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ashestoashesjc · 4 years

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A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend Take A Hike

Short Story 1/2/3/(4)/5/6/7/8/9/10

Relax. Relax. Inhale, exhale; you know the routine. This isn’t the first time you and Sett have been alone with unsuspecting humans. Just the first time where the goal has been for everyone to leave as alive as when they arrived. Simple.

Jen had texted the directions to The Goovenmeyer Hiking Trail, a public entrance to Goovenmeyer Forest, days before the planned excursion was to take place, and so Ulrick had just as much time with which to let his irrational worries ferment.

In the logical portion of his elixir and glyph-addled mind, Ulrick knew there was nothing to worry about. That forming normal, healthy friendships was good for Sett. Good for both of them. But a nagging splinter dug at a place he couldn’t reach.

He tried to disguise his busy hive of thoughts, but Sett, of course, caught on to the minuscule valley made from his dipping eyebrows, the tightness of a face steeped in sullen contemplation.

"You seem stressed,” Sett signed, retrieving a sealed, plastic package from his bomber jacket. “Beef jerky?"

"Where'd you get beef jerky?" asked Ulrick. He took a short pause. "And you don't eat?"

"Yeah, I know," Sett signed. "It's more for the atmosphere."

Sett stabbed one of the leathery sticks at his masked mouth, but seeing it fail to improve Ulrick’s mood, returned it to its pouch and put an arm around his shoulder.

“Really, what’s up?” signed Sett with his available hand.

“It’s stupid.”

“It never is.”

Ulrick let out a rolling sigh. He stood from their seat at the bench and paced about the entrance of the hiking trail. “Supermarkets in the dead of night, deserted movie theaters, dates on moonlit rooftops. I did those things to protect us, yes, but it was also because…” He looked to Ulrick. “I like when it’s just the two of us. I’m selfish that way.”

The mask covered Sett’s face, but Ulrick could imagine the goofy, tilted grin underneath from the light shining in his eyes. It urged half a smile out of him before his paranoia could steal back its throne.

“That’s changing now, and that’s fine, and I’m happy for you. But a small part of me can’t help but wonder…”

“Wonder...?” “What would they do if they knew?”

“Knew what?” came a familiar voice from behind them, where a small parking area accommodated an RV, the boys’ rusted red jalopy, and a newly arrived blue sedan.

It was Jen, followed closely by a backpack-lugging Diane, looking equally curious.

"That..." started Ulrick, feeling the vacuum of space closing in around him, sucking the air from his lungs.

"That we've never been hiking before,” Sett cut in with lightspeed fingerwork. “Didn't want you to look down on us rookies."

Ulrick could not have managed to look at Sett with more gratitude. "Cat's out of the bag, I guess."

"Ha! Don't you pink bellies worry about that. Everyone's a first timer once,” chortled Diane.

“Yeah, except you, Di. You were born an outdoorswoman.”

Exaggerating a shocked expression, Diane said, “That ain’t true! I was born a Led Zeppelin fan, and everything else has been window dressing.”

Then Jen snorted, not dissimilarly to the way Diane had when the four had met. Ulrick wondered who’d picked it up from whom.

“Well!” Jen said, clapping her hands together. “Di might have a compass for a brain, but I have something just as good.” She reached into a pocket of her explorer shorts and brought out a smartphone, plastered in psychedelic peace-symbol stickers. “A compass on my cell phone.”

“And I’ve read about a few sights off the beaten path that we’ve just got to check out,” she said. “Y’know, time permitting.”

“Oh yeah, wandering blindly into the unfamiliar wilderness. That’s never gotten anyone brutally murdered,” scoffed Ulrick.

Jen suddenly placed her hands on Ulrick’s shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes, her voice silvery and therapeutic. “I see you, I hear you, I feel you,” she said, each emphasized syllable accompanied by a gentle shoulder clap.

A stammered “Uh…” was the only response Ulrick could muster.

Turning back to the trail ahead, she began marching. “And we’re off!”

Irregular stone slabs acted as their guide into the forested incline, but it wasn’t long before they and the beaten path were old acquaintances. Really, it seemed like they’d forgone any path at all, intended or otherwise, as they squeezed past vine-twisted tree trunks, maneuvered around prickly poisonous bushes, crossed rushing, turbulent streams.

From the clearing at which they found themselves, the whispers of fast moving water could be made out. Jogging up to her position at the head of the group, Sett tapped Diane on the shoulder. “I’ll race you to the next stream,” he signed. Diane agreed with a haughty laugh as the two took off in a sprint. For having only a fraction of the functioning tendons, Sett kept up remarkably well but Diane’s calves were pistons. Jen and Ulrick shared in the rolling of eyes, and after they and Sett had all caught up to the race winner, their spirits were high. On their way over the stream in question, however - wide and deep, nearly a river - Ulrick’s foot missed its landing on the collapsed tree the group had fashioned into a bridge.

Before he had time to fully assess the situation or Sett’s hand had time to make contact with his, his mouth was flooded with water, and, as the remaining trio stood, frozen in shock, he was shooting rapidly down the violent torrent toward a sound of rushing water so massive, it took not a woodswoman to know what awaited him.

But it was their woodswoman, Diane, who ripped herself from her jacket, and dove into the frigid gnashing. Her legs beat with a polished verve that contrasted Ulrick’s desperate flails more strongly with every inch of the gap she closed. Then she’d passed him. Her legs kept pumping.

Only flashes of vision stolen between each blinding crash of the waves revealed to Diane the rock jutting up at her left. She paddled toward it as best she could, knowing she’d made it only when her hand was secured around firm granite.

She gasped for air, bobbed above and below water level, but managed to swing around with fingers outstretched nearly as far as they would go.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Now!

She grasped just the slightest bit further, used her legs to propel herself forward. For a microsecond, she was sure she’d waited too long, and then, almost in answer, felt her hand clasp around something bony and warm. “I got you!” she shouted over the scream of the rapids.

Diane, grip on the mossy boulder growing ever more tentative, soon found a hand around her own wrist as she and Ulrick were dragged, dripping and shivering, onto the gravelly shore.

The two gave haggard, drained, heaving breaths as Sett ensured they were entirely out of harm’s way, and Jen, sobbing, wrapped her arms around Diane’s neck.

“This better have been worth it,” Ulrick said when he was dry and warm enough to say anything at all. But when, at the supposed end of their expedition, Jen pulled aside a curtain of vines, what unfolded before them convinced Ulrick it just might have been.

Ahead, a narrow cavern, lined virtually floor-to-stalactite-riddled-ceiling with glowing, blueish-green mushrooms, tinted each of the four’s awe-stricken faces the very same alien hue. The spotted fungi curved up proudly from their places inset in the stony walls, as if to say, This is our home, and you are right to be astounded. And they were.

Their jaws were still slack as they made their way out of the small, magical cave, crossed the fallen tree over angry waves, avoided the alluring embrace of stinging nettle. It was by the third time they’d encountered the same twisty, knotted elm, however, that their wonderment had begun to give way to weary impatience.

"We're not lost. I know exactly where we are," Jen said, yanking free her phone from her pocket. She glanced at the screen for a brief moment and then announced, "We're lost. I have no idea where we are."

She turned the blank screen to the other three, audibly clicking the 'power' button. "My phone must have died."

“Don’t fret; there’s no guarantee it’ll stay that way,” signed Sett.

“Your optimism is so refreshing!” Jen said with a happy sigh.

A ragged groan escaped Diane. "Why didn't you charge it last night?"

"Why didn't you remind me to charge it? You know I always forget. And you knew we were going on a hike, too. So irresponsible," Jen said, shaking her head.

"You!" laugh-shouted Diane before she took off to chase a now-squealing Jen through the isolated wooded area in which they found themselves until they’d run out of sight.

Ulrick rolled his eyes, "God, is that what we look like?"

Walking over and sitting next to Ulrick on a log, Sett lowered his mask, gnawed a piece of beef jerky, gave a series of loud smacks, and his head a shake. "Gffrrra rmmrrr. <Heck nah. We're way cuter,>" he spat, shooting out dried, fibrous bits.

Ulrick’s eyes squinted instinctively to avoid the meat spray. I love this man, he thought dreamily.

"Grgrrrgrr. <Wow, this really tastes better raw,>" he grunted, hocking grisly chunks onto the ground. He handed Ulrick the bag of dehydrated cow bits. "Grgrrr rgrrrRRr. <Here. Can't even look at them.>"

"But you know..." said Ulrick, depositing the package into a coat pocket. "Apart from almost going over a waterfall, ending up hopelessly lost, and getting poison ivy in places I’d rather not mention, this honestly hasn't been the worst."

"GrrrRr? <Great, even?>"

"Let's not get carried away."

Then, a scream. And not of the marital variety. A murder of crows poured out over the treetops.

Ulrick and Sett looked to each other, and then, at once, took off after the sound.

What they discovered upon following the shriek was a somewhat cozy recess, marred only by an edge of burnt, toppled trees, the result of a recent firestorm, and by an eight-foot behemoth of teeth and rage that now cornered a comparatively small Diane and Jen, the latter shaking in the protective arms of the former.

The bear hadn’t noticed their arrival and Sett, without making a sound, used the advantage to pick up a sizeable rock and sneak behind the foam-mouthed beast. He lobbed the stone directly at its head.

“What are you doing!” Ulrick whispered tightly.

Sett began signing, “While it’s distracted, get them--” but couldn’t complete the thought as a freight train concentrated in the size of a burly paw forced the words from his fingers and sent his body flying like a limp doll into the shattered, splintery remains of ruined trees.

The broken spikes tore through his chest; the bow of a vessel emerging through fog.

Like a marionette, strings severed, Jen instantly collapsed.

"Se--!" Ulrick very nearly screamed, before Di's hand clapped over his mouth.

"Bad time to scream," she whispered, eyes hovering between the bear and Jen’s supine, unconscious form.

Drool dripped in strings from the bear's growling, vibrating maw as it decided who it would first maul, and Ulrick's eyes zipped erratically from rock to branch for anything to offer aid or solace. But the only thing his eyes fell to were the bits of chewed jerky Sett had earlier discarded.

By the time the thought had wormed its way into his consciousness, he was already hands-deep in a jacket pocket. When the hand reappeared, it gripped Sett's parcel of 100% American USDA-approved beef jerky. Almost immediately, the bear was rapt.

“Go...” Ulrick said, collecting his indomitable fear and anger into a single swing, “...get it!”

And then the package was sailing overhead, deeper into the forest, a ton of muscle and fur and claw galumphing off single-mindedly after it.

The moment the bear had trudged out of sight, Ulrick and Diane were on the rush to Sett’s impaled, lifeless body. The jagged, wooden knives protruding through his chest were painted at their ends by a dark liquid that might have been dried blood, but for its smell.

“I don’t know if we should…” started Diane, but Ulrick was already beneath one of Sett’s arms, knees bent to allow himself leverage and traction. He shoved and heaved and grunted but barely did the large mass of man budge.

Sweat gathered in rivulets at Ulrick’s forehead as his strain and frustration and sorrow mounted. Each push of his feet left a deeper rut in the ground where there’d once been grass.

“Well?” he cried to Diane, still struggling, wet eyes reflecting the falling light.

Sighing at the futility of it all, she nonetheless took her place under the other of Sett’s armpits. And the two, though it seemed to take a small, tense forever of bone-fatiguing, swear-filled thrusts, hoisted free Sett’s immobile cadaver from the gnarled, blackened teeth of Mother Nature.

They’d laid him down on the ground, Ulrick himself sprawled out and breathing heavily, not accustomed to the extent of physical exertion, when Diane decided, without Ulrick’s notice, that Sett’s damaged clothes had to be removed, his wounds cleaned and dressed, if he stood any slim chance of recovery.

Ulrick looked up, but too late, and the expression stapled to Diane’s face as he saw himself through her eyes was one he knew he’d never forget.

"Look,” Ulrick said, standing but making sure not to venture any closer. “Let's get out of the forest alive and... I'll tell you everything, okay?"

Diane hadn’t peered up at him once since they’d dislodged Sett’s body from the tree, and she didn’t start now.

"Okay," she said at length.

Polaris guiding her path, alongside the occasional stop to confirm by way of western-pointing spiderwebs her directional accuracy, Diane led the wiped, half-unconscious quartet of hikers back, after an arduous trek through an unkind night, back to their fabled starting point, her carrying Jen bridal-style, Sett slung over her and Ulrick’s shoulders. Woodswoman, indeed.

"I'd hoped I would come up with a good excuse on the way here, or that we'd just die first, which would have admittedly been easier,” said Ulrick as they approached the entrance, feeling Diane’s eyes wearing down on him.

"And?” she said.

"And I didn't come up with a good excuse. There isn't one. You should know the truth. Sett's..."

A grumbling between them alerted them to Sett’s slow reentrance into the world of the conscious, though not of the living. Ulrick clasped Sett's face in his hands, the two falling to their knees. Sett smiled, the black muck smudged about his features like a Rorschach.

"I missed you, too," Sett signed groggily, bringing tears to the corners of Ulrick's eyes.

"Let's sit him down," Ulrick suggested, wiping water away, a streak of the muck lingering on his cheek.

As they began to lift him away, Sett craned his neck up to Diane and gave a weakly signed, “Thank you.”

On the wooden bench sitting outside the trail’s entry point, Jen and Sett were positioned next to each other, asleep, head resting on head; and farther back, inside the trail itself, where the trees loomed tall and close, where they couldn’t be overheard, stood Ulrick and Diane, the wordlessness tangible.

Crickets chirped listlessly in the background. Fireflies drew unplanned paths through humid night air. The absence of sound, of chatter, of life, meant to swallow them completely, make the unsaid forever unsayable.

When Diane, after a silent eternity, uttered, looking at no one, “I know what he is.”

Nothing moved.

“I heard about him staying underwater for goddamn near an hour back at the resort. I thought... maybe he's just good at holding his breath." Diane gave a short, mirthless laugh, seemingly at herself. "Then, today."

She paused, and after what felt like a long while, finally said, "That tree should've killed him, and we both know it. And that blood. That…” She stopped.

“Whatever it was, it wasn't blood...”

Pointedly looking to Ulrick, who couldn’t bring himself to look back, she said, “You wondered what would happen if we knew. Well, now I know. I know what he is."

Ulrick said nothing. There was nothing to say, and his silence was all the confirmation she needed.

"What I want to know is,” she said, tone betraying no particular emotion, “how you did it."

"What?” Ulrick said, looked up in confusion as if he’d heard the words wrong. “How I..."

"How you brought him back. I want to know how."

"It's... it's an ancient art. You don't just do it. You need years of training."

The response took a second of thought, and then, as if it’d been obvious, Diane said, "Then you do it. Bring someone back for me."

"That's... not a good idea,” Ulrick said.

She blew air from her nose. "Oh, but bringing Sett back. That was a good idea?"

"That was different,” Ulrick retorted too quickly.

"How?” She was then looking him gravely in the eyes. “How was it different?"

His gaze darted to the busy forest floor. "It... just was."

"Huh,” said Diane, a sound and a sentiment. As if the conversation had ended there, she turned and straightened her leather jacket.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Sorry I asked. Don't worry about it." At that, Diane began to make her departure toward the entrance and the parking lot, where only the red and blue cars remained.

"You…” said Ulrick to her back, unable to will himself to move. “You won't tell anyone about us, will you?"

Diane paused, pretended not to hear him and then continued to exit when, just before she left the small copse of trees forever to return to Jen, unawares, dozing peacefully on the bench, to her life, to her own devices, Ulrick called out.

"Wait," he nearly whispered, and Diane stopped in her tracks, not turning around. His fists balled at his side. "Okay... fine. I'll do it."

"I'll resurrect someone for you."

#A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend #A Necromance #short story #original #series #supernatural #wlw #mlm #queer #fiction

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denotday · 3 years

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Maybel Rhodes: Protectress

Itchy arms. My armbumps bumps take over life and chew my head off like a black mother. Even the sleeves of this sweater craddle these potholes as an english muffin craddles butter. But I'm more than my bumps and I'd make a quip on Fergie, but I'm no Joan Rivers. I'm small, meager. At eighteen, trying to find myself, live my own life. Typical teen drama, boring narrative, sob story. bored already. But know what isn't boring? I like strawberry shortcake and cheeseless pizzas. I have hopes of becoming a journalist and actually leading a career as moreof a Clark Kent than a Mary Jane or whatever the fuck that bitch's name is. Mary Anne? That used to be the name of one of my teachers. Going off; just thinking these thoughts while skateboarding to highschool.

Stay on the sides, away from cars, on the sidewalk, not too close to the white kids. White kids mean white mess, white messes mean cops who sweep the streets and take all the black kids with them in the process. I'm not a racist, just a black kid trying to stay alive in white america. Thank god I'm a weak bitch, one who cries for black men, one who doesn't face real issues like projected aggression. I'm a butterfly, something that men swat away and don't care about until MeToo movements. Gotta be careful but not too careful, kind but not too kind, firm but not a bitch, bitch but not a faggot. faggots suck.

No one thinks to ask these questions, here this thoughts. They see a black woman, better yet, a black female child. Worse thing to live in a ghetto. Sike; I say that I'm black and in a ghetto and get sob points. Fucking racist. I'm skating to one of those Fresh Prince schools. Didn't move on up, I'm simply moving; parents are mid class well grounded and guess what? My parents are still together. Probably breaking up soon but still breaking barriors of broke baby daddies and black slutty whore mothers who don't believe in abortion.

That's humor in of itself. A black kid skates into a white neighborhood with white sidewalks and doesn't have a nigger daddy and nigger mommy. What can be said by those PTA suburban soccer moms who want to demonise me and my own? Or am I palatable and a token black?

Making good grades, going to class on time. Only thing is, I don't have any friends to call. Even if I had one of those top quality iPhone 411s, I still wouldn't want to burden myself with filling up those high-techy contact lists. It's all bullshit after all, just capitalistic bilge. Something to fill the void without actually trying to let the public know that the void they're filling chalks up to capitalism. But again, those little tangents? "What does this have to do with having friends?" Everything. I don't give a shit, I accept shit. I tell things like it is, speak with lisps or change it up by sounding like an oxford professor.Not going to just abandon stream of consciousness 'cause class just started. This aint sims 4 and life ain't something that can be controlled; sped up or slowed down for the sake of an other's pleasure. I'm learning about shit that I'll never use like economics. That's shit that the government gives the state to teach, a little but not enough for highschoolers to overwhelm the system and decide "fuck student loans".

Not too bad here, though. Not all just "fuck hyschool" and teenaged angst. I go to the library, read books, go on my computer, listening to some Biggie and MFDoom and Tribe. Guess I am a nigger. Nigger-me and my nigger music. Even tththough it's they inspiration for they cracker music. Hate on us enough to keep us down but keep us up enough to steal from us. Today I'm reading some teen dystopian fantasy novel that I don't feel inclined to share with you guys. And no, it's not Hunger Games. It's Gunger Hames, the cousin of the franchise. Whoops just gave ya'll the name sorry. Either way I'm into that. Idea of a not-so-distant-future; humans making mistakes that fuck up the planet---disregarding that fact long enough so that the white main character can get it on with someone from the other side. Modern day Romeo and Juliett.

End of lunch, going back to class. It's back to back all day; boring teen shit that nobody cares about. Raising hands, answering questions, not understanding anything by the end of the day. Getting by is my motto. Long enough to get an A in the class and be on those ivy league watchlists. Even if I have to bust my ass to pay for student loans. Leaving highschool after all that non-work---no friends to lie to, no one to walk with, just me and my skateboard. These white paths not dirtied by brown except for my dirt body moving at the speed that a skateboard will go. Shift right here and there. Move away from rocks so that I don't fall headfirst. It's good shit. Here and there there are stone pebbles, blunts from---ironically enough--- the white kids and sharp object that I can't identify. FUCK. I don't have time to move around it and I can't just run offf. My leg'll get cut by it. Gotta just build up enough speed to roll over. Rolling...rolling...here it comes. Crouch down, focus, focus, pump speed anddddd....it stops my speed and loosens one of my bearings. Now I gotta walk the rest of the way back to my white little house with a white picket fence. Man screw--haha pun---this object. I have to use my 20/20 vision to find some small silver bolt that'll practically blend in with this bright ass sidewalk. Fuck white America.

In a little patch of weeds growing like black fists raising in the air I see the bolt and the responsible party for tossing me off the board. I raise my foot to crush this sonnofabiscuit like a bug so that some white kid's bike tire doesn't get licked---mind you this should be considered community service---and I figure that I won't ruin my rubber soles on the glass, so I'll just pick it up and toss it into the sewer. I put the bolt in my sweatpants pocket to keep it safe. I bend over again to peer at the crack in the sidewalk that I'll punt to the other side of the street where the other half of the street lives. It has tribal markings on it and must be, gasp, an ancient arcane ruin that'll give me superpowers. Kidding, you dumb bitch. "Why am I talking to myself this way? Jeez, some self-improvement classes would be nice". It's a bracelet made of some sort of beads. Kindof pretty but caked up with dirt and sand like no-one's business. I'm no Rocket Racoon so I just leave it. Even if I felt that it was interesting enough, I'd have to clean it off and disinfect it. It would just ruin the material underneath. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Hm. Lemme stop; for real, in this white bread neighborhood, I might be able to get it appraised and pawn it off for some money or at the very least, see if it's worth keeping. I know; "this is the start of every horror movie", every tv show. I get it, but I'll cleanse the jewelry before wearing it. It's fine. It's fine. Hope it's fine. Jeez.

I put the bracelet in my other pocket away from the bolt and walk back home. The soles of my feet hit the white pavement and my feet move in the fashion of jubillee ferris wheels. Slowly rise in a circle, fall in perfect arch. Walking is divine poetry in of itself. Not too long now. A little further. Feels like the day is stretching. Still light outside and the summer-brink of fall--air is warming my rectum. "Oh god, what's with gays and their rectums". You know your g-spot is in your ass, men. It feels good for us too you know. Nice coolness for the butthole----rectum is for men, butthole is for women. I think. See? Not a Cliff Huxtable type; don't know everything. Not an Urkle. Conversations with myself like this are truly golden (ponyboy).

Fondle the silver piece, twist it in lock, get somewhere new. Novel design, simple concept. My rubber soles give me cat-walking abilities and I edge up the stairs. Hear shuffling downstairs in the kitchen. But the smell of musky forest wood with a hint of olive tells me that it's just my father. I'd announce my presence but this isn't a sitcom and I have a phone that I can use to text. Who talks nowadays?

On the table near the keyrack, I scoop into my pockets in search of the goods. The warm cotton touches the cool silver bolt. Set it aside to attach it to the skateboard later. "Why not now?" That'll be a problem for me to solve tomorrow. "Procrastination isn't good" Yeah I know. I've read the same 1990's health pamphlet that the health teachers give out. I hug my side to reach around for the other pocket. Same warmth, same feeling of comfort except...it's a new sensation. Hollow and porous. It's either bone carved into beads or plastic. Hope to...Well, not God, maybe I hope to goodness? Goodness? What am I? A preacher? Maybe that's why I like 16 year old boys. Anyway. It's too white over here for it to be bone. Unless it's some cracker who brought over some hoodoo shit and dropped it somewere. Great. Gonna burn some incense to cleanse it. Then gonna toss it somewhere so that it can't hurt anyone. Wait. It doesn't FEEL menacing. No darkness, no coldness, there's a comfort to be had. I don't see any visible engravings, no bite marks no arcane symbols. It may be safe. Just to be sure, I'm keeping it downstairs for it to curse someone else in the house. I rise up the stairs into the wide landing. Step, rise, step, rise, step, rise. Before I get to the top, I feel funny. Not sick funny or CURSED funny, but someone-is-in-my-presence funny. Strech my neck to look over my shoulder. Not too far to show interest but far enough to see what's going on---it's my dad handling the bracelet.

I whip my body around and I suppose this gives him a start.

"Hey, just got back from school. I'm pretty tired which is why I didn't want to talk. Found that bracelet in the sidewalk cracks before my skateboard broke. I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Don't know if it's cursed or not."

"Cursed? Bee, this is a genuine Sudanese artifact."

"Huh? When'd you turn into a archeologist? Or are you just nerding out about a 'special interest'"

"Har har. Nothing like that. This area used to be an auction town for slaves shipped from Sudan. Martinsville, Pennsylvania wasn't necessarily known for it's 'clean hands' you know. Gentrification made the area look nicer but its history is still pretty shit-covered."

"Ah, I remember now. I heard about this in history class" No I haven't. I don't even have history. Just want to stop talking to him about some dumb bracelet. "Can it sell for big bucks at a pawnshop?"

"I mean, sure if you'd like to get rid of it. Better to give it to the local museum though! It looks to me like it's made out of elephant tusks. Pretty well preserved too! The wearer must've been some warrior. They only wear these types of jewelry if they're the village's protectors. That's what I've read online anyway. You know how the interweb is though. Could be false."

"Oh wow. Ivory? That's a pretty dirty trade. Don't want to give something like that up to white people who continue to promote the trade. This'll just make the ivory market worse. I may keep it; I just wonder if it's cursed or something. I'll ask a local witchcraft practitioner to check it out tomorrow. Can I have thirty bucks for an appraisal along with an after-school snack?"

"Thirty? What're you going to buy? A salmon dinner with asparagus and steak? I'm not giving you Carabbas money. I can do 18. Enough for some street food."

"Not enough for the appraisal!"

"I'm sure the person will be able to work something out for you. You look twelve. You can play the 'Uwu I'm a baby who has no money, please help me out adult!' card. Or, how about this: pretend to be doing a research project for school on Sudanese slaves in the area. Just act like the school lent you the bracelet for the project"

"So lie?"

"I call it embellishment."

"I see"

I reached into his calloused palm and stole its contents, As a thief, I ran upstairs away from the site of the crime, away from the demons that lurked beneath the stairs. That's customary practice when going up stairs, right? To haul ass like there's no tomorrow like we're that black chick from Scary Movie? Sounds about right. I heaved and ho'd swinging my body back and forth up the stairs. Snaking my way into my room where I burrow for my after-school nap. That's what I tell my parents anyway. What I really do is blaze up in my room and turn on the fan. Gotta keep the smoke minimal. "Such a typical teen". Yeah, whatever. Like your generation wasn't popping ass and drinking bathtub wine when ya'll were young, Get outta here.

It's a good high. Kind where you'd listen to lofi and eat peanuts just for the fun of it. Another bong hit. Satisfying. I'm just leaning back on my sofa; it's firm and uncomfy but when I'm blazed, don't none of it matter. I could lose all of my words...give up....let....go.....

"...."

"What is this energy I'm feeling? So warm and electric. Is this love? Am I so sexually frustrated that I'm in love with a bong? Shit, I fuck with that. That's pretty words. 'I'm in love with my bong'. Such nice love. haha."

I'm hungry and it's four am. The weed has worn off. So tired man. Gotta go downstairs for some chips or something. Hungry to the max. Munchies munchies munchies for the weed monster. What a drug.

I creep down the stairs and up once more. My bare footpads cling to the hardwood and leave sweat prints in the shape of my stompers. During my ascent I leave crumbs. Have the house feeling like a Brother's Grimm story. I satisfy my snack desires as I prepare for school in the next hour.

Running water on my arms. Three passes of lotion on arms and legs. Can't be the ashy black kid that look like they an African living in a dirt house. Ain't able to help the rough patches that coat my body but I can help keep my skin moisturized.

A'ight. Got my fit got my board. Just have to screw the bolt back on and find the bracelet. Shit. Left it upstairs. I'm already late as hell. Rushing up the stairs. Search for the bracelet, find it, get out house. Objectives objectives. I spot it from afar and gravitating toward it, put it gingerly in my pocket. Kindof like someone would with a used tissue. Aren't humans gross? I mean, snot? Bacteria-filled snot? Nasty. Thoughts gone, make brain go from thinking to doing. descending now. Board in arm, door opens with the flick of the wrist and just like that, I'm outty. Deck on ground I put my best foot forward and ram it onto the hard cement to push myself forward. Sorry foot, betrayals sure do suck.

School begins, in class siting in a chair. All day, several hours. Ah, the beloved system at work. Great to know that there are adults who "work" all day by keeping kids seated in a chair. Very progressive, America. Library break? I think so. On my laptop, I pull out webpages on the pocketed---the word reminds me of 'closeted---bracelet. NOW I'm imagining a gay bracelet. hilarious. Great. Typing 'Gay Bracelet' into the search bar and am getting rainbow plastic bands. Ya know, the ones that they sell at Hot Topic during pride month.

"Damn, I'm getting sidetracked" She mutters to herself. Imagine if life were a story being told by some omnipotent force? omnipresent? Think that's the word.

With a bit of typing and a bit of focus. Swift movement of hunched fingers. All is complete, then some. Ogdle: "common of the Azande warriors were pieces to signify their status such as septum tusks, mouth disks, necklaces and other adornments. Bones and tusks were common materials of such articles."

Crazy how this history is hidden. Power was taken from us and buried so deep. We're the originals but every piece of history buried underground. Hidden, secretive Big Bad America. Tale fit for young people all over. Democracy, boo yah.

Train whistle blowing through the air. No train nearby, just the sound of a change in the block. I put it all away, sweep it into my bag. Everything is so messy, so fast. On schooldays like this, it feels hard to even take time to breathe. But I get by since the system wants me to. Think I'm going to skip. Not that the next two classes even matter in the long run. "Such a poor black baby, representing her race so poorly". Yeah yeah. Not the black chick that highschools would put on a recruiting card.

Just another push....door after door falling at my fingertips. The same once that touch the coarse sandpaper of my board. Foot on, foot off. kick once, twice, thrice, now we surf the cement. Now it's time to visit good the kind old black woman who practices witchcraft on dolls. That's what you'd think right? No, they're native and keep old customs within the community. Everyone calls them---agender--- Sage. Nonbinary native americans are actually more common than people think.

Before selling the bracelet to some old rich white drudge of society, I wanna be sure that the bracelet can be cleansed first. I mean. To give away black history to the white man? Hellll no with multiple "l's". It is a pretty long ride there, even on a board. Rumbly road. Pebbles everywhere. Thousands of little rocks acting as smaller wheels vying to fling me off. It's too much.

Mumbling of my own. "Where's gentrification when you need it?" Alright, yes I get it. It's a bad joke. Of course gentrification is bad. Blah blah. Time to pick up my skateboard I guess. Walking on this ground feels just as bad as suicide. Feaful of getting my ass flung into the afterlife. Few yards left....or at least fifty feet. Forty eight, forty five, forty-however-long.

Ended up reaching it after twenty minutes. This trip better be worth it.

"Hi there, Miss Sage. Mind checking out this bracelet for me? I need to check it for a curse or evil energy. My cheap father didn't give me enough for a full appraisal but what can you do with nine dollars?"

"For nine? Not much, doll? What was your name again? You look young, do you have an adult's approval for this?"

"Oh, right. You've got me. It's for a school project. School each student a historical object to research. I figured you'd be able to help me get an 'A' on the project, you know?"

"Your manners are lacking but you seem young, so I'll let you pass. Allow me to take a look at it, if you please?"

God. Full-fledged adults really are something else. I'm only eighteen, not eight. Guess I look younger than I am----

Sage starts burning this wood that's tied with string. Incense maybe?

"That incense?"

"It's a closed practice really, so I don't want to expose anything. But it is a form of incense that I prefer to use to cleanse the spirit of objects and areas."

"Ah, didn't mean to intrude. I'm glad that there are still practices that you keep to yourself. Nothing like the White Man stripping us of our culture."

I got a soft chuckle out of them. Glad that they're able to lighten up a bit.

"..."

"OK, so here's what I've found. There's immense energy here; the power coming off of this thing is tremendous. There's nothing negative about this piece. How'd you ever come across it, again? School, you said? Shame that you'll have to give it back. Something like this would provide a large power surge to spirituals. I'd pay a pretty penny for this."

"Mhm"

"Wonder how the school even came across this. I tell you what. Ask your school where I can find something like this and perhaps I'll give you a little something for your intel, huh?"

"Oh. Sure. I'll just--uh---"

"Right, right, right. The bracelet, I'm sorry. Really, it's more an anklet truly, but--ya know what? I'm sorry. Here ya go"

"...take it from ya. Thanks."

"No problem. Come back with more info on the anklet. That'll be your payment for my time"

Got 'caught in a lie it seems. Don't know how I'll snake my way out of this one.

"Brrrrrzzzzz"

Shit, it's five. My dad's probably looking for me.

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

Chapter two:

" You skipped class? Bee, I know that you're better than this."

God moms bitch too much. Must be the nursing job coupled with her daily acting gigs that make her so aggro.

"I hear ya, mom. I just had some research to conduct after school..."

"Research? Which kind---?"

"The school kind. I don't know what else you want me to say. I'm sorry for skipping lasses. I got too overzealous and went in over my head. It won't happen again."

"Tskk. Better not. I know that I'm gone almost every hour of the day, but please give me a break, baby. Please just listen to your father and follow the rules. All I ask."

"Mhm, even though he-----you know what, nevermind. Am I dismissed? I have to write up today's school report to type"

Phew. Gonna hit the bong now to calm down from this encounter.

Fuck homework. .... ..... Mhm.

Five minutes passs. Fifteen, twenty. Maybe not minutes. hours? seconds? Time is too funny. With LEDs on, the vibe is fatallll. Still have to open a window to let out the smoke but gosh is this magical.

Mhm magic. Does it even exist? Doubt it. It's all science, right? ....

.....

Right. Like, this anklet. Not real power. Not real magic. Just something people believe in. Like God. It's all faith.

"So, theoretically, I could even put it on my person and nothing would even happen"

"And, so it begins"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT VOICE" and why am I screaming?

Get off, get off, get off! Something's dripping on me.

"Tears, they're tears"

Oh god, I fucked up. I knew that I shouldn't have smoked that much. Knew it'd bite me in the ass one day. Now I'm fear-crying. I NEVER FEAR CRY.

It's all a dream maybe. Go to sleep, Bee. Just take a weed nap.

"Ba ba bang"

A booming voice raspy from coffee withdrawal.

"Everything OK in there Bee? You're about to be late for school."

Shit!

No time for conversation. Move it move it move it.

"'Cmon Bee. I'll drop you off at school on my way to the college".

Bookbag? Check. Board? Check.

I feel the rush of air against my cheeks as I fly out the door and jump into the getaway car. Fast, but atleast I'm not Furious. Dad and I chat it up all the way until the tires cross the smooth pavement of school grounds. Departing words are exchanged along with "I love you's" and "knock 'em deads".

That familiar sound. Principal as the school conductor. "Chooo". Just as it drones, my body moves to the steps of teens dragging their feet toward their dreaded first classes of the day. The light of morning cradles the marble arches of the school entrance until the sun starts to suck in the morning cold to blow out midday warmth.

"So, who are you, voice? What's your angle? Typing ensues. The screen watches my fleeting pupils; left, right, side, side. Wouldn't be surprised if the computer got whiplash from me. One scroll, two, three. Read a page. Nothing. Another website. Up and down; my fingers are cramped now. Nada. New Oogdle search: "Can I hear voices with weed smoking." Now I have a hit; "yes weed can have you seeing voices. Many aren't even your own. Maybe lay off the TV for a while."

"Thanks 'BouncyNina29'. Quora is one hell of a place." Guess it must've just been the drugs then. Hilarious, me hearing some voice. "Gotta lay off the bong smoking".

"Shhh!!" Some nerd in a striped beanie raised a finger to pursed lips.

Sorry, sorry....Jeez. "My bad" You know what? Maybe I can visit----

the train whistle interrupts my 11pm "ball" with myself. "Dammit". OK. Maybe I can bribe one of the delinquents behind the school to take my place in English. Teacher's not there anyway; the sub won't know the difference. Time to go pay someone off.

"..."

"Here ya go, five dollars."

"A'ight and you said what room that English class in?"

"301 B man. It's at the end of the third floor, right wing. Hard to miss and---remember---my name is Maybel Rhodes. Just fake like you're doing some work and no one will even notice that you're not me. I'm a loner, so, that'll work."

"Mhm hmm. I hear ya Maple"

"MayBEL"

"Yeah, that's what I said"

Scoff. In a smooth curvular motion, I plant my feet on the board and race to Sage's before their store closes.

As I approach, they're putting a silver key in a lock. Gah! The store closed.

"Miss Sage---"

"Gah! Don't do that!! Scaring me and sh--I mean, 'crap'. Scaring me and crap. Look kid, I'm closed right now but we open tomorrow. By then, I'll have the energy to discuss your school's anklet with you. Actually, about that. Do you have intel on where the-----"

"Yes, yes. About that, see...I lied. I didn't really get it from the school. I found it on the ground somewhere."

"'Found it on the ground somewhere' is code for 'I don't have money to pay nor do I have anything else to provide'? Am I getting warmer?"

"Look Miss Sage, I'm really sorry. Hey---look at it this way. I'm in debt to you. If you'll just help me with one teensy little thing, I'll ask my dad for some food money and will give you every cent he gives, alright?"

"Kid, that's not how an adult runs a business. Call what I gave you yesterday a 'freebie'. You're banned from the store. Good night."

Wait. "Wait" Their stride is aimed toward their silver camry. Yeah, I know a camry. Did you expect them to be riding a horse? Racist. Sage acts as though they don't hear and gets into their seat, key in ignition. One twist away before exiting the rocky parking area.

"IT SPOKE TO ME" Yup. That is how I yelled it. All caps, woke some birds up even. Just like in those Loony Toon cartoons. Is that why they're called "Loony Toons" 'cause they're loony cart----

Now they exit their car, slamming the heavy metal door. "What did you say? It...SPOKE...to you? What do you mean 'it'?"

Mhm Mhm. Just prepping my throat. "I wore it on my ankle and I heard a voice that has never existed before in the chasms----"

"Stop the theatrics"

"....Chasms of my mind. It was a male. Around your age in old-timey-ness."

"Har har."

"But it's the truth!" Why won't they believe a magical voice but insist that sage, a random plant, purifies the air?

Their chest contracts and expands in a sigh. Sage closes their eyes for a second. I could practically smell the gears turning. Need some WD-40, really. "Fine. Come by the store Saturday. That way, no one will be in to eavesdrop."

"Deal!"

"And bring actual MULA this time or else we won't have our little discussion". Crud.

"...."

"What are you thinking Sage?" No response. I paid one hundred fifty dollars for this after BEGGING both my folks (who think I'm using it to enroll in some after school sport) to slide me some cash so that I can 'better myself as an individual and actually do something with my time as well'. Lies are no good.

"Shh! Let me think, please!" Sage subverts their attention from me back onto the tarot cards laid in front of them----exactly where the bone anklet (bonklet) lay in silence

Ten minutes pass before Sage gives me the break down. "So, as I've said before. The anklet carries some heavy energy, something similar to passion and justice. Very potent stuff. That's what the spirit realm is saying, anyway. When you were---ahem--- HIGH----"

At this point I look away

"...You honed into that energy and that's why you heard the voice"

"Hm. So, how do I hone in on that energy now? Is it something I can control conscious?"

"Look, I dunno kid. Just, be safe. Meditate beforehand so that you are actually able to chime into the anklet's power source. Don't want to darken the talisman's power or anything."

"Sure, sure" I am literally out the door before Sage utters the second part of their sentence. I buzz with excitement at the opportunity and the best part is? I'm basically a super! Hoo ho. This is awesome.

There's an empty industrial facility near by Hawesome Li Cosmetics. It went bankrupt several decads ago. I'm pretty much the only one who knows about the place. Excellent ground to skate on---smooth as butter. Either way, it's empty and no harm will come to anything or anyone nearby. Any damage that I do will be to the building nearby, which no one cares about anyway. "So, it's just me and you buddy." Blunt in hand, I blaze it up. "Time for the magic to happen."

It's a slow high. The high takes as long as a flame reaching the wooden stick of an incense rod for the high to hit. Upwards of thirty minutes. So I wait. It feels like time warps. So I meditate. So I clear my thinking and reach out to the anklet.

"Mhm, Anklet, tell me who you are?"

"What?? You can hear me?"

"Yeah man. Who are you, why you speaking to me?"

"Why would I tell you? I don't even know yer name"

Tiring. It's like talking to a wall.

"Hey, I heard that!"

"Maybel. My name's Maybel. What's yours? Let's start there."

"Nat."

"Like Nat Turner? The rebel slave?"

"Don't know who that is, this 'Nat Turner'. Just knew my master gave me the name." How progressive. "So...I suspect that I'm dead."

It's not easy news. I get it. But hey, the north won. That's something, right?

"Well, I guess it is....you know, I had a name before all of this...."

"......"

"......??"

"......."

So, are you going to tell me?

"You may call me 'Asim'."

"I'll call you Ase."

Don't call me 'Ase'. Too late, Ase. Hey, how old are you anyway? 12? 11? My name is ASIM, nothing else. Fine, grumpy. ASIM. I'll call you Asim, Asim. Where'd that name come from anyway? What does it mean?

"Let's find out, shall we?"

"...It feels electric! (Boogy woogy woogy). Such power, this wade in...glory."

Are you a God?

"Blasphemy!" Then what are you? How are you able to lay such energy unto me?

Look, I don't know either, alright? But what I do know is...we're both negr---

Black. We don't say that word anymore.

"Black, then... Perhaps I'm connected with you due to our shared skin?" We stopped being related millenia ago. Millenia? Not familar with that word.

"Long, long ago. We don't share any common ancestors. It was all a lie." A lie? You don't believe in a God? I'm moreso spiritual; creation is a possibility not something I'm invested in. I believe in forces of the universe. "But not a God? So, this can't be some spiritual connection. We're too different." So perhaps a soul connection? A link between our spirits.... What else do we have in common? A slave and a black kid?

"Hatred of the white man? Wanting justice against them?"

"War. Destruction"

"Yes."

"No, I don't want that. I'd prefer peace." There may be no PEACE without WAR.

"A lie. Violence is not the answer. Kindness is."

"'Kindness' doesn't resolve problems. 'Kindness' doesn't end racism. 'KINDNESS' was the one that slept at my feet while I was lashed! "

"..."

Asim?

"..."

Andddd you're gone. Great. Well, I'm going to head back home, then. We can hang out again tomorrow. "Head back" means leave. All right, see you.

#fiction #original story #writer #writing #tumblr #writers on tumblr #BLM #Politics #Teenagedom #Teen angst #superhero #comicbook writing

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phroyd · 5 years

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I can’t help but think there’s more than a grain of truth. That they’re being kind. Anglo-American society is now the world’s preeminent example of willful self-destruction. It’s jaw-dropping folly and stupidity is breathtaking to the rest of the world.

The hard truth is this. America and Britain aren’t just collapsing by the day…they aren’t even just choosing to collapse by the day. They’re entering a death spiral, from which there’s probably no return. Yes, really. Simple economics dictate that, just like they did for the Soviet Union — and I’ll come to them.

And yet what’s even weirder and more grotesque than that is that…wel…nobody much seems to have noticed. There’s a deafening silence from pundits and elites and columnists and politicians on the joint self-destruction of the Anglo-American world. Nobody seems to have noticed: the only two rich societies in the world with falling life expectancies, incomes, savings, happiness, trust — every single social indicator you can imagine — are America and Britain. It’s not one of history’s most improbable coincidences that America and Britain are collapsing in eerily similar ways, at precisely the same time. It’s a relationship. What connects the dots?

Let me pause to note that my European friends’ first criticism — that we’re thoughtless — is therefore accurate. We’re not even capable of noticing — much less understanding — our twin collapse. Our entire thinking and leadership class seems not to have even noticed, like idiots grinning and dancing, setting their own house on fire. They are simply going on pretending it isn’t happening — that the English speaking world isn’t fast becoming something very much like the new Soviet Union.

So what caused this joint collapse? How did the English speaking world end up like the new Soviet Union? To understand that point, consider the fact that you yourself probably think that’s an overstatement. But it’s an empirical reality. The Soviet Union stagnated for thirty years. America’s stagnated for fifty, and Britain for twenty. The Soviet Union couldn’t provide basics for its citizens — hence the famous breadlines. In America, people beg each other for money to pay for insulin and antibiotics, decent food is unavailable in vast swathes of the country, and retirement and paying off one’s debt are impossibilities: just like in the Soviet Union, basics are becoming both unavailable and unaffordable. What happens? People…die.

(The same is true in Britain. In both societies, upwards of 20% of children live in poverty, the middle class has imploded, and upward mobility has all but vanished. These are Soviet statistics — lethally real ones.)

Politics, too, has become a sclerotic Soviet affair. Anglo-American societies aren’t really democracies in any sensible meaning of the word anymore. They’re run by and for a class of elites, who could care less, literally, whether the average person lives or dies. In America, that class is a bizarre coterie of Ivy Leaguers pretending to be aw-shucks-good-ole-boys on the one side, like Ted Cruz, and Ivy Leaguers pretending to be do-gooders on the other, like Zuck and Silicon Valley. In Britain, it’s the notorious public school boys, the Etonians and Oxbridge set.

That brings me to arrogance. What’s astonishing about our elites is how…arrogant they are…and how ignorant they are…at precisely the same time. Finland just elected a 34 year old woman as a Prime Minister from the Social Democrats. Finland is a society that outperforms ours in every way — every way — imaginable. Finnish happiness is way, way higher — and so is life expectancy, mobility, savings, real incomes, trust, among others. And yet instead of learning a thing from a miracle like that, our elites profess to know a better way…while they’ve run our societies into the ground. What the? Hubris would be an understatement. I don’t think the English language has a word for this weird, fatal combination of arrogance amidst ignorance. Maybe cocksure stupidity comes close.

And yet our elites have succeeded in one vital task — what an Emile Durkheim might have called “social reproduction.” They’ve managed to reproduce society in their image. What does the average Anglo-American aspire to be, do, have? To be rich, powerful, careless, selfish, and dumb, now, mostly. We don’t, as societies or cultures, value learning or knowledge or magnanimity or great and noble things, anymore. We shower millions on reality TV stars and billions on “investment bankers.” The average person has become a tiny microcosm of the aspirations and norms of elites — they’re not curious, empathetic, decent, humane, noble, kind, in pursuit of wisdom, truth, beauty, meaning, purpose. We’ve become cruel, indecent, obscene, comically shallow, and astonishingly foolish people.

That’s not some kind of jeremiad. It’s an objective, easily observed truth. Who else in a rich society denies their neighbours healthcare and retirement? Nobody. Who else denies their own kids education? Nobody. Who else denies themselves childcare and elderly care? Nobody. Who else doesn’t want safety nets, opportunities, mobility, protection, savings, higher incomes? Nobody. Literally nobody on planet earth wants worse lives excepts us. We’re the only people on earth who thwart our own social progress, over and over again — and cheer about it.

How did we become these people? How did we become tiny microcosms of our arrogant, ignorant, breathtakingly stupid elites? Because we are perpetually battling for self-preservation. Life has become a kind of brutal combat to the death. For jobs, for healthcare, for money, for the tiniest shreds of resources necessary to live. We wake up and fight one another for these things, over and over again. That is what our lives amount to now — gladiatorial combat. Meanwhile, elites and billionaires sit back and enjoy not just the spectacle — but the winnings.

People who are battling for self-preservation can’t take care of anyone else. If I ask the average Brit or American to consider paying for their society’s healthcare, education, elderly care, childcare, increasingly, the answer is: LOL. In America, it always has been. Why is that? The reason couldn’t be simpler. People can’t even take care of themselves and their own. How can they take care of anyone else — let alone everyone else?

The average person is living right at the edge. Not at the edge of the middle class dream and an even better one. But at the edge of poverty and destitution. They struggle to pay basic bills and never make ends meet. They can’t afford to educate their children, and retire, or retire and have healthcare, and so on. Let me say it again: the average person can’t take care of themselves and their own — so how can they take care of anyone else, let alone everyone else?

A more technical, formal way to say that is: our societies have now become too poor to afford public goods and social systems. But public goods and social systems are what make a modern, rich society. What’s a society without decent healthcare, schools, universities, libraries, education, parks, transport, media — available to all, without life-crippling “debt”? It’s not a modern society at all. But more and more, it’s not America or Britain, either.

What makes European societies — which are far, far more successful than ours — successful is that people are not battling for self-preservation, and so they are able to cooperate to better one another instead. At least not nearly so much and so lethally as we are. They are assured of survival. They therefore have resources to share with others. They don’t have to battle for the very things we take away from each other — because they simply give them to one another. That has kept them richer than us, too. The average American now lives in effective poverty — unable to afford healthcare, housing, and basic bills. They must choose. The European doesn’t have to, precisely because they invested in one another — and those investment made them richer than us.

We are caught in a death spiral now. A vicious cycle from which there is probably no escape. The average person is too poor to fund the very things — the only things — which can offer him a better life: healthcare, education, childcare, healthcare, and so on. The average person is too poor to fund public goods and social systems. The average person is too poor now to able to give anything to anyone else, to invest anything in anyone else. He lives and dies in debt to begin with — so what does he have left over to give back, put back, invest?

A more technical, formal way to put all that is this. Europeans distributed their social surplus more fairly than we did. They didn’t give all the winnings to idiot billionaires like Zucks and con men like Trump. They kept middle and working classes better off than us. As a result, those middle and working classes were able to invest in expansive public goods and social systems. Those things — good healthcare, education, transport, media — kept life improving for everyone. That virtuous circle of investing a fairly distributed social surplus created a true economic miracle over just one human lifetime: Europe rose from the ashes of war to enjoy history’s highest living standards, ever, period.

That’s changing in Europe, to be sure. But that is because Europe is becoming Americanized, Anglicized. It has a generation of leaders foolish enough to follow our lead — now remember the greatest lesson of European history, which is one of the greatest lessons of history, full stop. That lesson goes like this.

People who are made to live right at the edge must battle each other for self-preservation. But such people have nothing left to give one another. And that way, a society enters a death spiral of poverty — like ours have.

People who can’t make ends meet can’t even invest in themselves — let alone anyone else. Such a society has to eat through whatever public goods and social systems it has, just to survive. It never develops or expands new ones.

The result is that a whole society grows poorer and poorer. Unable to invest in themselves or one another, people’s only real way out is to fight each other for self-preservation, by taking away their neighbor’s rights, privileges, and opportunities — instead of being able to give any new ones to anyone. Why give everyone healthcare and education when you can’t even afford your own? How are you supposed to?

Society melts down into a spiral of extremism and fascism, as ever increasing poverty brings hate, violence, fear, and rage with it. Trust erodes, democracy corrodes, social bonds are torn apart, and the only norms left are Darwinian-fascist ones: the strong survive, and the weak must perish.

(Let me spend a second or two on that last point. As they become poorer, people begin to distrust each other — and then hate each other. Why wouldn’t they? After all, the grim reality is that they actually are fighting each other for existence, for the basic resources of life, like medicine, money, and food.

As distrust becomes hate, people who have nothing to give anyways end up having no reason to even hope to give anything back to anyone else. Why give anything to those people you are fighting, every single day, for the most meagre resources necessary to live? Why give the very people who denied you healthcare and education anything? Isn’t the only real point of life to show that you beat them by having a bigger house, faster car, prettier wife or husband?)

That is how a society dies. That is the death spiral of a rich society. In technical terms, it goes like this. A social surplus isn’t distributed equitably. That leaves the average person too poor to invest anything back in society. He’s just battling for self-preservation, and the stakes are life or death. But that battle itself only breeds even more poverty. Because without investment, nurturance, nourishment — nothing can grow. Having become poor, the average person only grows poorer — because he will never have decent public goods or social systems, let alone the rights and privileges and jobs and careers and trajectories they become and lead to.

A society of people so poor they have nothing left over to invest in one another is dying. It goes from prosperity to poverty, from optimism to pessimism, from cohesion to distrust and hate, from peace to violence — at light speed, in the space of a generation. That’s America and Britain’s story today, just as it was the Soviet Union’s, yesterday, and Weimar Germany’s, before that.

You can see how a society dies — with horrific, brutal clarity — in the self-destruction of America and Britain. The hate-filled vitriol of Trumpism, the barely-hidden hate of Brexit. Why wouldn’t people who have grown suddenly poor hate everyone else? Why wouldn’t they blame anyone and everyone they can — from Mexicans to Muslims to Europeans — for their own decline? The truth, as always, is harder. America and Britain’s collapse is nobody’s fault — nobody’s — but their own.

They are in a death spiral now, but no opponent or adversary brought them there. It was their own fault, and yet they still go on choosing it. They don’t know any other way now. Their elites succeeded at making the average person truly, fervently believe that battling perpetually for self-preservation was the only way a society could exist.

And though it’s too late to escape for them, let us hope that the rest of the world, from Europe to Asia to Africa, learns the lesson of the sad, gruesome, stupid, astonishing tragedy of self-inflicted collapse.

Umair December 2019

Phroyd

#decline #superpowers

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Sanctuary (Jalaska) - Grinder

AN: Wow…been a hot minute since I posted anything to AQ. Currently working on a series but decided I should give myself a wee break and write something else. This is a songfic based on Sanctuary by Joji whom I absolutely adore. And, who knows, maybe I’ll write more Joji inspired fics and make it a collection. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy! Stay safe!

Lots of love to all the discord people for helping me with this and, especially @artificialeevee and V. If anyone of you are thinking about joining the server, do it!

The year is 9872. And I’ve fucking had it.

The name’s Jinkx Monsoon; intergalactically tolerated American space Historian, a linguist of 3 human languages, and 4 alien languages.

Location: Space somewhere.

I have a question; Is it wrong to destroy the only housekeeper on your ship, an AI bot whose sole purpose is to clean and only clean? It’s nothing personal against the bot. It’s just…the thought of thriving as a glamorous space housewife for an hour or two is very appealing to me at this moment.

You see, life on the Sanctuary ship isn’t exactly exciting anymore.

Dumb name. The place is anything but a sanctuary. Ivy and I just call it ‘Big Debbie.’

Speaking of Ivy, she’s fallen asleep at the wheel again. Yes, this has happened before—a few times. The first time, we all had a laugh about it. The second time, we joked about how it was becoming a habit. But the third time, it was starting to kind of get on the Captain’s nerves.

The ship has been spinning in slow circles for half an hour now. Shea storms in, flicks Ivy in the ear, waking her up. I breathe a laugh out of my nostrils as Ivy rolls her eyes. The ship stops spinning and is back on course. Destination? Nowhere.

I notice how Shea looks at me now as I sit my feet up on the controls. She looks like she wants to say something. But what is there to even say? She shares my exact thought and leaves the room.

I look at Ivy as she types away on her keyboard, a bowl of yogurt in my hand, cold spoon in the other. “What are you thinking about?”

“All the fuel we’re wasting.” She puts on a fake smile, hiding her frustration.

Before I get another chance to speak, Phi Phi sits in the other pilot seat, next to me, and slaps my feet off the control panel. “Can we please avoid accidents?”

“What’s the fun in that?” I sulk. Heck, at least it would give us all something to talk about.

Who even are we anymore? And how did we get here?

Let me explain.

-_-_-_-

9869. 3 Years Ago

“Be warned, Monsoon; If you mess this up, you’re out of here.” Alyssa’s words ran circles in my head.

I resisted the urge to grab a glass of complimentary wine as I walked around the exhibition room, nodding and offering a fake smile to the attendees. The wine probably tasted like ass. These folks loved that type of stuff. I wasn’t part of their social class, not used to such tastes, so it was a hard pass on the booze. However I hoped my green emerald tea dress told them that I was one of them. Not that it would have mattered anyway. To them, I was just staff. But I knew I was so much more than that.

I was pretty good at hiding my nerves. This opportunity wasn’t given to just anyone, something I have waited on for a long time. I was to host an entire exhibition, the Universal Museum of Space History’s Lost Treasures reveal. A “One Night Only” event with a guest list of people who probably ate breakfast with a second cousin to a Royal at least once in their lives. And I couldn’t fuck it up. I couldn’t.

Before I walked into the room that night, I was just a tour guide, and in the current Century, it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. My manager, Alyssa insisted that we stick to the science-y feel. Instead of having an actual real live tour guide, we just used a hologram instead. And that hologram was yours truly. Groovy, right?

But this event? This meant opportunities. A possible promotion! And not to mention, I would be a part of something big. I was blessed with the task of unveiling a one of a kind artifact. No one knew where it came from. Or the real name. But they called it the Revitalization Grain. The name didn’t do it justice.

This pretty, glowy stone brought forth the growth of nature, crops, and resources. If I was a saleswoman, this is the part I’d say, “But wait! There’s more.” It had healing properties, offered a sort of hit, and even brought someone back from the dead (apparently).

Standing in that room, with all the aristocrats surrounding me, I was the only person who knew all that. The amount of digging and snooping around I had to go through to obtain this information was extensive.

Of course, not everything about the stone was known yet; where it came from, if it was life-form made or natural, or what its real name was.

I passed a Glarglaxian, and she wriggled her scaled fingers in a wave at me. I asked her how she was doing. Not that I cared. It was all about being a good hostess. But I really wanted to grab her and say, “Wait 'til you see the shit we’re about to pull out.” The excitement was getting to me.

Greeting a few others, I saw the tall woman standing in front of a floor-length window, staring out at the galaxy and sipping her wine. Damn, she looked classy in her long black mermaid dress, her blonde hair falling to her lower back. She looked human; therefore, I guessed that was what she was.

She seemed lonely, and I had to be a good little hostess and make her feel welcome. I walked up to her and cleared my throat. She turned to look at me, and I swear her eyes were black pits. She blinked, and I saw her eyes were actually just a dark brown. Maybe it was just the lighting in the place.

“I hope everything is up to a satisfactory standard for you, ma'am.” I started before spurting out a few other statements.

“Yes,” she drawled, “I’m having a ball.”

I rose on my toes and lowered to the ground again. “I can see that.”

“Well…if I could make one improvement, I would have chosen someone else for the entertainment. Someone more…electronic.” The woman said, her eyes trailing behind me.

I looked around to the other side of the room, where Cher was singing something a bit more slow and soft for her tastes. Yes, we bagged Cher for this gig. The woman was centuries old and still an absolute diva. How she hadn’t been given her own planet yet was beyond me. I think her Mom was in the crowd too.

“I couldn’t agree more with you, ma'am.” I looked back at the blonde.

“Please. Alaska will do."

Alaska…Strange choice of name. The last name of Nocturna, USA, Earth. It had been known as Nocturna for over 2000 years. Quite peculiar to choose a name like that.

"Apologies.” I smiled.

Alaska held out her glass of wine. “Here.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I shouldn’t.”

“You can stop with the formalities, Jinkx. I can feel your anxiety."

"My anxiety?” This caught me off guard. And not to mention, “wait…how did you…?”

Alaska pointed a perfectly manicured finger to the left of my chest. I looked down. The name tag. “Oh. Of course. How silly of me."

"Weird spelling. But, other than that, I like it.” Alaska commented.

“Um, no. It’s spelled normally."

"Well, it was originally spelled without a 'k.’”

“No. It’s always had the 'k.’”

“No. The human race only started to spell it with the 'k’ when Jinkx Jenner was born back in the 49th Century.”

Alaska sipped her wine, and I was speechless. How the fuck didn’t I know that? I didn’t want to sound like one of those 'I’m an intellectual’ types. But I had dedicated a significant amount of time to learning about my origin planet’s history. Even going back to the caveman times.

Alaska ended the void of silence, offering me her wine once more. “Here. Drink up, Jinkx-y.”

My face flushed at the nickname, blinking a few times before finally accepting the drink. I took just a sip, not to appear unprofessional. As I expected, it was bitter. But I tried to hide my scowl and handed it back. Alaska’s upper lip curled up.

“Like that’s going to do anything.” She commented.

“Honestly, I’m fine. But thank you for the offer.” I beamed, putting my hands together. “Are you here alone?”

“No. I’m here with…friends.” She stretched the ’s’ sound. Her gaze traveled to a particular group of people. Looking around, I took in how attractive they all were. They all had glitter painting the side of their faces. And their lashes were long and thick, just like hers.

And dumbass me just came out with it. “God, you’re all so attractive.”

Looking back, my eyes widened. Why I had said it, I have no idea.

“Thank you.” She drawled.

“I-I…that just came out. I’m sorry.” I stammered.

“Don’t worry. We get it all the time.” Alaska stated before smiling.

I thought she was just gloating. But if I had known back then what I know now, it would have meant something else entirely.

Hours later, I was giving a speech that I must have written over 50 times before being proud of the final product. There was a red velvet curtain behind me. I was moments away from pulling a gold rope, dropping the curtain, and finally revealing the Revitalization Grain. The mixture of anxiety and excitement stirring inside was euphoric.

While I was delivering the speech, I spotted Alaska in the crowd, how eager she looked. Her friends were scattered around the room, sharing her expression. It only made me more excited.

And finally. Pulling the gold tassel, dropping the curtain, the stone was finally revealed in its glowing glory. I heard the crowd gasp in surprise. But I was too busy staring at the stone in its glass container.

And gasps turned to shrieks. This was what caught my attention.

I looked around. Alaska and her friends were holding laser guns, pointing them at the other guests. I don’t know why, but Cher started singing again. I guess maybe she was trying to calm the situation. For fuck sake.

“What the fuck??” I exclaimed as Alaska made her way towards me.

No. Towards the Revitalization Grain.

“It’s been a great night, beautiful people.” Alaska looked at the crowd once before turning and smashing her gun into the glass, smashing it to pieces. Oddly iconic.

My heart had risen to my throat as I watched her reach in and lift the stone. Where the fuck was the security?? Before I had the chance to act, the stone’s light became brighter in a matter of seconds. So bright if I hadn’t looked away, I probably would have been blinded.

I shielded my eyes, hearing the shrieks from the crowd along with Cher still singing like the legend she was. And when the light dimmed, I looked back.

And my stomach knotted.

Alaska’s hair was longer now, bigger, thicker, and practically white. Confirming that my earlier misjudgment was actually correct, her eyes were all black. Her skin shimmered as if glitter ran through her blood. And those nails, those perfectly manicured nails were longer and pointier.

She was a Celestial. Her friends were Celestials. How hadn’t I clocked this before, what with the glitter? And that also explained why I had just blurted out how fucking hot they all were. It was an effect they had on everyone they met.

“Thanks for being a great host, Jinkx-y.” She winked before approaching me. She held the stone tight as she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

Why hadn’t I tried to grab the stone? Because of the feeling of her lips on my skin, I swear I was high for a few seconds. I recovered only when she was walking down from my podium. A Glarglaxian charged as if ready to tackle her to the ground. But one of her buddies intervened, sending the Glarglaxian sliding across the shining floor with a single shove.

Alaska stood in a circle with her followers now. She turned and winked one more time. And just like that. With the flash of pink light, she was gone.

-_-_-_-

I called Alyssa immediately after the incident to just let her know how it went. She was mad because I called it “a small fuck up.“ She was a religious woman, so the string of curses and threats of hiring a hit man took me by surprise.

What seemed to be 5 minutes later, she was at the museum, her sugar baby boyfriend in tow. Her first question was, “where the flying fuck where the security?”

As far as I was aware, there was no security. Not one guard was in the room for the whole thing. Turns out, they were all hiding in a closet and smoking up. She fired them immediately. And there was no doubt I would be next.

Then came the talk with Government officials. It was all through holographs but still scary as shit. They were equally as disappointed to hear a group of Celestials had stolen something so powerful. They said the matter of the situation was so grave, the President would most definitely have to hear about it. Not one of the US or some other Earth country Presidents. The President of the Universe. So you could understand why they would rather not.

And instead of deciding amongst themselves what should be done next, they put that on Alyssa. But she was just the manager of a museum. How was that fair? And bless Alyssa and all, but she wasn’t very bright.

Because I couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible, I piped up, offering to go and find the Revitalization Grain myself. They laughed at first. But upon expressing my knowledge of Celestials and being able to speak their language, they agreed. They would find more people.

And that was it. I was destined to travel the universe.

Of course, I cursed myself for even speaking up. I had never been a part of something like this. And I couldn’t just be like, "Hello, lovelies. Just letting you all know, I’ve changed my mind. Unemployment doesn’t sound that bad.” I drank two bottles of wine that night.

It took a year to prepare for the journey. And in the process, I met my team. Here, have a nice bullet point list I made a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶l̶a̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶.̶

♡ Shea Couleé: The Captain.

♡ Sasha Velour: the First Mate and executive officer.

♡ Roy Haylock: Chief Officer of the Flight Department.

♡ Ivy Winters and Phi Phi O'Hara: Pilots.

♡ Milk, Kameron Michaels, and Bob: Engineers.

♡ Willam Belli and Courtney Act: Technicians.

♡ Me, Jinkx Monsoon, narcoleptic nerd: Linguist and Historian.

We met up a few times, different planets for each occasion. I’d say our visit to Barcelona (no, not the lovely sunny destination on Earth but the planet) was what solidified our friendships.

But for that whole year, I couldn’t get one person out of my head. And that was Alaska. I thought not much of her while we talked that night at the exhibit. But that fucking kiss on the cheek. That’s what got me. The momentary high, the way I was just frozen as she walked away, robbing us all of the stone. Whenever I remember that night, all I see is her image, like some kind of PowerPoint presentation. And Baby, I love your way plays in my head . Appropriate moment to call me a simp?

-_-_-_-

9872. Present Day

But wait. That doesn’t exactly explain how you all ended up in your current situation!

Shut up. I’m getting there. I just need a wine break.

I find myself in our kitchen. On my way there, I pass Willam and Bob playing ping pong. We went through a phase where we couldn’t decide who was the best and who got to go next. But the fun had long faded away. Same with the karaoke machine. That belongs to me. I must say, if I hadn’t volunteered for this shit, I would have belted out a song and won over an audience years ago. But without getting off-topic; the karaoke machine ain’t fun anymore.

Courtney stood there in the rec room, singing the lyrics that appeared on the screen. Her once electrifying whistle tones brought down to a somber dirge. “If you’ve been waitin’ for fallin’ in love, babe you don’t have to wait on me. 'Cause I’ve been aimin’ for heaven above but an angel ain’t what I need.”

Reaching the kitchen, I pour a glass of wine and look out the window into the far off distance. And all of a sudden, I’m reminded of Alaska, standing in that window, looking classy, sipping her wine, how the glitter on her face shimmered as she turned to look at me.

“What are you smiling at?”

Fuck, Ivy’s here too. She’s sitting on a counter in the corner, eating yogurt. I look away.

“Oh. It’s nothing.” I reply.

“I haven’t seen you smile in a long time.” Ivy points out. “Is it really just nothing.”

“It’s just…something funny from back home.” I lie.

Ivy places the bowl to the side. She’s silent momentarily before her face scrunches up, tears surfacing. For fuck’s sake, curse me and my foot in mouth disease!

I sit next to my best friend as the tears come flooding. I hold her in my arms, letting her know I’m her shoulder to cry on right now. It had been years since Earth was destroyed. But the grief was still fresh for her.

Actually, for the whole team.

I’m considered the lucky one. After all, I had no loved ones left on Earth. But my team? They had families; parents, siblings, partners, children of their own. And now, they’re gone.

How the Earth was destroyed? We tried to figure it out ourselves. But with no answers, we are just wasting away, flying around in Space on our ship. Nowhere to go. No purpose in life.

-_-_-_-

9870. 2 Years ago.

I was high-key worried that a year wasn’t enough time to prepare for this mission. And this thought hit harder upon arriving on the planet Celestia.

Although, we were expecting some sort of barrier, guards, a surprise attack. But there was nothing. Huh.

The place was pretty much just a copy of Earth, except if you took 10 hits of LSD and were pushed into a never-ending hallucinogenic trip. The blue sky was an oceanic hue, clouds glittering, pink trees everywhere like someone just scattered houses and buildings in the middle of a forest. Nearby planets were visible in the sky, the stars shining bright, and I questioned whether it was night or day.

Music pulsated through the air, all different songs playing at once from all different directions; Electronic dance music. I figured that’s why Alaska wasn’t feeling Cher the night of the exhibit.

Upon approaching, Shea quickly noticed that locals weren’t exactly acting how we thought they would. They were excited, cheering, and beckoning us to land. We did so, parking in what I guessed was a parking lot? Except there were no cars.

Exiting Big Debbie, we were distracted momentarily, watching as the Celestials ran around, hand in hand, their spirits high.

But Shea got right to it. “OK! Calm down. Where’s the Revitalization Grain?”

A Celestial approached us, like an animal ready to pounce, and Shea was ready to brawl.

“Just down the street. Take a right. You’ll see a marquee all lit up. It’s just in there. Costs to get in, though.” The Celestial explained.

The fuck? How was everyone on this planet this chilled out?

We all collectively agreed to keep our lasers hidden since they seemed harmless now. But I knew they could pack a punch. I had seen it the night of the exhibition. Better to be safe than sorry.

On the way to the marquee, we bickered over how the hell we were going to even pay. Well, Shea and Sasha mostly. Willam and Courtney were more interested in how attractive the Celestials were. couldn’t blame them.

All the while, I looked around me, hoping to see a certain someone. But then again, if she saw me here, surely she’d know something was up.

Coming to the marquee’s entry line, Sasha managed to get a peek at the front of the line. People were literally paying with anything - false eyelashes, jewelry, scales from their own flesh, fake nails, whatever they had on them.

Roy decided to stay behind, the only thing he thought that would interest them being his rose-tinted sunglasses. And he was not willing to part with them. Over much debating on what we would offer, we agreed that maybe a simple handshake, a sign of peace, would suffice.

We were right. How I wished I could just live there.

When we were in, the deja vu set in. Celestials, humans, and other alien species stood around, sipping wine and talking amongst themselves. The music wasn’t live and provided by Cher. But it played from speakers in the corners, the beats fast and fitting with the environment.

And there, on a podium in the middle of the room, was the Revitalization Grain. Its glow was brighter than the last time I had seen it. The light seemed to travel through the podium and into the ground, like veins running through a human body.

I looked around for Alaska, but she was absent. Damn.

Shea gave the command, and we withdrew our weapons. The once cheerful and friendly atmosphere was brought to a grinding halt as the people began to cower. The rest of the team reassured them everything would be fine if they just stayed put. I approached the podium and lifted the precious stone.

And with that, the light from the podium disappeared, but the stone still shone bright. This was it—time to hit the road.

Everything was going so well. We had gotten back to the ship safely. No one even bothering to attack us.

But before we could get high enough, the ship started to go through what we thought was turbulence. But of course, the Celestial’s decided now was the best time to fight. They were attacking Big Debbie in their own flying pods. There was no way we were going to make it out of the planet alive.

And so we were forced to land in hopes we could fight them off. Disembarking Big Debbie, there was indeed a face-off. My team and the Celestials stood outside; the area around us was more barren and dusty than its main city area.

We were all yelling at each other, not a single word clear enough to understand with the many voices. All I got from the exchange was that we argued they had stolen a rare artifact. They claimed it belonged to them now. It was just back and forth madness.

And then came another pod, this one bigger and more glittery.

And my heart stopped.

It was Alaska.

She exited the pod.

Oooooh, Baby I love your way.

She looked right at me as if she could sense the stone within my satchel.

I smiled shyly, “Hi, Ala- -”

“Jinkx, give me the stone.” She demanded, holding out her hand.

“Ugh…no,” I replied, clutching the satchel strap.

“Jinkx, if you don’t give me that rock…” Alaska growled as she stormed towards me. Shea tried to block her way, but with a simple wave of her hand, Shea was lifted from the ground and thrown back.

Like a dumb ass, I just screamed and took off. I abandoned my poor team, leaving them with the Celestials. But honestly, Alaska at that moment was terrifying. She really did growl. And her eyes were black pits again. Scary stuff, really.

I don’t know how long I ran for, but the sun was scorching, there was no wind or moisture in the air. I just ran and ran until I had no choice but to stop. My legs and lungs burned.

I was doubled over, hands on my knees and panting. I made a mental note to work out more, which I still haven’t done.

Looking behind me, Alaska was nowhere to be seen.

“Wh…What…?” I straightened.

A manicured hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around. It was Alaska. How she had got there was beyond me.

God, she was stunning. Ooooh, Baby I lo - -

She grabbed the strap of the bag tight, which brought me out of my trance. I tugged back. “This is ridiculous! Just give it up, for crying out loud!”

“No. That stone belongs to me!”

“It belongs to the museum!”

“Jinkx, you have no idea what you’re doing!”

“I do! I’m saving my career!”

The strap snapped. And the stone flew out from the bag, flying across the rocky plain. We ran for it. Alaska was slightly faster than me. The only way I could think to reach the stone before she did was to fling myself to the ground like a penguin sliding on ice. And it must have been my lucky day because it worked.

A piece of the stone had broken off. For fuck sake!

“Jinkx. The rock. Now!” Alaska commanded.

I turned, sitting on the ground now, and pointed my laser at her. “Alaska, honey, you know I can’t do that.”

“Stupid human. You need to give me the rock right now. You don’t understand - -”

Over Alaska’s shoulder, I could see the ship in the distance, heading in our direction. Damn, I really did run far.

I bolted for a rocky hill, awaiting the ship’s arrival. And of course, Alaska followed.

“Get back here!” She yelled.

I held the stone tight, shaking my head. Backing up, I felt my stomach tighten. My heel was on the edge of nothing. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the long drop down and gulped nervously.

“Give me the stone!"

I looked around as Alaska lunged forward. I instinctively threw myself to the side.

And I watched as she fell from the cliff.

"Alaska!” I yelled.

I watched her fall, becoming smaller and smaller.

My mind was blank. I couldn’t even comprehend what was happening. “Fuck…fuck…fuck…”

Before her body could splatter to pieces, her body moved along the plain of land, and shot high up into the sky. “She can fly? Oh…OK. Good.”

She was like a glowy blur, contrasting the oceanarium blue of the sky. A glowy blur that was getting closer and closer. “Oh…OK. That’s not good.”

I looked at Big Debbie. And then to Alaska. And then, Big Debbie. And then, Alaska. A dizzying back and forth. Who would reach me first? I hoped it wouldn’t be the latter. Death didn’t sound too lovely, after all.

“Jinkx!” I heard Ivy yell. Alaska was close, but the ship was closer. I saw Ivy standing in the doorway, hanging on for dear life.

The speed of light that was Alaska was catching up. Fuck. The ship was so close. I was so gross from all the sweat, practically feeling the heat radiating off the approaching Celestial.

And in a matter of seconds, the ship was next to me. Ivy was reaching out a hand. I grabbed it, and my skin could have peeled off from the great force of being dragged into the ship.

I hit the ground and rolled, Ivy quickly shutting the door.

We had no time to celebrate our victory. It was time to get the fuck out of Celestia and keep the stone safe.

-_-_-_-

9872. Present Day

“Yeah, but you tell that story like it’s the wildest shit.”

I snap out of my daze. Shea is in the kitchen now, pouring herself a cup of coffee. I was so involved in telling Ivy my own account of the story, I didn’t realize our Captain entered the room.

“It was the wildest shit. The way Ivy pulled me onto the ship? It was like something out of an old action movie.” I insist.

Ivy’s not upset anymore. She laughed a few times during my storytelling. Good to know I can lighten the mood for her a bit. “Did Alyssa even notice the missing piece?” Ivy asks, tucking a leg under herself.

“No,” I answer. Like I said, Alyssa wasn’t the brightest. But in returning the stone to the museum, I learned she was also one harsh mother fucker. After the long journey back, she basically said, “Thanks for the stone, Jinkx. What you did is so admirable! But also, you’re fired. And one more thing. While ya’ll were gone, the Earth was destroyed. So, good luck trying to find a new home. Bye.”

Well, not exactly word for word. But it might as well have been. Alyssa fired me for “letting the aliens steal the stone,” which was totally stupid. I wanted to sue her for unfair dismissal. But at that stage, what was the point? I just gave the stone over and accepted defeat.

“What a bitch.” Ivy shakes her head.

“I know. She sounds like one of those bitches, you know the ones who take a vacation to a poor country, come back and throw away most of their wardrobe instead of actually doing something to help.” Shea observes. She’s not far off.

“Any other questions?” I ask.

“Yeah, one more. You have a crush on Alaska.” Ivy smirks.

“… That’s not a question.”

“OK, well, 'you have a crush on Alaska.’ True or false?"

"False. Are you nuts? As if.” I lie.

“I mean…” Shea squints her eyes, “You do talk about her some type of way.”

“Well…how do you know I’m not adding to the story? To make it more exciting?” I raise my brows. That’s dumb. That’s my worst lie. I’m terrible at lying, and I know they can see right through me. But they don’t question me further, and I am thankful.

Of course, I like Alaska. What’s not to like? It wasn’t just some plot device I threw into my story for exaggeration. Actually, none of it was exaggerated. Imagine if I told you right now that Alaska didn’t even fly, and she had indeed fallen to her death, and that was the last of it. Would it be considered a sad or happy ending?

She really did fly that day. But part of the story I left out was this; when she went soaring into the sky, that motherfucking Baby, I love your way song played in my head again.

-_-_-_-

I’m in my room now. It’s only 5pm, but my all-over-the-show body clock is saying 'nap time.’ I kick off my boots and fling them into the corner. And before I can even get comfy, in comes the cleaner bot, Tallulah. She’s like a slightly bigger version of Wall-E from the Oscar-winning film Wall-E . But instead of eyes, she has a screen for a face. Therefore she only speaks in symbols. Bless her.

“Hey, girl,” I murmur, feeling a yawn come on.

“ :) ” She says. She hovers over to my tossed boots, picks them up, and carefully places them under my bed. She takes almost a full minute to make sure they are perfectly symmetrical next to each other.

“Thank you, Tallulah. That’ll do.” I say, smiling. But she isn’t leaving. She starts searching the room for something else to clean. I really really want this nap, but from past experience, there ain’t no stopping her.

I think back to earlier in the day when the dark thoughts were getting the better of me. How I thought of ways to destroy her just to live out my intergalactic space domestic fantasy. I regret that immensely. The feeling of loneliness, while being surrounded by people, can sometimes fuck with your head.

“Tallulah.” I pipe up, grabbing her attention.

“ ? ”

“We love ya, gal.”

“ :D ”

I smile and lie down on the uncomfortable bed. You get used to a mattress like this when you’ve been using it for so long.

I close my eyes, hoping sleep will come quick.

“ Hmmm, hmmm hmm, hmmm…falling in love…” God, that karaoke song that Courtney was singing is stuck in my head now.

The ship shudders, and I huff. The light above my head isn’t any help, either. I can only turn it off when Tallulah leaves the room. But I’m guessing that won’t be for another while. Think I’ll just face the wall then.

My eyes are closed for all but 2 seconds when Tallulah taps me on the arm. “Tallulah, it’s nap time.”

She taps again, and so I sigh heavily, letting her know I’m serious. I turn around. And bolt upright.

I have no fucking idea how but Tallulah has somehow found the chipped off piece of Revitalization Grain. “ 😃 ”

“Give me that.” I hold out my hand.

“ 🍬 ”

“Tallulah, that is not candy. It’s very, very precious.”

“ >:( ”

“Look. I traveled so far to get that fucking stone just to lose my goddamn job. I earned that piece.”

“ :( ”

She really isn’t going to give this up. “OK. Fine. You can have it. But, you need to take good care of it. It’s not food. It’s not a toy. And if it falls into the wrong hands, the consequences could be vital.”

“ :D ”

“Glad you’re happy, hon’.”

The ship shakes again, only more violent this time. “Jesus Christ! If we’ve flown into a storm - -”

I nearly hit the wall as the ship shakes even more aggressively.

“ 👁👄👁💧"Tallulah’s screen flashes.

"Go to your room.”

“✅”

We both leave my room, Tallulah hovering down to the left and me towards the right.

I’m jogging my way to the control room, Roy popping out of his own room. “I swear to god. Somebody better be dead.”

The ship jolts. Because we were practically power walking with confidence, we fall the fuck over, right on our faces.

I groan in pain before responding to Roy’s statement. “Jesus, ain’t that a bit much?”

Entering the control room, everyone’s on their feet, rushing around, pressing all sorts of buttons, Shea giving a lot more commands than usual.

“OK. Who’s dead?” Roy asks.

“Do you have to?” I roll my eyes. He only smirks.

“Someone’s trying to get in,” Shea explains.

“Into the ship?” I raise a brow.

“No. Into my panties. Yes, of course the ship!” Shea snaps. Can’t blame her; it was a dumb question. My bad.

I approach Ivy, looking over her shoulder at the screen.

“This is crazy. What do you think it is?” I ask.

“I don’t know. But, from all the ruckus, I’m gonna guess and say it’s huge.”

My stomach is sinking to my ass. “Fuck…”

“It’s kind of exciting, to be honest.” Ivy laughs nervously.

“Which side are we talking, ladies?” Shea cuts off our conversation.

“The South East Side, Captain.” Phi Phi answers.

There’s banging. We all look to the North West side. Not the South East.

“Wow. Whatever it is, it’s fucking fast.” Ivy says.

“Shh. Listen.” Sasha holds a hand up.

There’s scratching sounds now. It’s almost unbearable to listen to like nails on a chalkboard.

We’re all still, just listening, too afraid to speak, unsure of what to do.

“What the fuck is going on??!!” Bob bellows as he enters the room, Milk and Kameron following behind.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shea swears through a harsh whisper.

The three engineers stop dead in their tracks, unsure of what is actually going on.

The scratching has stopped.

The ship is still.

And the silence is haunting.

Even though whatever is on the other side is probably a bloodthirsty creature, craving the taste of our insides; honestly, I’m fucking pumped.

I look to everyone else, but they clearly don’t feel the same. Phi Phi’s skin is pale like she’s looking death right in the eye.

There’s still this silence. And I want to break it. “Do you think - -”

The room is illuminated, and we all collectively flinch. And that feeling of familiarity settles in.

When the light has faded enough for us to look, what I fear (or low-key hope) to happen has happened.

In the middle of the room is a figure, the light slipping away from them to reveal their long blonde messy locks, their long arms, talons for nails…Oh, God…

Their head whips around to look at us. And that stupid Baby, I love your way song plays in my head as they flip their hair over their shoulder.

“Alaska!” I gasp.

She holds up her laser gun, aiming it at us. The others aim their own weapons right back at her.

“None of you could have opened the door? Seriously??” Alaska growls.

“Yeah, because inviting in whatever was fucking with our ship wouldn’t be a stupid move or anything.” Phi Phi sneers.

Alaska stands tall. “I mean, I did fucking knock.”

“Sorry, we didn’t hear it,” Ivy replies apologetically, Shea shooting her a look.

“As if we’d let you in, though.” Shea chimes.

“How rude.” Alaska comments.

I take in her appearance, which has significantly changed since I last saw her. The once strong, tall Celestial is now frail and seems to struggle to even hold herself up. Her once luscious hair is like straw, dry, and lifeless. And the glitter in her skin. It’s gone.

“Why are you even here?” Sasha demands.

“To take back what is mine.” Alaska pants. “Where’s the stone?”

“Jokes on you, girl. We don’t have it anymore.” Roy answered.

Alaska is breathing heavier now, blinking more than usual. “That’s impossible. I was drawn here. I can feel its energy."

The crew is quiet, and I feel like a fucking idiot. Of course, she’s talking about the broken piece that I gave to Tallulah. Maybe this was reality coming back to bite me in the ass that we can’t always have nice things.

No one is saying anything. Therefore, it’s my time to spew some bullshit. "It’s probably just the aura still left over on the ship. There’s nothing here for you.”

Alaska seethes, her body quivering. “So I saved up all my energy - fucking propelled myself across the universe - used whatever strength I had left…all for nothing?!”

I feel bad but won’t let it show. I just nod my head. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

Alaska lowers her weapon, eyes drawn to the ground. At first, she looks in disbelief. Then disappointed. And now her eyes aren’t lifting, her chest heaving.

“If you want, we can fly you back?” Ivy offers, shrugging her shoulders.

Instead of answering, Alaska drops to the ground, out cold.

“Jesus Christ!” Bob steps back.

I’m the only one who rushes to her. I try for a pulse. She’s still alive. A sigh of relief escapes my lips, and I look to the others. “Are you just gonna stand there all day? We need to help her.”

“Do we though?” Roy smirks.

“Yes. We do.” I snap. Looking back at the passed out Celestial, unsure of what to actually do, I poke her on the forehead. “Alaska…?”

She stirs.

Kameron kneels on the other side and scoops her up in his arms.

“Wow - wow - wow. What are you doing?” I demand.

Kameron raises a brow. “Helping?”

He turns to leave the room.

“Yeah, well, be careful with her!” I call after him. Kameron is harmless. But with those muscles and her fragile state, I’m afraid one wrong move, and she’ll snap in half.

“What the fuck is going on?” Phi Phi asks, standing up from her chair.

“I don’t know, but I feel so unprepared. What do we do?” Ivy says.

“Let’s all just calm down.” Shea raises her hands, trying to ward off the team’s anxieties. “Look, we don’t have the stone. We’re not gonna tell her where it is. Therefore, we’re useless to her.”

“More reason for her to kill us,” Willam noted.

“Not if we keep the peace and give her a ride home.” Shea counters.

Too many thoughts whirlwind in my brain right now. Maybe I should just come clean and tell them about the piece of Revitalization Grain. Or maybe not. I feel like the confrontation would be worse.

“I need a smoke.” I don’t even smoke.

“I need a drink.” Phi Phi adds.

“I need to stress masturbate.” Willam groans.

I’m ready to hurl.

-_-_-_-

2 hours later and I’m still on edge. Since Alaska broke in, I’ve had a long-ass shower, napped, ate 2 heaping bowls of cereal, and tried to find Tallulah. If anyone found out about the stone, my ass was grass.

The bot is not in her usual hangouts, which wracks my nerves up to 100—time to try looking through the whole ship.

I search high and low, searching each room I pass. I’m desperate to get this stone back.

“What are you looking for?” Milk passes me.

“Tallulah. I…spilled something”, I answer, the frustration apparent in my voice.

“Someone’s stressed.” Milk comments, continuing on in the opposite direction.

I bite my tongue, knowing full well that a snide remark is on the tip of it.

I find myself at the far end of the ship, where no one really visits too often. It’s just storage and the prison cell. Yes, we have one of those in the case that a criminal boards.

Finally checking said prison cell, I don’t find Tallulah. But I find Alaska. I can feel anger brewing in my chest, knowing this was what Kameron thought would be appropriate. Yes, she broke in, but she is not a threat.

She’s just lying there on the ground, and I feel saddened.

But she looks over her shoulder. I’m glad to see she’s awake.

I enter and stand before the glass barrier separating us. Alaska sits up and turns to me.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says.

“The Captain’s set sail. We’re taking you home. Should we expect an attack?” I ask.

Alaska blinks long and hard, looking away in frustration. “I don’t think so.”

“Good,” I say. I could just turn and leave. But my feet are stuck to the ground. I just look down at her, feeling the pity inside. But I must remain firm for my team.

“So, I’m really stuck in this cell for weeks with no entertainment?” Alaska combs a clawed hand through her long hair.

“Well, when you put it that way, I’ll willingly allow you some form of entertainment. You want a book?”

Alaska gags. “I’d prefer music.”

I move to the wall on the left; there’s a switch linked to the sound system that plays through the ship. Music used to play on repeat throughout the place. But when you hear the same songs over and over again, it becomes repetitive. I turn the volume, but not too loud as to disturb everyone else.

Some classical tune plays at random. It was never a favorite, but Alaska seems to not mind.

“You know there’s one moment I can’t ever stop thinking about. It involves you.” She drawls.

“Really?” I let myself smirk, sounding a bit too enthusiastic.

“When you let me fall from that cliff.”

“Oh. OK.”

“I could have died that day.” She continues. “But honestly, as I was falling, I thought… that’s alright… that’s OK. Everyone would know that I was legendary.”

“I would have caught you if my reflexes were better.” I try.

“No, you wouldn’t. Then I would have had the stone.” Alaska counters.

I don’t even try to argue that she’s wrong. I know I’d fucking blurt it out that I found her very appealing and would be pretty sad to know she died. Although, the thought of her reaction was also intriguing.

“You want to join me in here?” She suggests.

“Not terribly.” I lie.

“Are you scared of me?"

"No.”

“Well, I find it kind of rude with the barrier between us.”

She has a point. But the team would tear me a new one.

“Don’t worry. I won’t try to escape.” Alaska raises a brow. “I don’t exactly have the energy right now.”

To be fair, she still seems very sluggish. I give in, scan my key card, and enter the cell. Her eyes follow me as I sit down on the ground next to her.

“At least it’s not cold in here,” I comment.

“I’m pretty cold.” Alaska states.

You wanna cuddle? Nah, I can’t say that. “I’ll find you a heater later.”

“So, Jinkx-y. What have you all been at since we last met?” She’s intrigued.

“Nothing fascinating,” I reply. “Planet Earth was destroyed. We got nowhere to go. No missions. Nothing.”

Alaska looks disappointed with the answer.

“I’m sorry. Were you expecting something a bit more thrilling? Well, the last time something exciting ever happened, before you got here, was a very long time ago.” I continue.

“You have a really negative aura right now.” Alaska comments. “Maybe if you had a little more positivity, you’d find happiness.”

My brows connect. “Well, I’ve never been one of those 'fake a smile’ types. That’s a one way trip to a massive breakdown.”

“Who said anything about faking a smile?” Alaska tests. “If you get out of your head, stop focusing on how boring everything else, then you’ll see what the world has to offer.”

“What are you? A therapist?"

"See, this is what I’m talking about? The negativity. It’s making you more hostile. So different to the Jinkx I met back in the museum.” Alaska’s eyes squint as she analyzes me further. “And no, I’m not a

therapist. If you didn’t notice before, it’s just my people are a very positive bunch. Give us a Tsunami; we’ll make a water slide out of it. Give us a house fire; we’ll toast marshmallows and have one hell of a party.”

I know I could never reach that level of chill. But I find it admirable.

“Jinkx, how old are you?” Alaska asks.

The question catches me off guard, but I answer anyway. “33 years old.”

“Wow. You’re like…way younger than I thought you’d be.” Alaska’s brows raise in surprise.

“Are you saying I look old?"

"I was going to guess late 40’s.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.” The sudden urge to leave and go find some more wine is strong. Actually, maybe that’s what has clearly aged me.

“Late '40s is still young, girl. But early 30’s. That’s really, really young. Practically still a child.” Alaska comments.

“You have a really warped concept of age,” I note. “How old are you then? You gotta be younger than me, at least.”

“Far from it. I’m actually 2099 years of age. Just about to get into my 2100’s."

I’m shocked. Only then, when she states her age, do I remember that Celestials live for a very, very, very long time. But still. I never imagined she’d be 2 millenniums old.

"I forgot you humans only have less than 100 years.” Alaska plays with her hair again. “Which is why I find it sad you’re just sitting here wasting what remaining time you have. You have so much to experience. A lot to learn. You just gotta open your eyes.”

“Huh, you’re not wrong.” I click my tongue. “OK, so let me know more about you."

Alaska looks flattered.

"Why the name 'Alaska’? I’m guessing your parents had an interest in Earth?”

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Just because I like you.” Alaska says coyly, making me blush. “It’s not my real name.”

“Oh, cool. What is your real name then?” I lean forward, enthusiastically.

“I’d rather not say.”

“OK.” I don’t press her. “Does anyone know your real name?” I don’t want to feel left out.

“Of course they do. But for specific and appropriate reasons. I’d just much rather be referred to as Alaska. And what about you? Why Jinkx with a 'k.’” Alaska lies on her side, propping her head up with a hand.

“I don’t know. My Mom liked it, I guess.” I also lie on my side, and I just smile at her.

“Jinkx Jenner fan?” Alaska asked.

I shook my head. “I have no clue. Honestly, she wasn’t very present for my childhood. I never had the chance to find out.” I see the sorrowful look on her face. And I regret taking the conversation to a dark place. Before she can ask about the rest of my family, I take a turn and ask a question. “So like…are you broke or something? I’m guessing that’s why you wanted the stone so bad.” I smirk.

“What do you mean?” Alaska’s brow raises.

“The marquee. You were charging people to see the stone.”

“Oh, that . I guess that was just a perk. Not really different from people paying to see it in the museum.” Alaska explains, her smile slowly fading. “But no, that’s not the real reason.”

With a sigh, she sits up again, leaning her back against the wall. Her chest heaves, eyes looking upward. It’s like she’s avoiding me, or the topic. I’m unsure of which one.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It's…” she pauses like she’s trying to find words. And then she sighs through her nostrils. “It doesn’t matter.”

Concern takes me over. I sit up and move towards the wall beside her. “Hey, it’s OK. You can say it. It’s just me.” I say as if she’s known me for years. I don’t know why I said it. I guess I just really want her to trust me.

Alaska avoids my eyes. “I really can’t. It could be dangerous for Glamtron.”

“Glamtron?"

"Yes, my planet.”

“You mean Celestia?”

“No. Glamtron.”

“…”

“Alaska, you’re from Celestia.”

“No, it’s called Glamtron.”

“Says who?”

“I do. I renamed it.”

My head cocks to the side. “ You renamed it?”

“Yes. I do have the power and the authority to do that, after all."

My eyes widen. "Wait a minute. Are you saying…”

“Yes, I am the Queen. Alaska Thunderfuck from the planet Glamtron.” She says so proudly. “So, yes. I really did rename it to Glamtron.”

I don’t even care about the name change any more. I’m just…beyond shocked. Here, I am; Jinkx Monsoon, a space nerd, sitting with royalty.

"Fuck. I just… don’t know how to act all of a sudden.” I say.

“Well, I’m not looking very Queenly right now. Just see me as Alaska from the exhibit for now."

"I know, but… I’ve studied Celes - -” Alaska shoots me a look, “Glamtron before. There’s never been any mention of an Alaska before. And you’ve been alive for so long. How…” I trail off, not knowing how to even finish my statement.

“Because Alaska isn’t my real name.” She says as if I should have remembered that. I thought she would have been happy to know I forgot.

“Well.” I pause. “I hate to ask, but what do they refer to you as?”

She licks her teeth like she’s slightly frustrated. “OK. Fine. But you gotta promise to always call me Alaska.”

“Cross my heart.” I place a hand over my heart to seal the deal.

“OK.” She looks to the door as if afraid anyone will just wander in. Then she looks at me, leans in close, and whispers, “My name is actually Thriks.”

My first thought is, 'Oh, yikes. That is kinda awful.’ But now I’m thinking back to my reading. And I am definitely familiar. The Queen Thriks was known as a wild party animal, yet a loving and caring mother-like figure. She was always so strong for her people and went out of her way for them, making sure everyone was in high spirits. Because of her loving nature, she was to go down in history as one of the most adored Queens of Celestia.

“I have read about you,” I say quietly.

“And you’re little history books and articles. Do they still call it Celestia?” Alaska stretches the ’s’ in Celestia out.

“Uh, huh.”

“If I was a different person, I’d sue."

But we’re getting off track. I need answers. "Well…I could write about you? I’d write you as Alaska . I’d call it Glamtron . I’d make everything right if you help me."

Alaska bats her lashes. "You’d do that for me?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, grabbing her hand.

“Hmmm…” she brings a finger to her mouth, thinking, “I can’t wait for the part where I robbed the museum. I’m sure there will be some bitterness in those words.”

She’s kind of right. Yeah, I’m having a good time talking with her. But she did kind of cost me my job. I purse my lips as the classical song ends, transitioning to something from the 1980s.

“Alaska, why did you take the stone?” I ask again.

She’s silent again, pretending to be distracted by the catchy Madonna music.

“Alaska, I need to know if I’m going to write your story."

She stops bobbing her head, huffing put through her nostrils. "Jinkx, I really can’t.”

“Why not? You told me your name.”

“Because that’s different.”

“How?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“Why?” My tone becomes more demanding.

“Because it just is,” Alaska replies, her tone the same.

“For who? Us? Are we in trouble?”

“No! For my people.”

“So…you don’t trust me?” I ask in an accusing manner. Seems a bit emotional blackmail-ish, but I’m desperate to know.

“I do trust you, Jinkx. But I can’t say the same for your team.” She says with venom.

“My team are good people!” I say. “They have never caused any harm.”

“They terrified my people that day.” Alaska countered. I figure she’s talking about the day we arrived in Celestia.

“And how is that any different to the night of the exhibit?"

"Because unlike you all, we had a good reason.”

“And that is?”

“Jinkx, you’re really really starting to piss me off.”

“Don’t ignore the question. What am I going to do? Go out and tell my big bad teammates? Why would I do that if I have no idea what the consequences are?”

“Because we’re vulnerable, Jinkx!” Alaska shouts. Her volume causes me to shrink away. She’s gritted her teeth, kneeling on her knees and towering over me now. I’m actually scared.

“Look at me!” She presses her hands against her chest. “I’m fucking dying! My planet is dying. My people are dying!”

In my moment of shock, as Alaska looks down on me, pieces of the puzzle come together in my head.

Thriks; the loving Queen who went out of her way for her people.

The attack on the museum.

The Revitalization Grain.

The one thing that brought restoration and reincarnation.

“You wanna save them,” I speak through a whisper.

With a sigh, Alaska sinks back to the ground. Her head lowers, blonde hair covering her face.

“Jinkx, the stone is of Glamtron origin. It was lost 300 years ago, in the middle of the war with the Holoxyans. For so long, we were wasting away, trying to build up our own energy to keep ourselves alive. And from just laying around, we were just dying anyway. And I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know how to save them.” Alaska’s voice cracks. “For years, I had to watch as many gave what little energy they had left to my team and me. Just so we could go find the stone.”

I’m horrified as realization hits; I’ve brought doom to an entire planet.

“Please, I don’t want anyone other than us to know,” Alaska states firmly. “Glamtron has no defense. If someone knows how vulnerable we are, it makes us a prime target for invasion. The Holoxyans. They will attack.”

I move close to her again. I resist the urge to throw my arms around her, now aware of literally how fragile she is. I take her hand graciously; my own eyes must be glistening. “Alaska, I’m so sorry.”

She puts her other hand on top of mine. “I do trust you, Jinkx. I’m just…terrified.”

“I know. I know.” I say quietly.

Alaska hasn’t shed any tears. They were right when they said Thriks was a strong bitch. I held back my own tears, fearing it would be selfish.

“So, no. It’s not because I’m broke.” Alaska comments. And I nervous laugh. She laughs too. “You promise this stays between us?” She looks me in the eye.

Is it inappropriate to say at this moment I’m just smitten by the dark irises? “I promise.” I squeeze her hands reassuringly.

“Great.” She nods. And she leans forward, kissing me on the cheek.

I could fucking melt. The high must be kicking in again because the lights are dimming, there’s some sort of pink aura emerging, the music is louder, and Alaska feels warm.

She pulls away. I expect a smile. But she’s looking around her as if she’s experiencing the same thing.

“Alaska, look.” I point to her wrist. She looks just in time to see something glitter under her skin, like sparkly pink blood flowing through her veins.

She’s looking at me now like something has just hit her in the head like a brick. I don’t know what, so I just stare back in confusion. “What’s - -”

I’m cut off as she grabs my face.

And she kisses me again.

On the lips.

Suddenly, I know what pink glitter tastes like, even though I’m pretty sure there is no taste. Her kiss is so gentle, which I do not expect from her. She’s lifted a hand to my cheek, stroking a nail along my skin. And I hope this is a sign she’s not just in it for some nice colors floating around the air. I feel this spark, and it will kill me if she doesn’t feel it too. Upon having this thought, I wrap my arms around her tiny waist. The butterflies in my stomach are going wild, my heart is pounding so hard, yet all I can focus on is the soft feel of her lips.

She pulls away, and I almost pull her back in. But I’m taken aback by the room now . Like, am I tripping right now, or are there really purple fireflies floating around?

Alaska’s looking around in awe as well. I guess it’s not the cosmic-high feeling from her kiss.

“Well, that’s never happened before.” Alaska looks back to me with a smirk. The holographic glitter has resurfaced, decorating the sides of her face.

And her hair, almost pale white, longer and thicker. I can’t help but run my fingers through it. Never has hair felt silkier to me.

She’s glancing down at my hand, still playing with her locks. “I feel…alive again.” She breathes out a laugh, pulling away from me, admiring the healthy color of her skin, the glittery fluid coursing through her.

I look away, noting how the floaty lights remain. But the hit is gone. So this is real. There really are tiny glowy orbs floating around us.

"Wow. What is this song?” Alaska asks, moving her body to the rhythm of the music. The 1980s song has long ended. Instead, the song Courtney was singing earlier plays.

“I’ll have to find that out for you. You’d think I’d know it. We’ve heard it so many damn times now. It’s kind of annoying.” I laugh.

“Why do you think that?"

"It’s just…too depressing, I guess. I mean, listen to the words.”

“This is what I’m talking about. Don’t focus on what’s black and white. Listen to the music.” Alaska turns to face me, her long arms rippling to the tune.

I don’t want to be an annoying son of a gun and ruin the tender moment for us, so I take her advice and really listen to the music.

“Not anyone, you’re the one, more than fun, you’re the Sanctuary,

'Cause what you want is what I want, Sincerity.”

My eyes are closed, and my body is swaying. And I’m feeling it. Like the music is flowing through me. “Hey. I think you’re right.”

“See?” I open my eyes to see her move toward me. She takes my hands in hers. And we spin in a slow circle.

“Souls that dream alone lie awake, I’ll give you something so real.”

As the chorus kicks in, the dance has picked up a pace. I don’t even know what kind of dancing this is. Let’s say a mix of slow dancing and ballroom. And I laugh when she spins me around. I try to return the gesture, but she’s too tall, and I nearly knock her in the face. I’m embarrassed for a few seconds, but she’s laughing. And it makes me feel less like an idiot.

I can’t keep up this pace; I’m falling so hard right now. I slow myself down, hoping she gets the hint.

“Hold me oh so close, 'cause you’ll never know just how long our lives will be.”

I wrap my arms around the small of her back, pulling her to me. I can see the small floaty lights reflecting in her dark eyes. And now it’s my turn to kiss her. I’m really, really falling hard.

I could stay like this forever, rocking side to side, just kissing Alaska. But reality has to come back and creep into my brain, doesn’t it?

I know this won’t last. We’ll eventually have to part when we leave her back to her dying planet, and my team and I will continue on wasting away.

I stop kissing her to get another look at those eyes, and she lays her head on my shoulder. We continue to sway side to side. And the thought of letting go is making all kinds of negative emotions surface. Am I glad for this moment? Oh, absolutely. If she hadn’t broken in, I’d still be in my room, either sleeping or waiting for Tallulah to finish cleaning.

“Wait…” I say.

“What is it?” Alaska speaks into the crook of my neck.

“I…” I pause, “OK, don’t get mad. But I kinda lied to you.” She lifts her head at this. “You were right about sensing the stone. The truth is I have a piece.”

Her eyes widen. “I knew I felt it.”

“It’s small. But it’ll give you more strength.” I suggest with raised brows.

“No. I have enough right now. I don’t know how but…you ignite something in me, I guess. As for the stone, I know a few people back home who could use it more.” Alaska suggested.

“Well, good. Wait here.” I give her a small kiss. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be going anywhere.” She calls as I leave the cell.

I’m too buzzed to search every damn room. I just search for the nearest human who will provide me with answers. I find two in the security room. Ivy and Courtney.

“Which one of you whores have seen Tallulah?” I ask, peaking my head in.

“Not me.” Courtney answers. She’s got a smirk on her face, and I know somethings up.

“Me neither. But we’ll tell you what we did see.” Ivy gestures to the 5th screen, showing Alaska still dancing around in her cell.

My eyes widen. “You were spying on us?”

“Not our intention. We thought we’d keep an eye on things in case something happened.” Ivy then laughs. “And I guess it did.”

The shame takes me over, and my face flushes with shame and embarrassment. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I actually think it’s adorable. Very Romeo and Juliet.” Courtney coos.

I roll my eyes. This is all incredibly immature. But I know they’re not going to just let it go. “OK, kids. I’ll let you have your fun. But it stays between us. Anyway, where’s Tallulah?”

“We told you. We don’t know.” Courtney replies. “Try her closet.”

“OK.” I turn to leave, not before turning and pointing at the two. “Remember; it stays between us 3.”

“You got it, girl.” Ivy smirks.

I waste no more time with them and rush to the cleaning room, which just so happens to be at the end of this corridor, just around the corner. My pace is so quick, I almost trip.

Upon getting to the door, I’m thankful to find Tallulah is here but shut down. “Tallulah?"

No response. I clap my hands 2 times as if it’ll bring her to life. It’s never worked before, so I don’t even know why I tried.

When she doesn’t power up, I roll my eyes, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant from the shelf and dropping it on the ground.

Tallulah is up and running in a matter of seconds.

"No. Stop.” I move forward to stop her from going to the bottle. “Tallulah, I have a huge favor to ask.”

“ :0 ? ”

“You remember that glowy thing I gave to you?”

“👍”

“Good. Where is it?”

A box on her build opens, revealing the chipped off piece of Revitalization Grain. But I can’t just take it.

“Well, that’s good that you haven’t lost it. Can I have it back, please?”

“ :( ”

“OK, it’s not that I want it. I need it.”

“ >:( ”

I’m serious. There’s no time to argue.“

” 🤬💢🖕🗣🔫🚫✖❗ “

I lick my teeth beneath my pursed lips, realizing this isn’t going to be as easy as it seemed.

"Look, Tallulah, I know you like it. It’s pretty. It’s glowy. I get it.” I soften my tone. “But there are people out there who are dying. A lot of people. But this tiny little stone? It can help them get better. If you give it back to me, you’re saving the lives of so many. You could be a hero.” My brows raise.

“…”

Wow, talk about being left on read.

“ 🆗️ ”

“Yes. Jesus Christ! Thank you!” I quickly hug her. She hands me the small stone, and I pat her on the head. “You’re a lifesaver. Literally.”

“ 🤺 ”

Not sure what she meant by that one, but I leave her to it. I hold the small rock tight in my hand, seeing its glow seep through the gaps in my fingers. And I can’t believe that there’s a chance we can help Alaska save Glamtron. Even if I can’t be with her, I would feel better knowing everything is better back on her planet.

I pass the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. Shea’s all alone, just staring out at the window. Fuck. I can feel it. The dread creeping up.

“Captain,” I address her. It feels weird calling her that. She’s just been 'Shea’ for a long time now. But with the new task, I guess it’s only appropriate.

She looks away from the window, taken by surprise. “Jinkx, you scared me.” She sniffs, quickly wiping at her eyes. Fuck, this isn’t good.

I walk into the room. “You feeling OK?”

She sighs. “Yeah, I guess I will be.”

She goes back to looking out the window. Standing next to her, I follow her gaze. And I immediately recognize the area.

Large masses of rock float around in the distance. Remains of the Earth.

I purse my lips for a moment, trying to make sense of it. I almost feel confused by what I’m looking at. I know what happened, but it still feels…unfamiliar. “You’d think someone would clean this mess up,” I say.

“No. This is a graveyard, Jinkx. It has to stay.” Shea states.

“Fair enough.”

We continue to stare, like we’re in some sort of trance, watching the pieces float around.

“Wanna hear something funny?” Shea asks, giving me a sad smile.

The mournful aura is weighing down on both of us. Something funny right now would be great. “Yeah, of course.”

“As soon as she broke in, I knew it was our chance—a new purpose. Finally, for the first time in a long, long time, we get to do our thing. And I was…so fucking excited. I couldn’t fucking wait.” She laughs.

I don’t find it funny, but her happiness is making me happy.

But her smile drops. And I know now when she said if I wanted to hear something funny, it wasn’t going to be funny at all.

“But then what? What happens after we leave Celestia?” She asks, looking at me with wet eyes.

Nothing happens. We go back to the same old shit and hope that something good happens.

Shea must’ve been holding back a sob because she chokes, grabbing my attention. She covers her mouth as if it will hold back the other ones.

“Hey, it’ll be fine.” I grab her free hand.

But my words are meaningless. I don’t know if it will be OK or not. So I hug her hoping it’ll help some.

She whispers in my ear, “I just want my family.”

I’m devastated. I really am the lucky one. Who knew being abandoned by my own mother at such a young age could be such a blessing? Because this anguish Shea is expressing? It’s soul-destroying.

She cries into my shoulder some more, and I run my thumb along the back of her shoulder. I can’t even tell her it’s alright. Because I know it won’t be.

I look at the stone in my hand, still hugging Shea. If only this stupid glowy thing could restore the life of this ship. If only it brought back the good times, the adventure, the danger.

I continue to stare at the stone. And I have no idea why, but something I thought about earlier resurfaces.

The loving Queen who went out of her way for her people.

“Fuck.” I whisper.

“I’m sorry.” Shea sniffles, lifting her head. She dabs her eyes with her pinky.

“It’s not you. It’s - -” I begin. But I fail to find words to explain my thought process.

All I can say is I know what I need to do now.

I look at my Captain for what will probably be the last time. “Shea, when the time is right, come find me.”

“What?”

“You’ll know what I mean.”

I pull away from her and go to leave the room, her voice calling after me. But I don’t listen. I need to do this.

-_-_-_-

Alaska stands as I enter the room. I pull the stone from my pocket, and she’s already drawn.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding when you - -”

I cut her off with a kiss, something to give her more energy. I don’t know how much she’ll need to make it to the escape pod, but hopefully, this should do it.

I pull away. “Change of plan, hon’. You wanna rob the museum?”

“What?” Her brows cross.

“I’m gonna make things right - I’m gonna get the Revitalization Grain back, we’re gonna take it back to Glamtron. And I don’t care if that makes me some sort of intergalactic space villain. When the time comes, we’re gonna fight for your planet.” I babble, and only when I finish do I realize how nuts I sound.

Alaska’s blinking, as if struggling to comprehend everything I just said. “Jinkx, you know the stone? You know it’s called the Glitter Bomb, right? And before you argue, yes, I named it that.”

I roll my eyes, adoring her dorky side. And I hand over the piece of the stone. If we’re getting the glitter bomb - as she calls it- she might as well have this piece now.

As soon as it’s in her hand, she’s glowing. It’s breathtaking.

She’s breathtaking.

“Come on. We need to get to an escape pod quick.” I take her hand.

“No need. I say we take the quicker way.”

“And that is?”

She wraps her long arms around my waist. “You better hang tight.”

And in a matter of seconds, light envelopes us. And the atmosphere changes. We’re outside. If it wasn’t for my trust in her, I’d panic at the thought of suffocating. But I can breathe, and I know it’s one of her quirks.

We’re blasting at the speed of light, passing many planets and stars that would take weeks to pass. And I wonder if people on other planets are looking up at us right now, thinking we’re a shooting star and making wishes.

Speaking of wishes, I kind of wish I could see what’s happening back at the ship. I can just picture it. The sight of Alaska and I whooping by the windows, Shea realizing what’s going on, giving commands and ordering everyone to get a move on. Ivy trying to figure out where we went, giving her plenty of searching to do. Milk, Kameron, and Bob working on kicking the ship back into action. Everyone just running around, trying to shake the energy back into themselves.

'Cause they have a new purpose now. I am their enemy. And that couldn’t make me happier. Because I know they’ll be thankful for giving this to them, something we all had been waiting for.

But what makes me happier, more than anything, is that I’m here with Alaska. We’re going to save Glamtron, the planet formally known as Celestia. We’re going to protect it at all costs.

And, most importantly, I’m going to be with her for the rest of my life.

#rpdr fanfiction #jinkx monsoon #alaska thunderfuck #ivy winters #shea coulee #courtney act #bianca del rio #jalaska #fluff #sci fi #angst #hurt/comfort #lesbian au #head in the clouds #grinder #concrit welcome

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aurilis · 4 years

Text

Known you before, chapter 11 When things shift part 4

More fear than harms. Chase learns how important he is.

Now, how to help Carmen ? He needed a weapon. Like … this big stone here. He grabbed it.

“ Devineaux !” he heard.

Chase brandished his stone, before recognizing Shadowsan.

“ So you could free yourself. Now come, I must take you in safety.”

“ No. I must help Carmen before.” contradicted Chase.

“ You may have improved in fighting, but it is still not enough against that kind of foe. Don’t put yourself in danger.” insisted Shadowsan.

“ But of what use am I then, if I can’t even help her when she needs it ?!” exclaimed Devineaux, lifting an arm.

“ You are her refuge.”

Chase blinked.

“ You are what reassure her, comfort her, her pillar, and what can allow her to evacuate everything harmful : stress, doubt, fear. What you cannot do physically you’re doing it emotionally, which is also extremely useful and necessary. Carmen Sandiego is strong on her own, but she still requires support to remain that way. Otherwise she will collapse one day or the other.” developed Shadowsan.

Chase dropped his stone. Carmen ended her fight. She had been unusually violent. Paper Star laid on the ground knocked out.

“ CHASE !!”

Carmen rushed to him and jumped at his neck.

“ Nnnngh ! Caaarmeeen … careful.” he moaned under the strength of her embrace.

“ I could have lose you ! I was so worry I might not save you, I was so scared ! I don’t want to lose you again !” she moaned.

Chase blushed. Shadowsan gave him a deep look. Devineaux closed his arms around her.

“ Shhhh ! It’s okay Carmy. Like hell I would have stayed idle. Ask Shadowsan, I was already free when he found me.”

Carmen glanced at him, the man nodded.

“ Hold me tight please.” she whispered.

Chase smiled before granting her what she asked for. Carmen breathed, savouring this hug.

“ Wait. Is that a cut ? Did she do this to you ?” asked Sandiego after a while, noticing his wound.

“ It’s just a scratch okay. Now, I’ll call Interpol so they could pick her.”

Carmen turned burning eyes to where Paper Star was lying. A few hours later, everyone was back in their hotel.

“ Chase ? It’s time for some training, carino.” called Carmen.

She was wearing her blue jean outfit, the top being wide open on her neck and the top of her chest. The man turned to her. His eyes opened wide.

“ EEEEEK !!”

The young woman approached, and he backed away.

“ ? ”

“ Hem ! Actually, I have a report to do so can it wait please ?” said Devineaux, pointing sides.

“ Err, fine. But then …” answered Carmen.

“ Good ! Seeyoulaterthen !”

And he literally ran away until his room, where he slammed the door.

“ Phew.”

Down, Sandiego blinked. She turned to Zack and Ivy.

“ Hey, is it me or Chase is fleeing me ?” she asked.

“ My thoughts exactly.” replied Zack.

“ Did you uncovered something ?” continued the thief.

“ Not yet. We couldn’t ask him since we got interrupted by VILE.” said Ivy.

“ Hmmm … I hope it’s not bad news.” made Carmen, thoughtful.

She went to check on the man later. That one was reflecting over a file. She smiled with tenderness : that reminded her when they were living together, with him working at home. Carmen sneaked in, approaching him. Chase noticed her, and turned look swiftly.

“ Could you be more dressed please ?”

“ Hey. Sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to check if everything was fine.” she said softly.

Chase stretched, and moaned in pain. Body aches.

“ Wait. Let me help with this, carino.” offered Sandiego.

Before he could understand, hers hand were on his shoulders and massaged him. Well-being invaded him. Devineaux closed his eyes, a little smile appearing. Carmen smiled too, glad to help him and well … having some contact. Some minutes later, she ended up with her arms surrounding his neck, her nose in his hair. Relaxed, Chase didn’t mind it for now. Carmen opened her eyes. She spotted what he was working on. ACME. She frowned : why would he investigate on his former employer ?

“ Chase ?”

“ Hmmnnnh ?”

“ Why are you investigating on ACME ? Did you spot something fishy ?” asked the thief.

“ Sigh. Way to ruin the moment, young miss.”

The man straightened.

“ But to answer you … yes. I’m wondering how their boss found all the resources to not only create this, but also maintaining for twenty years with so little results.”

Chase tidied all his papers in a file, that he stored in his luggage.

“ You said earlier it was time for training. So let’s go, that will do me some good.” he decided.

“ Very well, carino.”

“ What does that mean ?” he asked.

“ Oh hum … it’s just a nickname, nothing else.” replied Carmen, embarrassed.

Except that it meant sweetie in Spanish. Carmen gave him a tender look before leaving. She reflected on this : it went naturally to call him that way. She refused to think about it further.

#carmen sandiego #Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego #chase devineaux #carchase #carmeneaux #fanfic #inspector devineaux #agent devineaux #chasexcarmen

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sandalaris · 4 years

Text

The Leverage!Community AU that I will probably never write and nobody asked for.

Let’s go steal an AU.

Under the cut because it is long

Jeff Winger

Jeff was a damn good lawyer, with just the right amount of flexible morality that let him bend the law to his whim while not being the kind of a amoral asshole that people avoided (*cough*Alan*cough*). He took white collar civil cases, the kind where the defendant was greedy or lazy or just plain stupid, and the fatalities financial in nature, all designed to keeping Jeff in the expensive life he’d become accustomed to. He was on the fast track to make junior partner when out of nowhere evidence surfaced claiming Jeff falsified his credentials. He soon finds himself disbarred and blacklisted, without even getting a chance to plead his case. Determined to get back to his old life as quickly as possible, Jeff sets off to find the culprit and hires a crew to help him. It was only supposed to be one job, no encores. No repeats... well, maybe just one more.

Britta Perry

The only thing Britta loves more than her cats is a noble cause, but there’s only so much a person can do with a picket sign and a catchy chant. She refused to give up though, going out and fighting the good fight, until she discovered she could do more behind a computer screen than she ever could on the streets. A self-proclaimed hactivist, Britta fights for the underdog even as it lands her on government wanted lists. And if she’s entirely honest, she’s more than a little proud of make such lists. She has a hard drive with the copies of each of her arrest warrants, kept like badges of honor even as she goes through and deletes them from local systems. She doesn’t have time to spend the night in jail when there’s some many other, digital places she’s needed.

She only agreed to take the Winger job because she needed the money after a hack went wrong the Croatian government seized her bank accounts and then went the extra dick mile and sent her address to the feds. She just needs to lay low, do the job, and get paid (she’ll be fine, but her cat needs his eye drops). She has no plans to form a crew, not after last time. But someone’s gotta tell this group of miss-matched criminals what’s really going on in the world.

And then later, when the number of people they keep helping continues to grow, she realizes that maybe not all causes have to be large in scale to be worth fighting for.

Abed Nadir

Abed has always related to the world best through TV, defining the people around him by roles and tropes until they fell into place. For years he dreamed of being a writer and director, but making films aren’t cheap, and Abed learns very quickly that if he wants to follow his dream he needs more than the ideas in head. People aren’t going to just see his vision when he places it in front of them, they need to be convinced, persuaded, need to like the guy selling his stories, and people don’t always like Abed. He can pretend though, pluck a character from thin air, custom made to manipulate people into giving him what he wants, opening doors and wallets. It’s a great way to make a living, addictive and exhausting at the same time, and more than enough to keep him making small indie films in his spare time. He dons new names, new people, at every turn, drawing others to him like a moth to flame. Even if he doesn’t always understand the why of people, he at least gets the how, and that’s enough to get by.

He played witness to one of Jeff’s cases, needed the inside information for a script that never got off the ground. He slipped though, started talking about film and shows and forgot to be George Carmicheal from Long Island and became Abed Nadir, failed movie producer and college drop out. And the thing is, Jeff still liked him, maybe even liked him better as Abed than he did as George. Maybe that’s why he showed up at Jeff’s doorstep, uninvited and unannounced, after hearing about his disbarment. Maybe that’s why he volunteered his real name and didn’t pretend to smile or nod or do any of the things he knows he needs to do to make people like him. Even with the others showed up and he placed them in their likely roles, he didn’t don a mask. For the first time in a long time, he was just Abed, and that wasn’t just enough for them, it was preferred.

Annie Edison

Annie had a plan. Perfect grades leading to the perfect school leading to the perfect life. Her extracurricular were carefully selected, the exact balance of brainy and physical to appeal to the Ivy League schools the Edisions’ had their eye on, all mulled over and weighed to give her the best advantage. Annie was a junior in high school when she OD’d on the little “helper” pills her mom and dad had talked her doctor into prescribing her. Her parents refused to send her to rehab, citing the shame it would bring to their family and dismissing her claims of addiction as attention seeking behavior. She begged and pleaded and bargained and finally they caved on lessening her ridged schedule, making time for her to “destress” in between padding her college applications. Meditation didn’t work, but flipping grown men over her shoulder did and her self-defense class was augmented with MMA and kickboxing. And when the acceptance letters started pouring in Annie let out a sigh of relief, thinking it was over now that she reached the goal. She was wrong.

The pressure didn’t stop so Annie upped her training, which lead to her showing her dormmate a few moves, which lead to helping out a classmate with a stalker problem, which turned into a couple of private security gigs, which got her noticed by a man looking for someone to help retrieve some property that may not have been his, and he passed on her name to someone who offered a lot of money for... well, she’s not really at liberty to say. Annie likes being the best, likes the praise and the testing of her carefully honed skills. But the drive to be the very best at what she does led her to taking more and more questionable jobs and fewer and fewer classes, making up excuses about why she doesn’t come home anymore until she stops all together, and before she realizes it she’s got a very specific skill set and rather impressive, yet bloody, resume that only certain kinds of people would be interested in seeing and all those carefully laid plans from all those years ago have long been flushed down the drain.

Troy Barnes

Troy likes to drive, likes the escape of it and the way no one’s around to tell him what he’s doing wrong with his life or “real men" don’t do those things. Likes the thrill of going fast when night has fallen and the streets are bare of regular people, pitting himself against another person who’s like him, trying to outrun that gnawing pit in their stomach that’s constantly telling them they can’t cut it.

Troy’s not made for crime, not the real kind. Doesn’t think he’d make a very good criminal with his hidden soft heart and lack of long-term planning skills. But when Nana Barnes gets sick, driving is what puts food on table and covers the hospital bills. Its what gets him contacted by a down-on-his-luck lawyer looking a guy to provide a quick get away.

He’s not needed at every job in the beginning, but they make roles for him anyways and he finds his own ways to help. He’s always been good with his hands, mending the broken equipment around him and making improvements to his car beyond what the original designs intended. Passing the time creating small, playful gadgets that the others oo and ahh over. He likes to be useful, sewing FBI jackets and making the crew a meal after a long job, creating for Jeff his fake miracle and putting together an EMP spur of the moment when they realize they need one.

“You’re a regular renaissance man,” they tell him, and they don’t comment when he cries at meeting the clients or mentions how he always wanted to learn to dance, and Troy that it must be a good thing because he’s never felt so comfortable staying put before.

Shirley Bennet

Shirley is retired. She found the Lord and put her sinful past firmly behind her. She doesn’t even miss it. Really. Not one bit. No one would suspect that the sweet little housewife with a penchant for baking can crack a safe in under a minute or that she’s intimately familiar with the security systems employed by the most secure museums. People don’t know how her fingers itch in crowds for the fat wallets and shiny valuables that keep catching her eye, or see the frown of disapproval that crosses her face every time some half-brained car chase ends with the perp getting caught. She’s a good wife and mother, and doesn’t entertain such ideas anymore.

She met Jeffery once before, when he was trying to build a plausible alternate for the prosecution’s case and accidentally stumbled across what Shirley had thought was one of her better heists. She never did figure out how he put the pieces together so quickly and he never put her name on an official documents (she checked. Courthouses really should invest in better security), but after that they kept on eye on each other. And when he comes to her with a job offer, well, she tried to tell him she was out of the game, but that boy can just be so darn convincing when he wants to be and its not like its hurting anybody.

Pierce Hawthorne

Pierce has a lot of money, a lot of ex-wives, and next to zero friends. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t need them, after all he’s made it this long without any, no matter how many times Winger argues on the stand that his loneliness and maladjusted psyche due to a “traumatic childhood” are what causes him to make such poor decisions that lead to such expensive lawsuits. He still manages to get him a Not Guilty verdict or argues with him into settling out of court, and no matter how many times Winger swears this is the last time he’s going to defend him, he still answers when Pierce calls. So when Jeff says he needs money to pay a group of criminals to break into his old work building and find out who got him disbarred, Pierce offers without even stopping to think about it. Doesn’t even call it loan and just hands over the cash like he’s passing the salt.

Breaking the law isn’t cheap, apparently. Although the payouts make up for it most of the time. But the set up, the equipment and the materials, all those upfront costs that someone needs to front, are enough to make most people squirm and Pierce covers them without comment. They always pay him back anyways, and after a couple months, they’ve made enough that they don’t need him anymore. They still invite him though, to the meetings and the plans, making room for him in their little group and giving him a place at the table.

They aren’t his friends, can’t be because Pierce doesn’t need any, but he think he might want some anyways.

#Community #the greendale seven #Jeff Winger #Britta Perry #Abed Nadir #Annie Edison #Troy Barnes #Shirley Bennet #Pierce Hawthorne #Leverage AU #I'd gone back and forth on switching Shirley and Abed's roles #but Abed fits grifter better than Shirley does #even if I think she'd be good at it #and I love the idea of Shirley knowing just how to flirt to knock men and women off their game #but the idea of using Abed's skills at playing roles and him not really being accepted as himself until the team won out in the end

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noir-renard · 5 years

Text

Title: So Long We Become the Flowers (on AO3)

Author: @noir-renard (Cielle_Noire on AO3)

Length: 100k

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Drarry

Tags/warnings: No archive warnings apply, Non-linear narrative, Alternate Universe, Original AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, flower symbolism, Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, POV Draco Malfoy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Dissociation, Anxiety, flangst, the ending is very fluffy, Hogwarts Era

Summary:

Harry is a Red Charge, creator of storms and fire. Draco is a Green Charge, a designer of flowers. If they’d followed The Rules, they would never have met. But they hadn’t, and so they did. Mistrust gives way to curiosity gives way to understanding and, against all odds, love. They should never have met, but they did. If they want to stay together, they must take an ultimate test of devotion: becoming mortal. If they succeed, they will prove their love to the Patrons who would forbid their bond. If they fail, they lose the right to exist.

If Draco and Harry can make it work as Charges of two Patrons as opposite as can be, why not Malfoy and Potter?

Excerpt below the cut:

The Newcomer was unlike anything Draco had ever seen before, and the only word he could use to describe them was beautiful. Draco knew a lot about beautiful; it was his job to make beautiful flowers. But he did not think he could have crafted that which lay before him.

He watched for longer than he should have; he shouldn’t have watched at all. He should have turned around and left, and not spent any more energy thinking about it. He shouldn't have ever come here in the first place, but here he was, and this was the consequence: Uncertainty, novelty, and an ache to know what it all meant.

He shouldn't be here, yes, but here he was, frozen with indecision. If he left and immediately got to behaving as a dutiful Charge should, he'd never get answers. And he'd already, after a fashion, infringed upon the Rules, had he not? If he got caught, there were no degrees of infractions of Rule-Breaking to be considered. Wrong was Wrong, and he'd come this far. If he got caught now or after sating his curiosity, his punishment would be the same.

Thus, after too-long-to-be-decent but not-long-enough to come up with a better plan, he made a decision.

He stepped out of the shaded ether and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

The Other Charge sat up, eyes flying open as they scrambled to summon their uniform and cover them self with it. The chiton uniform was crimson in colour—no, it was closer to carmine, rich and lovely. It swirled around them like thick, lazy smoke, crackling dangerously with fleeting sparks where it folded across itself. Draco's uniform was longer than theirs, sweeping down to his ankles like a waterfall, but the Other's was only thigh length and apparently cut for ease of movement, leaving much of their body exposed.

Admiration of the colour and essence of the uniform brought understanding of its significance: the Charge’s Patron was Red. Draco's heart sank like a stone, all the more striking in contrast to how it had soared before. Green and Red did not get along. Their Charges did not interact, did not cooperate on projects. There was no goodwill between them, or appreciation of each other’s merits. He did not even know what Red Charges did, so estranged were their spectrums.

Draco wished he could hide his own ivy uniform, climbing vines, and delicate silvery petals. But then he would be the nude one, and he doubted that would improve the situation. His cheeks stung with frost at the very thought of that particular humiliation.

The Red Charge straightened out his Carmine Uniform—as much as smoke could ever be straightened—and focused on Draco. “Ah, Patrons, I'm sorry you, uh, had to see that. I didn't, er. See you. There. Here. Um.” In his embarrassment, it seemed the Red Charge had yet to notice that Draco was a Green Charge.

“Not surprising,” Draco replied coolly, though he felt anything but cool in this situation. “Your eyes were closed, after all.”

The Red Charge winced and rubbed the back of his head, mussing his already dreadfully delightfully messy hair. His cheeks flushed nearly the same colour as his uniform, and Draco found himself wondering what it would feel like to touch them. Would they be frosty, like Draco’s? Surely not, with Red as his Patron, nature as opposite to Green as could be.

But Draco couldn’t even begin to imagine what the opposite of cold might feel like.

“No one ever comes over here,” the Red Charge continued, oblivious to Draco's inner turmoil, “I thought I was safe to...er. Unwind?”

Draco sniffed at that, deciding to focus on his irritation at finding his spot occupied rather than his disconcerting wayward admiration of the colour and feel of another Charge’s cheeks. “Do you come here often?”

“Every day,” the Charge replied easily, previous embarrassment seemingly forgotten. He squinted slightly, eyes roving over and cataloguing the colour of Draco's uniforms. “Have done for ages. I’d definitely remember if I’d seen you here before.”

“I’ve been coming here for more cycles than I can count,” Draco bit back.

The Red Charge smirked; eyes gleaming. "Well, that could be a lot, I suppose, depending on how high you can count."

Draco scowled. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Irritation was coming more easily now. It was jarring to think he’d unknowingly been sharing his private meadow with someone he did not know, someone who should have been different from him in every way. But said someone had found this place too, just like Draco. Had come here frequently, just like Draco.

Draco didn't want to share traits with a Charge from the opposite end of the spectrum, if not literally than in every way that mattered. He didn’t even want to think about it, for if Draco were in any way like a Red Charge, what did that say about his adequacy as a Green Charge? Better to deflect blame elsewhere.

“I've never seen anyone else here before you," he said, raising an eyebrow, "Why have we never crossed paths if, as you say, you’ve been coming here for 'ages'?”

The Red Charge narrowed his eyes, carefree posture straightening to rigid. The air around him seemed to snap with bright fleeting light, threatening and sharp. “Are you calling me a liar?”

It was an intriguing display, to be sure, but any beauty Draco had seen was rapidly being replaced with more irritation and—though loath to admit it—fear. “Merely stating facts. Why? Feeling defensive?”

The Red Charge muttered something about ‘Green gits’ under his breath, but Draco decided, magnanimously, to ignore anything not said to him directly.

That, and the Red Charge was crackling louder and more sporadically now, dark clouds swirling above them and blotting out the mid-morning sky. The hairs on Draco's neck were standing at attention, telling him to run.

But he stood his ground, stubborn to the last.

“Not that it’s any of your business," The Red Charge growled, "but I got a new schedule today. I’m normally here in the afternoon.”

"Afternoon?" Draco echoed. It was a mortal expression, one he understood but which had little meaning outside the mortal realm.

Draco didn't get the chance to ask about it though—not that he wished to prolong their discourse—as the Red Charge said, “I was just leaving, anyway. Storms to brew, you understand. Wouldn't want to disturb your delicate sensibilities.”

And then he left. Without even giving his name, the heathen.

Then again, Draco hadn't asked. Or offered his own name...Well, it was of little import. Draco would probably never see the Red Charge again, now that whoever-he-was knew this abandoned meadow wasn't as abandoned as he'd thought. The dark clouds dispelled, and the sun returned to wipe away any lingering darkness wrought by the Red Charge.

When Draco returned the next Cycle and the Red Charge was there already—again—Draco didn't know what to think.

“Oh, it's you,” the Red Charge said with a teasing if not lazy smile.

“You again?” Draco sighed.

"I'm surprised to see you came back," he continued as though Draco hadn't spoken. He didn't sound surprised. "I thought I'd scared you off with my, ah, display yesterday.” In spite of his bravado, his cheeks were flushed a dusky pink. Perhaps the Red Charge was not as nonchalant about it all as he seemed. And he’d used a mortal time expression again. Why? Was it a Red Charge mannerism, or something else?

Draco decided he'd already thought too much about it.

“It takes more than that to scare me,” Draco sniffed, examining his nails to hide his fascination discomfiture. “I didn't think you'd return after getting caught in flagrante delicto yesterday.” Seven Spectrums, using the mortal time expressions was catching, wasn't it? Patrons help him. “Last Cycle, that is. I see you aren't displaying anything today.”

He regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth. Patrons, what was wrong with him?

“Not that I wanted to see it again or anything. Er, see you again. I mean, obviously.” Draco willed himself to stop talking before he made it worse.

He had a sinking feeling it couldn’t have been any worse. If the Red Charge's smirk were any measure of Draco's remaining grace, he had none. The damage was done.

“I got all my displaying over and done with already, but if you're that disappointed—”

It was sheer stubbornness alone that kept Draco from cutting his losses and leaving his perfect spot forever. “Don't flatter yourself.”

“I don't need to flatter myself with you around.”

Draco, graciously, decided to ignore whatever the Red Charge was implying, and instead decided to point out, “It’s against The Rules to leave your Sector."

“Oh, is it?” The Red Charge’s lips quirked in amusement. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize I was dealing with such a discerning Rule Follower.”

Draco tsked under his breath. Was he being mocked? He was, wasn’t he? This situation was annoying enough as it was without adding sarcasm to the mix. Completely unnecessary. “I could report you, you know.”

The Red Charge shook his head in mock disappointment. “Ah, but you don’t know who I am. My name, my lineage, my palette. What are you going to tell your supervisor? That you saw a Red Charge out in an abandoned sector? Even if you didn’t get in trouble for the exact same infraction, Red would throw out the accusation on principle as soon as they learned it came from the Green Sector.”

“But the Rules—”

“You underestimate Red’s spite and pettiness, especially when it comes to Green.” He slunk lower against the pillar he was leaned upon, as if heavy thoughts weighed him down. A hint of something dark crept into his face, his eyes stormy and introspective. Draco wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but it didn’t seem directed at him. Curious.

The Red Charge pushed off the pillar with a force that belied his blasé attitude, the ruins flashing a streak of weak red light like fingers trying to hold on to wind. Draco himself had never touched the pillars, still preferring the grass, but he found the reaction curious. They always had a dim glow of light, but he'd never known they could react to the spectrum of a Charge.

"I could report you, too, you know," the Red Charge continued, brushing past Draco at an arm's distance and distracting him from inquiries about the nature of the pillar. Not that Draco would have asked. "My superiors wouldn't mind overlooking an infraction of the Rules if it were to the detriment of Green."

"You wouldn't," Draco growled, cheeks stinging with angry frost.

The Red Charge shrugged, and continued walking, calling back over his shoulder, "Guess you'll only know if you show up tomorrow."

"Is that a threat?"

The Red Charge didn't respond, disappearing into the dark ether separating the Light Sectors.

"I won't abandon my meadow!" Draco shouted after him. He wasn't sure if the Red Charge could still hear him, but he felt is should be said it on principle. "I found this place."

He had the distinct impression he was being laughed at from beyond the boundary, as if to say challenge accepted.

Challenge, indeed.

#drarry fanfic #drarry fic #drarry #my fic #if you want something that's a little bit like greek mythology but sideways and squinty #and if you like flower symbolism #and if Draco Malfoy being very bad at narrating honestly is your jam #you might like this #tell your friends #cover art also by me

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thepurplebutterflythings · 5 years

Text

Kitty Cat & Tweety Bird (Part 4) - Jason Todd

Gif: Dxnninja on Tenor

Word Count: 3.5K

Paring: Jason Todd (Titans) x (f)Reader

Summary: Police Commissioner Jim Gordon meets Y/N and sees the blatantly obvious reason as to why Bruce finds Y/N familiar, although Bruce still doesn’t notice it. Y/N goes and visits her Auntie Harley and Auntie Ivy to ask them what they know about her father.

Warnings: N/A

A/N: This is a little series I am doing about Jason Todd in Titans. I don’t know Comic!Jason very well so I’m taking all of this from the show, and at the moment he hasn’t been in very often, so please forgive any mischaracterizations.

Tagging: @bella-0104-123 @ninergirl1d @httpfandxms @rosybrock @attackonnat @reclusive-chicken-nugget @demoiselle-en-detresse00 @young-psychos @thesleepykaijuu @thescottpack @nightlygiggles @rougestorms @sinon36

Kitty Cat & Tweety Bird Part 3 | Masterlist | Kitty Cat & Tweety Bird Part 5

________________________________________________________________

Y/N didn’t know how the conversation started between herself, Bruce and Jason, but they were talking about vigilantes.

“I think people like Batman and Robin are needed,” Y/N said as they chatted on, “My mum grew up in the city before they existed and tells me stories about it, people like Fish Mooney and Jerome Valaska, and it sounds like a chaotic nightmare. With Batman and Robin around… there’s more order in the city.”

“Yes, I remember the city before,” Bruce nodded along as Jason wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and kissed her temple. They found no need to hide their budding relationship, it didn’t affect her internship and Bruce respected personal boundaries. “It has certainly changed.”

“And they’ve inspired others to make a difference and fight crime,” Y/N added on.

“Lynx is my favourite,” Jason said, “She’s a total badass!”

“Lynx…” Bruce frowned.

“Don’t you like Lynx?” Y/N asked curiously, wanting to know what Bruce, Batman, had against Lynx. Maybe it could help her improve.

“Well, there is great potential there, no doubt,” Bruce nodded, “but I keep a vault at the Gotham city Vaults and heard from a guard of Catwoman, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy breaking in and nearly being captured by Batman and Robin only for Lynx to help the three escape,” Bruce almost tutted, “if it’s true, then I’d say that Lynx is unpredictable, and can you rely on someone unpredictable?”

Y/N pulled away from Jason and walked towards Bruce’s shelves to study what was on there, hoping to change the topic. They didn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand. Her eyes were drawn to a broken object. It was a broken snow globe, white base and no glass, and therefore no water or snow, but the scenery inside was still intact. A snowy hill with trees and a house. Y/N frowned as she looked at it, fingers itching to touch it and trace the little path through the trees leading to the house.

“Where’d you get this?” Y/N asked, turning to look at Bruce, who remained at his desk, eyeing the article of his past. Jason stood by Y/N and looked at the snow globe too, as though he had just noticed it.

“I bought it as a gift for… someone, a girl, when I was a young boy,” Bruce explained as he finally approached the two at his shelves. He took the snow globe and handed it to Y/N, who lifted it up close to study, smiling at the pretty scenery, imagining how it would look with falling snow. Bruce watched her closely; there was something about the glimmer in her eye and the smile on her face when looking at the broken artefact that stuck him – she was so familiar to him somehow, why?

“Didn’t she like it?” Y/N asked, lowering the snow globe.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce said, “we had an argument when I tried giving it to her and she dropped it, then left.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said handing the globe back. Bruce took it and gave a small smile.

“She was a very stubborn person,” Bruce almost chuckled.

“You and this girl,” Jason said, “were you… together?”

“Not at the time, never officially,” Bruce explained, “but… we liked each other… and in another life…” there was a sadness to his voice as he thought about the girl.

The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the open office door. The three turned to see an older man standing there in a neat suit, crinkles around his eyes and mouth as he smiled at Bruce, who chuckled and greeted the man with a firm handshake.

“Bruce Wayne, it’s good to see you,” the man said.

“Likewise, Commissioner.”

“Come on, after all we’ve been through, call be Jim,” The Commissioner said as he walked in and saw Jason and Y/N. He held his hand out to them, “Jim Gordon, Police Commissioner.”

“Jason Todd,” Jason said, shaking his hand.

Jim then turned and looked at Y/N, blinking in shock, his mouth open as he stared at her. Jim knew that smile, a permanent playfulness etched onto a face with a mischievousness that was hard to hide, and looking at Y/N’s eyes, Jim saw something else. It was so clear and so obvious to an outsider, but something Bruce couldn’t see himself, the reason as to why Y/N seemed so familiar, and not only that but something else, something hidden, something which Y/N didn’t know herself. It was all there in her eyes. Y/N just smiled and chuckled, taking his hand, clueless to his reaction.

“Y/N,” she said, “I’m the new Wayne Enterprises Intern.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Jim said, slowly shaking her hand and staring at her face.

“Well, we’re going to lunch now,” Jason said, “see you later, Bruce, and nice meeting you Commissioner Gordon.”

“And nice meeting the pair of you,” Jim said as he watched Y/N leave the room with Jason. When they left Jim turned to Bruce with a stunned expression.

“Does Y/N remind you of anyone?” Bruce asked gesturing after the girl.

“Yes,” Jim said.

“Me too, but I can’t figure out who.”

“Really?” Jim blinked. Was Bruce Wayne so oblivious that he couldn’t recognise that Y/N was the daughter of Selina Kyle? And was Bruce Wayne so oblivious that he couldn’t see that Y/N had his eyes?

Apparently, he was.

________________________________________________________________

“Tell me,” Alfred said to Y/N as she and Jason sat in the kitchen. Bruce was still at the office. “Is it just you and your mother?”

“Yep, just me and my mum.”

“Where’s your father?” Alfred asked curiously. Even Jason turned to look at Y/N then. After all their time together, Y/N had never mentioned her father.

“He died,” Y/N sighed, “before I was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alfred said, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “How did it happen?”

“There was a shoot-out at one of Penguin’s places, my parents were there and Dad made sure Mum was safe,” Y/N paused, “Mum had just told Dad that she was pregnant.”

“Oh, Y/N,” Alfred sighed, “I am truly sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Y/N shrugged it off. She hated the pity people gave her when they heard her mother’s tragedy. Her father died protecting Selina and her unborn child, that’s what should be remembered, not that Y/N grew up without a father.

“Well, Y/N,” Alfred said, “your mother did an absolutely remarkable job in raising you, you are an incredible young woman and I have no doubt that your father, if he were here, would be incredibly proud of you,” he smiled at Y/N.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Y/N smiled faintly, “that means a lot to me.”

“What was his name?” Alfred asked. Y/N stopped smiling, it fell from her face as she thought. What was her father’s name? Y/N frowned as she thought. Surely her mother must have mentioned it once, at least a nickname, but as Y/N thought she realised that Selina hadn’t. Who was her father?

________________________________________________________________

“AUNTIE HARLEY? AUNTIE IVY?” Y/N called through the lobby of Harley and Ivy’s house. Her voice echoed around the room before she heard the sound of paws hitting the ground. Bud and Lou, Harley’s Hyenas, plodded up to her and nudged her legs for Y/N to fuss them, which she did with a chuckle, scratching Bud behind the ear and Lou under the chin. “Hey babies,” Y/N cooed at the animals.

“Y/N?”

“Auntie Ivy,” Y/N sighed as she walked up to her aunt and hugged her, “where’s Harley?” She asked, looking around her.

“I’ve learnt not to ask,” Ivy chuckled while speaking into Y/N’s ear and wrapping an arm around her, “it only leads to me worrying. Now,” Ivy said, “what brings my lovely niece round?”

“I, erm, I wanted to talk,” Y/N said as Ivy sat her down and grabbed a bowl of strawberries which were already out and sat it between them.

“About anything in particular?” Ivy asked as she sat down and looked at Y/N.

“What’d you know of my father?” Y/N asked. Ivy blinked and straightened up at the question.

“Hasn’t your mother told you all she knows?”

“No, mum doesn’t like talking about dad,” Y/N confessed, “she always gets upset about it.”

“What’s brought this on? Wanting to know about your father?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N shrugged, “I guess I feel like there’s a part of me missing cause I don’t know my past, my whole past. I know mum, but I don’t know dad. And, honestly, something seems off about Mum’s story about Dad

“Well, honestly, sprout,” Ivy sighed “Harley and I know nothing about your father, and honestly, we couldn’t even tell you if what your mother says is the truth.” Ivy waved a hand, “Penguin has gained many enemies over the years and an attack seems likely, and many died in crossfires in Gotham, but I don’t know why on earth Selina would step into Penguin’s place, especially when pregnant and with the man she loves. But I and Harley have always accepted it as the truth. Why would we question it?” Ivy explained, “Although now you mention it there is a lot to question about Selina’s story. Remember sprout, your mother is in a dangerous lifestyle and she often keeps things private for protection, not of herself but of you. You’re her daughter, she would do anything for you.”

“I know,” Y/N nodded, “I just want to know who he was, where I came from… if there’s any family on his side. I feel like I’m missing part of myself.”

“I get that, sprout,” Ivy stroked Y/N’s hair, “I do. If I knew anything I’d tell you,” Ivy promised, “but I don’t, and neither does Harley. This is Selina Kyle we’re speaking of, even her secrets have secrets.”

“But, Auntie Ivy,” Y/N hesitated, “if mum is lying and my father didn’t die in a crossfire at Penguin’s, then what did happen?”

“I don’t know…” Ivy whispered, “your mother keeps many secrets, and your father seems to be her best-kept one, but I doubt your mother would cut your father from your life, she knows what it’s like growing up without parents. I think she must be telling the truth, and if not, then… well… I hate to say it, sprout, and then perhaps your father died another way, something less heroic than protecting the mother of his unborn child. I hope you don’t get upset by that…”

“No, no,” Y/N shook her head, “I get it… There are no heroes in Gotham.”

“Not in the big sense,” Ivy said, “but there are small heroes every now and then, and perhaps your father was genuinely one of those. He did the brave thing and sacrificed himself so your mother could have you and give you the best life possible, and maybe that’s why it hurts your mother so to talk about him.”

“Thank you, Auntie Ivy.”

“Now come on,” Ivy stood up and pulled Y/N to her feet, “I’m going to need help watering the plants and feeding Bud and Lou, and I think you are the perfect little helper!” Ivy tapped the end of Y/N’s nose with her finger, “come along, sprout.”

“Hun, where are you?” Harley cooed as she walked around the house, Bud and Lou trailing after her, coming to see Ivy and Y/N. “Aww, Y/N,” Harley squealed, running and hugging her niece closely, “it’s so good to see you! What brings ya by?”

“Oh,” Ivy sighed, “Y/N was just asking if we knew anything about her father.”

“Ya Daddy? Nah, nothing,” Harley shook her head, “nada. Wish I did, babes, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Y/N said with a sad smile, “I get it, mum’s private.”

“Babes,” Harley sighed, cupping Y/N’s face, “Selina keeps things private for a reason, to keep you safe, and that’s probably why she ain’t told us anything, cause we’d tell ya. I can’t blame her really.”

“Me neither,” said Ivy, “we aren’t parents, so we don’t know what would be the right thing to do.”

Harley nodded “Exactly, but know one thing, babes, me and Ivy will always be here for ya.”

“We helped Selina raise you from a seedling,” Ivy stroked Y/n’s hair, “we see you as our own in a way.”

“Thank you, Aunties.”

_______________________________________________________________

When Y/N got home she opened the door to her home to see her mother standing in the living room with large eyes and opposite her was Jim Gordon. They were clearly having a private conversation as they stopped when Y/N walked in. Y/N frowned at the sight but walked in, dropping her bag.

“Commissioner Gordon, what a surprise!” Y/N said wearily, “what brings you by?”

“Well, I knew Selina when she was a kid,” Jim said, “and please, just Jim will do, Y/N.”

“Really?” Y/N stepped forward and folded her arms, “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, Selina has always been a private person,” Jim smiled at Selina who smiled tightly. Y/N noticed this and watched her mother. Had Jim said something which upset her mother? Was he planning to arrest her or something?

“What were you talking about?” Y/N asked, eyeing Jim up and down.

“Just catching up,” Selina assured Y/N with a smile.

“Mmm,” Y/N nodded, “how’d you meet?”

Jim and Selina sighed and met each other’s gaze.

“Actually, I cannot say the details,” Jim admitted, “but it was through a case – a murder. Your mother was a possible witness.”

“Really?” Y/N frowned and looked at her mother who awkwardly looked down.

“It’s not something I like to talk about,” Selina said, “I was a kid on the streets, things like that happened more than I care to admit.”

“Oh, mum…”

“Anyway, it was good to see you, Selina,” Jim said, “and think about what I said, please, you know he’d like to.”

“I made that decision a long time ago, Gordon,” Selina told the man, “and I don’t plan on changing my mind anytime soon. Anyway, it’s too late to now anyway.”

“It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t find out eventually,” Jim pointed out. Y/N just frowned, not knowing what they were speaking about. “Anyway, I should go. My wife and kids await.”

“Goodbye, Jim,” Selina said, leading the man to the door, “it was good to see you.”

“You too, Selina,” Jim said, stopping in the doorway and looking at the woman, “I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself on your feet, and to see you have such a lovely daughter. I’m proud of you, Cat.”

“Thank you, Jim,” Selina smiled as Jim left, closing the door behind him. Selina turned and faced Y/N, who frowned at her mother.

“What the hell was that about?”

“It’s something from a long time ago,” Selina waved it off with a sigh, “I was young, a different person. You weren’t born.”

“Was it about that case? The one you witnessed?”

“In a sense,” Selina sat down, “it was about a relative of the victims. But I was involved in a few cases, it could’ve been about any of them.”

“Like what?”

“There were two people who abducted street kids,” Selina said, “Jerome Valaska, which I think I’ve told you about.”

“Yes,” Y/N nodded with a shudder. “I remember finding that YouTube video of his attack on the Gotham Police Station when I was nine. I had nightmares for months.”

“And that’s why I put blocks on certain things online,” Selina said sitting down, “I remember you waking up and screaming in the middle of the night. It traumatized you. And I hope the sick freak who put it online gets hit by a car. Karma! Then there was Barbra Keen, lord knows what happened to her. She sort of dropped off the earth around a few years back, but I’ve heard she’s in Central City now anyway. Look, what I’m saying is there is a lot of horrible things in the past, and that’s why I haven’t told you about what I’ve witnessed or all of what I’ve been through. It’s horrible, Kitten.”

“Okay Mum,” Y/N nodded as she sat next to Selina and snuggled into her mother’s side like she did as a child. She rested her head on her mother’s chest and wrapped an arm around her mother’s middle. Selina sighed and leaned back in the sofa, wrapping her daughter in her arms and kissing the top of her head. Y/N inhaled deeply and the scent of her mother’s perfume provided comfort to her - Vivienne Westwood Boudoir. Classy and Selina Kyle.

“How was it round Ivy and Harley’s?” Selina said quietly into her daughter’s hair.

“Nice,” Y/N yawned as she suddenly felt tired. It was amazing that, regardless of how old Y/N was, all Selina had to do to get her baby girl to sleep was wrap her up in her arms and talk in a soothing voice.

“Close your eyes, Baby,” Selina cooed, “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Okay, Mama.”

________________________________________________________________

Selina and Jim didn’t talk about Selina being a witness to a crime as a child, no, they spoke about what Jim knew, and when Selina confirmed it, Jim knew he had to talk with Alfred. He called the old friend and asked him to meet in a bar.

“Commissioner Gordon,” Alfred nodded as he took the seat in the booth opposite Jim, “What is this about? And why did you wish to meet here and not at Wayne Manor? You know Bruce will always be pleased to see you.”

“This is about Bruce, in a sense at least,” Jim explained, “and it isn’t my place to tell him what this is about.”

“Is it my place?”

“No,” Jim shook his head, “this is Selina Kyle’s place to tell Bruce.”

“Selina Kyle?” Alfred frowned, “what is this about, Jim? What does Selina Kyle know?”

Jim sighed and shook his head “It’s not what she knows, Alfred, it’s about what she’s hidden…”

“Jim, just tell me.”

“That Jason’s girlfriend,” Jim said quietly, “what’d you know about her?”

“Not much,” Alfred shrugged, “Jason’s Lab partner, raised by a single mother, an only child, and her father was killed at Penguin’s in a crossfire, why?”

“Her father isn’t dead, Alfred, her father is alive and well.”

“You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Commissioner, are you?”

“Bruce Wayne is her father.”

“And what does Selina Kyle have to do with this?”

“Don’t you know Y/N’s surname?” Jim blinked.

“No.”

“Her name is Y/N Calabrese Kyle,” Jim explained, “And she’s the daughter of Selina Kyle.”

“Selina and Bruce?” Alfred mumbled, “I suppose I’ve always suspected on some level that the two of them had feelings for one another, but I never thought that they’d act on them.”

“Oh, they acted on them alright.”

“How’d you know?” Alfred asked, “Who she was?”

“I saw it in her the moment we met in Bruce’s office,” Jim explained, “after that all I did was look at Hospital record to see that Selina Kyle gave birth to a baby girl nearly 20 years ago, which made sense because there was a yearlong hiatus in her actions as Catwoman. On the birth certificate, Bruce is listed as the father, but I suspected Bruce was the father automatically, and not because of the history between Selina and Bruce, but because of her eyes. Look at Y/N’s eyes, Alfred, she’s a Wayne, then I went to see her and ask if it was true.”

“And she confirmed this?”

“Yes,” Jim nodded, “Y/N is Bruce’s child.”

“Do you know what this means?” Alfred muttered, “After Bruce passes, God forbid, then lawyers will look to see the next Wayne Heir. They will track her down, does Selina know this?”

“Yes, she does, but doesn’t want her daughter to know this.”

“Why not? Bruce would be more than happy to provide for this child and Y/N is an admirable young woman, Bruce has met her and said so himself.”

“Selina is Selina,” Jim sighed, “remember Bruce left the city for ten years, and Selina was hurt, beyond hurt.”

“So she’s keeping Bruce in the dark about his child because of petty anger?”

“No, she’s doing this because she’s scared Bruce will leave again, and this time Selina isn’t the only one who’d get hurt. Y/N would too.”

“Oh…” Alfred sighed and sat back. Course. It made sense when he thought about it. Alfred remembered the pain in Selina’s eyes when she saw Bruce had left, and he could understand why she wouldn’t want her baby to experience that same pain. Bruce was unpredictable, but he kept his promise of never leaving the city again, but how could Selina be sure? She thought he’d never leave her the first time, but he did.

“I suppose their reunion was more than they expected though,” Jim pointed out. Bruce returned to the city over twenty years ago now, and Y/N was nineteen, that meant that one of the first times the two were reunited, they conceived Y/N. “Does she know that Bruce is her father?”

“No,” Alfred said, “she’s convinced her father died in Penguin’s in a crossfire, saving Selina, who was pregnant with her.” Alfred looked at his old friend, “did you try and convince her to tell Y/N? Or Bruce?”

“She said she made her mind up 19 years ago, and she’s sticking to it.”

“She was always stubborn.”

“But Alfred this isn’t our place to tell either Y/N or Bruce,” Jim said, “okay?”

“I understand,” Alfred nodded. He truly did.

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notanecromancer · 5 years

Text

This is How a Society Dies America and Britain are Textbook Examples of a New, Gruesome Phenomeon: Rich Nations Self-Destructing Into Poor Failed States Umair Haque

When I ask my European friends to describe us — Americans, Brits, who I’ll call Anglo-Americans in this essay — they shake their heads gently. And over and over, three themes emerge. They say we’re a little thoughtless. They say we’re selfish and arrogant. And they say that we’re cruel and brutal. I can’t help but think there’s more than a grain of truth. That they’re being kind. Anglo-American society is now the world’s preeminent example of willful self-destruction. It’s jaw-dropping folly and stupidity is breathtaking to the rest of the world. The hard truth is this. America and Britain aren’t just collapsing by the day…they aren’t even just choosing to collapse by the day. They’re entering a death spiral, from which there’s probably no return. Yes, really. Simple economics dictate that, just like they did for the Soviet Union — and I’ll come to them. And yet what’s even weirder and more grotesque than that is that…wel…nobody much seems to have noticed. There’s a deafening silence from pundits and elites and columnists and politicians on the joint self-destruction of the Anglo-American world. Nobody seems to have noticed: the only two rich societies in the world with falling life expectancies, incomes, savings, happiness, trust — every single social indicator you can imagine — are America and Britain. It’s not one of history’s most improbable coincidences that America and Britain are collapsing in eerily similar ways, at precisely the same time. It’s a relationship. What connects the dots? Let me pause to note that my European friends’ first criticism — that we’re thoughtless — is therefore accurate. We’re not even capable of noticing — much less understanding — our twin collapse. Our entire thinking and leadership class seems not to have even noticed, like idiots grinning and dancing, setting their own house on fire. They are simply going on pretending it isn’t happening — that the English speaking world isn’t fast becoming something very much like the new Soviet Union. So what caused this joint collapse? How did the English speaking world end up like the new Soviet Union? To understand that point, consider the fact that you yourself probably think that’s an overstatement. But it’s an empirical reality. The Soviet Union stagnated for thirty years. America’s stagnated for fifty, and Britain for twenty. The Soviet Union couldn’t provide basics for its citizens — hence the famous breadlines. In America, people beg each other for money to pay for insulin and antibiotics, decent food is unavailable in vast swathes of the country, and retirement and paying off one’s debt are impossibilities: just like in the Soviet Union, basics are becoming both unavailable and unaffordable. What happens? People…die. (The same is true in Britain. In both societies, upwards of 20% of children live in poverty, the middle class has imploded, and upward mobility has all but vanished. These are Soviet statistics — lethally real ones.) Politics, too, has become a sclerotic Soviet affair. Anglo-American societies aren’t really democracies in any sensible meaning of the word anymore. They’re run by and for a class of elites, who could care less, literally, whether the average person lives or dies. In America, that class is a bizarre coterie of Ivy Leaguers pretending to be aw-shucks-good-ole-boys on the one side, like Ted Cruz, and Ivy Leaguers pretending to be do-gooders on the other, like Zuck and Silicon Valley. In Britain, it’s the notorious public school boys, the Etonians and Oxbridge set. That brings me to arrogance. What’s astonishing about our elites is how…arrogant they are…and how ignorant they are…at precisely the same time. Finland just elected a 34 year old woman as a Prime Minister from the Social Democrats. Finland is a society that outperforms ours in every way — every way — imaginable. Finnish happiness is way, way higher — and so is life expectancy, mobility, savings, real incomes, trust, among others. And yet instead of learning a thing from a miracle like that, our elites profess to know a better way…while they’ve run our societies into the ground. What the? Hubris would be an understatement. I don’t think the English language has a word for this weird, fatal combination of arrogance amidst ignorance. Maybe cocksure stupidity comes close. And yet our elites have succeeded in one vital task — what an Emile Durkheim might have called “social reproduction.” They’ve managed to reproduce society in their image. What does the average Anglo-American aspire to be, do, have? To be rich, powerful, careless, selfish, and dumb, now, mostly. We don’t, as societies or cultures, value learning or knowledge or magnanimity or great and noble things, anymore. We shower millions on reality TV stars and billions on “investment bankers.” The average person has become a tiny microcosm of the aspirations and norms of elites — they’re not curious, empathetic, decent, humane, noble, kind, in pursuit of wisdom, truth, beauty, meaning, purpose. We’ve become cruel, indecent, obscene, comically shallow, and astonishingly foolish people. That’s not some kind of jeremiad. It’s an objective, easily observed truth. Who else in a rich society denies their neighbours healthcare and retirement? Nobody. Who else denies their own kids education? Nobody. Who else denies themselves childcare and elderly care? Nobody. Who else doesn’t want safety nets, opportunities, mobility, protection, savings, higher incomes? Nobody. Literally nobody on planet earth wants worse lives excepts us. We’re the only people on earth who thwart our own social progress, over and over again — and cheer about it. How did we become these people? How did we become tiny microcosms of our arrogant, ignorant, breathtakingly stupid elites? Because we are perpetually battling for self-preservation. Life has become a kind of brutal combat to the death. For jobs, for healthcare, for money, for the tiniest shreds of resources necessary to live. We wake up and fight one another for these things, over and over again. That is what our lives amount to now — gladiatorial combat. Meanwhile, elites and billionaires sit back and enjoy not just the spectacle — but the winnings. People who are battling for self-preservation can’t take care of anyone else. If I ask the average Brit or American to consider paying for their society’s healthcare, education, elderly care, childcare, increasingly, the answer is: LOL. In America, it always has been. Why is that? The reason couldn’t be simpler. People can’t even take care of themselves and their own. How can they take care of anyone else — let alone everyone else? The average person is living right at the edge. Not at the edge of the middle class dream and an even better one. But at the edge of poverty and destitution. They struggle to pay basic bills and never make ends meet. They can’t afford to educate their children, and retire, or retire and have healthcare, and so on. Let me say it again: the average person can’t take care of themselves and their own — so how can they take care of anyone else, let alone everyone else? A more technical, formal way to say that is: our societies have now become too poor to afford public goods and social systems. But public goods and social systems are what make a modern, rich society. What’s a society without decent healthcare, schools, universities, libraries, education, parks, transport, media — available to all, without life-crippling “debt”? It’s not a modern society at all. But more and more, it’s not America or Britain, either. What makes European societies — which are far, far more successful than ours — successful is that people are not battling for self-preservation, and so they are able to cooperate to better one another instead. At least not nearly so much and so lethally as we are. They are assured of survival. They therefore have resources to share with others. They don’t have to battle for the very things we take away from each other — because they simply give them to one another. That has kept them richer than us, too. The average American now lives in effective poverty — unable to afford healthcare, housing, and basic bills. They must choose. The European doesn’t have to, precisely because they invested in one another — and those investment made them richer than us. We are caught in a death spiral now. A vicious cycle from which there is probably no escape. The average person is too poor to fund the very things — the only things — which can offer him a better life: healthcare, education, childcare, healthcare, and so on. The average person is too poor to fund public goods and social systems. The average person is too poor now to able to give anything to anyone else, to invest anything in anyone else. He lives and dies in debt to begin with — so what does he have left over to give back, put back, invest? A more technical, formal way to put all that is this. Europeans distributed their social surplus more fairly than we did. They didn’t give all the winnings to idiot billionaires like Zucks and con men like Trump. They kept middle and working classes better off than us. As a result, those middle and working classes were able to invest in expansive public goods and social systems. Those things — good healthcare, education, transport, media — kept life improving for everyone. That virtuous circle of investing a fairly distributed social surplus created a true economic miracle over just one human lifetime: Europe rose from the ashes of war to enjoy history’s highest living standards, ever, period. That’s changing in Europe, to be sure. But that is because Europe is becoming Americanized, Anglicized. It has a generation of leaders foolish enough to follow our lead — now remember the greatest lesson of European history, which is one of the greatest lessons of history, full stop. That lesson goes like this. People who are made to live right at the edge must battle each other for self-preservation. But such people have nothing left to give one another. And that way, a society enters a death spiral of poverty — like ours have. People who can’t make ends meet can’t even invest in themselves — let alone anyone else. Such a society has to eat through whatever public goods and social systems it has, just to survive. It never develops or expands new ones. The result is that a whole society grows poorer and poorer. Unable to invest in themselves or one another, people’s only real way out is to fight each other for self-preservation, by taking away their neighbor’s rights, privileges, and opportunities — instead of being able to give any new ones to anyone. Why give everyone healthcare and education when you can’t even afford your own? How are you supposed to? Society melts down into a spiral of extremism and fascism, as ever increasing poverty brings hate, violence, fear, and rage with it. Trust erodes, democracy corrodes, social bonds are torn apart, and the only norms left are Darwinian-fascist ones: the strong survive, and the weak must perish. (Let me spend a second or two on that last point. As they become poorer, people begin to distrust each other — and then hate each other. Why wouldn’t they? After all, the grim reality is that they actually are fighting each other for existence, for the basic resources of life, like medicine, money, and food. As distrust becomes hate, people who have nothing to give anyways end up having no reason to even hope to give anything back to anyone else. Why give anything to those people you are fighting, every single day, for the most meagre resources necessary to live? Why give the very people who denied you healthcare and education anything? Isn’t the only real point of life to show that you beat them by having a bigger house, faster car, prettier wife or husband?) That is how a society dies. That is the death spiral of a rich society. In technical terms, it goes like this. A social surplus isn’t distributed equitably. That leaves the average person too poor to invest anything back in society. He’s just battling for self-preservation, and the stakes are life or death. But that battle itself only breeds even more poverty. Because without investment, nurturance, nourishment — nothing can grow. Having become poor, the average person only grows poorer — because he will never have decent public goods or social systems, let alone the rights and privileges and jobs and careers and trajectories they become and lead to. A society of people so poor they have nothing left over to invest in one another is dying. It goes from prosperity to poverty, from optimism to pessimism, from cohesion to distrust and hate, from peace to violence — at light speed, in the space of a generation. That’s America and Britain’s story today, just as it was the Soviet Union’s, yesterday, and Weimar Germany’s, before that. You can see how a society dies — with horrific, brutal clarity — in the self-destruction of America and Britain. The hate-filled vitriol of Trumpism, the barely-hidden hate of Brexit. Why wouldn’t people who have grown suddenly poor hate everyone else? Why wouldn’t they blame anyone and everyone they can — from Mexicans to Muslims to Europeans — for their own decline? The truth, as always, is harder. America and Britain’s collapse is nobody’s fault — nobody’s — but their own. They are in a death spiral now, but no opponent or adversary brought them there. It was their own fault, and yet they still go on choosing it. They don’t know any other way now. Their elites succeeded at making the average person truly, fervently believe that battling perpetually for self-preservation was the only way a society could exist. And though it’s too late to escape for them, let us hope that the rest of the world, from Europe to Asia to Africa, learns the lesson of the sad, gruesome, stupid, astonishing tragedy of self-inflicted collapse. Umair December 2019 Eudaimonia and Co.

#vote 2020 #resist #persist

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lordgoopy · 5 years

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“The Saturday Interview: I Am In Eskew Podcast” —Recovered

The podcast is called I Am In Eskew; it’s a horror / weird fiction show delivered as a series of dispatches from a vaguely Central European city.

Eskew is a place that is, both spatially and psychologically, off-kilter. The streets wind too far in on themselves, the stairs climb too high, and both buildings and inhabitants can act in peculiar, obsessive, or frightening ways. And every episode we follow the narrator, David Ward, a kind of semi-unwilling immigrant to the city, as he finds himself stumbling into new aspects of Eskew. As for me, I’m a writer in London, working in digital media for the charity sector; I’m writing and narrating Eskew sort-of-anonymously. Not for any kind of grand scandalous reason, but because I think it adds to the fun and helps to keep the conceit alive a little bit.

Ah...that explains why I couldn’t find your name when I was researching for this interview. I thought my skills were slipping! I think it’s very interesting that Eskew focuses on horror based around spaces and buildings. Is this something of particular interest to you?

Yes, definitely! I think there’s a rich ream of horror, from The Haunting of Hill House to Ghostwatch, that delves into the idea that certain places can simply go wrong - and once these bad environments have been established and ostracised by society, they can’t be exorcised. They simply keep accruing power through the individual stories that play tragically out in their shadow.

I mention a real-life example of that kind of bad architecture in one episode; the Pope Lick Bridge in Kentucky, a place that looks and feels so sinister that it developed its own local folklore about a goat-man who attacks people who stray too close to the edge - and which has ended up resulting in deaths as visitors peer over the side trying to get a peek at the monster.

I find this kind of stuff fascinating, because it plays into my own paranoia about environments, and my dislike of ghost stories with explicably human antagonists. Like David says in the first episode, people aren’t frightening. Places are frightening.

If I’m sitting alone at home on a dark and stormy night, and I glance nervously up towards the bedroom doorway, my fear is not that my house is being haunted by a spirit called Mabel who died in the 19th century at the age of fourteen and is constantly seeking her favourite teddy bear...because all of these details both humanise her and make her ridiculous.

My fear is that there will be something standing in the doorway, because the doorway is where things come to stand.

Because unoccupied spaces, in our imaginations, must find something to fill them.

Could you describe some of your creative influences?

Thomas Ligotti is probably the writer I’m trying to crib from the most. Not so much in terms of his pessimism (or his love of puppets as a horror motif, which I can’t really get behind), but I see him very much as someone who bridges the gap between American horror and European absurdism. Some of my favourite stories of his - The Town Manager, Our Temporary Supervisor, The Red Factory - are hilarious as comedies! They’re very much scathing satires on our inadequate human response to the inexplicable and awful.

Junji Ito is also a big influence, in particular, his masterpiece Uzumaki: a collection of short stories about a town that’s driven mad by the symbol of a spiral. The brilliance is in the inventiveness with which he builds an anthology of horrors, with variety and with mounting awfulness, while playing on that simple motif.

I see Ito’s work as very much in the spirit of some of the most classic horror of all; Ovid’s Metamorphoses, where the threat comes not from an external monster, but from our own bodies and minds, transforming at the whim of cruel, fickle and obsessive gods...which feeds into a lot of what I’m trying to do with Eskew!

I usually try and avoid thinking about Lovecraft as an influence, even though David is clearly an obsessive, neurotic first-person narrator in the Lovecraft/Poe mould. I think there’s a lot of baggage around what constitutes ‘Lovecraftian’ fiction, and I didn’t want to set up false expectations by referencing him (like the idea that there might be some monstrous cosmic intelligence behind it all).

I really enjoy Lovecraft too, especially something like “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.” I think the idea of monsters living in the sea near the town and the strange, inexorable link the townspeople have with them makes it a lot creepier than something like “The Call of Cthulhu.”

Yeah! I think the elements in Lovecraft that have made him so franchise-friendly (these brilliant alien races and gods) have eaten away at the edges of Lovecraftian horror, bringing it closer to something that can be quite kitsch, even a kind of steampunk pastiche at times. With Eskew, I’m trying to keep to something I see in Ito, or in Ligotti, where any antagonists, whether human or otherwise, are only symptoms of something worse, something that’s simply a force of nature.

I see the city of Eskew as being a bit like a literal cancer in that sense - a highly complex structure where some of the cells (or in this case streets, art galleries, citizens...) have started to lose their original sense of self and are obsessively spiralling off in other, destructive directions...

What made you decide to do I Am In Eskew as a podcast, rather than as a graphic novel or book?

Honestly, it’s a lack of talent in the first instance, and a lack of discipline in the second!

Writing it as a podcast was my partner’s idea (she’s also the occasional voice of Riyo, an investigator looking into David’s disappearance, and she copy-edits every episode with me) - I knew I wanted to write a series of horror short stories based around the theme of urban isolation and weird architecture, but I was really struggling to get started.

She suggested that recording it as a podcast would force me to keep to a schedule, and hopefullyit might even give me some audience feedback to keep me excited about the project.

So it was a pragmatic choice, but it’s one I’ve really come to be thankful for! I think the medium is perfect for bare-bones, atmospheric horror storytelling (Knifepoint Horror is probably the best example of that ‘lonely voice whispering in your ear’ kind of fiction), and there’s an incredibly welcoming, friendly, mutually-supporting community of listeners and creators online.

Once the podcast is complete, I think I’d definitely like to look at compiling all of the episodes, editing and improving them, and turning it into a full-length written anthology. I’ve definitely made a few continuity slip-ups along the way that I’d like to correct, apart from anything else.

I’ve enjoyed Riyo’s episodes too, especially now that she’s directly looking into ‘hostile environments’. I feel like the contrast in tone and narrative style help to strengthen the series overall. Do you intend for the story of I Am In Eskew to have a specific ending in the future? If so, have you decided on the arc of the story?

I think David’s story (and Riyo’s) needs to be a finite one, definitely. In my experience, most successful protagonists in serial horror tend to be investigators, or monster-hunters. That choice of profession makes them witnesses to the story, rather than victims - effectively, they’re exempt from the psychological cost of whatever happens.

With David, I very much wanted to avoid that sense of safety; I want the horror to keep taking its toll on the character, episode after episode - which means that eventually he does need to find some kind of resolution!

Otherwise that psychological cost starts to seem fraudulent, and the whole thing turns into a predictable game of ‘David sees something horrible, then miraculously escapes at the last second’ week after week.

So I do know how the finale is going to play out; it’s really just a question of how many more stories I can reasonably invent for the show, without things starting to feel stretched, before we get there.

Mind you, it’s been established that there are recordings from Eskew that have gone missing, so it doesn’t need to end, even if it ends…

Do you have a favourite episode of I Am In Eskew so far?

I really like Episode 3: Excavation. A mysterious digging sickness takes hold in Eskew, with citizens tearing their own hands to pieces just to get into the ground - and in retaliation, a religious cult starts to form, extolling the virtues of the sky and constructing a grand tower.

It’s not necessarily the best-written episode structurally, and definitely one of the crudest in terms of recording quality, but it was the first episode where I felt I was pushing the boat out towards the kind of outrageous, absurdist horror that I really wanted to be writing, where normal human behaviour was just being given a couple of extra screw-turns towards something awful and monstrous.

It was also the first episode where I really saw a few people begin to respond on message boards, so that was really reassuring to me - when it first went out, I was petrified that I’d gone too weird to sustain anyone’s interest.

I tried to pick a favourite episode in preparation for this interview, but I honestly couldn’t narrow it down past five or six. If I really had to pick, I’d probably choose Illumination - the episode about the sinister and compulsive call of an old railway bridge. Are ideas like this based on real examples?

That example definitely is - it’s based on a railway bridge about a minute’s walk from my house! I love that kind of very modern ruin; old brick stacks stood out in the open, arches filled with ivy, graffiti in a place that seems impossible to reach...

There are a few other specific London inspirations (I based the Fish Market on Spitalfields Meat Market, for example), but with Eskew as a whole, I was thinking specifically of hillier cities in Western and Central Europe: Budapest, primarily, but also Lisbon (the trams and cobblestones), maybe a bit of Rome...

I’m used to flat English cities without any kind of panorama, so I find it a ceaselessly astonishing thing to be lost in a city’s streets and suddenly find myself up high, staring down over a sea of winding streets and rooftops...

How do you feel having wrecked people’s appreciation of AA Milne’s poem Disobedience by highlighting how deeply sinister it is?

I’ve actually been driving myself wild trying to decide if that poem is just a nonsense rhyme celebrating bossy children, or if there’s a class-snobbery thing going on (James James Morrison’s mother puts on a golden gown, and goes to the end of the town...does she get robbed there? Is the end of the town so unsafe because that’s where the low-income people live?)

You may have a point there about class. After whatever happens to her happens, the King himself gets involved with a reward. Clearly, she’s a lady with connections! Could you describe your writing process?

My writing process is very much informed by necessity - I commute in and out of London every day and don’t have a lot of free time, so I have to do most of my drafting while standing upright in a crammed train carriage!

Which may not be ideal, but on the other hand, if you’re writing a podcast about the horror of urban life, there’s no better place to find inspiration than a crowded, sweaty, angry Underground train filled with blank faces...

How long does it take you to put an episode together, from first word to the finished product?

I’m very quick; I usually sketch out the episode concept well in advance, then take about a fortnight to draft it and edit. Recording and audio-editing happens very speedily, again out of necessity, on the weekends! I try and devote a day apiece to each.

Turning to the technical side, what do you wish you’d known about creating a podcast at the very beginning?

There’s still an enormous amount that I don’t know! When it comes to even simple audio editing, I’m learning all the time. I very much am still just a schmuck in his living room, talking into a handmade sound booth on his days off - which is the beauty of podcasting, I suppose.

But I’d probably give my earlier self some very common-sense advice like...

...be brave. Stick to a schedule. Know the signs of burn-out. Listen to other people’s work in the medium before you dive in. Stay hydrated so your mouth doesn’t make those disgusting wet sounds when you’re trying to talk. Never forget that this should be fun, above anything else.

What motivates you to keep producing episodes?

Honestly? Seeing that it’s connecting with people. Spooking people. Entertaining people. That means everything.

If people would like to engage with you or support you online, what’s the best way to do that?

If you’d like to support the show...please do just shout about it! Tell your friends, leave a review on iTunes. It really makes a huge difference.

If you’d like to chat, we’re also on Twitter: https://twitter.com/eskew_podcast

#i am in eskew #eskew #long post

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 years

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#3yrsago Weapons of Math Destruction: invisible, ubiquitous algorithms are ruining millions of lives

I've been writing about the work of Cathy "Mathbabe" O'Neil for years: she's a radical data-scientist with a Harvard PhD in mathematics, who coined the term "Weapons of Math Destruction" to describe the ways that sloppy statistical modeling is punishing millions of people every day, and in more and more cases, destroying lives. Today, O'Neil brings her argument to print, with a fantastic, plainspoken, call to arms called (what else?) Weapons of Math Destruction.

Discussions about big data's role in our society tends to focus on algorithms, but the algorithms for handling giant data sets are all well understood and work well. The real issue isn't algorithms, it's models. Models are what you get when you feed data to an algorithm and ask it to make predictions. As O'Neil puts it, "Models are opinions embedded in mathematics."

Other critical data scientists, like Patrick Ball from the Human Rights Data Analysis Group have located their critique in the same place. As Patrick once explained to me, you can train an algorithm to predict someone's height from their weight, but if your whole training set comes from a grade three class, and anyone who's self-conscious about their weight is allowed to skip the exercise, your model will predict that most people are about four feet tall. The problem isn't the algorithm, it's the training data and the lack of correction when the model produces erroneous conclusions.

Like Ball, O'Neil is enthusiastic about the power of data-driven modelling to be a force for good in the world, and like Ball, she despairs at the way that sloppy statistical work can produce gigantic profits for a few companies at the expense of millions of people -- all with the veneer of mathematical objectivity.

O'Neil calls these harmful models "Weapons of Math Destruction," and not all fault models qualify. For a model to be a WMD, it must be opaque to its subjects, harmful to their interests, and grow exponentially to run at huge scale.

These WMDs are now everywhere. The sleazy for-profit educational system has figured out how to use models to identify desperate people and sucker them into signing up for expensive, useless "educations" that are paid for with punitive student loans, backed by the federal government. That's how the University of Phoenix can be so profitable, even after spending upwards of $1B/year on marketing. They've built a WMD that brings students in at a steady clip despite the fact that they spend $2,225/student in marketing and only $892/student on instruction. Meanwhile, the high-efficacy, low-cost community colleges are all but invisible in the glare and roar of the University of Phoenix's marketing blitzkreig.

One highly visible characteristic of WMDs is their lack of feedback and tuning. In sports, teams use detailed statistical models to predict which athletes they should bid on, and to deploy those athletes when squaring off against opposing teams. But after the predicted event has occurred, the teams update their models to account for their failings. If you pass on a basketball player who goes to glory for a rival team, you update your model to help you do better in the next draft.

Compare this with the WMDs used against us in everyday life. The largest employers in America use commercial services to run their incoming resumes against a model of a "successful" worker. These models hold your employment future in their hands. If one rejects you and you go on to do brilliant work somewhere else, that fact is never used to refine the model. Everyone loses: job-seekers are arbitrarily excluded from employment, and employers miss out on great hires. Only the WMD merchants in the middle make out like bandits.

It's worth asking how we got here. Many forms of WMD were deployed as an answer to institutional bias -- in criminal sentencing, in school grading, in university admissions, in hiring and lending. The models are supposed to be race- and gender-blind, blind to privilege and connections.

But all too often, the models are trained with the biased data. The picture of a future successful Ivy League student or loan repayer is painted using data-points from the admittedly biased history of the institutions. All the Harvard grads or dutiful mortgage payers are fed to the algorithm, which dutifully predicts that tomorrow's Harvard alums and prime loan recipients will look just like yesterday's -- but now the bias gets the credibility of seeming objectivity.

This training problem is well known in stats, but largely ignored by WMD dealers. Companies that run their own Big Data initiatives, by contrast, are much more careful about refining their models. Amazon carefully tracks those customers who abandon their shopping carts, or who stop shopping after a couple of purchases. Their interested in knowing everything they can about "recidivism" among shoppers, and they combine statistical modelling with anthropology -- seeking out and talking to their subjects -- to improve their system.

The contrast with automated sentencing software -- now widely used in the US judicial system, and spreading rapidly around the world -- could not be more stark. Like Amazon's data scientists, the companies that sell sentencing apps are trying to predict recidivism, and their predictions can send one person to prison for decades and let another go free.

These brokers are training their model on the corrupted data of the past. They look at the racialized sentencing outcomes of the past -- the outcomes that sent young black men to prison for years for minor crack possession, while letting rich white men walk away from cocaine possession charges -- and conclude that people from poor neighborhoods, whose family members and friends have had run-ins with the law, and "predict" that this person will reoffend, and recommend long sentences to keep them away from society.

Unlike Amazon, these companies aren't looking to see whether longer sentences cause recidivism (by causing emotional damage and social isolation) and how prison beatings, solitary confinement and prison rape are related to the phenomenon. If the prison system was run like Amazon -- that is, with a commitment to reducing reoffending, rather than enriching justice-system contractors and satisfying revenge-hungry bigots in the electorate -- it would probably look like a Nordic prison: humane, sparsely populated, and oriented toward rehabilitation, addiction treatment, job training, and psychological counselling.

WMDs have transformed education for teachers and students. In the 1980s, the Reagan administration seized on a report called A Nation at Risk, which claimed that the US was on the verge of collapse due to its falling SAT scores. This was the starter-pistol for an all-out assault on teachers and public education, which continues to this day.

The most visible expression of this is the "value added" assessment of teachers, which uses a battery of standardized tests to assess teachers' performance from year to year. The statistical basis for these assessments is laughable (statistics work on big numbers, not classes of 25 kids -- assessments can swing 90% from one year to the next, making them no better than random number generators). Teachers -- good teachers, committed teachers -- lose their jobs over these tests.

Students, meanwhile, are taken away from real learning in order to take more and more tests, and those tests -- which are supposed to measure "aptitude" and thus shouldn't be amenable to expensive preparatory services -- determine their whole futures.

The Nation at Risk report that started it all turned out to be bullshit, by the way -- grounded in another laughable statistical error. Sandia Labs later audited the findings from the report and found that the researchers had failed to account for the ballooning number of students who were taking the SATs, bringing down the average score.

In other words: SATs were falling because more American kids were confident enough to try to go to college: the educational system was working so well that young people who would never have taken an SAT were taking it, and the larger pool of test-takers was bringing the average score down.

WMDs turn the whole of human life into a game of Search Engine Optimization. With SEO, merchants hire companies who claim to have reverse-engineered Google's opaque model and whose advice will move your URL further up in its ranking.

When you pay someone thousands of dollars to prep your kid for the SATs, or to improve your ranking with the "e-score" providers that determine your creditworthiness, jobworthiness, or mortgageworthiness, you're recreating SEO, but for everything. It's a grim picture of the future: WMD makers and SEO experts locked in an endless arms-race to tweak their models to game one another, and all the rest of us being subjected to automated caprice or paying ransom to escape it (for now). In that future, we're all the product, not the customer (much less the citizen).

O'Neil's work is so important because she believes in data science. Algorithms can and will be used to locate people in difficulty: teachers with hard challenges, people in financial distress, people who are struggling in their jobs, students who need educational attention. It's up to us whether we use that information to exclude and further victimize those people, or help them with additional resources

Credit bureaux, e-scorers, and other entities that model us create externalities in the form of false positives -- from no-fly lists to credit-score errors to job score errors that cost us our careers. These errors cost them nothing to make, and something to fix -- and they're incredibly expensive to us. Like all negative externalities, the cost of cleaning them up (rehabilitating your job, finding a new home, serving a longer prison sentence, etc) is much higher than the savings to the firms, but we bear the costs and they reap the savings.

It's E Pluribus Unum reversed: models make many out of one, pigeonholing each of us as members of groups about whom generalizations -- often punitive ones (such as variable pricing) can be made.

Modelling won't go away: as a tool for guiding caring and helpful remedial systems, models are amazing. As a tool for punishing and disenfranchising, they are a nightmare. The choice is ours to make. O'Neil's book is a vital crash-course in the specialized kind of statistical knowledge we all need to interrogate the systems around us and demand better.

Weapons of Math Destruction [Cathy O'Neil/Crown]

https://boingboing.net/2016/09/06/weapons-of-math-destruction-i.html

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the-ravens-requiem · 5 years

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The Beginning

The alchemist's shop seemed to have manifested itself out of the gloomy air that surrounded Darkwood late one autumn night.

The sun rose over the trees, the morning fog lifted -- and there the cottage sat, surrounded by a garden and a tall iron fence. The building itself was situated on a flat piece of land near the lake, where weeds and brambles had grown in the past. On a wooden sign in front of the cottage, there was a picture of a black bird with a red ribbon in its mouth.

The name of the shop was painted neatly underneath: The Raven's Requiem.

The townsfolk were afraid to approach the warm-looking cottage, citing old superstitions. The location of the shop was in sight of a road, and although the placement of it was only frequented by foot traffic like local fishermen and hunters -- surely someone would have seen the place being built over the summer?

The bravest of the townsfolk craned their necks as they found reasons to walk by the shop, curious eyes hungry for a single glance of their new neighbor -- but never daring to cross the threshold between the shop and the road. Some swore they had seen a dark figure move amid the orange glow in the windows -- yet others claimed they'd been haunted by an image of a cloaked figure hunched over the plants that lined the sides of the building. Whatever the case, none could say or prove that they had actually seen the shopkeeper for sure.

And so a wealthier resident of Darkwood hired an outsider to look inside the shop. She was to report back to him with whatever she found, and tell him all she could find out about the shop’s owner. The wealthy man was just a simple trader, and he found the sell-sword in a small tavern by chance when on his usual travels. He hired her on the spot for a small amount of gold. She promised that she would complete the job before the week was out.

As she stood in front of the simple cottage with the painted sign out front, Amelia felt like laughing. If she had not personally seen the fear on the trader's face when he told her of the so-called 'strange' shop, she would have thought the job was a complete joke.

He claimed that the townsfolk sensed an evil presence of some sort when near to the place, but she felt no such thing. He had told her that they were afraid to fish or hunt near the building, afraid that there was some sort of poisonous miasma -- superstition, no doubt.

It was just a simple cottage; The roof built with wide eaves, and in the style that was common in the northern areas of The Middle Kingdom. To look upon this place and assume that there was evil here was downright silly -- madness even. There was no haunting here -- no ghosts, strange creatures, or ancient magics.

Amelia had made up her mind already, even without having stepped a single foot inside. The townsfolk were simply mistaken, and there was no way that the shop had sprang up out of the weeds and grass overnight. The cobbled stone and wooden framework looked worn, as if the building had been there for decades. The glass in the windows and the small greenhouse in the back seemed cloudy with age.

It had to have been some kind of mistake. Amelia tried to piece together what could have happened for the townsfolk to get so hysterical.

The explanation could be that the owner simply had restored the building recently, cutting away overgrown grass and ivy and settled in to open up their shop. Maybe it was the new sign which alerted folks, and thus had created this widespread notion of a whole house appearing overnight.

The mercenary examined the area around the cottage, noting that it seemed to be a lesser-traversed road. There were no deep wagon-ruts carved into the roads, and the grass and stones seemed to be relatively undisturbed.

Amelia was no detective, but this she was sure of: A whole shop -- a whole house and garden, even -- could not just appear overnight. And even if one could, why would such a power be wasted on a little town such as Darkwood?

To Amelia, this sort of fanciful thing was simply not possible. In her short life and in all her travels around The Known World, she had never heard or seen anything like it. Therefore, it simply could not be true. Fixing her leather armor for the last time and double-checking her scabbard, Amelia confidently strode past the sign along the road and trekked up the worn path.

The cottage loomed, nestled between the sky-reaching conifers. It reminded Amelia of a painting -- the kind a noble might commission, for it was almost too fanciful and wistful of nature to be real. It was a quaint little place for sure -- and well kept, too. The fallen leaves and nettles were raked into neat piles on the far side of the house, and the garden seemed fragrant with late-blooming flowers and cold-weather plants.

It was clear that someone lived inside, simply because the grounds were kept nicely. The grass and bushes were clear-cut, and the path seemed to improve the farther up she went -- as if someone had recently fixed it up for easier travel. The windows were aglow with light, too.

A bell above the door jingled cheerfully as she entered the shop -- the door itself heavy and carved with intricate symbols Amelia did not recognize. She thought that they were likely decorative, if nothing else. The interior of the shop was mostly wooden -- the floors, the counter-tops, the shelves. Baskets of dried herbs and bottles of elixirs, tonics, and potions lined every inch of space in the large central room.

Doors leading beyond -- possibly to the shopkeeper's personal home -- were situated to the north and east. The eastern door looked like it lead outside, having a short hallway between it and the shop proper. To the west lie what appeared to be a sitting room with shelves of books that did not appear to be for sale -- and what laid beyond, she could not see.

Amelia called out a polite greeting, glancing every which way to see if she could spot the shopkeeper. After a few beats of silence, she stepped further into the shop. The pleasant smell of freshly dug dirt and perfumed herbs filled her senses as she began to walk around, noting the way the wood groaned and creaked with age beneath her feet.

A bottle caught her eye, far into the shop on a shelf. It was a sort of reddish color, and looked viscous. The bottle seemed to be made of a clear sort of glass, though she could not read the label from where she was. Amelia walked over to it, stepping carefully so as to not disturb any of the various baskets and bottles on the many shelves and tables that filled the space.

As she approached, she realized she could see into the sitting room more properly. The bottle forgotten, curiosity got the best of her. She moved closer. At this angle, it looked more like a small library, with pots of flowers and herbs and other assorted plants decorating the room. The chairs looked comfortable and well-worn, made of fabric and dark lacquered wood.

The prolonged silence of the shop began to make her feel like she was intruding, and an acute sense of dread began to overcome Amelia. What if the shopkeeper was out? What if she had accidentally broken into the shop because they had forgotten to lock the door? She may be a mercenary, but she was no thief.

A sudden break in the solemn silence startled her, and with a gasp Amelia spun around to see what she assumed to be the shopkeeper standing directly behind her.

It was a decidedly peculiar and rare sight to see someone in a full plague doctor ensemble, as the guise was often seen as frightening to common folk. Of course, it often heralded many deaths to illnesses, but there hadn't been such a widespread case of sickness in years. As it was, it did indeed catch the mercenary off guard, and so she was giddy with nervousness at the sight of them. Especially so, because she wasn’t certain how such a heavily costumed person was able to sneak up on her.

"...You are the shopkeep, I presume?" She offered politely, setting an embarrassed smile onto her face. "I saw the sign along the road. I...Have to admit, I was a bit curious. You don't see many alchemy shops outside of the cities." The mercenary realized her hand was on the hilt of her sword, and she quickly removed it for fear of coming across as aggressive.

The figure seemed to draw slightly nearer then, making a motion not unlike nodding with its black beaked mask. "Yes," A muffled but pleasant voice drifted from behind the stitched leather, "I suppose they are a fair bit more rare in the countryside. I thought it clever to open one here for that very reason -- though I must say it hasn't been quite as fruitful of an endeavor as I originally assumed. I must confess, you are my first visitor."

Amelia nodded, slightly more relaxed now that she knew there was a rather well-spoken person hidden beneath the heavy layers of garb. She noted that the quality of the doctor’s voice was surprisingly youthful, if perhaps a bit smokey in quality. "I hope business picks up for you, then. It's quite a lovely place you have here, it would be a shame if it never saw much prosperity."

"Thank you, that's quite kind." The plague doctor replied, "Besides curiosity, is there anything in particular you were looking to cure? I have many things here for sale."

Amelia's face warmed slightly. She hated to lie, though she really was curious despite it being her job to come here. "Oh, no. Well --" She floundered for a moment, "A-actually, do you have anything I can use to keep Rot away from wounds suffered in battle?"

She wasn't normally one to use poultices or tonics, far favoring field dressings and bandages -- but she would be lying if she said she didn't feel compelled to buy something. After all, Amelia felt a bit sad that she had been the first customer the shop had seen. The easy money from the trader who hired her would be more than enough to offset the cost, anyhow.

"Wounds suffered in battle?" The doctor questioned in a conversational way as they turned to presumably seek for what she asked for. "May I ask what line of work it is that you do?" The unabashed curiosity in their voice compelled Amelia to answer truthfully.

"I'm a mercenary." She muttered, watching as the doctor stopped in front of a set of shelves. "Quite an unsavory job, all things said and done. But I've always liked to travel, and I like helping people."

"Is that so?" The doctor hummed thoughtfully, drawing a gloved hand over a few vials and jars. Amelia watched the slightly eerie way the doctor moved, almost too smooth and precise. She supposed that they were just extremely comfortable with the layout of their own shop, which made sense. Or perhaps it was an elf under all those layers. She couldn’t be sure which.

"Yes." She answered, and still more spilled forth in an attempt to get the doctor talking. " I - I guess...I've always been this way. I wanted to see the world ever since I was a little girl. When I was young I trained to be a guard, but I realized I didn't want to be stuck in the same city or town on duty. So I became a sell-sword instead."

The doctor was quietly listening, taking various jars and bottles from the shelves and looking at their labels briefly before putting them gently back. The silence between them practically compelled her to continue talking, though she was not usually uncomfortable with such quietness.

"...I personally only take honorable jobs, mind you. Escorting caravans and whatnot. It's good money, too..." Still more silence, save for the sound of her feet shuffling nervously, and the waxy fabric of the doctor's ensemble every time they moved. It almost seemed like they were waiting for her to finish her thoughts. She worried she was being rude by leaving the quiet between them. "...I might start my own mercenary company one day. I've been wanting to for a while. To make sure I only have good folks in it -- not that the company I work for has bad folks!"

The doctor's head turned, the sun's glow from the window catching on the red glass that covered the eyes of the mask. "That seems to be quite the lofty goal for such a young woman. I think the world could always use more kind-hearted people with initiative, like yourself."

Amelia couldn't help but smile at that, though she wasn't sure if it was due to the flattery or because the doctor had finally broke the silence. "Thank you, ser. I agree."

The doctor pulled a small jar carved from wood from off of the shelf. "I suppose you'd want something easy to apply, with no prior preparation to be had. On the field, things can be chaotic and messy, correct?" Amelia nodded in response as she stepped closer to them. "...Staving off Rot and stopping the spillage of blood is of the utmost concern. This should do nicely, I think." A gloved hand placed the jar into hers.

"...What is it?" The mercenary asked.

"Oh! My apologies. It's a paste, which only requires water to be activated. Apply it thickly to a wound like one would butter a piece of toast, and it will keep the Rot away while also soothing the pain. You can then wrap the wound with bandages, and it will harden into a plaster to stop the bleeding over time. When it begins to crust and peel, you may scrape it off."

"Thank you. It sounds like exactly what I needed." Amelia took the jar in one hand and shuffled around her belt for her coin pouch with the other, "Now, how much do I owe you?"

The doctor held up their gloved hands in a surrendering motion. "Oh, please. It's free, madame. In honor of you being my first customer. Hopefully a kind gesture such as this will bless the shop with prosperity in the future."

Amelia laughed, pulling a gold piece from her pouch. "I insist. That's no way to run a business, ser. If word catches 'round that you give out your wares for free, what will you do then?" She grabbed one of the doctor's gloved hands and pressed the coin into the leather palm. "Even so, if you insist on it being a gesture of goodwill so that the Gods will favor you, think of this as a gift -- for the pleasant conversation."

The doctor seemed to regard her for a moment before closing their fingers around the coin. "You are too kind." They hum thoughtfully.

Amelia made her way toward the door, bade the doctor farewell, and shortly thereafter stepped out into the evening air of autumn. When she closed the door behind her, she sighed heavily. She'd have to give a full report to the trader tomorrow when they met again at the tavern. She could only hope that maybe the shop would start to see more customers after she gave the all-clear. The doctor seemed to be a nice person -- or whatever they were. With such a kind demeanor, Amelia could only wish the best for them.

She smiled once more, shaking her head. Small towns like Darkwood were home to many superstitious people, but she supposed that was good for business. She’d been called to many jobs such as this one -- an odd noise from the woods, skittering from a nearby cave. Her swordcraft thrived off of folks like the trader, of small towns like Darkwood.

The odd visage of the doctor and the look of the cottage had been enough to scare them into hiring her to have a look-see. But it had been a simple task for good coin, and she'd have been a fool to turn it down.

She glanced back up at the shop.

...If the paste worked, Amelia would likely be back again to purchase more from the doctor.

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#doctor #amelia #ts

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