#this post was sponsored by me being unable to sleep and thinking about them way too much

[bu-blegh-ost]

Gillion and Edyn devastate me because they both love each other so much and desire the same thing, but they both at the same time serve as narrative detriments to one another. This is a tragic story of two siblings aiming to achieve the same goal of reuniting but they end up drifting apart from each other instead.

Edyn thinks she knows Gillion. She is the one to experience first hand the damage done to him, and for the longest time she was the only one Gillion was truly able to connect with. But the truth is Edyn doesn't know her brother anymore. Edyn never got to be a sister. She never got to experience being annoyed with her little brother's antics, she never learned Gill's habits, his routines, what he likes and what he hates. All she got to see was the Child broken by the Cage he resides in. A broken child that needs to be comforted, a child she loves but doesn't understand. And even with all this she knew him best of all. They shared sorrow and suffering for years and the Bond formed from mutual anguish and pain was enough to form a connection and care. All Edyn knew for so long was that she loves her little brother and that she wants to be his sister. A real one, not just the reward, a relief from pain that he Has to earn.

And Gillion thinks he knows Edyn. To him Edyn was the connection to the world itself. To Gillion Edyn is wise, unwavwring and most importantly, always right. She knows what she's doing and of course she does. She Has seen things he Has never seen before and he trusts her unconditianally. He believes she would never ever lie to him, she is the one thing that keeps him grounded in this world, a reminder of why he needs to keep going. But just like Edyn, Gillion doesn't truly know his sister. He doesn't know her aspirations, her hopes, dreams and desires, he knows nothing about her life up to this point and what she's been doing, and it's not for the lack of trying either.

Both Gill and Edyn used to hide a lot from the other to protect their sibling. Just as Gillion would be vague about things he was going through during training, trying to make is seem like he is in much less pain than he truly is to spare Edyn from things she can't prevent, Edyn was hiding the truth about a lot of things from Gillion, including the truth about the lies he Heard from the Elders in fear of Gillion breaking under the weight of his trauma after realizing that all Has been for nothing.

This behavior continued throughout their entire relationship. A pair of people who love and cherish each other more than anything, yet the world keeps creating barriers between them, until there is just so much left unfelt and unspoken they feel the need to create more barriers themselves.

When Gillion finds out just how much Edyn was not telling him, how deep her involvement with the Navy, the Elders, the war, everything is, he is left worried, hopless, hurt and betrayed. But the most prominent feeling of all is guilt. Cause Gillion trusts Edyn with his entire heart, and yet she doesn't trust him back. She thinks he can't handle it, she thinks he can't know things and it's better to hide it from him just like she Has always been doing. She thinks it is better for him, but what she is really doing is making Gillion feel worthless. To Gill, Edyn is always right so she must have a reason. To Gillion Edyn is always right, so if she thinks of him as someone who can't be trusted with a secret, who will end up ruining things for her and getting in the way, then that must be what it is. And he wants to find her, to help her so badly but Edyn accidentally created this paralysing fear inside him that if he does, he is going to be exactly what Edyn thinks of him. And he so desperately doesn't want to be that, doesn't want to be a burden on her life anymore, more than he already is since whatever she is doing she is doing it for him. The least he can do is not get in her way.

And Edyn? She goes off on her own, trying to get Gillion home, but what she doesn't realize is that Gillion doesn't need a home anymore. Gillion found his home here with Jay and Chip. But that is not the home Edyn is fighting for. She fights for Gillion to be able to go back home to the Undersea, but even if she succeeds, this will never be a home to Gillion. Not anymore. There is too much distance, too much damage to repair 17 years of abscence, 17 years without him. There are no parents anymore for Gill, only familiar strangers, and coming back there and realizing just how little there is left for him there and how much he lost will only cause him more pain. But Edyn doesn't realize it. She doesn't know what Gillion wants because she stopped asking long time ago, assumimg it for him instead, believeing he is not capable of making decisions for himself. And maybe that was true before. But it isn't now. Edyn was so caught up in her own idea of Gillion and what he is that she completely missed her little brother growing up and changing. Getting wiser and more capable, drifting away from this portrait of a helpless child she Has gotten used to many years ago. And by neglecting to notice him and see him and hear him out, Edyn didn't realise that by leaving she have deprived him of the only thing Gillion truly wanted- his loving sister. Cause that is all Gillion truly needs. His rock to keep him steady, the only one who understood him, who was there on his worst days when the only thing he could do was break down in her arms. Back when she was the only thing worth lasting another day for. And now that he thought he got her back, that she is safe and sound, she Has ripped herself away from his life once more. This time willingly, and it hurts even more.

Neither of the siblings ever wanted to hurt the other, and yet they hurt each other anyway. Because there were people who made them believe they have to hide to keep the other Safe. And it is so sick and twisted that the two of them trying to keep the other sibling away from more hurt, is the very thing that keeps exposing them both to more danger, heartbreak and pain.

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 13

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit​ for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 6.7k

Recommended song: "Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America” by Gym Class Heroes

"I have to go."

"Can't you stay five more minutes?"

"I wish."

"Come on, just a few more minutes to cuddle." Pierre flings back the fluffy duvet and holds out a hand. "Please?"

"I have an exam," you say with a sigh but bend to press a kiss to his upturned palm. "I can't skip."

Pierre groans and slings an arm over his eyes. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"I don't have a sim but I have an old PlayStation you're more than welcome to use. I think I still have one or two games."

"That won't keep me busy."

"I'm sure you'll find something. Just stay out of trouble okay? I'd like to get my security deposit back when I finally move out of this hellhole."

"Okay," Pierre grumbles, sitting up to give you a quick kiss. "What time are you getting back?"

"Four. We can go out to dinner or something." You smooth a hand over his hair, smiling lightly. "Or we can go for a picnic and take a walk through Saint James Park."

"Sounds like a plan." He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I'll be counting down the minutes."

You roll your eyes but your smile contradicts the sass. "I'll be home before you know it. Love you, champion."

"I love you too, mon coeur."

He was endlessly grateful for how easily the two of you had fallen back into each other. When he had shown up at your doorstep he had expected there to be awkward pauses and minutes of tense silence, but there had been blissfully little of either. As the days bleed into each other, your relationship only gets steadier, closer and closer to what it used to be. Maybe it was because you had been the one to break the silence or maybe it was because he had thrown himself into his career into someone's bed- whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. He was simply grateful to be welcomed back into your life. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

Pierre allows himself a half hour of lounging in bed before forcing himself to get up and shower. Off weeks were hard; all he wanted to do was rest and recharge but he still had to follow his workout regimen and sleep schedule or he risked falling out of the habit, making it that much harder to get back in the groove come race week.

First order of business: clean the clutter you had shoved in closets and the spare room prior to his arrival the day before. Folding the three baskets of clean laundry took an hour, washing dishes another thirty minutes, and vacuuming the entire flat took twenty. Once the counters are spotless and there isn’t a stray sock to be found, he takes stock of your pantry and notes what staples you were running low on.

Two hours later he trudges back up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, arms laden with reusable bags packed to the gills with food. His legs burn and he's slightly winded from the excursion; at least that could count as his work out for the day.

He's just about to start slicing vegetables for dinner when his phone chimes with a text from his PR agent, Sylvie.

You're supposed to be in an interview now. Where are you?

"Oh shit." He scrambles for his laptop which of course was dead. He manages to plug it in at the dining room table and angle it so the background is mostly neutral, just a band poster framed behind him. He checks his hair before logging into the interview.

"There's the star," the interviewer says, far too chipper to be entirely genuine.

"Sorry, I was having connection issues." He queues up his signature sweetheart smile that gets him out of any squabbles. It works, the woman's irritation melting into a more easy expression.

"Let's just get right into it. Since we're low on time I'll jump right in, if you don't mind."

Pierre leans back. He had an inkling where this was headed. "By all means, please."

"We just saw news of your deal with Christian Horner- if you take seventh in this year's drivers championship, it looks like you're at Red Bull Racing next year. How does that feel after being publicly demoted mid-season in 2019?"

A smirk tugs at Pierre's lips. He had known this exact question was coming. He had debated how to answer it without starting waves and still remaining truthful. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to be diplomatic when others may have let their egos get in the way.

"Obviously I'm grateful that Red Bull has recognized the hard work I've been putting in at Alpha Tauri," he starts. "I think I've been able to push the car as far as I can but I still have pace in me, personally. So moving into the Red Bull would let me loose, so to speak, and give me a chance to prove that Red Bull is where I belong."

"Right, you have had quite a spectacular season so far with a race win under your belt and a few podiums for good measure. What do you attribute that success to? Why is it so different now in an Alpha Tauri versus that coveted second Red Bull seat?"

Pierre purses his lips. The answer he was expected to give wasn't one he was willing to voice. Instead he opts for neutral. "I've been able to focus and hone my driving this season. I've found a groove that works for me and with it has come an insane amount of confidence, which is something I struggled with for awhile after going back to Torro Rosso. I think it's really just that I'm finally comfortable in the car and with my team and that makes a huge difference."

"Thank you for that," the journalist says and Pierre nods. "Shifting gears, I have a few questions about your personal life if you don't mind."

This was the part he always dreads. Questions were often prying and he had to subtly skirt around them in a way that offered a satisfying answer without giving away too much. It was an art he liked to think he had perfected over the years but still didn't enjoy.

"As long as you don't mind me staying silent if I don't want to answer."

The woman laughs, the sound sharp and grating. "Of course. Unless I can bribe you into giving me an exclusive."

"Likely not. But you ask the right questions and we'll see."

"You've been seen hanging around a certain London neighborhood lately- that wouldn't have anything to do with you and your lovely lady, would it?"

He had been waiting for that one, too. When the two of you had returned from Red Bull headquarters he had noticed the man taking pictures across the street. He hadn't said anything to you at the time because really, there was no point in getting you worked up when he had a plan to handle it.

The question played right into his hand, in fact. 

Pierre sits forward, folding his hands in front of him. "Actually yes. We recently got back together and if you'll let me, I would like to make a request."

The woman leans back and checks her notes. "Well it's not quite what I had planned but please," she gives a flourish with a hand, "you have the floor."

"I know driver's personal lives are something that a lot of people are interested in and that's great. I don't mind sharing things with my fans or letting them get the inside scoop, but there's some things I would rather be left alone. My relationship is one of them. I know you all took note that she hasn't been around the past couple months and if I'm being honest, it's because of comments and press coverage that invaded her privacy. I think some people forgot she was more than just a name on a screen."

Pen poised to take notes, the interviewer prompts, "You said you had a request?"

He doesn’t stop to assess the damage he had already undoubtedly done. Sylvie was probably already on the phone doing damage control with every news outlet she could get her hands on, if her muted and black square at the bottom of the screen was an indication. 

"All I'm asking is that you leave her alone. If you have questions or comments you have to make, just direct them at me. Don't follow her around asking about me. Don't comment on her posts unless you're capable of being a decent human. Just… let her live her life in peace."

Maybe he was a love sick fool, but honestly he didn't care if he lost some support from fans. If they had such strong opinions on his personal life, he would be better off without them anyway. And his team could cut him and even if he was unable to secure a seat in Formula 1 after next season, he would survive. 

But if he lost you again, he would be broken. It had taken being apart from you for him to realize it and he'd be damned if he was ever disconnected from you like that again.

"That's quite the speech."

Pierre shrugs. "It was. She's the most important thing in my life, right up there with racing.” Now that he had started down the road of truth, he found it impossible to hold his tongue. “I lost her once because people couldn't be bothered to remember that their words have consequences. I won't let it happen again."

"So you see yourself with her for a long time then?" The woman's eyes glitter with the potential of getting an even juicer tidbit from him.

Pierre’s jaw sets, muscles feathering. "That's not something I'm prepared to discuss."

The woman purses her lips and tips her head to the side. There was clearly more she wanted to say. "Well, I have to thank you for what you've given me here. My boss is gonna love the exclusive. I won't push any further. Thanks for your comments, Pierre."

"Thanks for actually being respectful."

“We aren’t all monsters.” The woman shrugs. “I can’t say I haven’t had my moments but I try to be straightforward.”

“Right, yeah. I get that you have a job to do.”

“Anyway. I look forward to seeing what you can do the rest of this season. Good luck.”

He signs off and instantly anxiety washes over him. If she twisted his words he was screwed. Sylvie would be on the phone as soon as the article was printed, no doubt trying to soothe sponsors and investors. She'd give him an earful about being respectful and not poking the bear but he'd tune it out like he always did.

The sooner he got away from Red Bull, the better.

Instead of dwelling on it he busies himself with cooking. It was one of his guilty pleasures. He always requested a full kitchen when he was staying anywhere more than a few days so that if he had the chance to make a home-cooked meal, he had the option. For tonight he had selected his favorite recipe. Parmesan-Cesar chicken wasn't normally something you would ever touch with a ten foot pole but as long as he was making it, Pierre knew you'd at least give it a try.

Music blasting in the background, Pierre sings along quietly as he unpacks the rest of the ingredients and gets to work. He does a little spin between the island and the sink, rinsing the dishes and putting them right in the dishwasher as he uses them. A clean kitchen is the mark of a great chef, his mom had told him, drilling the phrase into him when he was young.

In the middle of cutting potatoes Pierre gets a call. He only has an hour until you're home so he doesn't bother stopping, just puts it on speaker and continues measuring spices.

"Hey Daniel."

"Heard you're in London," Daniel says, Australian accent thick. "And a little birdie told me you and your lady got back together."

"We did," Pierre says, a smile splitting his face. "Finally."

"Thank god, now I don't have to listen to your drunk woe-is-me rambling anymore."

Pierre laughs and sets aside the measuring spoons. "It's not that bad."

"Oh please." Pierre could practically hear the eyes rolling. "The number of times I had to send an uber to a bar after a grand prix is insane. Charles and I should be entitled to financial compensation with the amount of babysitting we've been doing."

"I can handle myself!"

"Not after a martini you can't."

He was right there. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Oh right- I'm actually in town today too, got some stuff to shoot for McLaren before we head to Austria for the race next week. You guys wanna come out with us tonight? We're heading to a bar or two."

"I actually had something planned-"

"She already said she's coming!" Dan's girlfriend shouts in the background.

“Well then why even ask me?”

“To be polite,” Daniel offers with a laugh. “We’re meeting at the rooftop bar at the Trafalgar hotel at seven. That give you enough time to do whatever you had planned that’s apparently more important than seeing your best mates?”

“We’ll be there,” Pierre says and hangs up. He finishes seasoning the potatoes and pops them in the oven, finally getting a chance to sit while they cook alongside the main course.

He's on his feet a few minutes later, decluttering the last bits of mess around your flat. It was clear it hadn't had a decent cleaning in quite awhile- hopefully you'd keep it tidy now that the effort had been made. The guys would tease him endlessly if they found out he was acting like a housewife.

You arrive home just as he’s setting the table. “God, it smells amazing in here.”

“Salut, mon amour.” Hands full with hot dishes, he settles for a kiss to your cheek. “I made dinner.”

“And you cleaned,” you observe. “You were a busy boy.”

“Pyry would kill me if he found out I was laying around all day. I had to do something.” 

You hang your backpack on the hook behind the door and take a seat at the table. “Well remind me to thank him again when I see him. This looks delicious.”

Pierre grins over his shoulder at you. “Me or the food?”

You throw your head back and laugh, loud and unrestrained. “The food, you goof.”

Pierre quirks a brow. "Is that the honest answer?"

"Okay, maybe both." 

The meal is filled with your ramblings about your exam and your new hobby- this month it was hiking. You went into detail about all the few trails in the city you’d been on as well as the more challenging ones that dotted the countryside. Pierre just nods along as you talk, already planning on staying up late to learn what he could about the topic so he could be a better conversation partner.

The pair of you work together to tidy the kitchen and put away any leftovers. “Did you bring something semi nice to wear tonight or do we have to make a quick trip to the store?”

“I’ve got some Tauri stuff I can wear. And not just team gear,” he adds when you groan. “You know that cream sweater you love? The one with the logo debossed on the front? I’ve got that.”

“Oh,” you say before biting your lip. Your eyes trail down his frame and back up like you’re imagining it on him. A tingle travels up his spine under your assessing gaze. If you kept that up, neither of you would make it out of the apartment tonight. “My favorite. Yeah, wear that. It’ll be on my floor by the end of the night.”

Pierre places his hands on your waist and grins. “Will it? And what will be on the floor from your closet, hm?”

“Your favorite dress.”

“The orange one?” He realizes half a second too late that you would never know how much he adored that dress from the gala. It had hugged your curves in all the right places and left your back exposed, which would leave him free to trace patterns on your soft skin whenever he pleased. He had missed out on worshipping you in it that night and he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to do so now.

You roll your eyes. “I can’t wear that to a bar.”

“Says who?” Pierre nuzzles his face against your neck, breathing you in. A light undercurrent of sweat from your walk home from classes mingles with the usual bright scent of you, only serving to rile him up further. Never in a million years would he have guessed that a simple scent could do him in, and yet here he was, completely wrapped up in yours. 

“Says me.” You sigh, tipping your head to the side when Pierre’s nose grazes your skin.

His lips follow until he reaches your jaw before he pulls back. “What one are you wearing then?”

“Does it matter?” You cross your arms, the smirk playing on your kissable lips tempting him.

“I have to mentally prepare myself.” And if whatever you chose was too sexy, he would need to get his handsiness out of his system before the pair of you met up with Daniel and his girlfriend. The last thing he needed was to be on the front of some seedy gossip column when his plan was to ease back into it. 

You smile up at him, broad and unrestrained as if knowing your answer would affect him greatly. “The cobalt blue one that makes you stutter.”

The dress in question was just as form fitting as the orange one, but shorter and decidedly more distracting. It fell mid thigh and the spaghetti straps left your shoulders exposed, which coupled with the low back displayed a downright sinful amount of skin. You had worn it at a Torro Rosso event a couple years back and he had scarcely been able to get a full sentence out around you all night. 

“That one’s a close second.” He follows you to your room, leaving you to hunt through the closet while he digs through his suitcase, thankful that he had the foresight to check out of his hotel on the way back from Red Bull and bring his things here.

Because there was no way in hell he was missing a second of being by your side while he was in town. Every moment had to count when he had no idea when he would be able to sleep next to you again, not when the season was nearly over and there were two double headers between now and winter break. When so many variables stood between him and you, he had no problem prioritizing you over a routine workout or a full night’s rest.

Pierre changes into the sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans well before you emerge from the bathroom. He doesn’t bother responding to Dan’s text that includes an address and reminds him to be on time, instead opting to scroll through his instagram feed. He likes a handful of posts from his fellow drivers, including one of Max actually smiling at something off camera.

“Well?”

Pierre’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice. The phone falls from his hand when he drags his eyes over your body, head to toe and back again. 

Oh, he was so fucked. 

Maybe it was selfish, but with your hair done like that, the barest brush of makeup lining your eyes and in that stunningly blue dress, he didn’t want any other man to have the privilege of laying their eyes on you. 

No, you were all his.

The moment you’re within reach, Pierre places his hands on the back of your thighs, just beneath the curve of your barely covered ass. You chuckle and tap your fingers under his chin. “Close your mouth; you’ll catch flies.”

“Just so you know, if you wear that dress I can’t be held liable for my actions.” Up to and including scaring off anyone that wasn’t Daniel or his girlfriend. No one else deserved to be blessed with your radiance. Hell, he didn’t deserve it, and yet here you stood. 

“We’ll see about that.”

**********

Daniel and his girlfriend had already made their way through a round of drinks by the time you arrive. It wasn’t Pierre’s fault he couldn’t keep his hands off you and wound up getting distracted on the drive over.

"Late as always," she greets, kissing your cheek. "Dan got us here fifteen minutes early because he wanted the table with the best view."

"Like our names wouldn't have gotten us the table if we asked," Pierre says, wrapping Daniel in a one-armed hug before kissing his girl’s cheek in a traditional French greeting. "The view is pretty great though."

You were already leaning on the glass partition, hands curled over the edge and undoubtedly leaving behind fingerprints on the pristine surface, completely unfazed by the fact that the other patrons were staring. You had eyes only for the London skyline and Trafalgar square lit up below. The bar with its white marble tabletops and strict dress code was absolutely not a place that you should be standing on your tiptoes for a better view, but there was no way he could condemn you when your face lit up like that.

Pierre just places a hand on the small of your back and shoots a look at the bartender currently glaring in your direction, daring the smartly dressed man to say anything. He only raises a brow and resumes filling drink orders.

"You guys know how to pick a place," you say, "I could stand here all night."

"Right," Daniel's girlfriend says, rolling her eyes at Pierre who shrugs as if to say what do you want me to do? He was powerless to deny you anything that brought you a semblance of joy; your smile was everything to him. “Love, why don’t you come tell us about uni? You’re the only one of us currently enrolled, and I’m sure the boys would love to hear about all the drama.”

You and Pierre share a secret grin. You shake your head but allow him to guide you back to the cocktail table. “Drama? I’m an engineering major. The closest thing we have to drama is someone grossly miscalculating a structural load.”

Dan shoots Pierre a mischievous grin. “I heard Stroll might be moving next year-”

Both you and Daniel’s girlfriend groan at the same time. “No racing talk when we’re around tonight,” she says. “I’ve heard enough lately.”

“What’s new in the publishing world?” You ask, leaning into Pierre when he wraps an arm around you. He only half listens to her explain the so-called “top secret” project she’s currently working on, instead opting to get drunk on you. 

The light breeze filtering through the surrounding buildings ruffles your hair. You lift a hand absentmindedly to tuck it behind your ear in an attempt to keep it out of your face. Everything you do is amazing to him, snagging his attention even when he should be listening to whatever it was his friends were saying. Your gravity was simply too strong to bother resisting.

“Enough talk,” Daniel’s girlfriend says, waving a hand. “You need a drink, and I want to dance. Let’s go.” Before Pierre can protest, she’s dragging you away to the glass top bar. You throw an apologetic glance over your shoulder and Pierre just winks. He was fine watching you from afar for now.

Pierre’s gaze drops to your perky ass when you lean in to let the bartender know what you want, likely shouting to be heard over the music, your dress riding up a bit with the movement. For having such a strict dress code, this place sure did feel like an upper class club.

You hook your thumb over a shoulder, the bartender’s gaze darting to Pierre before the man nods. The only explanation you offer is a wink, followed by a note on a cocktail napkin and a beer delivered a few minutes later by a server.

This is supposed to be the best beer they have. Just try it.

Leave it to you to constantly push him outside his comfort zone. Pierre tentatively sniffs the foamy glass and shrugs before taking a sip. Not bad, but he still preferred his usual whiskey. 

Setting the glass down, Pierre turns back to Daniel. “Congrats on extending your contract with McLaren by the way. Should give you a decent shot at keeping up with the big boys and landing some serious points.”

“Seems like most of us are moving around, doesn’t it? Sainz to Ferrari, Seb to Aston Martin... The only one with any sort of long term commitment is Max and now me I guess.”

“And Charles,” Pierre adds. “He’s stuck in that red monstrosity for the foreseeable future.”

Daniel laughs, taking a swig from his glass. “And you’re moving too, huh? Austria should be interesting,” Daniel remarks, watching the girls at the bar nursing their own drinks. “What with the news of your new contract breaking and all.”

“Potential contract,” Pierre corrects. “Not for sure yet.”

Daniel scoffs. “Come on mate. You won’t have any problem getting up to seventh by the end of the season. Perez is slipping and the news that his seat is in jeopardy will only help your cause.”

Pierre takes a sip of his amber beer and nods. “I’m sure Perez doesn’t appreciate it, but he’s always been a good sport.” You catch Pierre’s eye and lift your fresh flute of champagne in a mock salute. Dan’s girlfriend drags you out on the dancefloor and immediately spins you. Your laugh is nearly audible, the memory of it fresh in Pierre’s mind as he watches you.

“Mate, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Daniel shakes his head and drains his drink. “I really don’t know how it took you two this long to come together. You’ve been dancing around each other for years but neither of you would admit it.”

“I could say the same about you two.”

Daniel shrugs. “Fair point. At least we got it all worked out in a weekend though.”

Pierre rolls his eyes and shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever. Not all of us can have a perfect love story.” 

The grin Daniel shoots Pierre is pure sunshine. “How long are you planning on waiting before you ask her to marry you?”

“What?” Pierre sputters, nearly choking on air. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“Oh come on,” Dan says, rolling his eyes. “We all know it’s coming eventually.”

Pierre would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. But he wasn’t sure if it was the time for a proposal, not when you had just gotten back together. The last thing he wanted to do was go through the pain of losing you again because he was too forward.

“One day at a time,” Pierre says finally, dragging himself back to earth. “I just got her back a few days ago. I don't want to scare her off by proposing just yet.”

“Right. Well you might want to get a ring on that hand sooner rather than later,” Daniel notes, gesturing to the two men who had approached the girls. “How long are we gonna let that go on before we step in?” Neither of you paid the men any attention, instead enjoying each other’s company, but the men’s eyes roaming over your body sets Pierre on edge.

“They can handle themselves,” Pierre remarks, shifting on his feet. The weak attempt at self assurance didn’t do much to negate the red tinting his vision. “They’re fine.”

“Her sharp tongue will hold them at bay,” Daniel says, winking at his girlfriend. “For a while at least.” Props to Daniel for possessing inhuman amounts of restraint, but Pierre’s muscles were coiled and ready to interject at the first sign of trouble. 

He has to pause to remind himself he doesn't own you. You could make your own decisions about who you spoke with and who you entertained as long as he was the one to take you home. He didn't care if you wanted to flirt; he knew it meant nothing and if you got a free drink out if it then so be it. But those were the rules: flirting, no touching. He'd step in if need be if someone took it too far.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

Pierre watches tight lipped as you politely chat with the man, your body language closed off and dismissive. Pierre hates that you even speak a word to him. He knows it shouldn’t bother him because he trusts you, but the stranger is a wild card. Pierre watches like a hawk as the man inches ever closer, slowly interesting himself into your personal space. He waits for you to take a step back, to grant him that silent permission to come over and insert himself in the conversation and get his hands on you, this proving you weren't on the market.

One of the men shouts something at you over the music and you leer back at him, clearly disgusted at whatever he had said. Whirling on him, you open your mouth, likely to snap out a profanity lined retort, when his hand latches onto your arm.

"Oh, fuck no."

Half a second later, Pierre is stalking across the dance floor, no thoughts other than teaching the asshole a lesson. His hands are already curled into fists, ready to swing if the man hadn't moved by the time he arrived. Tolerating someone hitting on you was one thing, but blatantly ignoring the clear dismissals and laying a hand on you? No way in hell was he standing by and letting that happen.

The resounding crack of your open hand hitting the man’s face has pride swelling in Pierre’s chest. That’s my girl. You’d solved the problem before he’d even arrived. You jab a finger in the man’s face, Daniel’s girlfriend right there with you to back you up.

“Fuck off,” you were saying as Pierre approached, “or do you need to go back to kindergarten and learn to keep your hands to yourself? Maybe next time you’ll think twice before laying a hand on a taken woman- or any woman, for that matter.”

Driving your point home, Pierre slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in until your back is flush to his chest. You crane your neck up, the tense muscles beneath his fingertips and the fury contorting your features confirming just how rattled you are.

The lines creasing your brow are soothed away when you realize who holds you. You open your mouth to say something but Pierre places a hand on your throat, thumb and forefinger framing your jaw as he cuts you off with a kiss, his eyes locked on the guy still standing off to the side holding his cheek. 

You taste like the champagne you’d been sipping all night. It’s the only thought in his head outside of the jealousy licking through his veins like wildfire as he claims you then and there in front of the crowd. Mine, his heart sings. He flexes his fingers, taking advantage of your surprised gasp to slide his tongue against yours. Mine, mine, mine.

Pierre lets you be the one to break away, lips curling in a smug, kiss-swollen smile as you address the men. “In case you still don’t get the picture, I’m not interested. And neither is she.” You jerk your chin, indicating your friend and Daniel, who had indeed followed Pierre and since mirrored his possessive stance, one arm wrapped tightly around his own girlfriend.

The two men reluctantly slink away after mumbling something unintelligible but undoubtedly indecent. It had been a week and a half since he had been on track and he had plenty of pent up aggression to get out. He didn’t normally opt for using someone’s face as a punching back as a stress reliever, but rulers were made to be broken. Your hand splayed on Pierre’s chest is all that stops him from following and asking them to repeat themselves.

“Just let me hit him,” Pierre says, voice far more level and put together than he had expected it to be. “Just one punch. That’s all I would need.” His knuckles smart like he had already connected them to the man’s face. 

“And let you throw away your contract? I don’t think so. The last thing you need is a blurry photo of you knocking someone’s teeth in hitting the front page of every gossip mag in the country. I’m fine, so you can cut the bravado.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

“I was wondering how long you were gonna leave us out here,” you say, trying to regain Pierre’s attention. When it doesn’t work, you grasp his stubbled chin and force him to look at you. “I didn’t expect to be stranded for so long.”

The eye contact is what finally calms his racing thoughts. Seeing the trust reflected in your face is enough to have his grip on your waist loosening to allow you to face him. “Someone convinced me you could fend for yourself. And while it seems that’s true, I couldn’t stand it anymore.” 

Your satisfied hum is swallowed by the pounding bass but Pierre feels it rumble in his chest. “Sometimes even a queen needs saving.”

Though his point had long since been proven, Pierre’s hand slides down your back to rest on your ass nonetheless. “I knew you going out looking like this would cause trouble.”

You tip your head to the side, feigning innocence as you press your hips to his. You grin, noticing the hard on that had been bothering him all night. “Looking like what?”

“Drop dead fucking gorgeous,” he says, accentuating his point by sliding his hand up your thigh and under the hem of your dress. “You know I’m tearing this off you the second we get home, right?”

“Why do you think I wore it?”

The sound that escapes him is primal and possessive. The presence of bystanders does nothing to prevent him from palming your ass and kneading the flesh. He presses his lips to your neck and mumbles between kisses, “To torture me.”

You push lightly at his chest, laughing although your eyes dart around the space in search of cameras. Old habits were hard to break. “That may have been part of my motivation. But you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen Dan in forever and I would actually like to have a conversation with him before we sneak off somewhere.”

At least you knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to get between your legs. “Fine,” he grumbles, hands settling on your hips. “Only because I love you.”

You beam up at him. “Love you too.”

Arm still slung around your waist, Pierre nods at Daniel and follows the other couple back to the table.

After two more drinks, you and Daniel's girlfriend are singing along to the music in lilting, off key voices, simply enjoying the night air. A stray breeze catches your hair just as you turn to look at Pierre and his heart damn near leaps out of his chest.

To his credit, Pierre’s cheeks are rosy from more than just the charged glances you throw at him as the night wears on. He was on his fourth beer, far more than he usually drank these days, and the buzzing in his head was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. When he has to squint to tell the time on his watch, he figured that was enough.

"I should probably get going mate," Pierre says, turning to Daniel. "Early flight."

Daniel laughs and beacons for the girls. He kisses his girlfriend's cheek when she returns with you in tow. "Are we leaving already?" You pout, and Pierre had half a mind to stay simply have your smile make an encore appearance.

"Car coming," he murmurs, dipping his head to give you a proper kiss. God, you were stunning in that dress- he might not be able to string together words coherently, but he knew that much. 

"Fine." You cross your arms for a split second to convey your feelings on the matter before wrapping your friends in a hug and saying your goodbyes.

Pierre's hand is already on your ass before you're in the uber. Get a few drinks in the boy and he let his guard down. You laugh and pull out of his embrace to usher him into the sleek black suv. If he had been coherent, he probably would have chatted with the driver about the specs of the engine or maybe even racing if he was a fan. Instead the ride is filled with stolen touches and sloppy, wet kisses to your neck.

"I can't wait till we're home," he mumbles. "You're gorgeous. How did I snag you? You're so far out of my league. No way should you be with me."

"I have a thing for guys that go fast in circles on the weekends." 

"Really?" Pierre frowns. "Should I be worried?"

"No. You're the only one I have eyes for." His head is fuzzier than when you left the bar but your laugh breaks through, his stomach flipping at the melody of it. "And we are home."

Pierre blinks, realizing he does indeed stand in your kitchen, with no recollection of climbing the three flights of stairs between the street and your flat. "Oh. When did that happen?"

"After I half dragged you up the stairs." You bend over to undo the straps of your heels, giving him the perfect view. He lets out a whistle that ends in a hiccup.

"Take me to bed, lover," he says in what he thinks is a husky voice. It should be impossible for you to resist.

You roll your eyes and wrap an arm around his middle. "That's the plan. I'll take you to bed, strip you out of that sweater, and you'll be asleep before your head hits the pillow."

"Nnnnnno," he protests, hand sliding down your exposed back to settle at the base of your spine. "I wanna make the most of tonight. I leave tomorrow."

"You don't leave until noon," you point out. "Plenty of time to nurse your hangover and have fun before then, after you drink some water and get some sleep."

"But baby-"

"No buts. Do as I say or I'll send you off tomorrow without a goodbye kiss."

Even in his half drunken state he knew it was a swiss cheese lie, spotted with holes and completely stale. You'd never let him leave without a kiss goodbye because neither of you knew if it would be the last time. He was a race car driver after all, and that came with risks. 

But he sighs anyways and slips off the cream sweater, letting it fall to the floor. At least one of you kept their promises. 

After confirming he was settled into bed, you retreat to the bathroom. His heart aches at the absence, even though you're mere feet away with nothing but a thin door separating the two of you. He registers the sound of the tap turning on and your soft, off key humming of the last song he remembered hearing before getting out of the uber.

"Mon amour," he croons when you re-emerge in a set of silk pajamas. He reaches out his hands for you and you slide under the covers, immediately slotting your body against his. A leg hitches over his hip, tugging him closer until your middles touch.

"Mmm," he mumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "Je t'aime. Tu es l'amour de ma vie et nous vivons d'amour et d'eau fraîche."

"I have no idea what you're saying," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "But I like it. Feel free to keep going."

"Tes baisers sont du feu et je fond à ton toucher." He presses his lips to your neck before resuming his mumbled French. "Je pense toujours à toi. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Tu as mon cœur et je ne voudrais pas qu'il en soit autrement."

"I like the sound of that." You press a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. God, that tenderness was why he loved you. That, and your personality, and your eyes, and your… everything. "Dormir, my love. I'll be here to listen to your pretty words in the morning."

The single word of his mother tongue on your lips has him smiling. "Oui, tu le feras. Parce que tu es à moi et je suis à toi."

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[burning-clutch]

Shielded From The Truth

Cross posted on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30441042 -.-.-.-.- Warnings: Mild wounds. Number two in the phic phight! When his parents put a shield up around Casper high to keep the ghosts out, and it means that Danny’s day hardly goes to plan. And he was so close to being on time for once too…. PHIC PHIGHT 2021 For team ghost! -.-.-.-.-.- Prompt by: Silverwing013 Danny's parents have kindly offered to set up a ghost shield generator for Casper High. Hijinks ensue as Danny attempts to handle the situation. 

-.-.-.-.-.-

Danny groaned as he only half listened to his parents rattle off whatever ghost nonsense they were going on about as he ate his breakfast. A bowl of dry cereal because the milk was contaminated and he really didn’t want to chance it giving him more than a stomach ache. This had become the norm this week it seemed as his parents seemed invested more than usual into the ghost shields that they had been working on and improving.

Why only shields? They would be installing one in the school soon… but beyond that? He wasn’t sure. They probably told him, sure, but being a teenager and one that had parents that hated half of him, had the effect of making him only lightly listen to the weapons and things that were meant to fully kill him off. That and at least the ghost shields weren’t usually a hindrance to him, in fact, they had proven themselves useful on a few occasions.

Plus he had the added advantage of being able to simply return to his human form and slip through the shield with little issue. Given his parents had no knowledge of half ghosts existing, at least he hoped not, they shouldn’t be designing a ghost and human shield. After all, that would defeat the purpose, right? It wasn’t as if Amity really had any human threats anymore.

Well, regardless of the eccentricities of his parents he could at least take some comfort in the fact that Skulker couldn’t simply attack the school to get to him any longer.

Small mercies he supposed.

Danny blinked as his father said something to him before slapping him on his back causing the teen to practically choke on his cereal from the force of the smack. “Isn’t that just great Dann-o?” the large man exclaimed happily before looking at his son expectantly. Oh great, he wanted him to ask something? Great.

“S-Sure” Danny choked out as he flailed, grabbing in front of him for the orange juice he had nabbed from the fridge, it thankfully hadn’t been in there long enough to start glowing… yet…

He shook his head as he finally got his breath back without inhaling dry cereal pieces into his lungs. When he was sure he wasn’t going to sound like some dollar store squeaky toy he tried to ask his parents a question, always a dreadful time if he were honest, but hey, he would usually be late for school anyway.

“So this will go around the whole school?” Danny tried weakly.

“Yep! And the best part is it’ll sense where there's an evil ectoplasmic entity nearby and spring up instantly! We made sure there won’t be a ghost within Twenty feet of the school before that puppy jumps up to the rescue! Like a big Fenton airbag!” Jack exclaimed all too enthusiastically for what the current time in the AM should allow a normal person to exhume.

Danny hummed noncommittally and sent a glance of ‘help me’ to his sister, who, in turn, rolled her eyes at her little brother. “And the shield even uses the ghost’s power to run the shield right?” Jazz asked side eyeing her father from her own spot not wanting to fully engage in the conversation they were having.

“Oh, yea! That’s the best part!” Jack practically cheered out.

“And the stronger the evil skum is the faster the shield will react and sooner it will be picked up. It will only go off on a level three or higher.” Maddie explained with a pleasant smile as she sips at her coffee.

“And we got it all finished last night to be ready for you kids today” Jack added happily.

“Hooray, more fun on a Monday” Danny sighed out into his last bites of cereal. Jazz snorted but didn’t comment, though Danny blew her a childish raspberry.

Jack continued to go on about the more intricate details of the shield they had put up though only one thing really caught his attention in the spiel, “-And Vladdie helped with the funding to outfit the school! Even helped us get the materials we needed to make such a large shield!”

“Ah, there it is…” Danny groaned letting his head fall forward onto the table in instant defeat.

“Danny! I really wish you would learn not to stay up so late playing video games! Look at you! If I get another call from one of your teachers about you sleeping in class-” Maddie started only for Danny to cut her off jumping to his feet.

“Yep! Thanks for that, mom! Look at the time! Love you bye!” Danny prattled off quick as could be before grabbing his book bag by his feet and bolting like a scared rabbit. After all, if his mother never finished that sentence when he inevitably fell asleep he couldn’t be grounded… she never officially gave him the last warning…

That’ll work, right?

It wasn’t long when he was out of the house that he was at his usual waiting spot for Sam and Tucker. Unsurprisingly, Sam got there first though they didn't have to wait long for Tucker to lumber forward, half asleep to his friends, and together they made their way towards the school as a unit.

Things seemed well enough until he got onto the stairs leading up to the main doors. That was when all hell broke loose. A deep alarm sounded before his father’s voice rang out from the speakers, in his over the top cheery way that only Jack Fenton knew how to pull off.

“Attention kids! Guess there’s an evil spook nearby so we’re deploying the shield! This ghost protection was brought to you by Fenton-works and sponsored by your mayor!”

Danny frowned. “My ghost sense didn’t go off…” He mentioned quietly to his friends.

“Maybe the shield sensors are more sensitive than you are?” Tucker asked with a frown.

“Since when?” Sam argued incredulously.

“Well who or whatever it is, it isn’t bothering me right now and no one’s screaming, no one’s panicking, so it can wait. I’m actually going to be on time for once!” Danny says waving the notion off.

He continues his trek up the stairs and towards the doors of the school, though when he reaches the threshold of the shield he finds himself having to really push hard against the thing. It was like hitting a wall of foam or Jell-O. He could push through if he pressed hard enough but it was not pleasant or as easy as going through the air.

Once through the initial shield wall, he blinked slowly feeling sluggish and as though all his limbs were moving through water. He even sort of felt like he was having to ‘swim’ as he walked like he was both heavier and lighter than he should be, but unable to find that buoyancy happy middle ground.

“Dude…” Tucker said smartly as he frowned at his friend’s almost slow motion, yet stop motion like movements. It was eerie, to say the least, not to mention the more pressing issue that he noticed right off the hop, “Your eyes are shining, man. And your, um… Neck...”

Sam, ever prepared for whatever bull their lives seem to throw their way, slipped her bag around to her front and offered Danny a pair of sunglasses, which the halfa put on promptly, along with the spider webbed patterned black and silver scarf.  “I mean, it’s better,” Sam argued, not even giving Tucker's look of disapproval her full attention.

“They’re spider glasses.” The boy states with a shake of his head. “Not really digging the whole-” Tucker waved his arm about Danny’s head in little circles, “-pseudo goth thing” he finished finally. Though he had to admit it was at least marginally better than seeing his friend’s glowing eyes and the electric scars showing up on his neck and disappearing under his shirt collar.

“Better?” Danny asked out sluggish, his voice almost sounding like it was being drawn out on a tape deck that was starting to lack battery power and not playing at quite the proper speed making the pitch and timing slower and lower.

Sam and Tucker shared a look before offering a thumbs up to their friend, both deciding it better not to address… whatever that was… The look they shared between one another spoke of their mutual hope that this would perhaps be one of those problems that simply go away on its own.

Ignoring the problems they have usually makes it go away… Yeah, that always works out.  

Danny makes a grab for the door to pull it open again, having that weird slow stop motion effect, like he was flickering between blinks rather than making a smooth motion forward. “Ehm, maybe don’t move around too much man… it’s um… creeping me out.” Tucker offers helpfully.

“Huh?” it took Danny a minute to process, as while he looked slow to them they seemed to be hyped up on caffeine to him… “Why are you talking so fast?” He wondered, his head almost appearing to glitch into a tilted and confused look.

“I think the ghost shield is making you go all slow motion. Just stop talking.” Sam says forcefully before letting out a shudder of her own.

Sam and Tucker share a glance before they each grab onto one of Danny’s arms and half drag him off to his locker. Despite his friends’ efforts he still got many looks shot his way, and a couple of people started whispering to one another as he passed by them.

“How is this going to work if I’m already weirding everyone out?” Danny asked, voice still sounding like a slowed record as he blinked sluggishly and his head jerked almost unsteadily from side to side. From his perspective, everyone was speeding along and talking at 1.5 times the normal speed.

“Maybe I should look for the ghost that triggered this, maybe Tuck, can you look into this mess?” Danny asked after a moment of trying to figure out what was being said around him through the noise of the hall.

“Yeah that might be best…” Sam responded shifting from leg to leg as she locks eyes with a basketball jock who was staring at their group incredulously.

“I got you, man, I’ll change everything to present and, block any ‘call home’ recommendations.” Tucker pipped up already pulling out his PDA to set that up preemptively.

Danny nodded and let out a hum before glitching his way out the nearest exit and out of the shield’s bounds. Once he slipped back out through the barrier, strangely enough, a harder feat than it was getting in, but that wasn’t a problem he wanted to focus on, he already blamed Vlad so he would simply continue to do so until the fruitloop showed himself.

As soon as he was through the green line of the shield Danny practically fell forward in relief. That stifling feeling now gone from his core and bones making his movements fluid and normal, well as normal as a clumsy half ghost could be anyhow…

It was a moot point and not one Danny wanted to think on too long. He gave a quick “thanks” to his friends, before diving between the dumpster and the school’s bricks, transforming into his ghostly alter ego and taking off into the sky. He would do a few laps around the school and city as he looks for whatever ghost set off the shield.

-BREAK-

It wasn’t until lunchtime Danny returned looking much more windswept and all around more miserable. He entered the courtyard through the side joining his friends out on the picnic table they had claimed.  He made it over to them, flopped down on the bench next to tucker with a groan before his head smacked into the table before him.

“You find them?” Tucker asked around whatever horrid monstrosity of a sandwich he was eating, spewing bits of half chewed bred at Danny’s head.

“No” Came the muffled reply, filled with tired disdain.

“No ghost sense?” Sam wandered, flicking the bits of bread from Danny’s raven hair and back towards Tucker.

“No”

“Huh… You think it was you who set off the shield?”  Sam wondered with a thoughtful frown.

“When I went into the back end of the generator though it wasn’t supposed to go off for anything that low, Danny in human form is like a two at best,” Tucker argued spinning his PDA around to show what he’d found when he hacked into the motherboard of the Fenton’s latest device.

Danny groaned. He supposed had he listened to his parents he could have been more prepared for whatever lunacy his parents’ decided to toss his way but alas, his short attention span and teenage rebellion and lack of caring got the best of him yet again.

Joyous of joys.

He tuned out his friend’s back and forthing for a bit, wondering if he could get away with smashing the device as Phantom when Tucker had his a-ha moment of discovery. Danny turned his head and raised a brow at his friend who was furiously typing away at his device.

“You were right about Vlad, Sam”

“Naturally,” She agreed.

“Well, he had an over right line here specifically set for Phantom’s ecto- signature,” the boy states running his finger along the line of code he’d found in the program.

Danny’s mood instantly brightened at that. “So then we just get rid of that bit right? And BAM everything’s fine?” He asked. “Man, what happened to me? Why do I want to get into the school again?”

“To keep up the illusion of normalcy on this mortal plane.” Sam supplied stabbing at her salad a little more forcefully than she probably needed to.

“Eh, yeah, I suppose.” Danny agreed with a lacklustre shrug.

“There, that should do it” Tucker spoke, interrupting whatever tangent Sam was getting ready to spew off about how normalcy was only an illusion created by corporations or some other such thing.

“And just in time The bell just rang,” Danny says with a small grin clasping a firm hand onto his friend’s shoulder. “Nice one Tucker!” he cheered as the trio made their way over to the doors that would lead them back into the cafeteria.

Unfortunately, as soon as Danny’s hand hit the door handle the shield once again sprung to life, though this time, instead of simply having a hard time passing through the shield, he was thrown back across the field earning a cry from several students who were following the trio.  

“Grapes of wrath Mister Fenton!” Lancer, (of course it was Lancer) shouted out in worry, his shout even carrying over the prerecorded message containing his father’s voice. Lancer half jogged half waddled over to Danny who blinked up blearily to his teacher, eyes flashing green for the briefest of seconds before draining back to blue.

“Leave it to Fen-turd to get himself possessed.” Dash snorted from behind the pot bellied teacher earning a few nervous glances between the small crowd of gathering students. The mutterings of the students didn’t take long to start up after that.

“I’m not possessed,” Danny argued, though, it was rather hard to make said argument when the palm of his hand was burned and leaking ectoplasm from where he had touched the door.

“Course he’s not possessed! He’s a ghost himself!” Wes shouted pointing an accusatory finger at the youngest Fenton.

Danny glared. “Not the time Westly.” He muttered under his breath as he was hauled to his feet by his friends. He tried to brush himself off only to end up smearing the ectoplasm from his hand onto his jeans, leaving a luminescent streak across his thigh.

Seeing his chance the ginger jock was all too eager to point it out. “See look! He’s bleeding ectoplasm!”

“No, I’m not! It’s from the shield! it sputtered out at me.” Danny tried to protest, though even in his own ears it sounded like a weak argument.

“Really?” Wes argued and marched over to the shimmering shield. The teen waved his arms about freely in the shield’s range hopping back and forth pointedly across the line of the barrier before showing his hands and clothes were completely clean of any glowing goo. “See! Ghost!” he accused again after he did a little pirouette to show his lack of ectoplasm.

“Yeah? Well, it sputtered at Danny only ‘cuz it turned on with him in the threshold.” Sam tried to argue back glaring at the ginger, venom in her gaze.

“Well then, why don’t you just walk through the shield Fen-toad?” Dash said with a smarmy grin, ever eager to get his own jabs in and seemingly not wanting to be outshined by the ginger conspiracy theorist’s bullying of his favourite punching bag.

“Fine” He spat back bitterly and marched up to the shield with a huff.

Sam and Tucker exchange a glance with one another as Danny presses his hand into the shield again. Thankfully this time there wasn’t anything that blows him back but he also really had to try and push through the shield.  

Danny could see out of the corner of his eye Wes’s smug grin as he grunts and does his best to push through the shield. His persistence is rewarded and he falls to the ground on the other side jumping up and giving a quick ‘HA!’ as he faces the small gathering crowd of students shifting uncomfortably just beyond the shield.

Sam had a look of exasperation and she looked like she was trying to restrain herself from face palming. Tucker on the other hand had no such restraint. He was almost over eager to bury his face into his hands.

From Danny’s perspective, he simply smacked into the ground and stood back up, but from the other students’ perspectives, Danny fell into the shield but instantly slowed down, looking as though he were falling with the moon’s gravity rather than the earthly speed everyone was used to. It also didn’t really look to them like he had hit the ground, instead glitching his body back into an upright position before cheering in that low slow motion state as he had earlier.

And if that wasn’t damning enough his eyes were glowing a lovely shade of ectoplasmic green.

Wes smirked, seemingly very smug and content with himself and this development. “See told you all he was a ghost!”

“T-that’s enough Mister Weston… Right…” LAncer muttered to himself a few moments watching as Danny seemed to glitch about as he cheered before seemingly realizing something was wrong. “I think there was a procedure to depossess a student…I bet the teachers in Bridgestone don’t have to exercise their students in this manner…” He complains. Sure they had gym class and he would appreciate the pun and irony if he wasn’t so tired.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered, ignoring the look of panic that spread across Danny’s face.

It took some doing, a lot of flailing limbs and pressing himself against the damn shield, but Danny soon was through back out and free. His eyes still glowed brightly as he stared at his classmates looking very much like a deer in the headlights. Eyeshine and all might he add.

A few of the students were snickering, because only in Amity park could one get possessed by a ghost and have it come across as though someone had merely said something embarrassing or misheard an instruction and was now staring blankly ahead.

“Er….” Danny stared at his classmates half panicked before simply vanishing from view.

“Moby Dick!” Lancer exclaimed, almost dropping the book he was thumbing through from the Fenton parents. Sure it was a ghost, and could potentially be dangerous, but it wasn’t attacking so there wasn’t really anyone panicking.

Instead, the teacher simply felt tired. “Right, I’ll call the Fentons and let them deal with this, Everyone back inside I do believe the lunch bell rang already!” the teacher called out shooing the students into dispersing.

Danny stood there invisibly and holding strong as he internally groaned. At least they thought he was possessed, that could be easily explained away but he was not looking forward to trying to explain it to his parents…

Still maybe if he gets ahead of this…

It was with that thought in mind that he bolted away into the treeline beside the school, transformed and headed off to his home landing in his bedroom only a few minutes later. He went human, back intangible and invisible came out the door, made sure the coast was clear before speeding his way down into the basement.

He just made it down the stairs startling his mother and father who blinked at him curiously, when the phone rang cutting off his mother’s “Honey? What are you doing home so soon?”

“It’s the school calling Mads,” Jack says, sounding disappointed as the large man sent a look of disapproval to his boy.

“Wait!” Danny jumped forward answering the phone and instantly hanging it up.

“Daniel!” His mother exclaimed abashedly.

“I wanna explain first! Do you know how all your stuff goes off on me? Well, the shield at school started doing that and they think I’m possessed! I’m not, it's just the… ya know…” Danny rambled off hurriedly hoping against hope that his parents wouldn’t try to send him to decontamination … again… (Thanks to his ghost half, it burned in places he didn’t ever want to burn)

“You’re possessed Dann-o?!” Jack exclaimed instantly pulling a Fenton gun from somewhere on his person and brandishing it towards his son.

Danny threw his hands up and waved them placatingly at his father. “NO! Just the normal stuff! The contamination from the portal accident set it off. I got too close to the sensor!” He says quickly ignoring how his parents seem to flinch slightly.

His parents shared a look before his father seemed to deflate, seemingly upset at the fact his son wasn’t possessed. “I thought we fixed that... “ Jack says with a frown. “But, we can’t let the school know we may have messed it up! I know we’ll just run the tests again and fix it in the night!”  

“Yeah, that would be- Wait what?” Danny blinks. Why couldn’t they just go down and fix it normally? Of course, his parents had to be weird about this too. “Thanks… Is there anything you need from me to help?”

And with those words said he almost instantly regretted it. “Well… We would really like to know why your ecto signature lines up perfectly with Phantom’s but perhaps that can wait.” Maddie offered with a small amused smile.

Danny sputtered at that, “Wh-What?”

“We set up a monitoring system so we can tell which ghosts most frequent the school… Phantom was the one that triggered the shield twice today. There actually wasn’t anything else that did,” Maddie explained with a deepening frown.

“You sure you’re not possessed, son?” Jack asked again this time sounding almost defeated in how, well, normal a volume he asked that. The hidden meaning was all too obvious especially after he mentioned his accident…

They thought he was dead! The portal killed him! And as the growing pit of dread grew into Danny’s stomach he couldn’t help but feel awful knowing they were correct in that assumption, well at least half right anyhow.

“Yeah… I’m… I’m me…” Danny managed out his voice cracking

“O-oh hun....” Maddie sniffed.

“But it’s not I… I’m me, I promise and I’m not all dead. I still have a heartbeat and everything!” Danny argued or rather tried to as his mother was quick to kneel before him taking his face in her hands as tears bubbled down her chin.

“Mom really I’m like … half at most. More human with a side of ghostly abilities ya know?”

“Oh, it’s okay Dann-o… You're still my son, I know ya are. It’s been almost a year since that accident and you’re mostly still you.” Jack said. “Just worse grades and more hormones and-”

“Thanks, guys really,” Danny sighed in relief both at dodging the potentially awkward birds and ghostly bees talk as well as the tepid acceptance he was getting. Awkward though it may be it was still acceptance nonetheless.  He was happy for it just the same.

“Maybe while we work on fixing up the shield to ignore Phantom’s signature you can tell us about some things?” Maddie asked sniffling again as she looked over her son’s face trying her best to hold herself together and not outright bawl at the thought she had killed her youngest child.

“Y-yeah… I’ve been wanting to tell you about this for a while now but, well, ya know…” Danny offered uselessly.

“I think it’s us who should apologize for that, son but maybe we can just all go get some triple chocolate fudge milkshakes and go deal with that shield after dinner?” Jack offered with a smile, ever the one to break up tension.

“Yeah, yeah… that sounds good.” Danny agreed. Well, it wasn't how he was expecting this to go, but he was kinda glad it ended up like this. Maybe now they could repair their strained relationship.

As Maddie ruffled up Danny’s hair the teen offered her his first genuine smile in almost a year.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Total words: 4245 Complete

[cherryonigiri]

Ushijima with an artsy musician s/o pt. 2

A/N: PART 2 OF MY REQUEST FOR AN ARTSY S/O!!!! WOOOOHOOO. Also my inspo for the outfit is this: https://www.lulus.com/images/product/xlarge/2746842_387482.jpg

Thank you all for 400 followers!!!I cannot believe I hit this milestone. I started this blog way back in 2018 (2 years ago????) and then proceeded to post very sporadically and let it gather dust. I honestly thought that I didn’t have time for writing in college but I’ve had amazing people (both on tumblr and IRL) who convinced me to come back and I’m so happy I did. Writing has made me so happy, especially with all that is happening right now. I love y’all so much 💖💖💖  -alice

The sweet tones of your instrument float through the ballroom, intermingling with the gentle chords played by the pianist next to you on stage. Some of the gala attendees have paused their conversations to turn towards the stages, enjoying the lovely melody that dances in the air. You spot other members of your boyfriend’s team mingling with the guests, enjoying their downtime at the Schweiden Alder’s end-of-year gala. You have yet to spot Ushijima yet, but for now you’re content to immerse yourself in your performance.

You’d been surprised when the Alder’s event team had reached out to you to perform at their gala. At first, you’d been skeptical, thinking that they’d only asked you to appease your boyfriend. You’d brought it up with Ushijima over dinner, and he’d been puzzled as well. It seemed that he’d only briefly mentioned you were a musician, let alone asked the staff to include you at the event. Reassured, you’d graciously accepted the opportunity to perform at the gala. Ushijima was equally as excited, albeit more for the opportunity to show you off to his teammates, as well as his coaches and sponsors. When you’d first started dating, the media had a field day, with many articles accusing you of dating Ushijima for his wealth and popularity in a bid to help your own career. That had made the two of you scoff, you’d held your ground in the realm of music with ease long before the two of you decided to publicly announce your relationship. Being invited to perform at the Adler’s gala was one of your more relaxed gigs — you were flying out to Vienna next week to teach a masterclass and perform as a guest with the philharmonic. And Ushijima was proud, knowing that you’d won every performance opportunity with your own merit — if anything you were doing his team a favor by playing at their event. 

Finishing your final piece, you gesture to the pianist, waiting for them to stand up before you both bow to the audience. Light applause mingles with the clinking of champagne glasses as you make your way off the stage towards a small back room. The pianist, a close friend of yours from your time at music conservatory, wishes you a good evening before exiting the room to head home for the night. Meanwhile, you busy yourself with putting your instrument back in your case before turning to the navy jumpsuit hanging on a nearby rack. Ushijima had taken you as his date to the gala, and you’d arrived wearing the sleeveless navy blue number, matching his team colors, before changing into something a little more comfortable for the performance. You’d just finished packing your instrument when you hear the door creak open. A pair of broad arms wraps themselves around your waist, while familiar olive hair brushes your cheek as your boyfriend nuzzles the side of your neck. 

“Well done y/n, I loved your playing, as always,” Ushijima murmurs. 

You turn to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, ‘Toshi, I had fun playing for your teammates.” You chuckle, remembering Kageyama’s awed look at the beginning of the gala, when you’d revealed you would be performing later in the evening. “Can you help me zip this up?” gesturing to your clothes. Ushijima nods, and you are careful to move your hair away from the zipper. You pull out a pair of silver earrings and a necklace, Ushijima had surprised you with the set of jewelry on the day of your second anniversary. Passing the necklace to your boyfriend, you focus on putting on the earrings. Ushijima’s hands rest gently on the back of your neck as he fiddles with the chain. A pair of warm lips replace his hands once he finishes securing the clasp, and you can’t help but giggle at the affectionate gesture. 

“Someone’s very touchy feely today,” you tease and you turn around to face Ushijima. He hums in agreement, offering his arm to you as he leads you back into the ballroom. You’re immediately spotted by Kageyama, who walks up to you with wide eyes that sparkle with awe. The setter’s date, you learn, is Kageyama’s former high school classmate Hinata Shoyou, and a player for the Black Jackals. As you converse with the two longer players, Ushijima watches you laugh, a small smile making its way onto his face. He’d originally been dreading this event — being pulled aside to appease rich sponsors was not his cup of tea — but watching you perform had turned it into a pleasant evening. When it came to you he could never contain his pride, he was always amazed at how hard you worked each and every day to continue to improve your craft. His teammates were usually busy, and he’d been unable to convince any of them to accompany him to your concerts (although that would soon change, he already had received texts suggesting that the team should attend one of your future performances as a ‘bonding’ exercise). It’s nice to see you get along with Kageyama and the rest of his co-workers — perhaps he would invite them over for dinner some time. Hinata is shouting something about how your playing was ‘gwah’ and ‘swoosh’ when Kageyama decides to drag him away, telling the orange haired man to “stop bothering Ushihima-san’s girlfriend.”

As the night goes on, your cheeks turn red as you continue to sip from the champagne glass clutched in your hand. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, seems to have a much better tolerance, with a barely noticeable flush tinting his cheekbones. His arm is a constant through the night, always wrapped around your waist with his thumb gently tracing circles on your waist. Even as you stumble your way through the front door, complaining about high heels and aching feet, his smile stays. It stays as you both get ready for bed, when he watches you wipe the make-up off your face. It stays as you change into one of his ratty t-shirts from high school. It stays as you drift off to sleep pressed against his side in bed. It stays, as he falls asleep, his body curled around you in a tight, yet gentle embrace. 

**Please drink responsibly and don’t drive after ingesting alcohol - y/n and Ushijima took a rideshare home like the responsible adults they are.

[look-a-new-day-has-begun]

Since @uppastthejelliclemoon​ and @kineticjellyfish​ Have made me cry multiple times because of their absolutely amazing Cats angst. I have decided to return the favor. In a... Special way What I have here is something called “Hunger Games Simulator”. It is a website where you put in the names of random people and/or characters and it creates a scenario about what would happen if these characters were in the Hunger Games.  I, have done it with cat characters . Time for some payback. (TW. Suicide mention) (Also its a long post so get ready-) The horn blows and the tributes all start running, one way or another. First of all, Demeter, Tugger, Misto, and Cassandra formed a suicide pact and killed themselves. Not off to a great start…. Tantomile, Jennyanydots, Bomba, Grizabella, Etcetera, Plato, Victoria, Electra, Gus, and Jemima take off and successfully get away from the Cornucopia without being injured. These cats also did not get any items. Old Doot finds a bow, some arrows, and a quiver. Skimbleshanks finds some rope and a lighter Mungojerrie retrieves a trident from inside the Cornucopia Coricopat stays at the Cornucopia for resources Carbucketty sets off an explosion which immediately kills Alonzo Rumpleteazer and Macavity get in a fight with Munkustrap and Pouncival none of the 4 we’re injured Starting Day Complete Day 2 Start Jemima tries to spear a fish with a trident Tantomile and Gus search for firewood Victoria sprains her ankle running away from Pouncival Coricopat injures himself Electra picks Flowers Old Doot injures himself (oh dear) Mungojerrie receives an explosive from an unknown sponsor (of course he did) Munkustrap, Skimble, Jenny, Bomba, Grizabella, Carbucketty, and Electra goes hunting for other tributes Plato goes on a hunt End of Day 2 Day 3 Start First special event: ACID RAIN The second it starts Victoria immediately tries to push Bomba into a puddle of acid rain but fails, Bomba grabbed onto Victoria pulling her down with her, killing them both. Same thing happens with Munkustrap and Carbucketty. Munkustrap tried to push him in a puddle of acid but Carbucketty dragged Munkus with him. Killing them both. God dang Jemima trips and falls face first into a puddle of acid rain, killing her as well. Plato injures Tantomile and leaves her in the rain to die, man these cats are vicious Aw dang it, Mungojerrie, Coricopat, Old D, Electra, and Jennyanydots are so shocked by Jemima’s dead body they forget its raining acid and they all die. (I’m kidding, they all tripped into a puddle as well) Pouncival refuses to let Skimble into his shelter so Skimble dies. Grizabella refuses Etcetera into her shelter so Etcetera dies dang that’s a lot of death Day 3 End Day 3 Night start Pouncival thinks about home Grizabella is unable to start a fire so she sleeps in the dark Plato quietly hums Gus screams for help (oh boy) Day 4 start Everyone who is alive stays to themselves Grizabella can’t handle the circumstances so she commits suicide Day 4 ends Day 5 Starts Plato practices Archery Pouncival stabs Gus Day 5 ends Day 6 starts Plato is unable to convince Pouncival not to kill him Pouncival shoots Plato with an arrow when he’s not looking AND THE WINNER OF THE JELLICLE HUNGER GAMES IS POUNCIVAL!

[accidentally-a-writer]

you have no control

As promised, here is the second chapter of @stegekay and my collaboration. We are having the time of our lives working on this, so you can all expect plenty more whumpy deliciousness in the future ;) If you missed the first chapter the link is below; this story is also being posted on a03. 😘 Enjoy.

Chapter One link

...

Chapter Two

By @stegekay and myself

...

“Your Excellency,” Davies greets, tipping his head respectfully. Washington draws an eyebrow upwards that verges on suspicious.

“Davies,” he replies, tone reflecting his mood, “what brings you here? Colonel Hamilton cannot take visitors yet.”

Washington would be lying if he says he does not see Davies’ twitch at Alexander’s title. The man still manages to plaster a grin on his countenance and meets the general’s eye. His heart sinks at the reminder- Hamilton is convinced this is the man who attacked him, and yet, here he is; no one could be so foolish, right?

“Delivering rations,” Davies grits. Ah, that is not the most esteemed of tasks. “Which reminds me, the men urge a quick supply run; we’ve run low on… well everything.”

Washington sighs. The last thing they need is the potential to face another winter with a great shortage of supplies, but Congress has yet to act to provide more.

“I had intended to send Colonel Hamilton to garner more supplies a few towns west. But now, well…”

“That is a lot of responsibility for a boy,” Davies comments. His tone is indifferent but the general feels himself bristle all the same.

“I’ve great faith in Hamilton’s ability, I assure you. He is remarkable in his work ethic and effectiveness, I’ve never seen a man write the way Hamilton writes. He earned himself a sponsor at seventeen, and it is a great honour of mine to take that responsibility now.”

Davies’ eyebrow quirks. “You are the boy’s benefactor?”

“I was,” Washington mumbles, uncomfortable. Men had varied reactions to this admission, many believed Alexander was somehow unworthy of his position, a freeloader. Somewhere nearby he thinks he hears a scratching sound, almost like a quill on parchment. “He was very young when he first came into my service, and a mind like that should be allowed an education.”

“I see,” Davies grins.

“Now, however, he is merely one of my staff members. The best I have, truthfully.”

A short laugh, “It’s easy to overlook the faults of our favorites.”

“Excuse me?” Washington cocks a brow and shoots Davies a dark look. Somewhere nearby in the beat of silence, he thinks he hears that distant scratching again, though it’s too late for someone to be up writing. “If you are implying something, Sergeant…”

“No, nothing of the like sir,” Davies takes half a step back, but the smug expression on his face remains. Another odd sound, dull, like something falling on the floor. Washington glances at the door to Hamilton’s room before Davies goes on. “I merely meant, Your Excellency, that I find myself surprised, and impressed that you have such an efficient aide in someone so young.”

“I find that age has very little to do when it comes to natural talent.”

“Indeed sir,” Davies nods. “You’d do well to hold onto him as long as you can, then. I should be on my way. Please, impart my best wishes to Colonel Hamilton, in hope he recovers quickly.”

With that, the man salutes, and continues on his way. Washington stares after him for a minute, until he’s sure Davies seems consumed by his work. At last he turns to Hamilton’s door and opens it quietly.

He’s expecting to find the boy asleep.

What he finds is a scene that will give him nightmares for years to come.

Hamilton is prone on the floor, just open eyes illuminated by the light of a single candle, but in such a way that for a beat Washington believes him dead. But, then the boy shifts, his head moves, barely.

Washington rushes to his side. He’s- Hamilton- there’s blood, did he tear his stitches?

No, his mind supplies as he drops down, knees splashing against something that isn’t quite blood. Frantic fingers push the boy’s tunic away, he didn’t tear his stitches. The smell hits him full force, sick.

Alexander’s mouth is covered in it and Washington can see it splattered next to his bed, it’s mixed with blood. His worst fears are confirmed when the tunic falls away and reveals an impossibly black bruise spreading along Hamilton’s side.

Hamilton is in his arms in the next breath, cradled like a babe as the general desperately fights away his panic, his tears.

Washington doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his own voice startles him in the deserted corridor.

“Help,” he screams, voice raw, “summon a medic!”

He passes Davies, who regards them indifferently, though his eyes flicker at Hamilton’s prone form in his arms. Washington doesn’t take a second look. There’s no time.

An aide sees and rushes away, legs a flurry of movement that are still somehow not enough. They can’t go back to that room - there’s so much blood - he’ll take Hamilton to the room adjacent to his own. He should have always been there; what was Washington thinking?

He puts the boy down against the sheets, waits for the doctor. The seconds bleed into eternities, some passing like a blink of an eye and others stretching into lifetimes. He paces and can’t bring himself to look at Alexander’s pale and clammy face.

Washington can do nothing but wait. He takes the boy’s hand in one of his, squeezes painfully tight, and buries his face in his other hand. He’s not sure what good it will do, but when cold fingers twitch weakly against his own, the general closes his eyes and prays.

When the doctor comes he’s given an excuse to leave without guilt, unable to sit there as Hamilton is so quiet, but the guilt comes anyways.

The door opens after what seems like hours and the doctor steps into the hall, wiping his hands on a dirty, stained cloth. Washington stops his pacing mid step and turns sharply toward him. He cannot bring himself to ask the doctor of Hamilton’s state, but he levels him an expectant look.

“I’ve done all I can, Your Excellency,” The doctor reports. There’s some hesitation to his tone. “Colonel Hamilton’s survival is in his and the Almighty’s hands now. The bleeding is on the inside, nothing can really be done. It may stop on its own, but.. "

The doctor trails off. It's not necessary to explain. Washington has seen men crushed by horses with the same dark bruises Hamilton has under their skin. He's seen them die in agony, drowning from the inside.

"I've given him as much laudanum as I dare, sir," the doctor adds quietly. ”It will hold off the worst of the pain, and should he… apologies, Your Excellency, but it would make his last hours much easier on him."

Washington’s heart shutters. And then it goes wild. He can’t hear anything past the pounding in the ears and his own internal mantra of no no no no no.

The doctor is still talking. Washington should be listening but he can’t. He can’t listen to him talk about relief, and rest, and pain, and death.

Hamilton was getting better. Why- why is this happening now? “He was recovering,” Washington blurts out, interrupting the doctor mid-sentence. The man blinks at him, and the general quickly realizes he has lost much of his control over his typically stoic presence. “He was able to sit and speak. What changed?”

“It may have been there from the original injury, sir,” the doctor responds. Something in his tone makes Washington think he’s already said this, but Washington was not listening. “The bleeding can happen slowly. However, the more likely cause is he fell and aggravated the injury, or he was struck with something.” The doctor shakes his head. “My apologies. Colonel Hamilton- he’s a good man.”

A good man indeed- still a boy. Whose right is it to take him away? God’s? God hasn’t been merciful to him before, why should He start now?

Before he can further blaspheme Washington pulls himself away from his thoughts to shake the doctor’s hand.

He’s given a bottle. Laudanum. In case he does survive the night. In case, because the more merciful outcome is he slips away in his sleep.

Washington hesitates as he reaches for the door, just for a moment, wishing this could stay a far off reality as long as he’s out here. But it’s not, Hamilton is dying no matter where he is, so he rathers he’s with the boy.

The night turns into the first lights of dawn and Hamilton still lives. He doesn’t so much as stir, but he breathes, shallow and slow thanks to the laudanum. Sometime early in the night Washington lifted the boy’s shirt so to better observe the bruising along his side, engulfing him like a dark cloud.

Washington doesn’t dare touch the injury, mottled skin stark against the already scarring original wound. It’s gruesome, as is the boy’s overall state. His skin is deathly pale, lips dry and chapped. Hamilton’s eyes are closed, the skin underneath dark and bruised like his side. Horrible as it is, the general has memorized every detail.

Hamilton doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. The only proof he lives is the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

A single knock at the door breaks the painful silence. For a moment, Washington wants only to order whoever is intending to intrude away, but then, he swallows, squares his shoulders. This is his army, and he still must command. He draws a breath and utters a quick, clipped, “Come.”

It’s Laurens. Of course it is, because knowing Hamilton’s current state none of the other aides would risk an encounter with Washington just now. Laurens, however, lingered outside the room after the doctor left until Washington assured him he’d send for him if there were any change.

“Your Excellency,” He greets, sounding as tired as Washington feels.

“Nothing has changed since the evening,” Washington says with barely a glance upward. “He’s much the same.”

Laurens makes a disappointed sound and moves a little closer. “That’s not why I’m here, sir.”

Washington sits back to better meet the young man’s gaze, “What is it then?”

“One of your guard was found dead the morning, outside one of the cabins. We spoke to all of the men inside, and all were accounted for, save one.”

He feels his blood instantly begin to boil. “Samuel Davies.”

Laurens nods, “Yes, sir.”

Washington all at once wants to rip the room apart. It all makes sense now, doesn’t it? He hurt Hamilton, got into camp, and then hurt him again. Or he was struck, the doctor had said. And Washington had seen him there, not ten feet from Hamilton’s room, chatted while Alexander struggled to the door. A distraction to gather his information, and Washington just let him linger about, questioned nothing.

He remembers an odd look in the man’s eyes as he’d raced down the hall with Hamilton limp in his arms.

Hamilton told him Davies attacked him. That he shouldn’t have been allowed to stay in camp, and he hadn’t listened. Hamilton had had to beg him to be believed and in the meantime he’d allowed that man to sow so much chaos and pain, and hurt the one boy he’d been determined to protect.

Washington lowers his head for a minute, hands curling into the blankets. Slowly, he takes in a breath. “Find him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Laurens moves quickly from the room.

The entire camp is searched, but Davies is nowhere to be found. Long gone.

He’d left as soon as he saw his work in action, Washington’s sure. What more needed to be done?

…

Days pass, and Hamilton’s state is stagnant. The doctor had once forced water down the boy’s throat, Washington would gladly never hear those choked noises leave Hamilton again.

And yet still, he sleeps.

Davies is out there, vanished without a trace. Washington wants him found, he wants nothing more than to look the bastard in his eye and order his hanging.

He wants to see him die. He wants to know he enacted justice. He wants… he wants-

He wants Hamilton to be okay.

His throat has healed a bit. It was ripped to pieces right after it happened, the coma, in a way, had accelerated its healing. That’s truly the only benefit of Hamilton’s extended rest.

The boy’s chest is now speckled with dark purple amongst the black, it looks no less painful but is an improvement from the solid black cloud which had looked so evil before. It’s a good sign, the doctor assures him, it means the bleeding has stopped and begun to heal.

He teaches Washington how to administer laudanum, for the pain will be overwhelming and this is all he can do to alleviate it.

...

Washington imagined what it would be like, the moment when Hamilton woke up. It was nothing like this.

This is pure pain, with no hope for comfort. Hamilton’s eyes open and he’s immediately overcome by the agony of his wounds. His pupils dilate, tears begin to fall, he tries to writhe but cannot due to the pain lancing its way through blood and muscle and bone and soul.

Washington’s relief at seeing his boy conscious and aware immediately turns to dismay as he realizes how aware Hamilton is.

Soothing him does nothing, and he can’t have more laudanum for at least another hour. It’s Hell, pure and simple.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Washington whispers brokenly. This is his fault. If he’d protected Hamilton from Davies, like he’d asked, the boy wouldn’t be going through this right now. “I’m so sorry, Alexander. Just hold on. Please, son, you’re so strong.”

At some point in his struggles Alexander desperately clasps Washington’s hand with his own. His grip is bone-breaking, but Washington would gladly allow him to crush his fingers if it brought him any semblance of relief.

It’s the longest hour of Washington’s life. When he’s finally able to administer the laudanum Hamilton’s subdued wails die into whimpers, his muscles relax. It’s a blessed relief for them both.

Then, and only then, when Alexander is drifting and no longer in excruciating pain, does Washington allow himself to feel his first pang of hope, maybe even joy.

It’s hard to tell from what seemed like an hour long torture session, but maybe Hamilton will be okay.

He strokes through the boy’s hair, remembering how it relaxed his foolish aide when he’d taken ill the previous winter. Hamilton is still half-awake, but after an hour like the one he’s just had he’s definitely edging more towards sleep.

He’s angry, Washington knows he is, and he has every right to be. But he still trusts him enough to take his hand, even now, and allow the general to offer him comfort. That hand is his lifeline, an assurance that all is not broken between himself and his dear aide with a penchant for attracting trouble.

Hamilton’s half-lidded eyes find him, but there’s no smile anymore. He’s exhausted, confused, angry. He needs rest.

“I’ll be here when you wake, son,” Washington murmurs, “you can go back to sleep.”

Hamilton forces his mouth open, croaks like he’s trying to speak. Washington continues his carding of the boy’s hair, grinning in as reassuring of a way as he can at the moment.

“Not yet, my boy. Your throat needs time to heal,” He remembers the puddles of sick, mixed with blood and Washington almost cannot continue. “When you wake I’ll fetch a parchment and paper, and we can talk.”

Something flickers behind Alexander’s eyes, but he concedes, relaxing into Washington’s grip and closing his eyes.

He doesn’t wake again for six hours.

…

Hamilton, despite popular opinion, knows how foolishly stubborn he can be at times. It doesn’t necessarily stop him, because the vast majority of times he’s being stubborn for a good reason.

His words had always been his weapon of choice, both spoken and written. He’d been disarmed by Davies and that is unacceptable. So yes, he was anxious to regain his speech.

Washington, ever true to his word, brought him the promised parchment and quill, but communicating through that means is so tiresome. It makes conversation disjointed and fragmented, with long pauses needed for his sake. He pretends not to see the quill shaking between his fingers and the unsteady lines on the page.

He wants to speak again. He has quite a few things needing to be said, thank you very much.

And the general is near never gone from his room, if not his side, either. He must be desperate for conversation as well. A full week’s gone by, and the time Washington has been out of sight totals less than an hour.

Other men might enjoy having a companion through recovery, but it is beginning to wear on Hamilton. Were he not a general, one might suspect Washington would make a fine nursemaid. Washington brings another blanket from a trunk, saying he looks cold. Hamilton shakes his head. “Fine,” he rasps.

Washington lays the blanket over his feet. He looks back at the boy, a thoughtful expression behind his eyes, “Do you need more water?”

Hamiton shakes his head. This is becoming a routine. “No,” he manages. The thought of drinking anything, even cool water makes him wince. He must be instantly reminded of the state of his throat.

“The doctor’s said you shouldn’t try to speak, son,” Washington settles back in the chair next to the bed. “You don’t want to cause yourself any more trouble recovering.You have the paper there,” He points at the few pieces of scrap parchment next to Hamilton on the bed.

Hamilton furrows his brow and scribbles on the top page.

Too slow.

Washington glances at him suspiciously, “I’ve seen you write faster than any man alive.”

There’s an almost sad smirk in response.

There’s a difference when I have to write my own words instead of yours.

Washington almost smiles in response, and the two lapse into a short silence. Hamilton looks thoughtful for a moment. He picks up another piece of paper and writes.

None of this is your fault, you know. I don’t blame you.

A beat. Washington thinks he feels his heart stop. He stares at Hamilton- this boy he’s failed twice now, who wouldn’t be here, drugged and fighting off waves of agony if he’d just believed him in the first place. Hamilton cocks his head when Washington doesn’t respond.

“Sir?”

“Don’t talk,” Washington responds without hesitation.

Hamilton nudges him, and then underlines the last sentence he wrote while those intense dark eyes fix on his. The boy is clearly waiting for a response. He falls asleep waiting.

Once he’s sure Hamilton is asleep, Washington takes the parchment and tosses it in the fireplace across the room. He watches as the flames instantly take hold of the paper, warping it and leaving only a pair of words visible before they too are consumed by the flame.

blame you

...

Laurens of course doesn’t complain, that he’s the one even higher ranking men send to report to Washington. Were the general able to distance himself, concentrate at all on anything beyond Hamilton’s state, he might be annoyed that even some of his generals use Laurens as a shield to bear bad news.

This afternoon Laurens looks angry as he enters the room. Hamilton is half awake and rolls his head towards the door as Washington stands.

“Sir,” Laurens salutes. He looks toward Hamilton, and his expression softens, if only for a moment. He turns back to Washington, “I- perhaps, if we discussed outside, if-”

Hamilton interrupts with a wordless croak and shakes his head a bit. No need to leave on his account.

“What is it?” Washington questions from the other side of the bed. He knows something, something is wrong, based on Laurens’ expression. “Something’s happened.”

“Yes. A pair of scouts just reported in from a mission a few miles north,” Laurens begins. Washington notices Hamilton’s brow furrow as he listens. “Several homes were attacked, burned just outside the town. A soldier and five civilians were killed.” He pauses. “Two were children.”

It’s not the time of year for a British advance, so Washington draws a sharp breath and closes his eyes a moment. “How’d it happen? Who?”

Laurens hesitates a moment, “Some survivors reported a small group of strangers in the area. One of them gave a name before they started burning buildings.”

Washington holds his breath for an instant, but he knows the man responsible. “Davies.”

“It seems so, sir.”

An inferno builds in Washington’s chest, but his voice, with some effort, remains almost too quiet for the situation, “Where did they go?”

“Apparently due east, some hours ago.”

He nods, knowing what needs to be done. Washington looks toward the bed, Hamilton’s attention has shifted to him, tired eyes wavering with concern. He leans forward, grasps the boy’s hand, and gives a gentle squeeze. “I’ll return shortly, my boy. We must discuss a response to this.”

They can catch Davies, bring him back here. Calm as he forces himself to appear from the outside, sad as he is for the pointless loss of civilian life, Washington allows himself the selfish indulgement; he wants to see Davies hang for what he did to Alexander.

Hamilton’s eyes go wide and he clumsily reaches to grasp at Washington’s sleeve. The general lets his hand cling for a minute before gently pulling free and resting a hand on the boy’s brow. “I promise you, I won’t be long.”

The boy exhales some indeterminate sound, but it’s too warped to be an actual word. Washington straightens from the bed, and Laurens follows him from the room.

"Scouts said Davies has five or six men with him," Once they reach the workroom Laurens hands Washington a hastily scribbled report recently delivered for the man to read himself. "Twelve men on horseback should be plenty to deal with him."

Washington stares at the parchment. He doesn't truly read it, but at Laurens' suggestion he looks up, and drops it to the desk.

"Send thirty."

Laurens' eyebrows go up. "Sir, it's a bit much, isn't it?" He asks the question, but Washington is positive that he wants Davies captured just as much.

So Washington doesn't answer. He turns, and heads back to his quarters. Back to Hamilton.

“Sir,” Laurens calls after him. “Allow me to accompany them. I can-”

“No.”

“But, sir, I-”

"Alert me when the men return with Davies."

It’s overkill, certainly, to send thirty men to capture one fugitive, but Washington orders it anyway. He will not let Davies escape.

Not this time.

Hamilton’s eyes are wide and scared when he reenters his room. There’s something terribly urgent about them, something he could only convey with the words that have been so cruelly taken from him.

He waves Washington toward the bed, and a blink later starts to scribble something on the parchment in his lap.

You sent men to capture him?

Washington glances at the strained writing and nods, “Thirty.”

Hamilton pales and momentarily loses the grip on his quill. “Don’t,” He barely whispers, fixing Washington with a desperate look. “Can’t.”

“He killed civilians, Hamilton,” Washington responds, barely containing the growl deep in his throat, “He nearly killed you twice. You expect me to let him walk away?”

Hamilton furiously shakes his head. He winces as it jars the rest of him before gripping the pen again.

He’s playing with you- he knows you’re emotional about this and-

Washington reaches forward and lifts Hamilton’s hand from the page, gives his fingers a gentle, insistent squeeze, “I know what I am doing, my boy. Davies and his men will be outnumbered nearly five to one. If they know what’s good for them they’ll surrender before a shot is fired.”

Hamilton fixes him with that frightened look again, “Trap,” He breathes. “He knows-” a round of coughing steals the weak words away, so Hamilton writes again.

This is exactly what he wants. He expects you to do this.

“If he wishes to die in the Pennsylvania woods, then so be it.”

Call the men back. Please. This is a mistake.

Washington reaches to grasp his arm, steady the increasingly distraught boy. “Davies cannot be allowed to continue to bring terror and death wherever he sees fit. You won’t need to see him when he returns and-”

Hamilton wrenches himself away from the general’s grip and almost topples over. Parchment and quill fly to the floor with the momentum. He catches himself before falling out of bed completely, and jerks his head back to Washington.

"Listen to me!"

It's not as much a shout as Hamilton might manage if he were healthy, but it's loud enough that Washington stops speaking and stares at him. The boy's eyes water and his fingers curl against his throat. He opens his mouth to speak again, but the words are lost, dissolving into painful coughs.

Washington feels a rush of guilt having left the room to make this decision, but he did what was necessary. The men will be back within hours, and then they can discuss this in more detail.

"You should rest," Washington breaks the tense silence and reaches for the boy's hand. Mid-cough, Hamilton jerks away and curls in on himself.

Clearly the boy is hurting, but when Washington reaches for him again Hamilton shifts out of reach and wheezes a strained, “No.”

The general feels his chest tighten as he slowly rises from his chair. He feels he should say something to Hamilton, but the boy is curled onto his uninjured side, hair loose, hanging in his face as he struggles to get his breath back. With that pathetic image ingrained in his mind, Washington leaves the room without a word.

It feels strange to work in his own office now, having spent days, weeks working out of his private quarters so he could remain with Hamilton. He settles at the desk, a bit surprised to find documents he left there weeks ago, untouched in the chaos since. His aides have kept Congress apprised of the situation, but Washington has yet to write them in his own hand. He can do so now without interruption, explain the whole thing, and how it is about to end.

He works for some hours, takes a little bit of time to respond to personal correspondence; replies to a letter from Lafayette in France, that glosses over the situation. No need to worry him without reason.

The candle is burning low when there’s a knock at the door, and Laurens appears once again. Washington glances up from his own work, but the greeting sticks in his throat when he sees the drawn expression on the young man’s face. Even with the poor lighting he can tell his face is pale.

“What’s happened?” Washington rises quickly from his seat, papers on the desk ruffling with the movement. Ice grips at his chest, and for a moment he’s not sure he can suck in any air.

Laurens clutches a piece of paper in his hand. He doesn’t meet Washington’s eye as he crosses the room and hands it over. The general though, quickly drops it to the desk, slams his hand down on the wood. Laurens does not cower easily, but he jumps at the sound.

“Tell me!”

“Davies had men, dozens, waiting in the woods, in the trees. Seems his men figured out how to mimic our own and hide in plain sight,” Laurens’ gaze is fixed on the ground. “Our men were fired on, scattered through the woods, and in the chaos-”

“How many dead, Laurens?”

There’s no answer, but Laurens finally looks at him, clearly struggling for words.

“How many?”

He shakes his head. “All of them, sir. They’re all dead.”

[theblessed-unrest]

27 Jan 2020

I haven’t been able to keep track of my inward thoughts, which I have been leaving behind in disjointed fragments... in Telegram notes-to-self, in to-be-revisited iPhone notes, hidden in my Instagram stories/posts. I’ve been unable to muster up enough energy to write, as these days I focus them all on writing cover letters and trying to come up with a grand plan to build up my portfolio and pursue passion projects.

I keep thinking about privilege and inequality. Earlier this week, I had my hair cut by a new hairdresser (recommended by my mother’s ‘auntie network’). She’s a single mum who speaks candidly about her divorce from her husband and how she singlehandedly raised her two boys on her own through hairdressing. One of them is currently studying in a polytechnic while the other is in his first year of university. After she divorced her (dirtbag) husband (who provided only $200 alimony per month for her to use), she had to work multiple jobs to pay rent and the expenses for the household. This resulted in her having to leave her two boys at home by themselves most of the time (given she had no family in Singapore to help her out as she was from Malaysia). She was telling me how they therefore had to grow up to be very independent, with the older one often having to take care of the younger one. She told me that when the younger brother fell sick, the older brother would end up having to feed him his medicine on time and all she could do was call to remind him to do so. 

One of her customers started coughing pretty violently at one point and she told her not to save money on health supplements, which she takes everyday herself. When she said that, she reminded me of an older grandmother whom I interviewed quite a while back for a food insecurity research project, who despite her son (the head of the household) earning just a over $2000 a month (which is just $500 away from qualifying for a subsidised rental flat in Singapore), spends a whole lot on expensive nutritional supplements for her grandson, like manuka honey and fish oil. With such limited resources, it is truly a test of resource allocation, which reveals where your priorities lie, and it always warms my heart when I see people with little means selflessly choosing to love and bless their family with all that they have. She told me she wants them to study hard and find a good job so they wouldn’t have such a hard life like her. 

She made me laugh with all of her un-PC opinions, saying that she will not pay for her boys’ wedding ceremonies (in mandarin she said, ”I’ve already paid for so many things! If they want to marry a girl, they must make sure they have the means first!”). She also asked me if I had a boyfriend (but not in the nosy auntie way), and praised me for not being in a relationship as of yet (how refreshing!), cautioning me against falling too quickly for a guy and not listening to voices of reason around loved ones around me -- as that was how she ended up marrying her ex-husband. 

She told me how she often asked her boys to eat fish, because it would make them smarter, and how they would retort, “Mummy, why didn’t you eat fish when you were younger then?” (”Kids are so smart these days!”, she sighed -- which made me smirk because my brothers and I often talk back to our parents in this manner too.) She told me that she was no good at studying when she was younger, and felt like sleeping whenever she started reading. “For MCQs I don’t know how to answer, I would just put options 1, 2, 3, 4 for each question, then repeat again! Sometimes pass, but usually fail,’ she recounts to me while laughing. But whatever study smarts she doesn’t have, she makes up with street smarts. Her hairdressing business runs like a well-oiled machine and she handles the operation swiftly like an experienced CEO. Armed with a bluetooth speaker in ear, during the close to 5 hours I spent there (because I waited for my mum to be done too), she served 3 customers (including me and my mum) while having a customer swing by to collect the health supplements she bought on her behalf. She was a one-woman band, not missing a beat as she took turns to cutting each person’s hair (not a rushed manner even though we only showed up pretty late, close to 6pm), washing our hair, colouring, steaming, highlighting, blowdrying -- immaculate time allocation. By the time she was done with my mum and me, it was 10.30pm. And she still hasn’t had dinner. We too -- though she kept offering snacks and gave me Pokka green tea. But we had cooked dinner by our helper to return to. (She was telling us she usually only had oats and some supplements for dinner, and she usually has customers bringing her lunch, but they usually buy her fried bee hoon, which she had already eaten thrice in a row.) She also told us that because of CNY, she had to start work the next day at 8.30am. 

It made me think about my privilege. That my parents are both college-educated. That I either had a helper or my mother/grandmother take care of me when I was ill. My parents were saw time off work as a right, not a privilege. Their jobs were never threatened by them having to take leave for legitimate reasons. They could help us with school work if we had any difficulty at all. My parents act as a safety net (yay many helping hands!) -- helping to pay for my brother’s wedding and loaning him money for his new house, loaning me for my university education, and sponsoring my younger brother’s overseas education, because seems to be more well-suited overseas. But the likelihood of us paying them back quickly in due time (their ‘return on investment’ so to speak) is also rather high. Unlike our hairdresser’s children, sadly, one of which is studying in a private local university (not as well-regarded) and the other who will probably follow in similar footsteps. But relatively, this is already a better outcome for her household.

Today, I just watched the new Joker movie as well, which touched on a lot of issues of inequality, bullying, mental illness and marginalisation. I watched it with my family, and my father said the movie was depressing. I guess this is a fitting response, we being part of the ‘bourgeois’ and all. But all one has to do is to compare Arthur Fleck and Bruce Wayne, and how the main difference (if Thomas Wayne is truly the father of them both) is the legitimacy of their birth, to see how different life turns out for them both because of privilege. Both are regarded as vigilantes, but one is considered a ‘villain’ in the conventional sense, and the other considered a ‘hero’. Not saying that I think that justifies any of the heinous deeds the Joker committed, but that privilege shapes a great part of the way we experience the world and we interact with it. Why bother upholding a social contract, when those around you perpetually exclude you from its protection most of the time? 

Privilege is this. After making the comment on how heavy-hearted the movie made him feel, my father requested that to lift our moods, we watch a variety show instead. While the privileged can turn our gaze and act like the problem of inequality doesn’t concern us, it continues to be a reality to be lived and that cannot be tuned out by those without the same privileges.

[bufffywritesfanfic]

Day 2 (10/1): Change / Inviting / Orange

Summary : https://bufffywritesfanfic.tumblr.com/post/178600874539/prucan-week-2018

Part 1: https://bufffywritesfanfic.tumblr.com/post/178600981934/day-1-930-beginnings-renewal-green

Without explanation or a chance to eat his breakfast, Matthew was rushed out of his room by a summons. It came in the form of a bell that would toll pleasantly, letting him know that they king was looking for him and the location was to be in the dinning hall. On his way out he stole a glance at the mirror, smoothing down the bed head and checking the silk robe he had donned that morning before a servant had dropped off his meal. He found it passible for what he was likely being summoned to and slipped out into the hall.

The wing that made up this part of the castle belonged exclusively to the King's Chosen and was where most of them, Matthew included, spent the majority of their time. He had never felt uncomfortable here, Francis had seen to that by granting him access and privilege that the rest didn't have. It was he who had wanted the library renovated and taken on the task of attempting to educate those passing through looking for an upgrade in status and he took pride in that. It was a perk to his job to have met so many different people from within the country he was deeply connected to and the next Ace would benefit from what he had learned.

The room the wing spilled into was used for primarily for the royalty's lavish parties. More of those sponsored by Francis than that of the queen or the jack. For as long as he had been here, Queen Lily had always been sickly and her constant companion, Jack Vash, took on most of the responsibility for her care. Sometimes they did make a brief appearance, as they had a week earlier at the most recent party. Vash often pushed her in on a wheeled chair and she would smile and converse for a time while the jack hovered protectively.

It had also been the last time he had seen Gilbert, which always disappointed him when the other wandered in and out of his life. But jokers weren't tied to kingdoms like he was. And he didn't have any magical powers like they did.

It surprised him when he entered and found three people gathered there at a table. At the head was Francis who immediately stood and beckoned him closer once he had been spotted. Matthew smiled and made his walk much more graceful and alluring, allowing himself to glance at the companions starting with the man siting to the right.

Antonio, head of the guard and one of the most upbeat people Matthew had ever met. He was dressed casually today, like he too had been summoned right out of bed. Yet how he naturally made the tousled hair look attractive in a way that inspired envy.

And to the left of the king, Matthew's steps stumbled.

"Good morning!" Francis called, walking over to kiss his cheeks. Wrapping an arm around him he directed his free hand towards the two remaining seated at the table. "I wanted to introduce you to our new guest! He will be staying with us for a while. Gilbert, I'd like you to meet Matthew."

Barely recognizable without his usual leather jackets, Gilbert looked more like someone's assistant. Black trousers, a white collard shirt, and a fuscha tie that brought out the colour of his eyes. Gone was the tail that would have otherwise given him away. The grin was exactly the same and as he joined them he slyly winked in Matthew's direction when Francis wasn't looking. "Nice to meet ya." He held out his hand.

Matthew had no words as he shook the hand offered to him. With the other he self consciously drew the edges of his robe closer together in the front. What was the joker up to?

"No need to be shy," Francis encouraged giving his shoulders a squeeze. "Gilbert was recently promoted to security and Antonio and I approve of him." Antonio now the only person remaining seated and at his name being mentioned waved and went back to his plate, a reminder that Matthew's own food was growing cold back in his room while they did this.

"If you need anything, this is who you call. He knows everything about this castle. You'd think he's been here a century, not a couple years." Matthew could only smile weakly, still within the clutches of the King of Diamonds and unable to escape the attention. It wasn't that hard when every Ace before him had found a way into the castle and when it came to his turn the halls were familiar and he had never gotten lost. "Why don't you give him a tour this morning? Help him settle in."

"Yes, I-"

"Thank you, Matthew," Francis pecked his cheek and dismissed them.

Matthew gave a slight bow. "Follow me please, Mr. Gilbert." Francis, at least, seemed pleased and as Gilbert also gave a little bow he waved them away.

"Have fun! We will go over your assignments later."

The doors shut behind them leaving them in a mostly empty hallway. Only staff and a few others of the Chosen were milling about at this hour. Matthew smiled and shared a few pleasantries, but when they were far enough away from the hall he grabbed Gilbert and dragged him into an empty room and shut the door. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I was getting a tour."

"You know what I mean!" He pressed his ear against the wood and held still for a moment. "What if you're caught?"

He grinned. "You really think I could?"

Matthew crossed his arms. "What are you doing here?" His expression didn't break, no matter how funny Gilbert attempted to be.

The joker huffed. "Okay, I'm here to help Diamonds."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I figured you know better than me. Come on." The joker climbed onto the back of a chair breaking any illusions of his disguise when he was able to perch without off balancing it. Like that, Matthew considered, he resembled a large, very strange looking, bird. "You know as much as I do that there's something off here."

He couldn't disagree. There was something that constantly unsettled him whenever he walked the halls of the castle or spent days down in the port city. It was difficult feeling to explain. A sort of uneasiness in his stomach that would have him looking over his shoulder or jumping at shadows. But that could have been anything.

"I knew you knew."

"Stop," Matthew closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers along his temples. Being Ace had the perks of vast amounts of knowledge of the country's history, but the downside was the headaches every time he attempted to access it. "Where would we even start?" A memory of a predecessor filtered forward. She had felt the same once before. "Something's wrong with one of the royals?"

"I've been thinking Francis," Gilbert said, one hand on his chin. "Have you seen how many people he has here to sleep with? That's weird."

"Or," Matthew interjected, his face feeling warm, "it could be the queen? Lily has been sick for a long time."

"Or it could be Lily," Gilbert repeated at a grumble.

[commander-yinello]

Trying to be better (than we used to be)

3 AM and I can’t sleep, looking up pictures of MM. Me: Hey it's Echo Girl Me: Ugh so childish Brain: Maybe in the future she'd feel bad about what she did Me: Ooh like Yoosung. Yoosung also grows out of it Brain: ... What if Me: Wait no Brain: Yoosung x redeemed Echo Girl? Me: No. That makes no sense. That is crazy and I’m going to forget about it. Me after 2000 words: Fuuuuuuuuuuu-

So yeah. ;;;; I have no excuse for this, I wrote a fic for a total crackpairing. I figured I should post it in case I can make at least one person suffer with me. xD More under the cut because this is longer than it should be orz.

There was something familiar about her. Yoosung knew he had to have seen her before, because her large eyes and wavy brown hair tugged heavily at his brain, which desperately wanted to remember.

Her blue blazer was currently being showered by fur as her poodle did her best to jump as high as possible, more excited than her owner. A poodle which had eaten something they shouldn’t have, which was typical for a young dog. Their reactions were normal too, but Yoosung had trouble finding his voice to send them on their way.

“Was it difficult to remove the ring from Lady’s stomach?” the young woman’s question pulled him out of his thoughts.

‘Come on Yoosung, get your shit together,’ Yoosung thought. She was the last one of the day, he could go home and play some LoLoL. Though he didn’t play it for hours like he used to as a student, it was still his favorite way to unwind.

Putting on his red reading glasses, he scrolled down the dog’s data on his computer. “Not at all, we simply gave her something to make her throw up and…” He wanted to make a joke about her puke being diamonds, as he liked to share terrible jokes, when his eye fell on the name of the poodle’s owner.

[Kyungju Choi]

His silence was starting to make her visibly worried. “Well?”

“You’re Echo Girl,” Yoosung said softly, removing his glasses and placing them on the desk. She had tied up her brown hair, exchanged her Sunday dress to a fashionable casual work outfit and her face lost some of its roundness, but it was unmistakably her.

The last time he saw her was at the RFA party where they stopped her from destroying Zen. How scandalized she had been when her plan got ruined. Her expression of shock matched hers back then. “How… do you know?” she asked, after a minute of silence, eyes darting to the door and back to him.

“Your name. I recognize it,” Yoosung confessed.

She narrowed her eyes. “Almost no one knew my real name back then.” Her poodle sat next to her, all smiles and tail wags.

“I had looked it up, together with what other information I could find about you.” He realized he sounded like a stalker, and quickly added: “Y-you accused my friend Zen of sexual harassment some four or five years ago. He asked me to help him.”

Her angry expression faltered as she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh shit, you’re Zen’s friend…!! Oh my fucking God, you must hate me so bad.”

It surprised him to hear her swear so easily. “No no no!” he quickly waved his hands. “I don’t, I really don’t! I-”

The sound of the door opening on badly-oiled hinges interrupted them, his colleague poking her head inside. “Doctor Kim, are you almost done?”

“Y-yes, I will lock up, see you tomorrow,” he promised her, and she waved before leaving. He turned back to Kyungju who bit her lip, hand clenched tight around her dog’s leash, and felt bad for making the situation awkward. He could have just acted dumb about her name.

Just as he was about to, she spoke. “Are… you available for coffee? I would like to explain myself… and apologize, i-if that’s alright with you.”

Yoosung blinked and answered before he could think about it. “Sure.”

***

He doubted bringing her to Jaehee’s café at first but decided that he would need support from the wisest member of the RFA. There was no doubt that Jaehee recognized Echo Girl right away the moment they walked through the door, and he shot her a look that said: ‘Hi remember Echo Girl she’s actually not evil now don’t kill her for what she did to Zen also I accidentally revealed I know her and we are going to have an awkward talk please help’.

Somehow Jaehee managed to pick all that up and maintained a calm and natural composure behind the counter after serving them their coffee, nodding whenever he looked her way. The white poodle lay dutifully next to their chairs, already napping on her front paws.

Kyungju stirred her coffee many times before she broke the silence. “So… Doctor Kim, how is Zen? If that’s okay to ask.”

“Please, call me Yoosung.” His fingers touched the leather jacket he had hung over his chair, preferring it over the stiff white coat he had to wear for work. “And he’s doing great! Still acting and… you know.”

“Oh. Good, that’s… good.”

Silence. Yoosung took a sip of his espresso and tried not to stare at the table.

She didn’t look up from her drink. “Did you know I swore vengeance… again, after the party? I acted like it was all okay as I performed the musical, but inside I wanted nothing more than to hurt him and Jumin Han and the RFA.”

Chills ran down his spine and he was about to say something when she continued. “However, after that musical, my parents told me my agent and all the sponsors had left me. I was ruined. The paparazzi got so bad, my parents decided to move to Europe. I was furious, of course, I didn’t care about reporters or my reputation, I just wanted payback. In the end… it may have been the smartest choice they made.” She sighed. “Echo Girl was… nothing, not anymore.”

He felt a small pang of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” she said, locking her eyes with his, glaring with the same intensity during that RFA party. “It was my fault. Everything I did was fueled by my crush on Zen, and my parents’ money allowed me to arrange things normal idols couldn’t. I was… well, I guess I was a bitch, to say politely.”

Yoosung was sure she had thought about her actions for a long time. “That is not the word I would use.”

“I would. I can’t believe how much I took for granted being able to act alongside Zen. I took so much for granted. There is no other period in my life that I regret more. It took a while, but I got over my anger. Took some modelling jobs. Met some people who wouldn’t accept my shit and even helped me.” She smiled and Yoosung copied her automatically, glad that it was a real smile instead of an anxious one. “Long story short, when my parents wanted to move back to Korea, I said yes because I missed my home country but… I don’t miss my old self.”

She took a sip from her coffee and put the cup back down with a satisfied sigh. Jaehee’s coffee never disappointed. “I’m surprised you remembered me. No one else seemed to have. I was fine with that.” She looked at Yoosung expectantly, a finger tapping the empty cup. “I’m genuinely sorry for what I did to Zen and to his friends. I can’t ask you to forgive me, but I don’t want anyone else to know who I am. If you want money for your silence, I can arrange that.”

Yoosung’s jaw dropped. “Whoa, it doesn’t have to come to that! Please, I’m sure Zen and the others have forgiven you ages ago. Or at least don’t care anymore.” He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he accepted a bribe. “It’s fine. I have no problem keeping a secret.”

Kyungju took her time, inspecting Yoosung. “You’re a good person, aren’t you?”

That took him off-guard. “Not at all. In fact, I relate to your story more than you think.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t know him but… for the longest time, I also hated someone so much I wanted him to die. It… it was wrong of me to think so.”

An image of a teal-haired man came to mind and he felt queasy. He had accepted that V wasn’t fully to blame for all the terrible things that had happened to the RFA, and surely he could admit V was a kind man. Yet talking about past mistakes so openly rattled him, even after all these years. Suddenly he found himself wondering if things might have gone better had he been wiser, more understanding.

Warm fingers gently touched his hand.

“Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s hard.”

Yoosung hadn’t been aware of his vision blurring. Eyes focusing once more, he wasn’t prepared for Kyungju’s sympathy radiating off her. It was such a stark contrast from who she used to be.

“You’re a better person than I am.”

Her blue eyes went wide, and she pulled her hand back as if she burned it. “Fuck no!” she yelled, causing most people of the café to turn towards them. When they minded their own business again, she repeated herself, face slightly pink. “I’m not. I just… grew up.”

Yoosung chuckled, toying with his reading glasses. “More than me.”

Her face was glowing now. Yoosung could see Jaehee in the corner of his eyes, frowning as she wondered what in the world Yoosung had said. “W-what are you talking about?!” her speech stuttered. The way she held her hands in her lap, unable to look at him straight, Yoosung couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I mean it,” he pushed. “You’re almost a completely different person. I look in the mirror and see a dumb teenager in a grown man’s body, and no one’s discovered it yet.”

“Don’t be dumb, you’ve got a great job and great friends because of who you are,” she pouted angrily, old Echo Girl shining through. “Don’t pull yourself down like that.”

One of the waitresses stopped by, whom Yoosung knew was a student as Jaehee often hired them part-time. “Can I get you lovebirds another coffee?”

Yoosung wasn’t sure who squeaked louder, him or Kyungju. “We’re not!” they both said in unison, confusing the waitress. He coughed. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, same.” Kyungju said. The waitress smiled and walked off, acting like nothing had happened.

Lady yawned and whined a little, grabbing their attention. “Ah, I should go. I need to feed Lady before she tears the café apart,” Kyungju joked, grabbing her purse.

“I’ll pay,” Yoosung immediately offered.

“Fuck no. I’m a modern woman, I’m paying.”

“I suggested this place. Let me pay for you.”

“I was the one to suggest coffee!”

“Ahem,” said Jaehee, suddenly next to their table. “Might I suggest both paying half?”

Both blushed, Yoosung more so knowing Jaehee was going to grill him once she left. “Y-yeah, that’s a good idea,” Yoosung said, reaching for his wallet.

Money in hand, Jaehee left them alone. Kyungju picked up her purse, getting up slowly.

“I will let Zen know.”

Stars appeared in her eyes, dazzling him. “I’ve always wanted him to know, so thank you. It means the world to me.”

He fiddled with his jacket zipper, staring at Lady who stared back. “I hope I don’t see you again.”

Confusion crossed Kyungju’s face and Yoosung instantly panicked. “I-I mean, not at the clinic! I wouldn’t want to see Lady at the clinic! Wait, I mean-” He facepalmed with both hands. Was he really an adult?

Only when he heard her giggle did he dare look through his fingers. “I can’t guarantee Lady won’t eat anything strange.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m glad something good came out of it. I’ll see you around.”

She waved goodbye, heading out with Lady in tow. Strangely, he felt a little somber. Yoosung watched her go and wasn’t aware of another person seating themselves across him until he heard them.

“You’re right, she is a different person.”

He nearly jumped out of his chair. “Jaehee!” he yelled at the café owner who raised an eyebrow. “You heard?”

“Everything.” She raised another eyebrow, chin resting on her hands. “You two seemed rather friendly from the get go.”

He shrugged. “She’s nice and she happened to bring her dog in. I will probably never see her again.”

“I very much doubt that.”

Yoosung cocked his head. “Well, I suppose dogs tend to eat strange stuff a lot, but I’m not the only vet in the city.”

Jaehee let out the loudest snort. “I don’t think she wants another vet. Tell her I’ve got new latte flavors soon, she might like them.”

Before Yoosung could question what that meant, Jaehee got up, leaving him to scratch his head.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT NONE

One experienced CFO said: The better ones usually will not give a term sheet unless they really want to do a deal with you just to lock you up while they decide if they really want to. One of the startups from the rest. Startups don't win by attacking. When I thought about what it meant to call someone a hero, it meant I'd decide what to do if one of the earliest sites with enough clout to force customers to log in before they could buy something. Just call out my name, and you always get more attention for that. Don't say anything unless you're fairly sure of it.1 People alive when Kennedy was killed usually remember exactly where they were when they heard about it. They win by locking competitors out of their own at age thirteen.2 Yesterday Fred Wilson published a remarkable post about missing Airbnb. For example, it returned false for Montaigne, who was arguably the inventor of the essay. So it is with design. The most promising countertrend is the premium cable channel.

I could never quite tell if they understood what I was saying. It's sadly common to read that sort of thing. Some people thought of it as math, and proved things about Turing Machines. Or maybe the movie business hasn't seen their revenues decline the way the news and music businesses have. Building physical things is expensive and dangerous. I'm not proposing this as a new idea. It may be surprisingly large; people overvalue physical stuff. If several VCs are interested in you, or an acquirer says they want to buy you till someone else wants to buy you till someone else wants to buy you, and then have to call them back to tell them you were just kidding, you are absolutely damaged goods.3 The problem with software patents is an instance of a more general one: the patent office takes a while to understand new technology. But often this mismatch causes problems.

Some angels might balk at this, but others would probably welcome it. Selling There have always been people in the middle. So did Apple. There was an authenticity that everyone who walked in could sense.4 So what, the business world may say.5 The Airbeds just won the first poll among all the YC startups in their batch by a landslide. I haven't seen it. I'm just not sure how big it's going to be more than just deciding how to implement some spec. This is generally true with angel groups too. But don't let them or the situation intimidate you.6 Most people won't, unfortunately.7

Business Incubators, there are next to none among the most successful companies and explain why they were not as lame as they seemed when they first launched.8 There are plenty of people as smart as his fame implies, and she said that yes, he was intellectually curious.9 If you do manage to threaten them, they're more right than they know, because the bride is always the center of attention.10 So to write good software you have to be secretive with other companies; they'd have to be very disciplined if you take the trouble to attack them from an oblique angle, they'll meet you half-way and maneuver to keep you in their blind spot. And that didn't just mean that people trusted us. As we later learned, it probably doesn't work to stick to old forms of distribution just because you make more that way. You have two choices: give it away and make money from it indirectly, or find ways to embody it in things people will pay for. Over and over we see the same pattern.

People sleeping on airbeds in strangers' apartments?11 There's a narrow variant: is it bad that the current legal system, to apply for patents just because everyone else does is not like saying I'm not going to lie just because everyone else does is not like saying I'm not going to be part of it for life.12 In return for the exclusive right to use an idea, you have to be hard on yourself.13 The border between architecture and engineering is not sharply defined, but it's extraordinarily rare for one to talk about it publicly till long afterward.14 I know wrote: Two-firm deals are great. I had the angel do a straight cash for stock deal.15 Publishers of all types, from news to music, are unhappy that consumers won't pay for content? Kids are good at it and some people are bad at empathy too. His rhythm in particular. Unfortunately, the question is hard to convey in a research paper.

It seems surprising to me that these guys were actually on the ground in NYC hunting down and understanding their users. What hard liquor, cigarettes, heroin, and crack have in common is that they're all more concentrated forms of less addictive predecessors.16 She can see through any kind of faker almost immediately. So what, the business world may say. And when you see something that's merely reacting to new technology in an attempt to preserve some existing source of revenue, you're probably looking at a winner. Software is a different world, both culturally and economically, from the one publishers currently inhabit. If you looked in people's heads or stock photo collections for images representing business, you'd get images of people dressed up in suits, groups sitting around conference tables looking serious, Powerpoint presentations, people producing thick reports for one another to assemble railroad monopolies.

We can all imagine an old-style editor getting a scoop and saying this will sell a lot of people seemed surprised that someone interested in computers would also be interested in painting.17 If you have to sound intellectual. Intellectually they were as capable as the successful founders of following all the implications of what one said to them, and despite years of experience I'm still not always sure I'm giving the right advice. Just wait till all the 10-room pensiones in Rome discover this site. You really only get one life. Even YC's haters buy it. In business there are certain rules describing how companies may and may not compete with one another to invest in you, or his only duty is to the investor.18 Prices will fall even further once writers realize they don't need publishers. Gradually through word of mouth they start to get users.19

Notes

But it isn't critical to do that. But if A supports, say, ending up on the spot as top sponsor. CEOs of big corporations found that three quarters of them is that there's no other word that means service companies are up there.

Once he showed it could become a problem so far has trained them to switch to OSX. If that worked, any YC partner can estimate a market of one, don't even want to sell the bad idea. Which in turn means the right order.

Users dislike their new operating system so much to say that intelligence doesn't matter in startups. Actually Emerson never mentioned mousetraps specifically. Where Do College English 28 1966-67, pp.

The problem is that the investments that failed, and partly simple ignorance. It may have allotted for the entire period from the formula. The thing to do with the same, but explain that's what I think that's because delicious/popular with voting instead of admitting frankly that it's boring, we don't use code written while you were.

According to Michael Lind, when politicians tried to pay the most successful founders still get rich, purely mercenary founders will seem as if you'd invested at a public event, you could get all the free OSes first—and probably harming the state of technology isn't simply a function of the problem. After a while to avoid this problem by having a gentlemen's agreement with the founders realized. The first big company CEOs in 2002 was 3.

How much more attractive to investors. Spices are also several you can't or don't want to see the apples, they tend to be clear. You leave it to be able to protect one's children seems weaker, judging from things people have seen, when they were only partly joking. There is a dotted line on a wall is art.

Any plan in 2001, but since it was too late? Design ability is so we hacked together our own Web site.

In fact this would be to advertise, and for recent art, they have to resort to raising money from them.

And it's just as much what other people think, but I think it's publication that makes you a couple years.

Don't believe a domain where you can't tell if it gets you there sooner. It's lame that VCs play such games, books, newspapers, or in one of the most convincing pitch can't sell an idea that they will or at least, as reported in their hearts that if you saw Jessica at a 15 million valuation cap is merely boring, whereas bad philosophy is worth more, because he had to resort to in the beginning even they don't.

Could you restrict technological progress, but for the others to act. But which of them agreed with everything in it.

But it's a collection of stuff to be better to live a certain threshold. Free money to spend a lot of money around is never something people treat casually. Vision research may be the dual meaning of distribution.

The French Laundry in Napa Valley. After reading a talk out loud can expose awkward parts. Two customer support people tied for first prize with entries I still shiver to recall.

I have a bogus political agenda or are feebly executed.

It's hard to predict startup outcomes in which practicing talks makes them better: reading a talk out loud can expose awkward parts. One YC founder told me they like the other hand, launching something small and then being unable to raise a series A round, that he could just expand into new markets. Starting a company has ever been. 5 seconds per day.

They're still deciding, which are a different idea of happiness from many older societies.

Html. I think you need to. My point is due to I. Interestingly, the group of picky friends who proofread almost everything I write out loud at least notice duplication though, because his ideas were one of the tube.

Parker, William R.

What if a company with benevolent aims is currently undervalued, because it doesn't cost anything. By all means crack down on these. I became an employer hired men based on revenues of 1. Default: 2 cups water per cup of rice.

Thanks to Benedict Evans, Sam Altman, Maria Daniels, Jessica Livingston, Robert Morris, and Paul Buchheit for sharing their expertise on this topic.

[smartphone-science]

Malicious Takeovers Happen – and It Could Happen to You Too

So I want to use this post to get straight to the point. Recently I lost all admin rights on my own Facebook page, Cat. I was the creator of the page and only person with admin rights to the page. Over the last few years I have used the page to share my love of cats and certain aspects of my life with a steadily growing base of followers. To some people it is probably “just a Facebook page” – and that is a fair assessment, but without going on about it in detail I will say that it means quite a lot to me. Losing the page even for a short amount of time freaked me the heck out, and rather than pretend it didn’t happen because it was a bit embarrassing – I want to talk about how it happened so it doesn’t happen to anyone else.

If you are owner/admin of a Facebook page with a relatively large audience or high amount of cyber traffic – then you are a vulnerable target in the eyes of people with malicious intent. You may think that you are far too clever or internet savvy to fall for an online scam. I know I certainly thought I was. And that was the first of several mistakes I made on the way to losing admin rights on my own page.

Mistake Number 1: “I know that online scams exist, but I’m not actually silly enough to fall for one.”

I guess at the end of the day I’m quite quick to self-blame but I actually do see this as probably one of the most important factors. I’m not completely naive to the world of internet scammers, in fact, I ignore hundreds of fake requests to my page inbox on a regular basis. I don’t forward chain emails. I see friends fall for a scam and I think, “that wouldn’t happen to me.” The entire time I was being led on, I did have a bit of a bad feeling and on reflection can look at what happened and think “wow I was foolish,” but at the time my feelings of doubt were dampened significantly by thoughts of “surely this isn’t a scam because it’s different. SURELY I would know if it was a scam.”

Mistake Number 2: A scam by any other name is still a scam.

Scammers pretty much rely on changing their tactics to adapt to changes in the information people have about them that exposes their schemes. Most of us have stopped thinking we will win an iPhone for sharing that giveaway post, and so the people wanting to rip us off have to change their game in order to keep up with the people cottoning on to their plans. It’s easier to get caught by a scam that is set up differently than all the others you’ve seen and it was one of the first things that led to me dropping my guard. In these screenshots I’ve given an example to the type of message the page has sent to it on a regular basis that I usually just ignore.

Most of the time, when I look at the inbox at a later date the profile is no longer available and the messages removed as they have been identified as spam or abuse. I’m very accustomed to getting them and very accustomed to ignoring them.

So what happened? How and why did I drop my guard?

I’ve thought quite a lot about this as it was ultimately my own fault that the page was stolen and frankly I felt pretty bad during the whole ordeal. There were a couple of factors that aren’t really within my control that contributed and they are interrelated. I am struggling with an ongoing mental health battle due to a seemingly malevolent trifecta of PTSD, depression and anxiety. This has led to having a financial struggle as this mental state has meant I’ve been unable to continue my medical school education at the present time and have not been able to work. Feeling like a financial burden on my family and wanting to provide some economic relief was a driving factor in the entire debacle. However, what I  thought would happen and what actually happened were two drastically different things.

What I thought would happen: I would be providing links to relevant products for the people who like and follow the page – cat T-shirts and fun products for cats and their humans – while generating some income so I don’t feel terrible about staying home and making cat memes.

What actually happened: I woke up one morning to find I had no control over my page and another person had been added who was posting irrelevant spammy content every few hours. People in the comments section were saying I had sold the page and basically I went into a complete state of panic. I felt stupid, angry, and absolutely devastated that my cat page had been stolen after all. Ultimately I got it back – but this is overwhelmingly not the case for all such takeovers and so I want to write about what happened in case anyone else finds themselves in  a similar position.

The details: 

I receive a message to the Cat page from a person claiming to work for an advertising company. I see the message and initially get annoyed as I assume it is yet another scammer so I grouchily message them back to tell them I’m not interested in doing any business with them unless they will email me with the details. Not too sure why I set this strange invisible condition of a person’s legitimacy but for some reason I felt like those who were dodgy would refuse to email me.

“Velma” sends an email to me with her terms of business.

3. I agreed to proceed and “Velma” begins the next step in her process of fooling me into losing administrative rights on my own page. First she sent this email, carefully worded in a way that leads me to believe the process is to PROTECT my security.

4. “Velma” sends the invitation from Business Manager; the email comes from Facebook because the scammers are using an official Facebook tool to carry out their plot.

        5. At this point I have reached a state in which I am simultaneously suspicious that something is up, while also thinking that no harm can be done if I proceed with the invitation. After some excruciating internal debate I decide to accept the invitation. “Velma” directs me through with the following screens to add my page to the advertising account. Note that at this point I was actually kind of worried but “Velma” convinced me that it was ME sending the invitation and only me who could give anyone admin rights.

6. I sent “Velma” a message with the screenshot of the page ownership request, because to me it seemed like accepting the request would be handing over the page to her business. She convinced me that was not the case (spoiler, she lied, it was the case).

7. Up until this point, “Velma” had been kind of pushy with her messages. Once the page transfer was done, she became strangely quiet. I became very concerned that I was making a big mistake and messaged her asking why she was no longer responding.

8. After a day or two of politely waiting for “Velma” to continue the process of sponsored advertising, I became too anxious to continue and sent her a message saying I was going to contact Facebook and ask them to reverse the process because it didn’t seem like I had done the right thing by handing over ownership of the page. “Velma” insisted that she would contact Facebook herself to sort out the issues. I went to sleep. I did not screenshot the last messages, which is a same because the next morning I woke to find I had lost control of the Cat page completely. I could no longer access the messages, post as the page, remove posts by the page, or anything else other than viewing the insights, because my page role had been downgraded to “analyst” instead of admin. There were three strange, click bait, spammy videos that had nothing to do with cats posted on the page. Fans were irate and each of the posts had comments about how the page had been sold or hacked.

It felt like a bad dream but it slowly sunk in that I had in fact been duped. For an hour or two I freaked out and tried finding SOME WAY, ANY WAY, of contacting Facebook to tell them what had happened. Friends commented on how similar things had happened to them or someone they knew and the success rate of page return was quite low, involving a lot of effort. Ultimately I became extremely worried that I had permanently lost the page due to my own foolishness and finding a way of getting it reinstated seemed virtually impossible.

I found a way of submitting a report through bug feedback and wrote the details in the form, hoping for the best. Hundreds of people supported me by commenting on Cat and reporting the page for intellectual property threat. Many people encouraged me to set up a new page and start again – but to me it seemed pretty half hearted since the other page was already so large. I set a new page up anyway but felt completely devastated by the loss of Cat and furious with both myself AND the hijackers for the whole situation. However, I DID ultimately get the page returned to me – and it was much quicker and easier than I thought it would be.

Getting it Back:

During the whole ordeal I tried many different ways of getting to speak with someone at Facebook, well aware that this is pretty much impossible most of the time. A friend of mine who lost a Facebook page in the same kind of way told me about his method to get his page back and it sounded pretty arduous to be honest, involving providing identification etc. However, he also gave me this link which is a simple form that you submit when you have lost access to a page which is yours because an admin was hacked: https://m.facebook.com/help/contact/1280439701975125

Several hours after I used the above report to let Facebook know I had lost access to the page, I received a notification from Facebook with a message to say that my page admin rights had been restored.

So there you have it. Yes, I am embarrassed that I fell for this scam. Part of me did not want to tell other people how silly I can be, but I think it is important for other people to see how it can happen to just about anyone. If you are one of the people who supported me during this time, thank you! I wanted to give up several times but the large movement of people behind me really helped. And of course I found it pretty amusing to read all the messages demanding that the page be returned to its rightful owner –  don’t screw with cat people…we are a different type of human, that’s for sure. I guess it’s safe to say I probably will have a much higher degree of caution going forward.

Until next time,  Love from, 

Cat’s Human

  via Science Blogs

[anamuseinglife]

Iditapod: Mushing the Mighty Yukon

Alison Lifka: So very rustic and not technical but it worked!

Ben Matheson: Whatever works! I mean, you’re here

AL: Yeah!

[theme music plays]

Casey Grove: Welcome to the Iditapod, a podcast about the Iditarod where we are all about rustic and not being too technical. We are a production of Alaska Public Media, and KNOM in Nome. I’m your host, Casey Grove, that was Iditarod rookie musher Alison Lifka you just heard from. Before we fix up our sleds and get out on the trail, here’s a word from our sponsor.

[ad plays]

CG: Well, it’s the weekend. We told you Friday about Nicolas Petit, the Girdwoods musher, being the first to be at the Yukon River, winning that five course meal. And right now it’s Saturday, we’ve seen some leapfrogging at the front of the pack. As I’m recording this, Bethel’s Pete Kaiser has been in the lead for a bit. Petit’s team is right behind him heading up the Yukon River out of Eagle Island. Jessie Royer and Joar Ulsom, the defending champ, not far behind. We’re going to hear more from Ulsom here in a minute about how he is carrying the ashes of a friend of his and a former Iditarod musher, Rudy Demoski, out on the trail, that’s coming up. Ulsom was the first out of the Grayling checkpoint last night. It looked like mushers were a little bunched up there, and taking rests before setting out for Eagle Island. We had heard that planes were unable - again, for the second year in a row - to get drop bags into Eagle Island, and so mushers may have been adjusting their plans in Grayling and staying there longer than they had anticipated. The front of the pack mushers are all spread out between Grayling, Eagle Island, and Kaltag, and when they get to Kaltag, they’re gonna start heading west towards the coast where they reach the edge of Alaska, the coast of Alaska. We have more in this upcoming story from Alaska Public Media’s Zachariah Hughes about the trouble in Eagle Island. He was in Anvik, again that’s the beginning of the Yukon River portion of the Iditarod. We’re going to jump right into his story, where he talked to Nicolas Petit about how Petit has been camping out more in this year’s Iditarod.

Zachariah Hughes: Unlike previous years, Petit has mostly blown through checkpoints, opting instead to rest his team along the trail. [to Petit] How has it been for you, camping out at checkpoints along the way? Nicolas Petit: I didn’t have to deal with this, no offense, but we’re tired people and we’ve got a lot of work to do.

ZH: Is it more for you or more for the dogs?

NP: The both of us.

ZH: The ride to the Iditarod checkpoint was rough, with barely any snow and vicious tundra tussocks that kept nearly bucking him off of his sled.

NP: That was the roughest trip to Iditarod I’ve ever been on. Jokingly saying to myself, we’re at tussock level number five, probably close to the highest rating, you know?

ZH: Even with a group of reporters, vets, race officials, and spectators, Petit was so focused on his dogs that his baggy, overwhite pants kept falling to his knees as he walked up and down the line. He seemed to hardly notice, until the task at hand was over and he would hike them back up to his belly, until they dropped again. In the tribal hall next to the checkpoint, Petit sat down at a folding table to a five course meal of steak, scallops, salad, and bison chili, prepared over two camp stoves.

NP: [to people] Excellent, 2019, I’ll carry on.

[champagne pops]

ZH: Petit left for a nap, but he didn’t sleep long. He pulled out of Anvik after about four hours. Weather along the Yukon has been messy. As the next wave of mushers came in, race judges had to give Jessie Royer and other the bad news that the second year in a row, there were problems getting supplies to the checkpoint in Eagle Island.

Woman: Did you hear, um, they still, they don’t have the food to Eagle Island yet.

Jessie Royer: Oh, I just asked them in Shageluk, and they told me they did. There’s no food-

Woman: As of right now. But they’re making the effort to bring it down from Kaltag.

JR: Oh.

Woman: By snow machine. So.

JR: Okay.

Woman: So by the time you get to Grayling -

JR: I’m doing my 8 in Grayling, so

Woman: You might want to grab a bag

ZH: Although there was straw and fuel available, Iditarod crews were trying to carry in mushers drop bags with food and other supplies. Last year, weather shut down the Eagle Island checkpoint, prompting mushers to load up on supplies for the long run between Grayling and Kaltag. Now, with a similar situation, mushers are having to adjust their plans on the fly, as they begin moving north up the Yukon. In Anvik, I’m Zachariah Hughes.

Casey Grove: Well, one of the Iditarod’s pioneers is taking one last run. Joar Ulsom is carrying the ashes of longtime musher Rudy Demoski to spread along the trail. As he prepared to pass through Demoski’s hometown of Anvik, Ulsom says he’s humbled.

Joar Leifseth Ulsom: It’s an honor to do that.

CG: Demoski was a familiar face along the Iditarod trail for decades, and was instrumental in starting the Kuskokwim 300 out of Bethel. Demoski died last year at the age of 72. During Leifseth Ulsom’s rookie race in 2013, he met Demoski, who was running his final race. He was nicknamed “The Happy Musher” and Leifseth Ulsom says Demoski came to Willow a lot, to help him train dogs.

JLU: He would just sit, and have fun in the side by the side, and look a the dogs and tell stories from the old days. And yeah. I think the main thing I learned from him was just to enjoy life. He was just such a happy guy, and even the little, the smallest thing would get him fired up and laughing, and all the way to the end, you know, he was just super happy.

CG: Demoski’s roots with the race could be traced all the way back to the beginning. He ran the 2nd Iditarod, and placed 4th as a rookie. Now, back to this year’s race. The moves that we’re seeing at the front of the pack and other mushers making their way up the ranks right now, that all was setting up back when they were taking their 8 hour rests, or planning them out anyways. That dangerous chase pack of mushers was setting themselves up to capitalize on any opportunity that may come up. Speaking off Pete Kaiser, for example, he was leading the Iditarod as I record this. It’s been this cat and mouse game between Nicolas Petit and Joar Ulsom, and you’ve got teams like Pete that have been building up and building up and they’re now moving into the lead of this race. And this pack that’s chasing, that’s sometimes overtaking Petit and Ulsom, all of that shaped up before the Yukon River, back when those musher’s were planning their 8 hour breaks. KNOM’s Ben Matheson has more.

Ben Matheson: Pete Kaiser had one of the fastest runtimes Friday into Shageluk, but what he’s focused on is consistency.

Pete Kaiser: One run you’re fast and then the next run, you’re not. So, we’re trying to string more of those together in a row now, and try and get some more consistency, because the first half of the race for us has been real up and down and real inconsistent.

BM: Kaiser has often been conservative in the early parts of the race, and waited to make a big push with a more rested team. Matthew Failor got into Shageluk to time his 8 hour break to avoid the heat of the day. He’s being extra careful to prepare his team for the big runs ahead, including the longer stop in Iditarod.

Matt Failor: That gave me five hours of rest there, when other mushers were staying for four, and then I’ll stay here for 8. So I’m starting to bank rest to build up for this last leg, if you will. So, I don’t know. I’m not really thinking about other mushers, but trying to make sure that we’re doing what we’re supposed to do, right.

BM: The Yukon trails are well traveled by local snow machines, but there’s snow in the forecast that could shake things up, if the trail becomes marginal. Mushers will never speak openly about their exact plans for getting their teams to the coast, but last years Rookie of the Year, Jessie Holmes, says he has a few tricks up his sleeve.

Jessie Holmes: These dogs have the ability to go long and fast, so, I haven’t used that quite yet. I used it one time and that’s what I did all the rest and implemented all the rest for, so I could try to make big moves and if they’re suitable and the dogs are ready for them and I made one already.

BM: Fresh off his 24, Holmes made a long run from Ophir to Iditarod to climb the standings across the rugged terrain. The race is switching from the rolling hills of gold rush country, to the wide plains of the Yukon River. Paige Drobny arrived into Shageluk in the 9th position, and is eager to hit the river.

Paige Drobny: They really like trails that they can move on, and we haven’t had that for a little bit. The run into Iditarod when we would hit some ice or a road like this, then they would just get cruising along really fast, um, seems like that makes everybody really happy, than the bumpy trails where they’re constantly getting pulled on by the sled, we’re pulling and pushing constantly, I don’t think it’s probably very comfortable for them.

BM: And as more teams finish their breaks, they’ll run with fresh legs throughout the night. With KNOM, I’m Ben Matheson, in Shageluk.

Casey Grove: We’ve got more from that interview that Ben conducted with Paige Drobny, that’s posted as a bonus, extended interview here, and I may have said in the intro to that recording that she arrived in Shageluk in 10th, I think Ben said 9th, I’m not sure which one was right but she was in the top 10 either way. Also looking at posting a long version of the Martin Apayauq Reitan interview in a little bit, Reitan, he is one of the mushers who has had to do some serious sled repairs. For these Iditarod mushers, sled problems can really upend a race. They can also give a critical edge. Some mushers try out new designs or even modifications made out on the trail to give them an advantage; others have to try to patch up malfunctions and damage that has occurred out on the trail with just about anything they can find. It’s really a struggle that inspires some creative resourcefulness. Again, here’s Alaska Public Media’s Zach Hughes, with his reporting.

ZH: Jeff King likes to experiment with his equipment.

Jeff King: Pulling a Jeff King… magic trick.

ZH: He’s cranking a wrench, and augering bigger holes in wide, runner plastic that he hopes will help him float on top of powdery, deep snow. This takes a lot more effort than swapping out regular runner plastic, but he’s tried it in the past and been pleased with the results. His sled bag though, that is new. King tinkered with a design that doesn’t have zippers or velcro, and that lets him open the bag from behind like a hatch while he stands on the runners, almost like he’s checking a baby in a stroller.

JK: I love it! Really love it, because I had no idea how often I want to get in my sled and I didn’t because it’s such a hassle to get in there. I just flip it up while I’m hauling [bleeped] down the trail. Yeah, I’m in in all the time. Really like that.

ZH: So far this race, King’s equipment story is one of success. That’s not the case for everyone. And rookies in particular face a challenge when their gear breaks down, because for many, there are inevitable problems they didn’t anticipate or build a contingency plan for. Martin Reitan hit trouble early in his run during the Alaska range. A stanchin, one of the load bearing pieces of the sled’s frame, broke.

Martin Apayauq Reitan: I had to go and chop down a tree and, uh, lash it on with string.

ZH: Reitan rode his tree patched sled to the next checkpoint, then shored it up some more.

MAR: That took like three hours. To do it nice.

ZH: It was enough to get him past the Dalzell Gorge, and the burn. It sort of had to. Reitan hadn’t sent equipment down the trail for these kinds of repairs, nor did he out a backup sled in case his got busted. And, even after he finishes the Iditarod, this same sled has further to go.

MAR: And I have to bring that sled to Nome, because we’re going to Kaktovik after.

ZH: Reitan and his father planned to mush their team all the way from the Seward Peninsula all the way back to Kaktovik, on the eastern side of the north slope. But, he wasn’t too bothered about the situation. Alison Lifka, another rookie, was trying to sort out sled troubles of her own during her 24 hour rest in Takotna.

Alison Lifka: There is a certain downhill that I lost control of the team and veered off the trail a little bit, and found the stump.

ZH: The stump bent a runner and tore away a big chunk of the sled.

AL: And it’s one thing to run a sled with the back part of the runner broken, but when it’s the front part it just destroys the structural integrity, so it was like just collapsing as it ran.

ZH: Lifka gerryrigged a splint, but the sled kept warping. At Nikolai, she had some good luck, Another musher, Shaynee Traska, had just scratched, and let Lifka take her sled. But the situation was not ideal. Lifka could barely fit all of her equipement, and there was no seat to rest on. Which wouldn’t be such a problem if she hadn’t injured her back when she crashed her sled into that stump.

AL: It’s just sore and stiff, and it’s, it’s just me trying to make my next - what is it, 600 more miles? - more comfortable.

ZH: Lifka was hoping to borrow a bigger sled that another musher had left behind. Race rules allow competitors to exchange equipment with one another. And if that didn’t work out, she had been advised to try tying an upside down bucket to her runners with twin from a bale of straw. But, she said, that wouldn’t help with the storage problem. In Takotna, I’m Zachariah Hughes.

Casey Grove: There’s one very important piece of equipment out there that helps a musher stay sane mushing over hundreds and hundreds of miles. That is a way to play music. And apparently, Matt Hall out of Two Rivers, he had to buy some headphones during the race this year for that very reason. He was at a checkpoint purchasing some headphones. It might be more music, podcasts, books on tape - they kind of do it all. You hear about mushers having their friends load up iPods with different tunes that they’ve never heard before that surprise them in shuffle mode as different stuff comes up randomly. At the Takotna checkpoint, Zach spoke with two mushers. We heard from them here a minute ago, Martin Reitan as well as Meredith Mapes, who finished the Iditarod in 2018. This year, she’s not a musher in the race but helping out at different checkpoints. It turns out that they are both very big Harry Potter fans - Martin, a self-described Gryffindor, listens to the Harry Potter books on tape and by his 24 hour rest, was on the 3rd installment. Meredith Mapes, on the other hand, self identifies as Hufflepuff, whatever that means. Both insist their house values align with dog mushing, something Zach, who knows a lot more about this, asked them about. And this is a disclaimer for people like me: if you already have no idea what any of this terminology means, because you signed up for a mushing podcast not a Harry Potter fan club podcast, you should probably skip ahead about two and half minutes. Here is Zachariah Hughes with Martin Reitan and Meredith Mapes.

Martin Reitan: Well it depends, you know, you could be… you could be a Slytherin about it and play mind games with people and stuff, but uh… you know… sometimes you’ll do, if there’s a bad weather but you think you could do it, but then the weather’s really bad and you just do it, that’s pretty, it’s a little bit stupid but it’s also brave? That’s a very Gryffindor thing to do. And yeah. Obviously I have to be brave to even start a thousand miler.

Zachariah Hughes: Meredith, you have finished a thousand miler, but you identify as a Hufflepuff, do you think Hufflepuff is a good mushing house?

Meredith Mapes: I would say so, I think that the Gryffindors and the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws are more for the front, because they’re the ones that have the strategy and the guts and the glory, and some of the stupidity as well, as Martin was saying. And then the Hufflepuffs are those like me that are just there to have fun, to be at the back of the pack, and enjoy what they’re doing while they’re out there travelling with their dog teams.

ZH: What are, your Harry Potter litter, what are their names? MM: The three that I still have are Hagrid, Luna, and Nymphadora, but she gets called Dora most of the time.

ZH: Not Nympho.

MM: Yeah. Exactly. [all laugh]

ZH: And what, so, have you made your way through books 1-3 so far, while you’ve been listening, or did you just start at 3?

Martin Apayauq Reitan: Um…. I started listening from Book 1, so I’m on Book 3 now. I’ll probably have time to listen to all of them, but I’m mixing it up by listening to music and some other books too.

ZH: Is it also Harry Potter themed music? MAR: No [Meredith laughs] It’s quite a lot of jazz, and Arctic Monkeys, and a whole bunch of other stuff

ZH: And Meredith, did you listen to music last year, or books on tape? Or just the sound of silence?

MM: I usually listen to books on tape when I’m training a lot, mostly Game of Thrones is what I’m listening to, but I do have Harry Potter as well. And last year in the race, I listened to music on one run, on the first run on the Yukon River out of Grayling, and then after that I was just enjoying it too much, I didn’t want to mess with what I was listening to with the dogs, and with Alaska.

ZH: Now, at any point, did you scream from your sled runners “Winter is Coming” while you were mushing through a storm, last year? MM: I did not, I did not, but it would have been a good opportunity.

Casey Grove: Well now, well you know more about that. And we’d like to spread knowledge around here, that’s why we take questions on the Iditapod. This one is from Ruthan, University Heights Ohio, she writes, “is the race named after one checkpoint, or is the checkpoint named after the race? I assumed the checkpoints reflected the nearest settlement name.” And she’s asking this because there’s a checkpoint in the Iditarod called Iditarod. I’m going to let Zach Hughes answer this question.

ZH: Hey, great question. So right now, I’m standing on the Iditarod River, which goes past the checkpoint of Iditarod, on the Iditarod sled dog race, through the historic gold mining town of Iditarod in the Iditarod mining district. All of which is to say, the name has a lot of different overlapping meanings, and actually the race is named after the Iditarod trail. So, this is kind of confusing, but back when they struck gold in Iditarod, and it was the largest settlement in all of Alaska, population wise, they hoped they’d haul gold, freight, passengers through a trail that went from here all the way down to Seward and up through different overlapping trails to Nome. So, in 1973 when the race was getting started, they decided that this long, cross Alaska sled dog race would go through the historic Iditarod trail, and one of the routes that they go through - the Southern route, which we’re running this year - goes through the ghost town of Iditarod, which, looking around, I can tell you is indeed a ghost town. There’s dilapidated buildings all over the place, from back when this used to have rooming houses and churches, and a bank, and now it’s mostly just an Iditarod checkpoint with just a few buildings on a river.

CG: Thanks for that answer, Zach, from the checkpoint of Iditarod, in the 2019 Iditarod. As always, on the Iditapod, we like to take listener questions, you can send those to iditarod@alaskapublic.org. You can type them out in an email, you can also record them in a voice memo - most smart phones have an app to record voice memos - you can record those there and send those into, again, iditarod@alaskapublic.org. And you can maybe get in the podcast, and it’s always good to ask questions. And, I have some questions. I guess there are some major weather issues happening out on the race and we don’t know how that’s affecting the mushers, but also our crew out there, trying to get from checkpoint to checkpoint, the last email I got from our reporter Zach Hughes was that there was some trouble flying between some checkpoints, that Ben was trying to get to Unalakleet, and might have to skip Kaltag, we may not hear from mushers again until Unalakleet, and everybody’s just trying to be safe out there is the main thing. It’s hard to tell when you look at the map of the race, or the GPS tracker that there’s a lot of weather happening on the ground. Might be snow, wind, we’ve heard reports that it’s been pretty warm, and folks out there are getting wet just from sweat, or rain at some points. I guess Zach, he’s at Unalakleet, he found a sauna, he sounds pretty happy about that. We will be back tomorrow, we will have another episode of the Iditapod, we will explain how daylight savings time changes affect, or do not affect the race. And we will have an interview with Kristen Knight Pace, she’s an Iditarod veteran who is sitting out the race this year, but who has a new book out this year called “This Much Country”, we have a nice chat, I talked to her husband Andy Pace for a minute too. And whatever else we can rustle up in the Iditapod. Our theme music is by the band Sassafrass, I am your host Casey Grove, and until next time - happy trails.

[reomanet]

Thirteen-year-old activist with autism wants to close seclusion rooms at schools

Thirteen-year-old activist with autism wants to close seclusion rooms at schools

Education Thirteen-year-old activist with autism wants to close seclusion rooms at schools “When I asked for help or asked if anyone was still there, nobody would answer,” said Alex. “I felt alone. I felt scared.” Alex Campbell, 13, in his backyard the morning before his trip to Washington, D.C. to tell legislators about his experience being restrained and secluded at school. Campbell, who has autism, is an advocate for other children with disabilities. “I really think about the non-verbal people who can’t go home and tell their parents,” he said. Hannah Rappleye / NBC News Breaking News Emails Get breaking news alerts and special reports. The news and stories that matter, delivered weekday mornings. SUBSCRIBE Nov. 23, 2018 / 11:00 AM GMT By Hannah Rappleye and Liz Brown POWHATAN, Virginia — Alex Campbell was just 7 years old when, he says, his principal dragged him down the hall to the school’s “crisis room.” Administrators reserved the room, a converted storage closet, for children who acted out. He still remembers the black-painted walls. The small window he was too short to reach. The sound of a desk scraping across the floor, as it was pushed in front of the door to make sure he couldn’t get out. Alex, who has autism spectrum disorder, says he was taken there more than a half-dozen times in first grade, for behavior such as ripping up paper or refusing to follow instructions in class . The room was supposed to calm him down. Instead, it terrified him. “When I asked for help or asked if anyone was still there, nobody would answer,” Alex said. “I felt alone. I felt scared.” According to the latest data collected by the U.S. Department of Education, public school districts reported restraining or secluding over 120,000 students during the 2015-2016 school year, most of them children with disabilities. Families and advocates have documented cases of students being pinned down, strapped to their wheelchairs , handcuffed or restrained in other ways. Both practices, experts say, can traumatize children, and may lead to severe injuries, even death . Alex is determined to close the seclusion rooms for good. Last week, the 13-year-old told his story to legislators, congressional staff and advocates to mark the introduction of the Keeping All Students Safe Act , a bill that would bar the use of seclusion and significantly curtail the use of restraints in schools that receive federal funds. No federal law currently regulates the use of such practices on students. Video shows injured 10-year-old in seclusion room at Maryland school Nov. 13, 2018 01:55 “We believe schools should have a safe environment for students to learn and grow,” said Rep. Bobby Scott of Virginia’s 3rd Congressional District. Scott sponsored the legislation with fellow Democrat Rep. Don Beyer of Virginia’s 8th District. “It’s a civil rights issue,” added Scott, who serves as the ranking member of the House Committee on Education and the Workforce. “Children should not be subjected to practices that are counterproductive, endangering their safety or health.” ‘He told me not to tell my parents’ Alex tried to keep the “crisis room” a secret. No laws required school administrators to tell his parents what was happening. Alex says the principal warned him that if he said anything, he would spend the rest of the year locked in the room. But Alex’s parents said they could tell something was wrong. They noticed unexplained bruises on his knees. He became increasingly anxious. His father Sean Campbell, who works as a data specialist in a public school system, thought it was especially strange when Alex visited the school where he worked and asked where the children got “locked up.” He stopped wanting to go to sleep. “That’s when it hit me,” Campbell, Alex’s father, said. “He doesn’t want to wake up because he doesn’t want to go to school.” Eventually, Alex broke. “He started babbling like crazy,” Campbell said. “‘I can’t go back to that room. I can’t go back.'” The idea of the school not notifying them appalled Alex’s mother, Kelly Campbell, who has taught in public schools for 11 years. “If a child falls on the playground and bumps their head, I’m obligated to call the parents,” she said. “I’ve been told that in every school I’ve worked with. Something like that could happen to Alex, and nobody has to know about it? Like it’s some dark secret?” While a landmark piece of federal legislation called the Individuals With Disabilities Education Act, or IDEA, mandates that all students with disabilities are provided with a free public education tailored to meet their needs, regulations governing the use of restraint and seclusion in schools vary from state to state. Many states don’t require school administrators to notify parents when their child is restrained or secluded. According to a recent analysis published by the Autism National Committee , only 28 states provide “meaningful protections against restraint and seclusion” for children, including those with disabilities. Curt Decker, executive director of the National Disability Rights Network, said that teachers and administrators are more likely to isolate or restrain difficult children when they aren’t provided with training and resources. “When it gets to a seclusion or restraint issue it’s obviously a failure of the special education department to meet the needs of this kid,” Decker said. “Why does it happen? It happens because of a failure to give support to those teachers. Especially those teachers who are very stressed….They’re not getting the training they need.” “It has a traumatic effect on these kids,” Decker added. “And I think it has a horrible impact on the rest of the kids who witness it.” ‘They can’t just stop when they want to’ Down a short gravel road, just past a small horse farm, the Campbell house is cradled by a copse of oak and pine trees. The morning before he went to Washington, D.C., Alex perched on the edge of a couch, surrounded by his family, including his 10-year-old brother Jack, who sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room. A team of specialists diagnosed Alex with autism when he was only three years old. Now in eighth grade, Alex — a quick-witted, polite kid with a bright smile — is thriving in his current school. But, he said, it was much harder to control himself when he was younger. He became quickly overwhelmed and frustrated in the classroom. Sometimes he found it difficult to follow instructions. “If you think about the normal kid, like Jack, if he were to act up in class their typical solution is to send them to in-school suspension, or the principal’s office,” Alex said. “Which typically, for a normal kid, will stop them from acting up. But I guess for a kid with a disability, they can’t always control it. They can’t just stop when they want to, if that makes sense.” Although children with disabilities represent only 12 percent of students enrolled in public schools, they made up 71 percent of all students restrained, and 66 percent of all those secluded, according to Education Dept. data for the 2015-2016 school year. Black students are also disproportionately restrained and secluded. Sometimes, such practices can severely injure — or even kill — the children subjected to them. Leslie Margolis, managing attorney for Disability Rights Maryland, represented a 10-year-old boy with developmental disabilities, who was injured during a 2015 seclusion incident. NBC News agreed not to disclose the boy’s identity. The Long family pictured in 2014 before their son Brennan Long, then just 16 years old, was severely injured during a physical restraint in his classroom. Courtesy of The Long Family Surveillance video captured school staff carrying the boy into an isolation room and closing the door. Ten minutes later, video showed the boy slumped over, in a pool of his own blood. Although a nurse practitioner had issued a written report that seclusion would be “unacceptable and traumatizing” for the child, school staff had secluded him 57 times in three months. When the state Department of Education investigated the incident, it found that staff had noted on prior occasions that the boy had hit his head on the door and tried to give himself a nosebleed. The Department concluded that the staff violated regulations. “The problem is that teachers see seclusion itself as a behavioral intervention, a tool to help kids behave when in fact it’s a method of last resort when intervention has failed,” Margolis said. “Teachers need more training.” In 2014, Brian Long said he received an urgent call from the principal at his son’s Kentucky school. Brennan, who has autism, was lying on the floor of his special education classroom, unable to get up. Long said the principal explained that a teacher’s aide had physically restrained Brennan, then 16, for acting out in class. Brennan was rushed to the hospital, where doctors diagnosed him with two fractured femurs. Over the next few weeks, Brennan endured blood transfusions and multiple surgeries. He had to go through intensive rehab to be able to walk again. To this day, Long said, his son still suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. “Restraints are being used as a disciplinary tool,” Long said. “Not as way to keep children safe.” Kentucky’s Child Fatality and Near Fatality External Review Panel, a state oversight committee, concluded that Brennan’s injuries were the result of “abuse” at the school. Child Protective Services said it could not substantiate abuse allegations against the aide, but did conclude that he had been neglectful in the way he had used restraints. The aide denies he did anything wrong. Brennan’s father said he still feels guilty about what happened to his son. He had no idea, he said, that Brennan’s school used restraints. That’s something he believes needs to change. “There has to be transparency,” he said. “Every school in America that uses restraints — those restraints should be reported every month and there should be accounting, tracking and we should ask, ‘Why?'” In Alex’s case, a state investigation found that the school didn’t violate protocol or his rights by restraining or secluding him. A representative of the school said that the ‘crisis room’ was removed five years ago. Overall Alex would be subjected to seclusion and restraint, including to the point of injury, over a dozen times in at least four different schools, his parents say, before they found a program that met his needs. ‘We should ask, ‘Why?’ Despite the traumatizing experiences he endured, Alex, propelled by some kind of internal pilot light, began speaking out on behalf of other children with disabilities. With his family by his side, Alex lobbied local lawmakers to change laws governing restraint and seclusion in his home state. “Advocacy,” his mother Kelly said. “That’s his hobby.” In between juggling “too much homework,” Alex runs his own Twitter feed and dreams of one day becoming a civil rights attorney. For now, though, the middle schooler is focused on starting a local chapter of a national disability rights organization . His most pressing concern, Alex said, are the children who are most at risk, including those who are non-verbal and can’t necessarily speak for themselves. While Alex doesn’t think the Keeping All Students Safe Act goes far enough, his father Sean Campbell believes the legislation will create a “minimum standard and consistency” across the states. “It should have been done a while ago,” Campbell said. In fact, legislators have been attempting to pass variations of the Keeping All Students Safe Act for years. Its current iteration would prohibit seclusion and certain forms of restraint, allowing only for the use of physical restraint in emergencies. It would also require schools to collect data on restraint, and inform parents when restraint is used on their child. Rep. Beyer said he deeply empathizes with the challenges faced by teachers in the classroom. That’s one reason why he and other lawmakers felt it was important that the bill include funding to train teachers in de-escalation and positive behavior intervention techniques. “We need to give them much better ways of dealing with the child who is crying or hitting, or is out of control,” he said. “Those do exist.” Those opposed to the legislation in the past included the American Association of School Administrators, a national professional organization for school superintendents. In a 2012 policy paper, the organization wrote that policy decisions regarding restraint and seclusion are a local issue, not a federal one, and that “AASA believes seclusion and restraint are necessary tools in the toolbox of school personnel to defend themselves and their students from incidents that could be dangerous for everyone who attends or works in a school.” A spokesperson for the AASA declined to comment on the latest legislation. “When they say it ought to be local this and local that, they are ignoring the policy,” Rep. Scott said. “Why does anybody need the authority to inflict this kind of harm on children?” Decker of the National Disability Rights Network said that while federal legislation is never a magic wand, if passed the bill will be a vital tool for parents and advocates. “We don’t have any illusions that a federal law by itself is going to cure the problem,” he said. “But that kind of federal consistency across the country gives my people and other advocates something to hold on to, to go to the schools, and demand compliance. It’s a start.” ‘It can be changed and it needs to be changed’ Early last Wednesday morning, Alex and his family boarded a train bound for Washington, D.C. He wasn’t nervous. Maybe it was the music of Cardi B — one of his favorite rappers — blasting in his headphones as the train hurtled toward the capital. Most likely though, it was just Alex. He doesn’t get nervous. When he stepped up to the podium and looked out at the 40-odd people who gathered to hear him speak, he introduced himself as a “self-advocate,” and began to tell his story in a clear and steady voice. “There was a time when I did not want to go to sleep at night,” he said. “I did not want to sleep because I knew I had to wake up in the morning. I remember praying and hoping that I would not wake up. But my prayers were not answered and the cycle continued.” “I believe that it is important that we put a stop to restraint, seclusion and abuse in schools,” he said. “It can be changed and it needs to be changed.” The room was so quiet, his father said, you could hear a pin drop. “Rather than focusing on being a victim, it was shifting that focus to being a champion, to make sure that this doesn’t occur to other kids,” Campbell said. “That’s what he’s championed and taken on to say, ‘Hey. We’ve got to stop this.'” Hannah Rappleye Rappleye is a reporter with the Investigative Unit at NBC News. Previously, her reporting has been supported by several foundations, including the Investigative Fund, and has appeared in various outlets, including The Nation, the Wall Street Journal and Salon.com. She received her MA from the City University of New York Graduate School of Journalism. She writes extensively on immigration, criminal justice and human rights issues. Liz Brown

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[newstfionline]

From Africa to tea with the Queen

By Melissa Twigg, BBC, 19 July 2018

Eighty-year-old women are supposed to stay at home. The neatly dressed grandmother of our collective imagination derives her pleasure from indoor pursuits--cooking, reading, knitting. One thing octogenarian women aren’t supposed to do is embark on a solo five-month journey through Africa, driving from Cape Town to Cairo in a battered Toyota Conquest.

Julia Albu never set out to be exceptional. Her daily routine slotted neatly into what the world expects from an older woman living in a leafy village near Cape Town. Every morning she would listen to the radio, and one day the discussion turned to then-President Jacob Zuma and his extravagant taste in cars.

“I was incensed,” Albu said. “I phoned in immediately to say I was going to be 80, and my car, Tracy, was a 20-year-old Toyota and she ran beautifully. We could happily drive to London together, so why Zuma needed all these new cars was beyond me.”

Buoyed by the enthusiastic response she received, Albu pledged on air to drive to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen--and before long, the seeds of what had begun as a joke started germinating.

“My partner had recently died, you see,” Albu said. “It was an exhausting process, and after all that I thought, ‘My goodness, there really isn’t much of life left’. I feel like I’m 36 from the shoulders up and 146 from the shoulders down, and I wanted the younger me to win for once.”

Six months later, on the dawn of her 80th birthday, Albu’s youthful half triumphed. With Tracy’s grey, squat exterior emblazoned with the rainbow-coloured stickers of her sponsors, Albu set off on a frosty morning from her house in Jakkalsfontein, hurtling up a gum tree-lined road pointing north.

“I was raring to go,” she said. “I had been inoculated against every known virus, although the doctor said he didn’t think I’d need any STD precautions, which was insulting. And Tracy was looking beautiful, upholstered from the seats to the sun visors in pink florals.”

A cavalcade of Harley Davidsons bid her farewell outside Johannesburg, but other than that, South Africa passed in a blur of Karoo pepper trees and cold winter nights. And so it was left to Botswana to give Albu her first taste of African adventure.

“We were pottering along the road when an elephant nearly came to blows with poor Tracy. And the potholes, oh they were too awful. But it all felt magical, from the heat drifting through my windows to the baobab trees. I knew I was going to be alright because everyone I met was so kind. They called me ‘Gogo’, which means grandmother.”

In those early weeks, Albu often slept in a tent on the side of the road. But while her spirit was indomitable, her body was not, and sleeping on the ground soon took its toll. Her family rallied around to help--one daughter eventually drove with her to Zimbabwe, while her son accompanied her through Malawi.

But interspersed with moments of hardship was Albu’s utter exhilaration at seeing the continent she was born in finally blossoming into focus. Her eyes lit up when she talked about the majesty of Lake Malawi or Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls, but also when she described the details of life on the road. There was the man selling wicker furniture under a dusty Malawian tree, and the Zambian schoolgirls who read to her. She talked about vendors frying mice, truck drivers sharing food with her, and ripe tomatoes she plucked off the vine.

“I never felt lonely, even when I was alone,” she said. “I loved the times my children visited, and the intimate moments I spent with each of them. But you must remember Tracy is also an older lady just like me, and this was something we were doing together.”

Albu’s age was clearly a mixed blessing. African border posts can be notoriously difficult to negotiate, but she breezed through most of them. The truck drivers she had been sharing the road with began to recognise her and ushered her to the front of the queue.

“The belief in the wisdom of your elders is ingrained in a lot of African cultures--though often they just found me hilarious,” she said. “One Ugandan customs official asked why I was driving to London. ‘To have tea with the Queen’ I replied. His eyes were like marbles, and my passport was stamped in a jiffy.”

Nonetheless, I sensed Albu’s profound frustration at being physically unable explore the nooks and crannies of the continent unfolding around her. “Oh to be 40 years younger,” she said. “The mountains I would have climbed; the lakes I would have swum in.”

Instead, Albu quenched her boundless thirst for Africa through its people. Her travel diary is filled with page upon page of names, numbers and business cards, including the addresses of hundreds of teachers she sent schoolbooks to through a charity she is affiliated with.

In Tanzania, she stumbled upon a small village and began talking to one of the elders, named William. They spent hours together that day and the next, sitting on a bench while putting the world to rights. Months later, a letter from him plopped through her door in Cape Town. “Your radiant and full-of-life personality is amazing,” he wrote. “Your willingness to share the good moments of others taught me what life can mean. I, in my own way, promise to give you company.”

During the trip, Albu learned to shake off age with a flick of her hair. In Tanzania, at a honeymooner resort, she peeled off her dress for a midnight swim. In Ethiopia, she camped with eager 20-somethings in the Danakil Depression, a neon-hued moonscape of lava and salt plains that is often described as the ‘gateway to hell’.

Her enthusiasm for Ethiopia is particularly infectious--for the dramatic landscapes and for the profound spirituality that imbues the place. Sudan, too, she describes with a sense of awe that I suspect is reserved for an Africa with which she no longer feels familiar.

“I think I got my moment of purest joy when I was driving alone through the Sudanese desert on the long road to Khartoum,” she said. “My tape of hymns was playing at full blast and I was singing ‘Jerusalem’, thinking about England’s green and pleasant land while a shepherd shuffled through the sand in the distance.”

Albu’s African odyssey ended in Egypt, the country where her luck in namedropping the Queen finally ran out. Held at border control for several days while Tracy was fitted with Arabic number plates, her only option was to sleep in a cafe. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever spent the night alone in a room with seven Egyptian men, but it certainly was an experience,” she said. “They were kind though, and if they were surprised I was a woman on my own, they didn’t show it.”

Up through Egypt she went, stopping off in Aswan and The Valley of the Kings and finishing in the polluted streets of Cairo. On her last day, she parked on the banks of the Nile to collect some murky river water, which was destined to sit on her mantelpiece next to bottles filled up at the source of the White Nile in Tanzania and the Blue Nile in Ethiopia.

From Cairo, Albu flew back to Cape Town, watching the continent unfold below her and pitying her fellow passengers for their sky-high perspective. After recuperating in Jakkalsfontein for a few months, Albu boarded a plane to Europe and was reunited with Tracy--who had languished for weeks in a container in Greece after crossing the Mediterranean by ferry. From Greece, she drove through Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Germany and Holland, and arrived in London for the summer season.

“Oh, I was dying to have tea with the Queen--particularly after telling the world and his wife that I was going to,” Albu says. “But it was the week of Royal Ascot and apparently she was otherwise engaged. The English are a strange breed--I’m not sure they appreciated quite how long my journey to Buckingham Palace was.”

Although astoundingly, London was not the final stop in Albu’s odyssey. Last week, she crossed the Channel again and is currently heading for the heel of Italy, from where she will sail for Tunisia and begin her drive to Cape Town--crossing Africa overland for the second time in as many years.

“Well, why not? What do you want me to do, sit on this sofa and wait to die?” she asks, with a laugh. “There is a freedom that comes with old age that so many people don’t realise. I didn’t know it before my adventure, but at my age you’re actually freer than you’ve ever been--you lose a husband and the children are grown, and you worry less about the consequences of everything.”

We have a tendency to treat older people with kid gloves, but excitement and adventure are not prerogatives of the young. And if the inhabitants of Buckingham Palace one day read about Albu’s story and send an embossed invitation down to South Africa, she and Queen will undoubtedly have a lot to say on the subject.

[flauntpage]

Solving Philadelphia’s Sports Talk Radio Problem

If you’re under the age of 50 and above the age of 15, it’s obvious that Philadelphia has a sports talk radio problem. This city is big enough for two separate stations to fill nearly 24-hours of original content every single day, so why do listeners have to restrain themselves from putting a boot through their radio after listening for an average of two minutes?

The answer isn’t an easy one, but I’d like to propose a potential four-step solution that I think will help improve sports talk radio in Philadelphia.

Step 1: Fill a room sky high in both the 97.5 Fanatic and 94 WIP studios with wheels of mozzarella, arms of salami, slabs of mortadella, Rocky Blu-rays, back issues of Playboy from 1984 and knock-off Chinese made Eagles jerseys.

Hang a sign from the door marked “Free.”

Step 2: Wait until room is filled. When at capacity, crack open door and throw in smoke bomb.

Step 3: Amidst confusion, send in army of interns with large burlap sacks. Stuff hosts into said sacks with notices of termination. Tag each host with tracking device to collect valuable data on the mating habits of the morbidly obese. Hire a forklift if interns alone cannot successfully remove hosts from their respective stations. Be prepared to widen doorways throughout each building. Unceremoniously dump fired, confused hosts in alleyway. Congratulate self on job well done.

Step 4: Hire new hosts.

Sure, it may seem harsh, but the unoriginality of the medium is so deeply entrenched in both stations that they need to be completely uprooted. They have such an incestuous relationship that it’s not a matter of “if” a fired host will find another job at the rival station, but only a matter of “when.” Rob Ellis. Anthony Gargano. Jon Marks. Tony Bruno. Mike Missanelli. All failed or otherwise flamed out at their respective stations…all found homes at the rival station.

Did Rob Ellis, the human equivalent of a deep coma, need TWO chances at TWO sports talk stations to put listeners to sleep? Did he really need a daily morning television show? I assure you his failures were NOT due to people being unable to see his weak-chinned face.

If someone’s tired schtick wasn’t getting ratings at WIP, it will CERTAINLY do better at The Fanatic! Anthony Gargano’s “cuz” act had worn out its welcome… uh, everywhere, so of course The Fanatic jumped at the opportunity to hire him to anchor its flagship morning show! At least they gave him a unique slant this time around with Brian Baldinger and human dynamo Maureen Crowley Williams. WHAT FRESH-FACED TALENT! The most interesting thing about Baldinger is his gnarled finger. Has anyone cared what he’s had to say in the past, oh, let’s make it a conservative 25 years? No. No they haven’t. But they’ll reinvent the morning show they will, one recycled bit after another. LET’S GO TO THE MEATLOCKER AND TALK TO FREDDIE MITCHELL FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, WHAT A CRAZY MEATBALL! OH MAMA MIA.

(Just a side note for a moment, can each station please have a moratorium on booking Freddie Mitchell? He played four seasons, very poorly I might add, and he hasn’t stepped foot on a football field since 2004. Do we need to hear him complain about Donovan McNabb again? We do not. You were garbage, Freddie. It wasn’t McNabb’s fault that you washed out of the NFL. I do not need to hear another unsubstantiated story about how everyone on the team hated McNabb…which was probably true, but god damnit I don’t need to hear you tell it AD NAUSEAM.)

Wing Bowl was fun like 20 years ago, right? Tits, wings, huge slobs eating themselves into an early grave as greasy Angelo Cataldi cackles in the background and their soon-to-be widows beg them to stop, disappointed Wingette fathers…it’s a Philadelphia tradition! So what does The Fanatic do? Creates Fantasy Fest, an annual event that gives 35 mouthbreathers from Kensington the excuse to begin drinking at noon and ogle the one unlucky stripper from Delilah’s who is NOT getting paid enough to be there.

This caller to The Fanatic last weekend perfectly encapsulated the Fantasy Fest experience:

Caller: "Hey I just left Fantasy Fest."

Host: "Wasn't that the best party ever?!"

Caller: "I'm not going to lie, no." ::hangs up:

Perfect

— CogginToboggan (@CogginToboggan) August 26, 2017

I didn’t make that up. That was a real call. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed anything more that has been aired on The Fanatic.

The one host in the past decade who attempted to do anything different was Josh Innes, and he was ran out of town in his husky boy jeans faster than Pete Rose running to an alleged underage sex party.

Innes dared to step away from the tried and true Philadelphia sports talk formula of cliched topics and “hilarious” daily polls. You know the ones…. “Call in, we’re taking your top Philly guys who ever played linebacker for the Eagles…Jeremiah Trotter is up there for me, I tell ya. Call in, 610-632….”

For every one host or producer willing to try something different, there are 25 Jason Myrtetuses in the background rehashing and pushing the same old garbage. “How about a fake caller? He could call in when things are slow, really rile Mike up! Just make him black, don’t worry about it, we’ll call him Dwayne. He’ll be outrageous and say really stereotypical things that I think a black person would actually say if I knew any in real life. THINK OF THE RATINGS!”

In the words of the immortal Digital Underground, “It’s just the same old song.”

Here’s what one of the stations could actually do if they want to break the cycle: You know the person on your staff who is behind the scenes that has pitched an idea for a show that seems “out there” or “too different” from what you’re used to hearing on-air? Promote them to on-air. My god, do us all a favor. I beg of you.

Take a chance, get a different opinion on-air for a change. Do you really need to hear Mike Missanelli or Angelo Cataldi breathing heavily into a microphone every day and taking the contrarian view on EVERY SINGLE TOPIC because it “creates content?” Get a new voice on your airwaves, get someone who is going to take a chance, who will do something we haven’t heard a million times already, and who won’t publish terrible polls on Twitter. Spare us, please.

Or, better yet, listeners should just stop listening. Go ahead and put that foot through your radio and don’t replace it. Read the Coggin Toboggan and Crossing Broad instead. Fuck it. There are a ton of writers here now. Everyone here can mash their hands onto their keyboards and come up with semi-coherent sentences, I guarantee you that. WHAT AN ENDORSEMENT!

All angry emails and letter bombs from WIP and Fanatic hosts/producers should be addressed to Kyle Scott at Crossing Broad. He’s the one who allows this nonsense to be published on his site. [Editor’s note: Shaggy defense.]

Like what you saw? Did you only dry-heave once or twice reading this piece of garbage? Then follow me on Twitter @Coggintoboggan.

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Solving Philadelphia’s Sports Talk Radio Problem published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[cyclinglegs]

I’ve doe it, after years of thinking about it, and talking about it, I’ve finally bitten the bullet. I’ve signed up for a French cyclotour in June with local outfit Unique Cycling Tours

I don’t think I’ve quite gotten my head around it yet, but having the opportunity to ride some of the climbs we see on TV is mind blowing. How about these apples.

MONT VENTOUX

ALPE D’HUEZ

COL DU GLANDON

CROIX DE FER

TELEGRAPHE

GALIBIER.

http://www.uniquecyclingtours.com/provence-and-french-alps/

There’s still some available spots if you’re interested.

Indian Pacific Wheel Race

They got off to a flying start on Saturday morning over in Freo, and as I sit here on Tuesday evening, there are 10 riders already in South Australia.  The front runner Kristof Allagaert is setting an incredible pace, having ridden 1,829km since Saturday morning.  Thats something like 82 hours somewhere around the 22 km/hr, thats not even allowing for any stoppage. Incredible stuff.

One of brilliant features of this race is the use and spread of social media covering this race. The event organiser , Jesse Carlsson, who unfortunately had to withdraw from the race on Sunday, in partnership with some prominent players in Aistralia including Cycling Tips and Curve Cycling, have been huge supports of social media around this event. Some of the features include:

Rider tracking – you can sit at your phone and watch the riders track across Australia, live. I’m not sure of the accuracy, but the tracking shows the riders barely metres apart, all withing the “No-Drafting” rules of course, incing their way across Australia. You can see when they stop, where they stop, and who’s sleeping with who. Have a look here. Indian Pacific Wheel Race Map Progress

Status Updates – Regular updates and photos on the IPWR Facebook Site Facebook – IndianPacificWheelRace

Rider interviews – Regular spot interviews by IPWR on their Facebook site. This feature really brings to the fore the character of the riders, their humor, the trials and tribulations as the days slowly go by.

And then there’s this one from South Australian Davin Harding. His character and dry wit shine through.

Rider Facebook and Instagram sites. Riders are regularly posting either themselves when they get a chance or have a support team posting on their behalf.

James Raison

Mike Hall

Kristof Allegaert

Sarah Hammond

Jackie Bernardi

The rider social edia sites can be accessed through the rider profile on the tracking tool.  Click on the rider name and the profile will pop up, giving sponsor names, social media addresses etc

Rider Sponsor Facebook and Instagram updates such as

Curve Cycling

Sportful

Rapha

Ben Rides

Apologise for the many I’ve missed.

It would be good to see mainstream media get behind these hard core athletes, the nation needs to see what these guys are doing.

And us, we should be doing everything we can to support the riders as they pass through our hometown, so track them as they come in and get out there and give them some moral support.

3 Peaks

Funny thing about the Peaks Challenge Falls Creek. After the months and months of training (remembering i only went for the weekend, i didn’t ride the bloody thing), planning, donuts, coffee and the like, the weekend went by so bloody quickly it almost feels as if it didn’t happen. But happen it did. Its an extraordinary weekend, a lads weekend away, but when you peel away the layers, its much much more. Each rider taking part has a books worth of stories in their personal struggles to get to the line, let alone ride it.

I mentioned a few posts back a gentlemen called Paul, a strong rider who last year was found bent over his bike with 2 km’s to go, suffering stroke like symptoms and unable to finish.  Unfortunately, and fortunately at the same time, he recognised the same symptoms again and chose to withdraw from the ride. Sorry to hear this news Paul, but very glad you made the right decision.

I’ve been to Falls Creek 5 times now, helped with the training for each, and am happy to report that of the 25 attempts over these 5 years, attempts where the rider actually crossed the start line, we’ve had 25 completions. There were some doubts we would achieve that, particularly as there was doubt over JK’s hamstring, something he tore about 5 weeks out, something which curtailed an already compromised training program.  Bugger us all, he did it. This guy has an  unbelievable ability to push through the mental barriers and finish against the odds.

Sitting back as a casual observer for the 3rd time this year, I was ecstatic not only seeing each of the riders in our group cross the line, but standing down at the finish line the emotions etched across the faces of each and every rider crossing the line gave only a hint if what was going through their minds, but I felt an outsider walking through finishers on the other side of the line. The looks of euphoria, pain banished, exultation, relief, disbelief scrawled across the faces was something to behold.  That was an extraordinarily hard ride to finish. I rode down to Anglers rest with a mate on the Saturday. I’d forgotten how painful that ride back up is.  My mate was tackling it for the first time.  He’s in awe of the 3peakers finishing that ride with 200km in their legs. Same here. Well done to all who completed.

On a finishing note, a couple of successes at both ends of the spectrum.

John C  was a welcome blow-in to the group, a friends friend who had set himself a sub-9 target.  JC had put the training in and was confident, but also very focused, quiet and a little withdrawn. JC rode a sub 9 ride and was understandably wrapped with the result.  At dinner on Sunday night we almost couldn’t shut him up.  Well done JC.

At the other end, Hack, who similarly came in as a friend of a friend last year but with an interrupted training regime last year, came in this year with with a few more laps under the belt, hit WTF approx before the cutoff time, beat the Trap Yard gate closure, but struggled across the top, ended up with flat batteries on his from light, and ended up getting the support of a motorcycled marshal who shone his headlights in front of Hack and another rider to help them cross the line, albeit after the 13 hour cutoff. Suffering hypothermia, Hack was taken to the medical centre for an hour or so before being released. He ended up crossing the apartments threshold to the supporting appreciative roar of our group, wide smile on his dial, pretty much summed up the weekend.

Well done all, it was a pleasure to spend the weekend with you.

A few pictures from my trip below.

Sagan has ridden La Classicissima 7 times now, with two seconds, and two fourths. Saturday was his 78th second place of his career. Imagine if just a few of those had been victories

Lakes Cycling Shoes – Lake MX 237

Before Christmas i bought a pair of Lake MTB 237 shoes, the old road shoes were falling apart, and to be honest, I was looking at buying some cx/mt shoes for my gravel road riding, and the occasional possible cross race (tbc), and the thought of buying 2 pairs of shoes wasn’t sitting well. I wanted some decent shoes, but didn’t want to spend a bucket load on 2 pairs.

After much deliberation, i decided to buy the one pair, a good pair, and not really worrying about riding road with mountain bike shoes. Yes they are a little heavier, but hey, I’m 50+ years old, so a few extra grams at the bottom end of town wont hurt that much.  On the upside, i dont have to worry about slipping over on those bloody slippery cleats whilst walking back to the table with a cuppa in each hand.

So, i bis pretty much the same as the CX 237 road shoe, but comes in a MTB package. Carbon sole, full leather upper and double boa fastening system. My first in all 3 categories.

Apart from the looks, the feature that grabbed me initially was their reputation for being wider than usual, and trying them on certainly didn’t disappoint.

The Boa fastening system provided comfortable but firm tightening across the top of the foot which steps up the control of the tightening that you just don’t quite get with my old ratchet and velcro fasteners.

Out on the road, it took a while to get used t the new fit. The first three to four 4 hour+ rides had me finishing up with a numbing left foot. I couldn’t quite figure it out, and it got a little disturbing for a while there, but the numbing on the longer rides eventually disappeared.

Those longer rides were during some of the hotter days, and invariably I’d turn up at home soaked in sweat and salt encrusted kit. Taking the shoes off after these sweat fests  would show black staining from the black leather. A little bit disturbing, however not permanent, the stains came out in the wash and after a while, the staining stopped happening.

Once the numbing stopped, I came to admire the shoes, they are nice and stiff when i needed them to be, but super comfortable due to their width, inside fit and the nice smooooooth supple leather. They now fit like a pair of old gloves, i hardly notice them any more, which can only be a good thing. It’s probably not surprising that I didn’t notice them at all when riding up the back of falls/WTF a few weekends back.

The upshot is that I found them well suited to flat and hilly rides either on the road and gravel. I haven’t tried them in a cx race yet, but i haven’t found any reason why they wouldnt suit. The carbon sole gives these shoes excellent power transfer characteristics, with a stiff feeling under even the hardest out-of-the-saddle pedaling efforts like WTF, whilst still maintaining a good amount of flex when off the bike walking around holding onto those coffees.

The rubber MTB sole is strong and looks like it will take a lot of punishment, providing plenty of clearance for those trail riding days.

All up, I would highly recommend you have a close look at the Lake shoes next time you are looking at replacing or upgrading. I’m glad i spent the little extra on some decent shoes, and also happy i chose the MTB sole, although I’m sure there would be many roadies out there that would be frowning on my choice, but hey, I just enjoy being out in the great outdoors.

Oh, I bought these shoes at the Bike Bug in Stepney, what is rapidly becoming one of my favourite lbs’s.  https://www.bikebug.com/index.php

Milan San Remo

A classic finish to this years Milan San Remo with Peter Sagan showing that he’s was the strongest rider of the day, jumping out with around a km to go, but Michal Kwiatkowski showed on the day he was a little smarter than Peter Sagan.

A brilliant finish right down to the line.

In his seventh attempt at La Classicissima, Sagan has finished second twice, and fourth twice. Sagan’s race statistics show he has ridden 558 races, won 92 races and finished on the podium 204 times. Saturday was his 78th second place of his career.

Rider of the Week – Lorne McLurg

Thats Lorne, bottom left

Lorne is a first generation Australian of Irish parents. Eldest of three children, he was born in 1971 and raised in Adelaide. He has lived and worked interstate and overseas for a few years before returning to settle down. He is married, with 3 primary school aged kids. Lorne completed an Arts degree in Geography, that never got any serious use other than in games of Trivial Pursuit.

Now, he jointly owns a Project Management Consulting business, Moto Projects, focused on larger commercial, retail and high rise residential construction projects.

Lornes first career beyond trivial pursuit was as an outdoor adventure guide, but realized the lifestyle, although fit, fun and challenging, had its limitations…mostly fiscal. He gave that away as a full time professional endeavor after 7 years and phased across into a second career as a full-time project manager.

Lorne has been riding bikes for as long as he can remember. He was one of the founding members of the FRA PowerOn team in early 2003 and has been riding ‘pretty’ consistently 2-4 times a week with the mob since then.

I can’t see myself ever stopping riding for any reason other than obviously, life and death ones! Not known for my hill climbing capability, but more so for my love of descending…. the real reason for why we climb the hills in the first place!!

How long have you been cycling?

About 44 years…. Got a trike when I was about 2 then my first real bike…a yellow dragster…when I was about 5. Not stopped riding since then.

Was a BMX bandit in the late 70’s & 80’s, as a founding member (with my siblings) of the Tea Tree Gully BMX club, raced every week from the age of 10 til about 16.

Tea Tree Gully BMX Facebook site

I discovered road bikes when I was 14 for fitness and commuting to school, then Uni and work. Got into Mountain biking after a trip to the USA in 1992 and a chance to ride the famous Slick Rock trail amongst others around Moab and the Colorado Rockies.

I got back into regular Road biking when I moved home to Adelaide in 1996 and have been riding around the beaches and hills 2-4 times a week since then.

What got you started in cycling?

Father Christmas and from there the love of the wind in my face and the freedom to cover distance and see beautiful places under my own steam and at my own pace

How many bikes do you own and what is your main go to bike?

3, a new Canyon Ultimate SLX 9.0 purchased in Feb 2017 is the go to at the moment. I have a Specialized SWorks Tarmac SL4 currently having some carbon repairs done on it and a Specialized Crave SL 29er MTB (Single Speed) that is my go to for rides with the kids and when the weather is crap.

What bike do you covet?

I’ve been lucky enough recently to build up the bike of my dreams. The Canyon with SRAM Etap, Zipp 303 NSW’s, Garmin Edge 820 is about as good as it gets I think.

How do you store your bikes?

Mostly in the house. The MTB lives in the shed with the wife and kids bikes and the roadies live in the house where I can get at them easily for the early morning before work rides!

  Do you do all your own maintenance or do you use a LBS? If so, which one?

I do most of my own simple stuff, but when time is limited or it’s a bit trickier then Anthony Mezzini at Elbows Akimbo or Pete at BMC are my go to gurus.

What cycling specific tools do you have in your “bike shed”?

I’ve accumulated lots of little gadgets over the years. My favorites currently are my ParkTools torque driver and ParkTools workstand.

What is your favourite piece of cycling kit or accessory?

My Garmin 820. Love how it uploads straight to Strava and does live segments to help keep me honest….and my new bright blue Shimano Sphyre RC9 shoes.

What do you love about cycling?

The camaraderie of cycling with my bunch. Politically incorrect banter and the gentle push to ride more and faster, that comes with riding with a bunch of mates… that and the beer! Ride Bikes, Drink Beer, PowerOn being one of our motto’s

What annoys most about cycling?

Idiot riders who don’t show simple understanding and respect to other road users, who antagonize drivers, chase fame through social media and thus give all cyclists a bad name. It shouldn’t be that hard to ‘treat others as you want them to treat you’

Other than yourself, who is your favourite cyclist?

Peter Sagan…he’s the all-round cyclist.

If you could have dinner with 3 people in the cycling world, who would they be and why?

With a biased agenda, because I have a strong and independent daughter who I want to see having access to equal and sustainable opportunity and income – Rochelle Gilmore to discuss the challenges and opportunities in Women’s cycling and strategize how to raise it to par with the men’s league, Rob Arnold to further the discussion on how to raise women’s cycling to par with the men’s league on the basis that it’s all in the media power to do so, and Nick Green to discuss the role Australia’s peak body needs to play in developing and supporting cycling and in particular Women’s Cycling.

Where would you take them to eat?

Chianti Classico – Can’t go past a good feed of Rabbit

What are your craziest/fondest cycling memories?

Riding the burbs for hours on end with my BMX bandit mates, jumping and skidding our way down the streets and through the parks and creek reserves, getting muddy, scraped and bruised, every weekend and loving it!

Have you had any nasty crashes? If so how did the worst occur and what was the consequence?

Had my fair share. Too many to remember them all. Used to average one car hit a month when I was a bike commuter in London in the mid 90’s. Most recent nasty was being hit from behind at the finish line of a Vets Crit, by some numpty who had their head down sprinting for 20th. I hit the pavement at about 45Kph and busted 3 ribs and punctured a lung. Put me off the bike for 6 weeks.

What is your favourite post ride coffee/tea spot, and what would you normally buy as a treat?

Cibo King William Road – Been going there since it opened. Grande Flat White being my usual. Sometimes accompanied by a piece of Banana Bread….not that my gut needs it!

Do you have a favourite overseas country in mind you’d love to take your bike to?

Would love to take the Roadie and MTB back to France. Did a lot of snowboarding, rock-climbing and mountaineering there, but didn’t have the space to take the bike so would love to go back just to ride. Such awesome terrain to adventure in and the descents…breathtaking for someone like me who loves going down.

What is your favourite local training route?

Windy point to Belair, then up through the National Park via Saddle Hill Rd and on up to Crafers and back into town via the old freeway. A perfect 1.5 hr outing for me and can be done before work and herding children begins in the morning.

What is the biggest cycling lie you have told a partner?

Probably the same one’s we all try to get away with…I’ve had that ‘new piece of kit’ for ages!

What cycling related thing would you like for your next birthday?

More dope socks as I need to keep on top of my games in that department.

Is there a local cycling outfit/company/cycling club/cycling group/person that you would like to plug?

Elbows Akimbo. Anthony is a very thorough bike fitter and mechanic and generously supports our team.

Do yourself a favour and get a bike fit from him. Amazing how it can help your comfort and power

From a non-cycling perspective, what do you love about Adelaide?

I love the small city / big Country town environment. Its something we need to learn to celebrate and not condemn. Having lived and visited many cities around the world, I know we have it good here. Naysayers should try living the same lifestyle they enjoy here in Europe or Asia…unless you have a few $Mill a year in income, you’ll be very sadly disappointed.

What is your go to place when interstaters come to Adelaide?

I think the go to ride for visitors to Adelaide has to be Old freeway, over Lofty, across through Uraidla to Deviation Rd, back along Loby Rd to Basket Range, Ashton then across to Marble Hill and down Montacute and back to the city for Coffee in Vardon Place.

Is there anything else you feel like talking about?

I think I’ll have bored everyone enough by now!

Not all all Lorne, a pleasure to hear from you, love the early day BMX bandit storys, although I can’t quite get the image of you with Nicole Kidman style hair out of my head.

  Till next time

tight spokes

iPib

Race Across Australia – IPWR I've doe it, after years of thinking about it, and talking about it, I've finally bitten the bullet.