard-of merchandise for the source material. I saw it with Transformers back when the first film came out in 2007, and it’s set to happen again with Power Rangers and that movie next month that I’m still patently unsure about. In amongst all the new Funko Pops and plush toys and other collectible gewgaws, we’ll be getting this bizarre little piece: A set of Russian-style nesting dolls designed after the five original Rangers, plus Alpha 5! PPW Toys is putting these out, and as far as esoteric shelf-space hoggers go, you could do a lot worse. I hope for more fun stuff like this to come out of the renewed Power Rangers licensing blitz this movie will be leading, for better or for worse.

On the other side of the Power Coin, if you thought you could escape my pre-premier Kyuranger hype even here, then you thought way wrong. Pre-orders for the toys of the newly-numerous Super Sentai series have been steadily going up, headlined by the main mecha: The shamelessly Scramble-City-style KyurenOh! 

Boasting the unique-to-Sentai ability for each individual unit (here called ‘Voyagers’) to form either an arm or a leg around the red Ranger’s main Shishi Voyager, this ‘bot will start with an unprecedented number of configurations, especially including the four extra Voyagers that are sold separately from the main set. And how cool do Hebitsukai Voyager and Tenbin Voyager look?

Surprising no one, I think I’m going all-in on the mecha on this one, but as with Zyuohger, I’ll be sticking with the smaller, cheaper, but more posable mini-pla versions. Assisting in this is that AmiAmi is now offering those in single sets, for half the price of the full boxes you had to buy before. I’m glad I already got my pre-order in, since they’re all sold out already, natch.

Some new Marvel Legends figures were surprisingly revealed a little while ago. These would be the 3 ¾” Legends that were rebranded from the Marvel Universe line, and they’ll be filling out the Marvel Cinematic corners of your smaller display space. Looks like there will be at least three two packs all based on the most recent movies in the line: Dr. Strange with an astral projection of himself, Star-Lord and Yondu, and the current iteration of Spider-Man with the Vulture he’ll be fighting in that Homecoming movie. The Guardians of the Galaxy set is the most appealing to me, of course (look at Yondu’s goofy grin, he looks great!), but I really want that Spider-Man movie to be good, so if it is, I’ll likely get that one as well.

Wishlist: Lockoffs

Transformers has always been a line that attracted countless counterfeit versions of its wares, from dime-store knockoffs to convincingly-recreated G1 bootlegs. More recently though, a different variety has emerged, as Chinese eBay accounts and other somewhat-shady places offer tweaked fake versions of relatively-recent molds. You see these all over the place searching for TFs on eBay; they mostly encompass the recent movie toys, either being versions in new color schemes, or upscaled with die-cast added for value. There’s of course that delightful AoE Hound with the bio that was written based on Thew, but I recently had to throw this big ol’ black Lockdown on my watchlist, because the prospect of a bigger, badder version of design I liked (from a film I otherwise didn’t) is rather appealing, and these things don’t even cost that much! Maybe I’d feel a little bad going in on a fake, but not that much, as I spend plenty on Hasbro’s Transformers already. If nothing else, these are interesting purely from a standpoint of showing all the various pillars that make money off Transformers’ selling power, whether they legitimately should or not.

Speaking of things that popped back onto my radar, the ol’ Pose Skeleton line it appears is still going strong, with plenty of playsets and even a bunch of animal and dinosaur companions for your bony buddies! These little things have always been a hoot, especially with the accessorized options you can lend them, all for pretty dang cheap. The latest expansion just-released for your flesh-challenged family is the ‘Cute Person’, a shorter, pink-tinted skelley with a cute lil’ bow headband. It’s a good excuse to add another to your skeleton hoard, even if you had a few already.

And of course, unless you were living under a rock for the past couple weeks, you know the first Yuri on Ice Nendoroid went up for pre-order.

Yes, I still need to watch this show

On Desk: Uncommon Korra

Korra from the titular The Legend Of series was a pretty unexpected release for the Nendoroid line, for being a western cartoon as well as the show having been over for almost a year and a half when the toy was first revealed (GSC tends to like to do very recent, current series for their toys). Response must have been good though, since they opened the orders from western-only to worldwide through their usual Japanese avenues (which amusingly meant I was able to order this west-focused toy of an American character for cheaper through a Japanese shop), and even added a few extra accessories to it at the last minute!

The instructions even include English. They know what they're about.

Korra does feel like GSC testing the waters with this kind of release though. Even with the extra accessories, she still feels a bit bare-bones. She has a few different arms and legs, but they're all in service of just a few different generic action poses; the 'extra mile' Nendos sometimes go towards recreating specific points of the series isn't found here. She also only has two faces, and since one is the Avatar state, she really only has the one facial expression, which is almost unheard of for this line (especially given that Korra did have quite a few memorable faces throughout the show).

Granted, the base figure itself is very nice. All the details are present and nicely-accurately conveyed at the scaled-down chibi proportions. The hand-poses she comes with in particular are nicely effective for what they are, and her little hair-dainglies can even swivel around a bit! And she can use what she has to assume a variety of cool bending-based action poses (accompanied by the extremely nice elemental accessories). The fire and water streams especially look great, and just on their own make for an unmistakable awesome desktop Korra.

The one really cool thing the toy can do is assume that aforementioned Avatar state. Swapping in the faceplate and arranging all four element effect parts around does the trick, and it's actually surprisingly easy to get it all set up (nowhere near the madness I engaged in with Chris), and looks admittedly pretty impressive when it's all done. As a display piece, this might be the best way to default to having your Korra. It's eye-catching and adorable, as a Nendoroid should be.

Overall, Korra's impressive mostly that she got made, that GSC branched out like this. She's pretty light as far as Nendoroids go, not a bad toy by any means but not outstanding either. If you're a fan of the show like I am, she's pretty much a must-own, but there's simply not enough to her to recommend as a general purchase. I am really glad I got her though, and am excited to see if GSC follows up with anything else.

You enjoy the rest of your night, everyone! Have fun, I'll be here when you get back!

[gizedcom]

Mysteries of the senses: The boy who broke almost every bone in his body – but didn’t feel any pain

Most young siblings spend their summer holidays building dens together, or imaginary castles out of cardboard boxes. But playtime for Paul Walters and his sister Vicky, from Essex, was somewhat more dangerous – usually landing them in hospital.

Those of a faint disposition may want to stop reading now.

They’d often be found attempting to pull out their own teeth, burning their hands on an open fire or, a particular favourite, sitting directly in front of a swing before it pelted them in the face.

The reason for this shocking behaviour: neither Paul nor Vicky can feel physical pain.

They were born with the disorder congenital analgesia, in which, for a variety of reasons, the messages that normally carry the ‘warnings’ of pain from one place in the brain are somehow interrupted.

Playtime for Paul Walters and his sister Vicky as children, pictured, was dangerous – usually landing them in hospital

Why the condition occurs isn’t fully understood. Sufferers’ other sensory perceptions are completely normal – they perspire when hot and are sensitive to touch. But when it comes to pain, be it a burn or injury, they feel nothing.

It is so rare, just a few hundred people across the world are believed to suffer from it.

And although it may sound like some kind of superpower, it’s far from it. Those with the condition commonly suffer horrendous, disabling injuries.

One reason it’s so rare is that few people with congenital analgesia reach adulthood as, unconstrained by pain, they do ever more dangerous things.

Now 35, Paul, a retail supervisor, says: ‘I’ve broken just about every major bone in my body.’

Their father, Bob, adds: ‘As children, they would place their hands in front of the fire just to listen to their skin sizzling – almost like a steak in a frying pan. Their hands would blister but it only made them laugh. They both broke their nose, had black eyes and needed stitches in their heads. Yet all the time they thought it was funny.’

Paul says that the constant litany of bone-shattering injuries he endured throughout childhood has stunted his growth. Today, he stands under 5ft tall.

‘Psychologically, the biggest effect of the condition has been on my height – I hate being short,’ he says. ‘It happened because I used to do stupid things like jumping down the staircase, or off a roof. There was no downside because I never felt the pain of breaking a bone. All I noticed was that I was getting loads of attention.’

At the end of this month, Paul’s exceptional story will be heard for the first time, along with several other medical mysteries, in a fascinating new BBC radio series.

Presented by leading neurologist Dr Guy Leschziner, it reveals the weird and wonderful things that happen when our senses go haywire. Dr Leschziner travels the breadth of the country meeting those plagued by bizarre conditions that affect how they smell, taste, touch and hear. There are those who can ‘hear’ their eyes moving inside their head, a man who can ‘taste’ words and a woman who sniffs roses and detects a repugnant smell of sewage.

Paul says that the constant litany of bone-shattering injuries he endured throughout childhood has stunted his growth as today, pictured, he stands under 5ft tall

‘Our senses can be surprisingly strange,’ says Dr Leschziner, who treats patients with these types of problems at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. ‘Especially when they malfunction due to injury, disease or genetic abnormalities.’

The reason for Dr Leschziner’s investigations, documented in the upcoming five-part series, is not merely entertainment.

‘These rare cases are vital for helping us to improve our fundamental understanding of how our senses work,’ he says. ‘They may pave the way for new treatments for these and other conditions.’

In the case of congenital analgesia, experts hope one day to create new painkilling medicines by studying the condition.

During the series, Dr Leschziner also meets 61-year-old James Wannerton, from King’s Lynn in Norfolk, who since early childhood has been able to ‘taste’ words. Doctors first dismissed James’ claims as the product of a young imagination. But brain scans showed areas associated with taste become more active when he reads words. Certain sounds even make him feel hunger pangs.

‘My name tastes like chewing gum that’s lost most of its flavour,’ says James. ‘My father’s name, Peter, tastes like processed peas, while my sister’s is blackcurrant yogurt and my grandmother’s was creamy, thick, condensed milk.

‘As a young boy going to school with my mum on the train, I’d read the names of the stations out loud, as we passed through.

‘A particular favourite tube was Tottenham Court Road because Tottenham had the taste and texture of sausage, Court was like a lovely crispy fried egg and Road was like toast. So it was almost like a full English breakfast.’

James’ condition is called synaesthesia – where the senses become jumbled. And it’s not too uncommon, affecting roughly one in 2,000 Britons, to some degree. The stimulation of one sense can cause an involuntary reaction of another – seeing colours when you hear certain words, for instance.

Paul’s exceptional story will be heard for the first time in a fascinating new BBC radio series, along with several other medical mysteries, including James Wannerton, pictured in 2008, who has been able to ‘taste’ words since childhood

Doctors don’t yet know the specific process that causes this but it is thought to involve the misfiring of brain cells, akin to the phenomena experienced by many of feeling physical reactions, such shivers or goosebumps, when hearing rousing music.

For James, not every word evokes a pleasant taste or smell. ‘I was at a social function once where a woman called Maureen asked me to describe how her name tasted,’ he says. ‘I had to break the news to her that it was, sadly, like vomit.’

While this is, ultimately, harmless – if bizarre – other problems can be simply terrifying for the sufferer. Imagine chatting with friends over dinner, and suddenly being deafened by the sound of your own lungs, heaving up and down in your chest. It may sound like a scene from a horror film. In fact, it is 50-year-old Mark Buschhaus’s reality.

The toy shop owner from Crawley in West Sussex first noticed a strange change in his hearing during his 40s.

While in the pub with friends, conversation would be drowned out by one specific bodily noise, such as the sound of his teeth crunching a crisp, or, more disturbingly, the squelching movement of his eyeballs as he glanced around the bar.

‘It was as if someone had turned up my internal volume control to 100,’ says Mark.

‘I felt like I was in a bubble. Every time I took a step, my footsteps sounded like a big bang that sent echoes through my skull. I could even hear my lungs breathing.

‘It got to the stage where I didn’t want to go out and was making excuses about going to the pub.

‘I’ve never felt so low – I was really struggling.’

After years of misery, Mark finally got a diagnosis – superior canal dehiscence syndrome.

The condition, which affects one to two per cent of Britons, is caused by tiny holes inside the inner ear which affects the way internal sound is processed by the brain. Doctors are unsure what causes the holes, but they are thought to be present from birth.

Bob Walters, father of Vicky and Paul, pictured as youngsters, said his children ‘would place their hands in front of the fire just to listen to their skin sizzling – almost like a steak in a frying pan’

Bodily sounds can leak through the small openings in the inner ear and reverberate in the brain, making them appear louder than usual. Some sufferers can hear the blood flowing through their veins, while others are haunted by the thumping sound of their heart beating.

Thankfully, following pioneering surgery to repair the hole, Mark saw an ’80 to 90 per cent improvement’ – and was able to enjoy going to the pub again.

Elsewhere, Dr Leschziner explores the devilish brain tricks that affect all of our senses – those that occur with age.

A quarter of Britons over 65 suffer some form of hearing loss. But, for a small number of these people, the world doesn’t only get quieter, it sounds stranger, too.

It is estimated that roughly three per cent of those in their 60s suffer auditory hallucinations.

In other words, they hear sounds that aren’t there.

Dr Leschziner explains that when we start to lose our hearing, the auditory cortex, part of the brain that processes sound, can become overactive because it is being starved of the input it normally gets from the ears.

My father’s name, Peter, tastes like mushy peas 

This hyperactivity then interacts with memory circuits in the brain – which explains why the phantom sounds are often based on long- held memories.

One noteworthy sufferer is the comedian, musician and avid birdwatcher Bill Oddie, 79, who began hearing phantom jazz tunes two years a go.

‘I was in the house and I thought somebody next door was playing music very loudly,’ the ex-Goodies star tells Dr Leschziner.

‘It sounded like a brass band, with a lead trumpet player and occasionally some male vocals, and even an announcer. But as I went towards the wall it faded. This went on for weeks.’

These bizarre symptoms often lessen if hearing improves, so patients are encouraged to try hearing aids – which Bill plans to do.

lThe Compass: The Senses starts on Wednesday, July 29, at 3pm on BBC World Service.

Credit: Source link

The post Mysteries of the senses: The boy who broke almost every bone in his body – but didn’t feel any pain appeared first on GIZED - Breaking News Worldwide.

from WordPress https://ift.tt/32zmmjY via IFTTT

[workingontravel]

It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship

(You can find a Swedish translation of this text here.)

I have often crossed routes with Gestalta Judd, who is one of the few in Europe who teaches bondage for a living. I wanted to speak to her because of her intimate knowledge of what has been coined as “rope nomadism”, which I think of as an interesting parallel to travelling for performing arts – but also because I was curious about how Brexit would affect her travel. Gestalta brought another subject to the table: her attempt to stay on the ground in 2019 for political reasons.

Gestalta Judd: My income is entirely based on doing rope, mostly teaching. I have to travel to teach – I wouldn’t make enough otherwise. What I usually do is a combination of workshops and performances, where the performances don’t really give much income. It’s really more of a break-even situation where I offset unpaid work with a paid job in the same place. This is how I usually manage to do creative things that I like, such as performing or photo and film.

I’ve been travelling for rope events since about 2014, but I was travelling quite a bit already before: for photographic modelling and stuff like that. So actually, I’ve been travelling my whole adult life. There is no clear pattern to how I travel, but I’ve been to most countries in Europe at some point. For a while, I did lots of trips to Prague in a row, and now I’ve done lots of trips to Norway. It’s similar for most teachers, I think. You teach what you have, and then you won’t come back to that particular area again until you have new content, or until the group has changed enough that there is new interest.

It was rope that made me go outside Europe; I’ve taught in Australia, for example. But I’ve never been to the States. One of the reasons is that I’m afraid of being turned away at the border and then both losing the payment for the job and not being reimbursed for the money I spent on the ticket. No one is ever going to get me a working visa to do anything considered adult. So, I’d have to go on a tourist visa and hope that they don’t google me, because Gestalta is a legal name and very uncommon. Even if I’d do something for free, if I’m there for an event that is making money, that’s already too much for the States. When I teach abroad, the travel is often calculated out of the workshop fee. This means that cheap flying and cheap buses are what generally allow this kind of teaching to happen. Since I get refunded and paid only if I show up, it’s lucky that I’ve never been too sick to go. If I had to cancel under those circumstances, it would be a trust thing. I think most organisers are decent people and would be able to discuss who was in a better financial position to cover the loss of the travelling cost. I bring as little as possible: my ropes, a bar of soap, my toothbrush, light clothes like leggings and stuff. If I’m going to a cold country, I try to take only one heavy outfit that I can wear over all my other clothes. Then I hope that I can borrow whatever else I need when I get there. While travelling, I try to sleep, or I take my headphones and just zone out completely for a while. If it’s a very long trip, I might try to do some writing, like workshop descriptions or such.

I would normally stay with one of the organisers or a student; whoever has a spare room or sofa. It’s very rare to get a hotel. It’s hard to afford that kind of thing. I often try to stay in places where there’s a kitchen and I can cook for myself and box it up to bring wherever I go. I’ve found that I get less tired when I’m eating what my body is used to, rather than having to rely on an unfamiliar diet. Every year for the last three years, I’ve been thinking that I will definitely stop travelling. But every year something new comes up. It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship. I absolutely can’t imagine what I would be doing if not rope. And I love doing it once I get there. But I’ve reached a point where the thought of travelling is actually horrible. And when I get home, I’m not really quite at home either, because I spend so little time there. I feel annoyed about the difficulty of putting down roots. The reason why I still want to continue is that I learn so much from the differences in how people construct their communities. I get to see rope from so many perspectives. And I have this familiarity with people globally, like they have become locals to me. There is no longer a strict divide between the teacher and the student like there used to be, when travelling teachers were less common. It’s more of an exchange now. It happens that I go to someone’s workshop and then the next day that person comes to my workshop. I used to feel more isolated. Being at a workshop in a room full of people talking about how great it is using this tool to connect with your partner, I sometimes had this strange sense of, “Oh but I’ve been travelling for so long I don’t really have any partners ’cause it’s impossible for me to sustain any meaningful connection with someone that I never see…” It was a bleak kind of feeling.

How much I travel varies greatly. At the heaviest, I could be flying twice a week, easily, and that could go on for months. At the lightest, I take months off and try not to go anywhere. If I do a big trip outside Europe, I try to earn enough to be able to rest when I come home. I have to be organised and hyper-focused when I work. If there’s too much going on outside what I’m focusing on, I start to forget things, and if I start to forget things, it’s over. Relationships at home just have to take a back seat. The times when I’ve been travelling the most, I either didn’t have any intense relationships or they broke up as a result of it. My long-term friends are used to sometimes not seeing or hearing from me for a while.

At the moment, I’m based in Leeds in the north of England. I just moved here a few months ago from Berlin. It was a bit of an accidental move. I thought I was just going to stay for the summer, partly to get an Irish passport in order to avoid getting my travelling opportunities limited by Brexit. We’re almost apathetic about Brexit now, just crossing our fingers for it not to happen, but I moved just in case. I thought I would hate living here. But I’ve been too busy to change my passport so I can’t leave yet, and also bizarrely I really love this slightly obscure town. We’ll see how long it continues.

As it happens, I’m fairly involved with the climate change movement in the UK – and I made a promise not to fly so much for 2019. In March, I did my first workshop outside UK for the year. For the first time in my international long-distance travelling, I decided that the workshop was paying enough for me to get the train. It’s my goal to continue doing that. Economically it will be interesting: I’ll have to look carefully at what jobs I can afford to take, or where I can make up for the extra cost. I’ve been justifying my way of travelling before by saying that I never fly for holidays, only for work. But it’s getting to a point where I feel that isn’t much of an excuse anymore. It’s not like I’m a surgeon saving lives. Not to say that my work lacks value, but it’s for pleasure whether it’s for me or for the people taking the workshop. The rope scene has lived through a very special time. Without really even thinking about it, we’ve been able to build friendships with people who don’t live in our country. It’s not like, “We’ll see each other in three years,” when you leave; it’s more of a casual “Yeah, see you soon.” It’s been a really short and unique time, and I don’t think it’s going to last unless we come up with some serious changes. This is sad, especially for a community that has such a niche interest. But if we’re doing something to make a change now, we are still making the choice. I think at the point where we’re forced into doing these changes, the survival of the rope community will be the least of our worries.

It’s time to start thinking collectively about what we can do as a community. There is no reason why every single person individually flies in for a big rope event when you have twenty people coming from Sweden and twenty people coming from Spain. I know it’s annoying to get a bus, but if they could share it, that would be very affordable. Yes, it would take an extra twenty hours of their time and they would be uncomfortable, and it would require central organising and someone actually taking charge, but maybe it’s the sort of thing that we need to consider now. Also, if people start to be a little bit more strict with what they allow themselves to do, then maybe train companies, bus companies and other alternatives to flying will have to catch up and make both prices and information more accessible. However, to truly make a shift in how people travel, the government needs to incentivise better transport options. Either air fares are too cheap or train fares are too expensive. They need to be swapped. Within the UK, train fares are obscenely expensive. I’m more or less cut off for economic reasons from travelling with train. For example, instead of travelling two hours from Leeds to London, I take a bus for six hours. I don’t really mind being stuck there, but the longer I travel, the more exhausting it will become. It’s not really a sacrifice for me at the moment to take three days out of my schedule to do a weekend workshop. But realistically, if I was taking the bus to another country in Europe, that’s a day of travel, and then I would probably want to arrive there a day earlier because I would just want to spend the day recovering. And then there are the two days for the workshop, and then a day of travelling back. And then I would probably want to spend another day recovering at home. So, there a two-day workshop has become a six-day job. I can really see that happening. The cost in terms of time and tiredness and that sort of emotional thing is the biggest concern, also when thinking about the amount of time that I’m already now away from friends and family. Another way to go about this would be to organise more: to try to stay for several weeks consecutively in one place or area. That would mean more time away from family and friends, but maybe then I could spend the next month at home with them without having to travel at all. Maybe that’s a sacrifice worth making, but it demands cooperation with and between different organisers. I don’t know if it will make a difference, but it’s exciting that the environmental movement in the UK is gaining such momentum. Today, we’re doing a protest against the bank HSBC and that they are still investing in fracking. There are some local fracking sites around here, and there were some induced earthquakes, so many groups are organising against it. But there are people in all of UK pretty much prepared to organise a new protest every week. Everyone is equally culpable, so it’s just to pick anything. Last week I was in London working, so then we did a protest against fast fashion. Then there was one because the BBC are not reporting enough on the environmental catastrophes we’re currently in. Here in Leeds, which is a small town, we did a protest for schools and young people. We thought maybe two hundred would come. A thousand showed up.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

Jeff Johnson is 40 years old, and for all 40 of those years, he has been living with hemophilia. The genetic disorder prevents blood from properly clotting, which, if untreated, can cause uncontrollable bleeding. Yet, Johnson says, he does not want a cure. He grew up with hemophilia, went to summer camp with kids with hemophilia, and forged some of his closest relationships within the community.

I was interested in speaking to Johnson because new advances in gene therapy and gene editing are making the elusive cure seem closer than ever. At least five clinical trials are currently aiming to fix the faulty genes that underlie hemophilia. The New York Times recently interviewed patients from one gene-therapy trial who no longer had to worry about bruising and bleeding. “They Thought Hemophilia Was a ‘Lifelong Thing,’” read the headline. “They May Be Wrong.” It is unknown how long the effects of the therapy will last.

“I’ve been told the hemophilia cure is around the corner for literally the last 30 years,” Johnson told me with a laugh. “Which I know sounds a little cynical, but when you’ve been around the bend as many times as I have, you kind of start hedging your bets.” He does not speak for every hemophilia patient, of course, but at a time of increasing optimism about cures, his perspective is thought-provoking. Johnson lives in Washington State, and he is actively involved in the hemophilia-patient community. As is not uncommon for patients, he also works for a specialty pharmacy that dispenses hemophilia drugs.

In two conversations, we spoke about his experience growing up with hemophilia, his sense of identity, and his hopes for his newborn baby girl. The interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

Sarah Zhang: Tell me about your experience living with hemophilia.

Jeff Johnson: As early as I remember, honestly, I was having to go in to the emergency room for regular injections. I was on a different medication at the time, cryoprecipitate [which is derived from blood plasma and contains clotting factors]. I remember some kind of foggy memories as a toddler. The cryo was frozen, so it would have to sit out on the counter and thaw, and then they would do the infusion, and it would drip in over the course of a couple of hours.

There were people who were on clotting factor [which could be stored at home] when I was a kid. The hematologist had told my dad that factor might not be safe. There were hemophiliacs getting sick from it, so my dad didn’t let them use factor on me. It turns out hemophiliacs were getting sick because they were contracting HIV from their factor, so I was on the older treatment, but it ended up saving my life.

Right now, I deal more with the aftereffects of bleeds that I had years ago than I do with bleeds today. I had arthritis in my knees since my early 20s. I have arthritis and damage in my spine from bleeds, so those things just, they kind of wear on you more and more. I did get hepatitis, but I didn’t get HIV.

Zhang: You’ve been talking about some of the challenges of living with hemophilia. So why are you personally not interested in a cure?

Johnson: The analogy I offer people, and I offer to you, is, as a woman, I’m sure you experience difficulties and challenges just being a woman in life. If someone came to you and said, “We’ve got a genetic cure for being a woman,” that would be really bizarre to you because being a woman is who you are.

I am hemophilia. I don’t have it. I am hemophilia. So when they come to me and say, “We’ve got a genetic cure for hemophilia,” to me, that’s just as weird as if you said you’ve got a genetic cure on the horizon for your left foot. This is really who I am. So I don’t necessarily see it as something that needs a cure. As far as genetic cures go, the whole principle of changing my DNA is something I’m not comfortable with. A lot of us that grew up with it, it’s part of our identity, so we don’t really see separating our identity from us.

A CRISPR pioneer on gene editing: “We shouldn’t screw it up”

Zhang: Not everyone in the hemophilia community feels the same way about gene therapy or gene editing, of course. One thing I’ve heard talking to people with hemophilia is that for older folks—who grew up in the ’70s and ’80s when treatment was not as good and then lived through the HIV epidemic—there is a really strong sense of identity and community. Do you sense a generational divide in attitudes about a cure that would fundamentally alter your DNA?

Johnson: There is very much a generational divide. I think it’s really more among parents.

Zhang: How so?

Johnson: The group I see most ardently wishing for a cure are new parents.  They’re people who don’t have hemophilia, so it’s not part of their identity, so they still kind of see it as something that’s separate from us. To them, hemophilia is an invader—like for 20 years of their life where it wasn’t part of their existence and they had a kid, and that kid had hemophilia. They see hemophilia as this intruder that needs to be cured and taken away from their lives.

Zhang: But if you’re a kid with hemophilia, that’s been part of you your whole life ...

Johnson: As you see parents and their families grow, you’ll see a cure is all they talk about for the first four, five years. And then the kids get to like 5 to 10 and they’re going to summer camp for kids with hemophilia and managing their disorder; the parents talk less and less about a cure. And then when you get to the teenage years, unless they’ve got a really bad inhibitor or something [which prevents the use of clotting factors], the parents have kind of graduated on to, “It is what it is.” If there’s a cure, cool, but he’s doing fine. You really see that in young parents because that cure is the light at the end of the tunnel that they didn’t plan to be walking through.

Zhang: Do you have kids yourself?

Johnson: We have a two-month-old baby girl. My wife and I started talking about kids four years ago. I found out really late that I had contracted hepatitis from my cryo. Even though it’s pretty safe to still conceive when you have hepatitis, it just was too nerve-racking to me to risk passing that infection on to my wife. So I fought for my insurance for three years to get treatment for my hepatitis. I switched jobs to the one I currently have, got new insurance, finally got approved. I actually finished my treatment regimen [last year].

Zhang: Did you think about the possibility of passing hemophilia to your kids?

Johnson: So the way that the genetics work, if I have sons, they’ll inherit my Y chromosome. So if I only have sons, it wipes it out. If I have daughters, they’re going to inherit my X. That’s going to mean that either they carry it to their children, or it may present to the point where my daughter may actually have hemophilia.

Zhang: Does your daughter have symptoms of hemophilia?

Johnson: At two months, her body’s still forming itself. So if we tested her factor level now, that would be meaningless because that would change in a few days. It really won’t level out until she reaches puberty. We’ll check her levels every now and then and if she grows up and she decides she wants to play soccer or something like that, it’ll be something that we watch for, but we really won’t know until she’s a teenager if she’s a full-fledged hemophiliac or if her factor levels are high enough that she’s not going to be affected.

We’ve realized in the last 10 to 15 years that girls who we’ve traditionally called carriers, they’re still bleeding from a factor deficiency sometimes. Not quite as badly as I do, but they’re still bleeding. Treatment for girls with hemophilia is not as good as it is for boys with hemophilia.

The doctor doesn’t listen to her. But the media is starting to.

Zhang: How are girls treated differently?

Johnson: Hemophilia, growing up my entire life, because it’s on the X chromosome, we were taught that it only affects boys. Only boys have hemophilia. And the big problem we’re facing is that that is so entrenched in the medical establishment that hematologists will still tell women, “Well, you don’t have hemophilia. You’re a woman. You just bruise easily.” We still have those horror stories today of a woman going in and her menstrual flow lasts for like three weeks, and she has a child and she almost bleeds to death. She got joint damage in her 20s or 30s. She’s got all the hallmarks of having hemophilia, and even today, hematologists will tell women, “Well, hemophilia affects men. You’re just a carrier.”

As soon as a doctor says no, that starts to throw up roadblocks because that gives insurers an excuse to say, no, we’re not going to cover expensive treatment therapies. So a big portion of our community’s efforts now are about ensuring that our hemophilia sisters have the same quality and access to care that hemophilia brothers do. So we’ve got a bit of inequality even within our community, which is unfortunate.

Because I’m a community activist, I’m educated, I work in the community, I would feel confident handling my daughter’s hemophilia. It doesn’t bother me. Whether she does or she doesn’t, I know we can have a full, thriving life with hemophilia.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2wqvXZs

[ghost-chance]

ANLoL Sidestory: Blocked “Chapter 1: The Repercussions of Writers’ Block”

Previously published on AO3 and FFnet. This ongoing story is a complete farce and meant mostly for a laugh at the writer’s expense.

Ghost has writer's block, and when she has writer's block, bad things happen. Now, Donatello is trapped in her world with no way home. One thing's for certain: she needs to get him home before he figures out she's responsible for all the drama his family has dealt with. NOT a serious story - this self-insert parody is meant to break through writer's block without a sledge-hammer.

Dedicated to the fuzzbutts: Heiferlump Chance and Woozle Thomas.

  Warnings for language, honest and 'non-badassed' self-insert, suggestiveness, and some drama-slash-angsty-moments.

           1: The Repercussions of Writers' Block 

What started out like any other day would soon become like no other day; of course, by the time Ghost Chance realized this, she would be too busy questioning her sanity to remark on how bizarre that day turned out.

"Dammit, Heifer!" the overweight brunette hollered. An equally overweight blonde tabby bolted across the overgrown yard with all the grace of a pregnant buffalo. Deep green eyes scowled behind wire framed glasses, and she blew a loose wisp of mid-brown hair out of her face. "Heiferlump, ya bloody jail-breakin' moose, git back here!" Of course, hollering at a cat yearning for freedom never results in said cat actually obeying. This one fact has never changed, especially for Heiferlump, the feline known affectionately as Heifer. Resigned to chasing down the stubborn animal, Ghost let the door slam and took off after the errant feline.

Summer was almost over in her little corner of the Missouri Ozarks, but the humid heat was nowhere near through…and heat was never kind to those with extra insulation. By the time she made it down the steps of the porch and halfway to her crazed cat, Ghost was already dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe the heavy, humid air. Bloody asthma. Just on the other side of the fence and right at the property line, Heifer paused, staring out into the wooded area beyond with one paw poised for bolting. "Whoa-no," Ghost warned her quickening her steps to a clumsy half-sprint. "Don't you dare, Lil'—" Despite the warning, Heifer bolted out into the woods, her striped tail and dirty backside vanishing in the bracken. "Guch. Figures."

Grumbling under her breath—mostly oaths, expletives, and unflattering remarks about the cat's genetic origins and hygienic behaviors—the irate woman trudged out the gate and into the overgrown scrub brush. Every few yards, she hollered out the Heifer's name or one of her many frequently used 'pet names,' then listened for a telltale jingle from the cat's collar. Finally, success. "Gotcha!" Ghost's hands latched onto the fat cat panting for breath barely twenty yards from the house. "Nice try, Scatface—no one escapes Hellcatraz." Already, Heifer began her usual habit of regaling 'Mommy' with all the amazing things she saw in her short escape, all in a surprising range of vocalizations and intonations. Noisy moose.

At that moment, she realized something worrisome…the forest, normally full of racket, was quiet…too quiet. She wasn't alone. Green eyes darted back and forth among the trees for a sign of the intruder. She shifted Heiferlump to one wide hip, cradling the obliviously purring cat around the middle like a fuzzy handbag while still supporting the feline's flabby rib cage. She backed toward the property line again, carefully watching for any sign of company.

She knew moving out to that area was a risk—knew it was dangerous to live so close to the train tracks cutting through the river bottoms hidden in the secluded tree stand. If she screamed for help, it wasn't likely that anyone would hear her. Despite that risk, though, she and her husband Cold couldn't turn the house down. It had everything they wanted and needed, and because of a single albeit bloody day in its past, the price couldn't be beaten. She'd lived in a haunted house before, after all; if the double homicide left behind any unsavory paranormal residue, it would still be a cakewalk compared to her childhood home. Any other day, Ghost wouldn't have batted an eye about living in such a secluded area; now, she found herself terrified that decision was about to bite her in the ass.

"Excuse me." An entirely unflattering shriek ripped from her lungs and she whirled about, Heifer launching from her arms as one shot up to sock her would-be attacker in the groin. Instead, Ghost felt like she'd punched a wall and fell backward onto her over-plump behind with an incoherent cry of pain. The strange man simply stared at her.

Wait. Still cradling her throbbing hand, she blinked in disbelief up at the being standing above her. The stranger held Heiferlump to one bulky shoulder, the little green-eyed monster already purring up a storm. Hold. The. Phone. Hazel eyes, tortoise shell rimmed glasses, totally sexy coveralls and suspenders, violet bandana mask… Ghost blinked again, struggling to process the sight before her…a very familiar mutant turtle, clearly questioning her sanity, and holding Heiferlump like the cat's bewildered mama didn't just try to nut-shot him.

"The fuck?"

One bare eyebrow arching under his mask and his nose wrinkling slightly, Donatello scrutinized her silently. Ghost cringed. Why was it so much easier to write a good first impression than to make one? "Uh…hi?"

"Hi." It wasn't much consolation, but he seemed just as confused by her presence as she was by his. Of course, in his world, this sort of thing wasn't exactly uncommon; her world was an entirely different story. Growing up in an actual haunted house taught Ghost that no one believed in mysteries anymore, even the ones that weren't quite so far-fetched. "I take it this is yours?" As though knowing she was being talked about, Heifer gave him a loud half-purr-half-meow, then turned to shoot her owner a smug grin.

"Yeah." Ghost fought the urge to return Heifer's 'smirk' with some immature expression and instead focused on the three fingered hand scratching the cat's white cheeks. "Just took the trash out…she's a runner." Another 'wuuuROWurrr' from Heifer made Donnie smirk. Smacking the cat hair off his unoccupied hand, he offered it to the woman still flat on her ass in the leaf litter. It took a moment—and another arched eyebrow—but finally she managed to goose her mental hamster into doing its job. He hauled her upright like she weighed nothing, but clearly didn't expect her to nearly topple over front-first once she was on her feet.

"Are you alright?" Ghost leaned against the nearest tree with a hiss and grimace; spasms shot through her right leg from the knee outward, reminding her she'd overdone it that day. If only it didn't take a mere few hours of basic housework to constitute 'overdoing it…'

"Yeah, just gimme a sec." Fingertips digging into her knee, she easily located the familiar dent in her tibia; the landmark found, she traced straight upward then followed the line of her kneecap around to the spasming nerve cluster there and began gently rubbing. "Anyone ever offers to park a car on your ass, decline."

"I take it you didn't?" A telltale smirk tilted his lips upward at one side, and hers soon echoed the expression.

"You're only young an' dumb once, right?" she teased. The pain passed, she reached out for the cat still telling Donatello all about herself in a multitude of purrs and meows. "I'll take that lump from ya. C'mon in out'a the heat—we ain't had neighbors in a bit, but this weather'll kill ya."

Almost as soon as the two were inside—with Heiferlump crated for a time-out—Ghost led him to a cramped and shabby, if clean, kitchen, directing him to the half-full coffee pot and the microwave. "It's a day old," she admitted digging a coffee mug out for him, "but it's still good—had some 'is'mornin'." While she was pointing out the locations of the coffee fixings, a low, sad yowl rang through the air. "Woozle," she called out dryly, "yer not lost. Quitcher lyin' a'ready."

"Woozle?" Donnie echoed dubiously, but before he could add to the question, a flash of white and ginger fur bolted in from the hallway. Winding eagerly around Ghost's bare legs was a second, slightly less obese cat—white with bright reddish orange splotches and vibrant copper orange eyes.

"Woozle," Ghost affirmed with a grin, hoisting the chubby cat up into her arms. "Y'already met Heiferlump, this's her brother, Woozle." After a mere moment of 'Mommy time,' the ginger cat decided he'd had enough and fussed to be put down. "Yeah, yeah, screw you too, ya lil' rodent," she teased depositing the squirming cat on the floor. After a send-off from Ghost—a teasing pat on the butt—he galloped off to parts unknown, yodeling a battle cry. After digging through a low cabinet, she emerged triumphantly with a bottle of Drambuie and glass tumbler and poured herself a good three fingers worth. The familiar scent made Donnie still in preparing his coffee, eyes rolling toward her in blatant disbelief. The brunette fished a curled sliver of orange rind from a small bin from the freezer, plopping it into her glass with an odd smile.

At first, Donatello was bewildered at the sudden change in scenery and worried the strange woman hurt herself lashing out at him; now he could see a faint resemblance. Her frizzy brown hair was only greying lightly—mostly at the hairline with plenty of grey shot through her eyebrows—and the lot was piled into a sloppy braided bun instead of tied back in two neat braids. Her eyes were a muted blue-green, not pale grey-green. Awkwardly tanned skin was decked with hordes of freckles and broken by numerous ambiguous scars, and her body type was clearly well beyond chunky into obese. Out in the woods, she'd gripped her right knee and remarked about someone 'parking a car' on her. There were many differences but the similarities were jarring. "Who are you?" he asked, his knuckles white around the handle of a coffee mug. She swallowed her sip of scotch liqueur and shrugged.

"Name's Ghost Chance," she answered with deceptive simplicity. "I'm a writer working on going pro, a crazy cat lady, an' that one friend ya don't take home ta Mom. Nice to meet ya." Donatello shook his head at the explanation, his eyes narrowing as he compared the woman before him to another—one with soft grey-green eyes the color of sunlit moss, pale, freckled flesh, warm brown hair streaked liberally with grey—a woman who was most likely worried sick about—

"Amber!" he burst out suddenly, losing his grip on the coffee mug; the plain white porcelain tumbled to the floor in a shower of cold coffee, shattering upon impact. Suddenly jolted back into himself by the crash, he dropped to his knees on the ade-dingy tile and began gathering the shards. "Ah, shell, I'm sorry, I—" A hand on one of his stilled him, froze him; nervous hazel eyes rolled up to meet a pair of deep green ones. Ghost knelt before him, seemingly visually dissecting him.

"Amber-who?" Ghost's expression was guarded, he realized with a noisy swallow, but he couldn't dismiss the recognition in her eyes. "Amber-who?" she insisted.

"Amber…O'Brien," he finally admitted with a wince. Surely not, he argued silently, surely he hadn't somehow made it to Amber's world! On the off-chance that he had, though, he found his lips illogically loosened. "She's my…my girlfriend. Last I remember, I was with her…then I was in the woods…and…" He couldn't continue, torn between his worry, the impossibility of his being torn out of Amber's arms and thrown into her world, and the horrified gape on this stranger's face.

"Amber…O'Brien…" Ghost repeated slowly, shifting from her knees to her rear end. A loud smack made him jump—her palm violently impacting her exposed forehead. "Holy friggin' Moses," Ghost grumbled digging her fingertips into the emerging wrinkle between her eyebrows. "This day jus' keeps gettin' better."

Over the next half hour—and more coffee and Drambuie—Ghost got the story out of Donatello…and by 'story' she meant his side of the story. He fell asleep in Amber's arms, as they were wont to do. When he woke up, he found himself at a crossroads—the train tracks that cut through the bottoms followed the crick less than a mile before the riverbed took a sharp switchback turn. Where the lines crossed, the riverbed had been dug out and the rails put up on a trestle.

It was under this trestle that Donatello woke…bewildered, paranoid, and puking his guts up. Even living in smog-cloaked New York wasn't enough preparation for the smell of a half-dry crick in record heat. Even if he hadn't woken up face-first in dying fish and algae, Ghost knew the smell of her home state took some getting used to. A relative of hers moved to Cali a few years back and came home for Christmas and Midsummer. Every time he got off the plane he chucked his cookies right there on the tarmac from the oppressive combination of agriculture, manure, pollution, and exhaust…and the rarely-acknowledged but always present stench of countless morons cooking meth. The meth problem was always bad, but up until her lifetime, you couldn't smell it everywhere you went, no matter how well the wind carried the fumes.

Ghost swore under her breath, pacing the linoleum, mussing her already messy hair with every turn. It didn't make sense—it was impossible!—somehow, if she was reading the situation correctly, Donatello was inexplicably spirited away from his world at the precise moment she'd ended the last chapter of his story. Nearly two weeks ago, she'd hit a road block in her writing and couldn't seem to get past it. There was always a backlog of one-shots due for Gallery of Memories, and now she couldn't seem to get even a word out for the main storyline.

Unable to find a better title, she'd called the long, sprawling epic "A New Lease on Life"…because that sounded saner than "a bullshit story about a bullshit character I made look like me just so I can kill them then torture them repeatedly for lolz." Well, technically it wasn't 'just for lolz.' The story began as nothing more than a tool, a writing exercise. She hoped by 'seeing' a character even weaker and more messed up than herself heal massive emotional scarring, she could finally heal her own less-massive scars. One character died to the killer storm that inadvertently spared Ghost's life; another character dealt with not an abusive partner for years, but an abusive mother for her whole life. Despite their similar appearances, Ghost wasn't Amber, and despite their similar personalities and attitudes she wasn't Mercy, and likewise, they weren't her.

Though the story started out as a slightly morbid attempt to 'kill' her weaker self and emerge victorious, the characters and storyline quickly became much more than an exercise. Against their puppet-master's wishes, they grew, fleshed out, blossomed, and became actual characters and stories of their own rather than personified traits and traumas. Before Ghost's Ides of May hiatus was over, a story was born from a sketch and she knew she could never keep it bottled up. Another world was woven into the plotline—new characters, new trials, allegations of deception and broken hearts—and by the time the prequel was posted, there was no turning back. It started out as a slightly sadistic exercise in irony but it had long since become a story.

How the hell did she manage to drag a fictional character from her story into her reality?! Ghost needed something a helluva lot stronger than Drambuie—she needed a mental vacation, starting with a few strawberry daiquiris, some head-banging heavy metal, a crappy romance novel about some illogically awesome beefcake meeting a hopeless nerd, and a long, hard soak in the bathtub! Increasingly aware of Donatello's keen eyes studying her in confusion and disbelief, she scrambled for some way, any way, to explain the bizarre situation without really explaining it or lying. After all, she just spent over a year repeatedly torturing Donatello, his family, his girlfriend, and several other characters he knew! Granted, that's what authors do, but she doubted the characters saw it that way. Already she could see him putting an 'only use Justin Bieber wallpapers' bug on her laptop—or rigging up her tablet to blast bad pop music anytime it was on—or some other equally horrific act of retribution!

"What's your real name?" The question came out of the blue, and the frazzled brunette turned to address the mutant turtle in her kitchen.

"Wha?" As usual, she considered with a cringe, one word out'a her mouth and she convinced everyone and everything in earshot that she had the IQ of an amoeba. Awesome. "My real name?" she repeated to disguise the sound of her brain scrambling for any possible escape.

"Yeah," the genius answered, drawing out the word pointedly. "I've never heard of anyone actually naming their kid Ghost."

"Yeah, they name'em North West instead." Her grumble was answered with an unamused stare. Digging her fingertips into that emerging wrinkle again, she sighed; she felt a headache coming on, and at this rate, she'd wind up yanking on her daith piercing in minutes. "Yeah, ya got me, it's a nickname. I'd rather not share my real name if ya don't mind—not a lotta people know it, an' for good reason." Donatello's stern gaze made her skin itch, and she wanted nothing more than to blurt out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her bog. Should she share that truth, though…

"Listen," she explained instead, finally meeting his eyes. "I can't tell you everything, but I promise I won't lie to ya—I can't stand lies, and I always wind up ready to yack if I'm stuck tellin’em. Don't ask questions I can't answer, accept when I can't answer one, an' we'll try to figure out how to get you home, 'kay?" A long silence passed, the mutant staring her down over the chipped formica counter.

"Are you a friend of Amber's?" he asked, clearly willing to let go of the name issue, "or do you mean her any harm?"

"Friend?" Ghost repeated with a weak smile. "You could say that I guess…we…have a lot in common…as for whether I mean her any harm…" She paused for an overly drawn out sip of liqueur, waiting for her brain to catch up with her mouth. "I want only the best for her…an' I'm totally shippin' you two—yer a cute couple."

"Then you know what our life's been like," Donnie acknowledged with a shrewd stare. "Dare I say you've been watching us somehow? Or that you know how things will end up between us?" Ghost froze. She wanted to give a somewhat intelligent answer, but all that came out was a half-garbled,

"…uh…huh?" Again, Donnie's nose wrinkled slightly, but whether in amusement or disgust, she didn't know. "Pass."

"One more question, then." He finally looked away, and the absence of his gaze revealed how heavy it had felt; nervously fidgeting with his already empty coffee cup, he stared through the ring of grounds at the bottom. "Will we…I mean…" After such a long episode of nothing but Ghost freaking out and Ghost being socially awkward, now the turtle was a fit of nerves and almost as awkward. "I don't…don't want to lose her," he admitted softly his eyes narrowing, but not tearing. "We don't really know what brought her to my world or what's keeping her there…and there've been strange things happening left and right, impossible dust, ticking clocks, unexplained voices and the feeling that someone's watching us…"

At his sudden startled glance, Ghost piped up, "No, that's not me watchin' y'all. Chill." She could almost swear his cheeks darkened at her answer; what sort of thoughts were running through that turtle's head? If he was her, she'd say he had some seriously explicit footage playing through his thoughts, but she was gutter-brained to a fault—Donnie wasn't like her. Blushing alone didn't mean he was considering pinning a certain brunette to some random surface and— Crud. Hello, gutter.

"If she's going to be taken away from us—from me," he summed up with a burst of resolve, "I need to know…so I can stop it." Oh, how cute. Ghost chuckled, her lips twisted into a wide, lopsided smile.

"You're adorable, ya know that?" she teased rolling her eyes. "No, Amber's not gonna get taken away from ya—if she leaves, it'll be'er own choice." This apparently didn't reassure him any, so she added, "an' she ain't gonna leave unless ya really fuck up. So don't."

At first, he meant to question her about this statement; then he realized her eyes had grown distant, as though fixed on some unpleasant memory. A familiar scene played out before him: green eyes lost focus and dilated, unpainted lips weakened, shoulders hunched and tightened. Unlike his Amber, though, Ghost stormed out of the room as though the very devil was on her heels. After a moment of hesitation, he followed and found her staring nervously out a window into the back yard, her right hand clenching her left wrist and worrying at some unseen scar.

"Hey." His greeting startled her—an exaggerated startle response, as he'd expected. Despite the layers of fat over it, he could clearly see her pulse racing in her throat. "It seems you have similar demons," he remarked with feigned nonchalance, coming to stand beside her and stare out the window as well. "Similar, if not identical."

"Identical?" Ghost mumbled starting to worry at her wrist again. "Not really…we've both got issues from a helluva storm, but I've moved past mine. No, my real demon is something different—something older…" She cringed, forcing a swallow past the illogical fear rising up her throat. "Jus' call'im Walker."

While Donatello was still processing that bombshell, she shook herself out of her morbid thoughts and brushed past him. "Cold'll be home soon—that's my husband—so we'll need'a hide ya 'til I can work up some explanation." Still focusing on slowing her breathing and stopping her fight-or-flight response, Ghost led Donatello down the poky hallway. She gave a cursory glance into the 'man cave,' then pointedly yanked the door shut while griping about Cold leaving his underwear all over the place. Honestly, there was only one pair of boxers on the gaming chair, but there was TMNT paraphernalia all over that room…not a good idea. "We'll put'cha up in th'office, 'kay?"

"Office?" Another room—and shut door—later, he followed her into the last room on the line and found himself speechless. Though the house was overall cluttered, dated, and somewhat shabby, this room seemed the sole exception.

"Artists have a studio and actors have their dressing rooms, but I'm a writer," Ghost explained as she led the way into her sanctuary. All through the rest of the house, she had to fight Cold tooth and nail over décor, arrangements, and everything from how clean it should be kept to how clothed he had to be in said locations. This room was her sanctuary from game cases, movie posters, dirty underwear, and cackling streaking husbands intent on re-christening everything at once. God, they fit together well. "This is where the magic happens," she shrugged instead of acknowledging her unbidden X-rated memories of the kitchen.

"Magic," Donatello mumbled, eagerly scanning the ceiling height bookshelves lining three of the room's long walls, and the tall windows parading along the last. "Right." As he studied the room, his host threw open heavy curtains—revealing a broken view of the wooded area behind the house, muted by sheer drapes—swiped cat hair off the surface of the massive wooden desk, and awkwardly shoved a litterbox out of view.

"We don't get overnight guests often," Ghost explained as she swatted dust out of the pillows piled into the old wicker papasan chair, "but when we do, we usually put'em up in here for the night—there's room for an air mattress, if you do some creative fi'nanglin' of the furniture, or we've got sleeping bags if that's more—"

The weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder stunned her into silence, and she choked down the fear rising in her gut. She wasn't afraid of Donnie—she could never be afraid of such a sweet, sensitive, and downright drool-worthy man—but more and more, she found herself falling prey to the demons that had stalked her for many years already. A demon called Walker. Despite the gooseflesh dancing down her spine, she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"It's perfect," Donatello reassured the suddenly nervous woman with an easy smile. "The whole room smells like books." …and cat litter, but he didn't mention that part. As he expected, her eyes practically lit up behind her glasses.

"Not much like the smell of books, huh?" she admitted wistfully, wandering over to the nearest shelf—literature, classics, and short stories—without the slightest pause, she pulled a volume free and held it up to her nose, taking a long, deep whiff of the book. This is my Best was an old, forgotten literary anthology, a former favorite read of her father's that eventually became one of her favorite 'sniff' books. Not only did it have that delightful 'old book' smell, it carried faint traces of other memory-invoking smells—long-drunk whiskey, fresh wood shavings and grass clippings, Old Spice aftershave, and the sweet pipe tobacco her father had slowly traded for putrid cigars. The combined fragrance always brought her back to when her father gave a damn and her family wasn't working on killing each other off with drama. Her guest probably thought she was loony for huffing the book, but she didn't care; nothing can ever hold as many vivid memories as a familiar smell, and that book was full of both.

Shaking herself from her reverie, she reluctantly re-shelved the book and turned an apologetic smile to Donatello. "The Ma-in-Law-from-Hades should be bringing Cold back anytime—I'd best start figgerin' out dinner. Help yourself to the books and whatnot until I come get you…just…" She cringed. "…please don't hack my computer until I've cleared my browser history?"

About half an hour passed by without notice. All the while, Donatello paced from one end of the sizable library-slash-office-slash-'magic'-room, waiting, worrying, and wondering. Occasionally, he'd get snippets of sound from the front half of the house—the usual cooking racket, his odd hostess grumbling aloud or hollering at one of the cats, presumably Woozle—and faint, barely-heard traces of music played low. So far, no one had come to find him, and Heiferlump, curled up on the closed laptop Ghost warned him away from, had yet to tire of talking at him.

Mah. "What?" MAOW! "I really wish I knew what you were saying." Mrowwwr—ack! Donnie didn't have much experience with animals, aside from strays, but he'd never come across such a noisy cat before. If he 'answered' her, she'd spout another strange half-purr-half-meow or odd chatter; if he 'ignored' her, she'd sit and make a racket until he looked at her, then she'd repeat herself, as though expecting him to understand. Big cucumber green eyes watched him with startling intelligence, making him more nervous by the moment. Already he wished he'd shooed the cat out when her owner left.

Mor-OWR! "You're a noisy one, huh?" he muttered at the insistent cat, but she looked all-too-pleased with the proclamation and gave a closed-eyed-whiskers-arched ack in response. Finally, it hit him, and it was all he could do to not face-palm. "I'm arguing with a cat…it's not even my cat." Ack!

Before he could respond, whether to roll his eyes or argue back—again!—an ear-piercing shriek rang out in the kitchen followed by an even louder clatter of metal on tile and the sound of shattering pottery. Instantly on alert, he reached up for his goggles…and found nothing. Their absence was ominous, and he quickly realized the rest of his gear and equipment were all missing too. How could he have not noticed that?! How could he have simply found himself in the forest, unarmed and practically naked, and not noticed?! Oh…right…he woke up puking his guts out.

The sounds of a one-sided struggle silenced his mental tirade; his hostess ordered him to stay put, but if she was in danger… Before he could talk himself out of it he crept down the dark hallway armed with the only 'weapon' he could find: a letter-opener of a knife from the desktop. "Hey, hey…shh…shh…" The frantic cries smoothed into choked sobs and the sharp sounds of someone on the verge of hyperventilating. "It's okay, it's just me…it's just me…"

At the doorway to the kitchen, Donnie paused to scope out the situation. A large terra cotta flower pot—broken—had doused the floor with clay dust and potting soil; its previous occupant, a bunched up grouping of mint-like plants, slumped wilting in the dirt. A metal pizza pan leaned against the far wall and an unbaked supreme pizza was crumpled nearby.

Most likely the cause of the commotion, a new stranger had arrived—a rather short man with off-kilter blue eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, and short-shaven blonde hair. Ghost—Donatello's strange hostess—was uninjured, clutching the man's shirt like a lifeline. He, in turn, held her tightly in his thick arms, rubbing her back and shushing her. He wasn't a threat. Donatello's hackles lowered, the sudden burst of adrenaline petering off into nothing as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place—the music he'd barely heard in the office was practically blaring in here. Ghost clearly hadn't heard the man's arrival or approach and she already had an exaggerated startle response.

I've been up and down and over and out, and I know one thing: each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race. That's life! As the song went on and Ghost's breathing slowed and steadied Donatello crept back down the hallway. This moment wasn't one he should intrude on…and it was entirely too familiar.

"I hate'im." The claim—halfway between a snarl and a whimper—was nothing new after countless such incidents over the years. "That—tha'son'va'bitch—he—he—"

"He's a bastard," Cold agreed, his usual gruff and blunt manner somewhat gentled. As Ghost's breathing and heart calmed, her anger faded into bitterness. The aftermath of a panic attack is hard enough to get through when your primary reaction is fear. When you add in rage at the cause, anger at yourself for falling prey to that cause, and frustration at being unable to get past the trauma, it's even worse.

When Ghost first started having panic attacks, Cold was bewildered—lost, frightened, and to an extent, irritated at her for being irrational and hysterical. Once she finally confessed their cause to him, told him of the now-infamous 'Walker' and stopped pretending he neither existed nor hurt her, the fear and irritation faded. Now, he felt only anger—at the scumbag who knew his partner first and left her scarred—and disappointment—in himself, in the situation, in the world in general. He didn't blame her anymore, though…Cold was autistic, not stupid. "He d'serves to be beaten," Ghost groused into his sweaty shoulder.

"And tortured," Cold added matter-of-factly.

"And castrated..."

"With a spoon." She snorted at the mental image, finally smiling again, even if it was a little weak.

"A dull one?" she asked finally emerging from his neck to meet his eyes. Her eyes burned from drying salt and throbbed from the slight change in light—a sure sign her pupils were still constricted from the rush of adrenaline—but the slight upward tilt of her husband's whisker-bordered lips soothed the sting.

"Nah," he teased, releasing her with a teasing pat on the rear. "Let'im suffer—use that screwy-sharp-pointy-spoon-thingamabob."

"Ya mean a grapefruit spoon?" Ghost supplied slyly as they went about cleaning up her mess. "That's...incredibly awesome. Scoop those puppies out a lil' at a time'n go back to scrape the sac clean!" Sure enough, Cold winced at the mental image, but he grinned at her. He opened his mouth to fire off another even more disturbing mental image—after all, this wasn't their first 'torture Walker' contest—but she turned away and knelt to hold the dustpan. Sure enough, his eyes were immediately drawn from the dirt to her over-plump posterior and his brain ceased functioning, leaving him standing there staring like an imbecile. "It was your hair...I didn't expect it to be so short."

"Blame Mom," Cold answered sullenly, finally shaking off the 'power of the pudge' and fulfilling his end of the bargain with the broom. "I agreed to be kidnapped, not shaved."

"She wouldn't cut it if ya'd take care of it." She fought a grin at the familiar argument and the sulky expression he always wore when it came up. "Ya've got such gorgeous curls, Hon…really ought'a take care'f'em."

"Fuggoff."

"You first."

"Maybe later."

"What'd'ja do?" The sudden demand—halfway between irritable and sarcastic—froze Ghost in her tracks. The office door hung open and her pizza-deprived partner stood pointedly in the doorway, arms crossed and his expression flat.

"Uh…do?" she echoed back hurrying toward him with a forced grin. "Did I lock Heffy-butt in here?" The last few steps revealed Donatello standing silently by the window closest to the papasan chair, his expression torn between offense and embarrassment. The heavy floor-length curtains and gauzy sheers lay pooled at his feet, evidence that he overestimated the security of the hardware. Heifer sat on those drapes too frequently for the already wimpy tension rods to have held.

"There's a mutant nerd in there!" Crap. "Screw how ya managed it, why didn'ya at least pick Raph or Mikey, or even that stick-ass Leo? Mikey's a gamer, Raph's entertaining as Hell, an' even Leo has experience with pointy objects! I could'a shown'im my blades! Why this guy?" With every word, Donnie's cheeks grew darker and darker, and his eyes narrowed into a more blatant glare. Earlier, he was ready to give the loud-mouthed blond the benefit of the doubt; now he felt like finding a way to 'accidentally' electrocute him. Not for the first time, Ghost found herself staring at Cold in blatant disbelief, wondering how on earth his strange little mind worked.

"Wait," she demanded of her husband. "There's a six foot talking ninja turtle in my office, I clearly hid him here, an' all you care about's that he's not fun? —and somehow it's my fault he's here?! –and I somehow managed to choose which turtle to drag here against his will?!" Her arms spread wide in a 'da fuck?!' gesture, she scoffed.

"Well, yeah," Cold answered as though pointing out the obvious. "It's Donnie—of course you dragged his ass here." Off-kilter blue eyes rolled at the unspoken. "If it was anyone else, I'd know it was an accident." In the awkward silence that filled the room, one could even have heard a hiccup from a world on a dust speck clearly. Not recognizing that awkward silence—or perhaps wanting to make it even more awkward—Cold added in a huff, "Ya don't clear your browser history…perv."

That did it. Without even bothering to disguise her intentions—or the raging blush spanning from her hairline to her neckline—Ghost stomped up to her husband and thwacked him on the back of the head Mikey-style.

"Let's get some things straight, Assmunch," she ground out while he whined and pouted. "One, look in the fuckin' mirror before ya call someone a perv—I've seen how ya drool over that Jehovavilch gal!" Without pausing to let the sting fade—or let him correct her on Mila Jovovich's (intentionally butchered) name—she launched right into the next, ticking the points off on her fingers. "Two, I did not drag him here or have anything to do with him being here! I was s'prised as he was! Three, if I was so Mary-Sue-Rageous that I could literally drag someone from another world into ours, do ya really think I'd be fuckin' unemployed?! I'd'a dropped Jabba-the-Fraggin'-Hut in that scumbag's livin' room when he decided to stop payin' me for the work I was doin'!" Finally a reaction from Cold—granted, it was a blink, but it was a start. "Four, if I could do somethin' that awesome, I'd totally be abusin' that shit—I'd'a yanked Walker out'a our world an' dumped'im in Gollum's pit—or Voldy-dork's playroom—or a friggin' Barney episode for God's sakes! I'd torture his screwed up sadistic carcass beyond recognition!"

Suddenly, it became clear to her that she was deadly serious instead of being sarcastic…and she was only a few decibels from a harpy shriek. Even Cold, who normally could listen to her rant and rave for hours on end with little more than a shrug and 'meh,' was cringing slightly. She probably looked crazy…time to wrap it up. "…and five?" All the fingers ticked off and closed, she gave her husband a half-assed sock to the shoulder. "Lay off'a the genius a'ready. Brains trump brawn, knucklehead." She shot said genius a chagrined smile and bodily turned Cold around in the hallway, and without further ado, physically herded him to the kitchen.

"Yeah, for zombies," Cold shot back. Another brainduster.

"Say you're sorry, Cold!"

"I'm sorry, Cold!" As the eccentric and incredibly immature couple bickered their way out of earshot, Donatello stared at the empty doorway in disbelief. A timely murr-OW! from the desk chair drew his attention. Heiferlump sprawled precariously along the top of the narrow back monorail style, with her eyes locked on him as though eager to continue their 'chat.'

"Good grief," Donnie muttered reaching out to scratch Heifer's dirty white chin. "Here I felt crazy for talking to you." Another closed-eyed-whiskers-arched ack! told him she didn't blame him…and warned him the insanity was only just beginning.

 WARNING: Long-ass notes to follow, feel free to skip or skim unless you have a question!

     NOTES in order of occurrence  

*Landscape around the house: This part is fictional—Cold and I are too bleepin' poor to own our own home and are currently living in a loft apartment sandwiched between a noisy nympho, a screaming baby, a chronically-drunk frat boy, ONE pair of good, quiet neighbors, and at least two families with under-supervised teenagers. It would literally take a double homicide for us to be able to afford a house—especially since the housing market blew up after a large percentage of the homes in town were trashed by storms. Anyway, the NON-fictional part is that this area is somewhat like the one I lived in as a teen. For those unfamiliar with the terms: A tree stand can mean a hunting blind mounted in a tree, OR it can mean an area of forested land left to grow wild. River bottoms or just bottoms are usually a low, flat, undeveloped area bordering a body of water. Normally these fallow lands are very much in the flood plain and border 'cricks' or creeks and are intentionally left undeveloped because of their risky location and frequent marshiness. Some bottoms, like the ones described, were built up so railway lines could go through them without dealing with buildings and such. Either way, public wooded areas, bottoms, and especially remote areas adjacent to train tracks, are dangerous places you don't want to go rooting around in without packing some serious heat. **Regarding the 'haunted house' bit: Jokes aside, yes, Cold and I BOTH have personally experienced brushes with 'ghosts,' I DID grow up in a house that turned out to be pretty legitimately HAUNTED, and in both my case AND his, what we saw, heard, and experienced was also seen, heard, and experienced by many others, both familiar and completely strange. In my case, that means my family, the family we sold the house to, AND the ones THEY sold the house to, who seemed to be toughing it out, and a few friends of all three of those families. In Cold's case, everyone who worked at the same late-night grab-and-go diner his mother did while he was a kid, half the regular customers, visiting family of staff, and on occasion, an unfortunate person delivering stock and supplies. None of the persons who regularly experienced the 'hauntings' were experiencing any psychological impairments or under the influence. I won't go into further detail here because people tend to get bent out'a shape over the debate between 'hallucinations' and 'honest-to-bog paranormal activity.' If anyone asks about it, I'll post the specs on my forum and add a link. For the record, I'm STILL not convinced my house was haunted, even after so many other people experiencing the same stuff; still, my mother and I are only two of dozens of former residents who wouldn't return there for the life of us. I'd rather face the zombies, thanks. ;) ***To many who live here, Missouri is a wonderful, beautiful, ecologically diverse place that we wish we could share with the world, but we often wind up ignoring or even completely MISSING things that appall outsiders...like how the overwhelming majority of Missourians are law-abiding and not brain-dead, but the whole state REEKS because of the few who AREN'T law abiding and ARE brain-dead AND making drugs. S.M.H. ****'ANLoL was an exercise that became an epic.' – There, ya have it, the ugly truth behind A New Lease on Life. Flames, rants, whatever, I'll take'em, but I stand by my statement—it IS NOT a self-insert and has not BEEN a self-insert since before it even became a TMNT story. #Frank Sinatra "That's Life." I usually wind up playing swing, jazz, and similar music while cooking—LOTS of Sinatra and Michael Buble!—and classic rock while cleaning. (Quiet Riot, Survivor, and all those awesome classics you just never hear on the radio!)

"Character" rundown in order of appearance

Ghost Chance – That would be yours truly, the odd little duck who brought you A New Lease on Life, ANLoL: Gallery of Memories, the Moments in Time series, and Little Moments. I have an incredibly dirty mind that is ALWAYS swan-diving gleefully into the gutter and a tendency toward being predominantly unfiltered. I WILL be AWKWARD. Hubby and I are both pretty immature, overly emotional, and very loud; we both have major potty-mouth and smartassery problems and frequently get into spontaneous 'insult contests' and 'smart-off contests,' and our favorite petnames for each other are insults. Honestly, we curse WAY more in real life than you'll see here and we spend almost every moment together play-fighting and bantering. We do NOT have children and WILL NOT have children because we'd probably be HORRIBLE parents.

Heiferlump Chance – our incredibly fat and even more incredibly talkative tabby cat. Often referred to by any number of nicknames – including but not limited to Heifer, Heffy-butt, and Fat Lump – she is a blonde tabby with pale green eyes and is a total attention whore. She NEVER shuts up. She has been known to approach people who 'don't talk to animals’ because 'that's crazy' or 'they don't understand anyway'…and drag them into long, loud, and increasingly vehement arguments with her. She's primarily well behaved, as she's getting on in her years, and is way smarter than anyone gives her credit for. She sometimes does tricks for treats.

Woozle Thomas – our other cat, slightly less fat but still obese. Woozle is younger than Heifer and is white with bright reddish-orange splotches and freaky-vibrant copper-orange eyes. He's fussy, hyperactive, often goes from clingy to lemme-go at the drop of a hat, tends to beat up his 'sister,' and has anxiety problems…and unfortunately, incontinence issues. He also has a habit of wandering the hallway wailing as though lost; when this happens, Cold or I respond as described, and he comes bounding into the room as though he was actually lost.

Walker – Cold's predecessor by several years. Walker started off a model young man and gave off no red flags until I was living on my own. Once my folks weren't around to interfere, he became increasingly controlling, irrational, aggressive, and eventually, violent. I have apparently blocked the worst memories from our relationship and frankly, if they haven't returned in going on ten years, they can STAY blocked.

Cold Thomas – Cold is my lifemate, my partner, and in everything but name and paper, my husband; we've been together for almost a decade but have our reasons for not getting legally married. Cold is mildly autistic—he has high-functioning Aspberger's—and was raised non-autistic. Perhaps because he didn't know about it until a few years back, he learned to work around his oddities and cope with them well. He is incredibly fluent in saracasm and turning words around, and is a bona-fide smartass with major potty mouth.

     Glossary:  

I’ve replicated Cold’s and my IRL speaking habits here almost perfectly, but with one change: I’ve made it more understandable. What you’ve read so far is actually a lot more understandable than what usually comes out of our mouths, especially mine.

Guch – a generic 'ick' word. Starts with 'guh' and ends with phlegm.

'is'mornin' – this morning

Quitcher - Quit your

Tha'son'va'bitch – crying-snot-nose-speak for 'that son of a bitch'

Fuggoff – Fuck off

Voldy-dork - Voldemort