#vector and the kids he picked up off the street

[itz-pandora]

Couldn't stop thinking about this ask so I made a paper comic for my interpretation

Espio's first winter with Vector and Charmy, he's not used to the heater always breaking

Plus a little bonus!!

Vector is happy they're bonding :)

[tnt-tourney]

Propaganda for Charmy and Espio!!! 1) every sonic character is trans (one exception) 2) I think it would be funny if both charmy and espio were trans but vector (the other team chaotix member) was cishet and just had to take care of 2 random trans kids he picked up off the street. Also between the two of them you can colorpick the trans flag <33

i think you and whoever submitted team chaotix in its entirety with vector as the post-t older brother figure or smthn should fist fight in a burger king drive-thru. anyways trans flags picked from charmy and espio. they r literally so transgender <3

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompts: Magical realism

Scav hunt item #55: Create art using a prompt from the MI6Cafe Weekly Art Prompts + “Mayday”

Notes: Unbetaed as always. Canon typical violence.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday-!"

The city is caught in a deluge when he arrives. 

Traffic is backed up for miles, vehicle after vehicle trapped in complete  frustrating gridlock. 

He's walked the two miles to his destination, leaving behind an irate cab driver with a generous tip for his trouble.

Along the way, a young nymph looking to be no more than 10 summers old, offers a flower garland weaved of fresh white Heather from the shelter of a narrow porch. He eyes the fresh cut hanging over the front door. 

He purchases two, to the girl's cheery delight. 

----

“We've lost three engines! Requesting immediate vectors to the nearest airfield! Mayday, mayday, mayday! Shit, Number 4's go-"

----

One mile in, he stumbles across a heavily flooded street.

Earsplittingly loud lighting cracks overhead, an occasional flash that lights the street up. 

The flood waters are ice cold. With the water level at thigh height, his wellies do nothing to keep them from gushing around his equally frozen feet. He resigns himself to a hot bath later.

Here, no cars are able to pass through at all. 

Despite the hazards, there are people out and about in front of their buildings. There are merchants desperately hauling their merchandise to higher ground, attempting to salvage what they can from the havoc. Some are putting up brightly coloured banners and decorative displays. At every door, a stalk of white Heather hangs, children gleefully arranging whole seashells in intriguing patterns around them. 

The mood, though dampened by the terrible weather, borders on festive. 

There are neighbours exchanging sweet breads, a friendly trade of roasted poultry, a shared fish or two in covered dishes to shield the food from the downpour. 

Their joy is a distant consideration in comparison to his inner disquiet. 

An elderly man catches sight of him standing and staring openly at the activities. He glances down to his hand, to the two Heather garlands cradled protectively.  The old man tuts reprovingly and wades through the waters towards him. 

"Shells," the old man tuts as he offers two perfect clam shells, canine tail wagging, "Intention means nothing without it."

He crosses the street, with his gifts in hand. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! We've lost all four engines- Christ, we're not going to make it back to land-!" 

----

He hears the adolescents well before he sees them. 

In a deserted street, dull with old street lamps and filthy storefronts, the hooded teens giggle with cruel delight as they rip down fabric banners and shatter the crystal glass figurines of various marine creatures. The lovely shells and stalks of white Heather meet the same dismal fate.

Amidst their destruction, one of the teens happens to look up, forked tongue flickering out to taste the wind. Their eyes drop to his arms and they elbow their companions. The group sneers, wisely backing off momentarily and not doing anything as foolish as engage him in a fight. 

Given his state of mind, it is more than likely that the teens will not come out the other end of the fight unscathed despite the protection of armoured scales. 

"The sea witch's a fucking sham anyways!" the kid yells over their retreating backs, "ya'll nuts for believing that shit!" 

When the last teen disappears round the street corner, he sighs, taking the moment to sweep the glass shards to the side with his foot instead of leaving them in the middle of the pavement for some poor sod to injure themselves on later. The rising waters will take care of the mess soon enough anyways. 

The glint of light on glass draws his eye to the ledge, where several pristine figures lie untouched. He is irrepressibly drawn to one in particular- a carving not of an animal but a floating feather caressed by an invisible wind. 

His eyes surveys the street warily for a moment. The glass feather slips unnoticed into the depths of his jacket. 

In the distance, the sea churns with rage. 

----

"Mayday, mayday, may-"

----

There is little else he can do but scour the shores, buffeted by strong gusts and blinded by sea spray. 

The boats are all docked away, no skipper daring enough to take on the sea in her volatility. The worst of the storm is miles away from land, but its effects are felt all the same. 

A set of files arrives in his email courtesy of Q Branch and Tanner- maps and coordinates and prediction models, all of which he studies intensively in the comfort of his temporary safe house. The glass feather sits prominently besides his laptop, a silent but steadfast companion to his activities. 

It, along with the Heather garlands and clam shells, bear witness to him smashing his ceramic mug in a fit of fury. 

The lone image glares accusingly at him from his laptop screen, a low quality shot worsened by the movement of the camera it was shot with. 

The object is a blurry mess, details rendered indistinct by the rolling waves and heavy rainfall. But enough of the form remains for the item to be identified- its implications are what trigger his episode of temper. 

A lone tail fin, ripped from its place at the rear of an aircraft, is a death sentence. 

----

He's on his fifth bottle, drowning his sorrows with a vengeance. Outside, the deluge lets up a little into a light patter against the balcony. 

The helplessness weighs heavily like an albatross around his neck. 

Squeals waft up from the street below, a pod of local mers grasping the opportunity the flood waters present and taking the chance to explore streets they have never traversed before. Their melodious cries of astonishment and wonder, once music to his ears, prove too much for the dark cloud hanging over him. 

He throws back his head against the couch and guzzles down more bitter ale. 

----

He comes to in his tiled bathroom, curled over the toilet seat with acidic sick stinking up his nose. It's no gentle thing, he wakes up with a jerk, disorientated and without memory of how he has gotten to the bathroom in the first place. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. 

With the fog in his head clearing up, he notices the rattling coming from his balcony, accompanied by quiet curses. 

He gets up, hand curling around the walther under his arm. He creeps towards the source of the commotion, feet as light as a cat's paws. Whatever and whomever the intruder is, he's of no mood to be gracious. 

The rattling pauses, an indignant squawk of frustration follows it. 

It speaks volumes of his training, both military and 00 that he does not drop his piece from shock. 

There on his balcony, his Quartermaster scowls angrily at the offending lock while looking like a drowned rat. 

In his chest, his heart leaps. 

His movement draws Q's attention and it's then he's hollered at to "open the bloody doors before I kick them down!" 

There's no word vast enough, deep enough to encompass the depth of his emotions as he swiftly undoes the lock and throws the double doors open. Heather and shells are sent flying but all he cares for is pulling Q into a bone crushing embrace. 

----

The rain picks up, droplets soaking through the cotton of his shirt. The front is already soaked through, thoroughly pressed against a sopping wet Quartermaster as he is. 

He pulls them inside, away from the storm, away from the windows. Disbelief and hope war within his chest as he studies Q with an anxious eye, warm towels in his hand to replace soaked clothes. 

He says nothing of the massive bruising on Q's torso, a large swath that belies the extent of physical trauma its owner has gone through. 

Belatedly, he registers the noticeable lack of glasses, the raw scrapes and bruising over pale cheeks and knuckles. 

The hulking set of white wings tipped with black and dusty grey. 

"Albatross," he breathes reverently.

He'd assumed from Q's presence in the tunnels of Q Branch, the way he draws comfort from his underground haven, that his Quartermaster is a member of an underground species of sorts- a Null even, rare as truly non-magical folk are amongst the general population. The personnel file certainly hasn’t provided much insight either given their propensity for obfuscation when executive members of staff are involved.  

"Yes, well, turns out I was just a late bloomer" Q sniffs, squinting at a dust speck on the wall through the conspicuous lack of glasses, "you're not on the water all the time either." 

Bond smiles indulgently though offers no contest. 

With his parents and kin long gone, there was simply no incentive to remain near his family’s seat of power all the time. The murky depths of the loch holds no interest, lacking in the thrill and constant entertainment cities like London offer. Besides-

First M, a hawk, now Q, an albatross - he's always been drawn to the sky much more than his peers. 

He feels out Q's wings carefully, stretching one out to examine the feathers and bone. The appendage trembles under his tentative scrutiny, morphing into a full body shiver that goes right down to Q's toes. The first wing passes muster, so he moves on to the other. 

Q yelps loudly as his fingers prod a particular sore spot. 

It has him relaxing his fingers immediately, though he does not cease supporting the injured wing. 

"I don't think it's broken," Q whimpers, fingers twisting anxiously. 

Like a dam, Q's hard won composure crumbles. "Couldn't get them out," Q sobs, "They were too far forward, I barely got myself out-" The frantic babble dies away into hitched sobs. 

He croons lightly in response, a soothing rumble he's heard mers sing to their fry. He runs his fingers through mussed curls, letting the grief and guilt run its course. 

The kit he has isn't stocked for treating winged individuals or traumatised ones for that matter, but he's a witch- he'll make the best with what he has. He'll get them both home. 

---

In the distance, the sea finally calms.

[timac-extraversal]

Four Racial Futures

(TIMAC #003, ~3,800 words, 16 minutes)

Summary: Four alternative paths to the current dominant left/liberal racial vision for future America are discussed, including an underestimate of the size of the white population, Castizo Futurism, Landian Hyper-Racism, and changes in society's understanding of developmental psychology.

Epistemic Status: Political speculation.

-☆☆☆-

‘Majority Minority’ America? Don’t Bet on It John J. Miller, Wall Street Journal (2021/02) [paywall]

“The surge in mixing across ethno-racial lines is one of the most important and unheralded developments of our time,” says Mr. Alba, a professor at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. He rattles off facts and figures: Today, more than 10% of U.S.-born babies have one parent who is nonwhite or Hispanic and one who is white and not Hispanic. That proportion is larger than the number of babies born to two Asian parents and not far behind the number of babies born to two black parents. “We’re entering a new era of mixed backgrounds,” Mr. Alba says.

The census apparently counts those who identify as both white and non-white as 'non-white,' which may be undercounting the number of people who are likely to identify as 'white' in the United States. Sociologist Richard Alba argues that assimilation is bidirectional, but proceeding apace.

The infamous Razib Khan chimes in on Twitter:

The Great Demographic Illusion: Majority, Minority, and the Expanding American Mainstream [link] haven't read this book but summary supports my exp./priors in 21st century.

"When they marry, 72% of Asian-white women and 64% of Asian-white men take white spouses. The government nevertheless counts them and their progeny as nonwhite." i have a blue-eyed blonde-haired 1/4th japanese friend. she probably doesn't realize she's counted as nonwhite

fwiw, my half brown kids 'identify' as tan. but if they were forced to pick a race and others were forced would choose white more than anything else

On the one hand, we have the largely implicit left-wing theory that if there is no majority race, there can be no organized oppression by a majority race. On the other, the implicitly-left-wing theory that if there are many mixed-race people, it will become too difficult to organize by race - identifying people on the basis of race will be harder and people will have split loyalties.

Either might fail on its own. If people are naturally prone to politics by race and ethnicity, then a lack of a clear supermajority in a majority-minority country may lead to shifting ethnic coalitions, with no group feeling that it's in a comfortable position of power. Even within a mixed group, there might be selection in some specific direction, such as colorism, which is currently its own category of discourse.

On the other hand, it's apparently possible that some form of unironic 'Multiracial Whiteness' could "win," either from widespread adoption of 'white' as a norm even if whites were a minority, or by a supermajority ending up 7/8ths 'white' and the definition of 'white' expanding to match...

[Quora] What is Castizo Futurism? Renatto Belerofonte (2020)

Among the right-wingers, there is also a joke that "the Alt Right is a hispanic movement." And just as there is Afro-Pessimism, there is a 'White Optimism' in the form of "Castizo Futurism," as Quora user Renatto Belerofonte describes better than I could:

Castizo Futurism comes from the idea that the future of whites in the United States and Latin America is not as dire as white supremacists that believe in white genocide think it is. White Identitarians traditionally organize their societies through Hypodescent (the idea that the offspring of an union between two conflicting classes adopts the social standing of the lower class involved) [...] An example of hypodescent would be the One Drop Rule.

[...]

Castizo Futurism is basically the adoption of Hyperdescent by American White Supremacists, the idea that whiteness is a malleable condition that can morph according to the material and historical conjuncture of society. If Hispanics in the US suddenly stop being “non-whites” and start to be perceived as “mostly mestizos and castizos that are already predominantly European with various degrees of native blood” then you can conceive the prospect of “whitening” them overtime. If Mestizos can become Castizos (which according to White Supremacists is the cut-off at which you start to manifest European behavior and appearance) then there is the possibility that White Genocide can be reversed.

As Renatto writes, "if you look at non-anglo societies this paradigm is not the case [...] Spanish, Portuguese and French societies in America believed that you could 'become' white through generations of intermarriage..."

Human beings grow old and wish to create a legacy in their environments. For some people, this is children. For others, it is activism. Suppose you tie your self-identity to a great confrontation to overcome "whiteness," and then just as you saw the traditions of your ancestors as something outdated to be overturned, most of an entire generation simply ignore you and decide that they are now white.

Who, exactly, is going to stop them?

Of course, there is no guarantee that this will happen, but at the same time, there is no requirement that it won't.

One of the great advantages to adopting relatively liberal methods and tactics is that you aren't obligated to pin your hopes on demographic triumphalism - if the future goes a bit off-script, that isn't necessarily a problem. And it may well go off-script; one of the characteristics of the future that I have tried to express in my blogging is that, for most of us, it will be unexpected.

Why does the old conventional racism use hypodescent? Old conventional racism might claim to be based on thinking in terms of evolution, but it isn't necessarily. Often it proceeds as if race is primordial, trailing back into the mists of time. Why embrace hyperdescent now? In part, because 'white' was something that emerged once through evolution and selection, and it's implemented as a statistical distribution of heritable traits (even if those heritable traits are solely appearance). As long as those traits exist, it can simply be recreated if the appropriate conditions arise.

[Landian] Hyper-Racism Nick Land, Xenosystems.net (2014/09, arch. 2015)

Speaking of statistical distributions of traits, there are some pessimists that argue that intra-European political preferences are heritable and conserved.

But even those 'within-white' preferences, should they exist, may end up scrambled...

Assortative mating tends to genetic diversification. This is neither the preserved diversity of ordinary racism, still less the idealized genetic pooling of the anti-racists, but a class-structured mechanism for population diremption, on a vector towards neo-speciation. It implies the disintegration of the human species, along largely unprecedented lines, with intrinsic hierarchical consequence. The genetically self-filtering elite is not merely different — and becoming ever more different — it is explicitly superior according to the established criteria that allocate social status. Analogical fusion with Cochran’s space colonists is scarcely avoidable. If SES-based assortative mating is taking place, humanity (and not only society) is coming apart, on an axis whose inferior pole is refuse. This is not anything that ordinary racism is remotely able to process. That it is a consummate nightmare for anti-racism goes without question, but it is also trans-racial, infra-racial, and hyper-racial in ways that leave ‘race politics’ as a gibbering ruin in its wake.

"The problem with ordinary racism," Nick Land writes, "is its utter incomprehension of the near future."

If the conventional racists view race as primordial, as something that can only be either preserved or lost, and the would-be Castizo Futurists view race as something that can change over generations, then the Transhumanists are the most radical. Transhumanists tend to view the body mechanically, as a system of parts, each of which could potentially be replaced. This is the view on the macro level - they would support growing new organs in vats and transplanting them - but it's also true on the micro level. To a Transhumanist, a gene is not the same thing as a person who has it, and a gene is not in itself sacred any more than the radiator on your car is sacred. (Alter someone's genetics unwillingly, however, and you might find far more stern disagreement - not unlike the violent disagreement you might get if you broke into someone's car and stole their radiator.)

Someone once described Americans as 'temporarily-embarassed millionaires.' For temporarily-embarassed cyborgs, much of contemporary race discourse is just not very impressive. For Liberal Transhumanists, a man who has inherited frail leg bone genes is not an inherently unworthy being, but is merely someone who has not yet received robot legs - just as they are human beings who have not yet received anti-aging pills. And if some men have sturdy leg bone genes instead? Rather than a threat of enduring hierarchy, those genes represent potential untapped capital that could be used to raise the standard of living (from the typical subjective perspective).

In the famous animated franchise Ghost in the Shell, the lead character has an entirely synthetic body, except for her brain. If this were possible (and at this point, we don't know that it is, though we're continuing to experiment in fields like tissue engineering), one might describe a society capable of it as "also trans-racial, infra-racial, and hyper-racial in ways that leave ‘race politics’ as a gibbering ruin in its wake."

Are there risks involved with this mindset? Certainly. But many of the basic criticisms will ring as hollow to transhumanists as basic conservative criticisms ring hollow to many left-wing and liberal readers.

This future is not yet etched in stone, but on the other hand, an article in Nature published in 2020 argued that...

Together, these findings suggest that there are, at present, no known insurmountable hurdles to the eventual development of safe and effective clinical applications of genome editing in humans. […] Therapeutic genome editing will be realized, at least for some diseases, over the next 5-10 years.

Part of what makes contemporary race discourse so unimpressive to transhumanists is that it fails to integrate Crispr or PGD-IVF into its moral imagination. Right-wingers are said to look backwards, and left-wingers and progressives to look forwards. But while the right-wing WrathOfGnon would encourage readers think on ancestral time scales by physically building villages out of traditional materials (a view which, right or wrong, is consistent), a number of Progressives fail to imagine beyond the next fifteen years.

...or perhaps they do. Can children consent to what's considered a genetic disease (such as Tay-Sachs, which is quite lethal)? Would having kids the old-fashioned way come to be seen as a low-class activity for rednecks and religious fundamentalists? There are ways in which genetic equity is at odds with genetic freedom.

It's also possible that they are simply technology pessimists, maintaining multiple rings of protection in case technology should fail to pan out this century. Though if this is their perspective, perhaps they should consider the potential dangers of their current rhetoric as well.

Contrary to the Liberal Transhumanists, for someone like Land, everything is highly competitive evolution.

genomic manipulation capabilities, which will also be unevenly distributed by SES, will certainly intensify the trend to speciation, rather than ameliorating it.

I take issue with Land, here. Not just morally (though he writes "this blog generally seeks to spread dismay whenever the opportunity arises"), but in practical terms.

Every time we edit a gene, we risk an off-target result, which may cause disease. The tradeoffs for early genetic engineering favor focusing on monogenic disease, the sort of situation where your choices are to risk genetic engineering or experience near-certain death by age 30. Many traits like intelligence or general health, should they be genetic, are likely highly polygenic. Hypothetically, a rich man could pay for a thousand edits, but this would only work with a relatively mature technology where the rate of error is very, very low.

Something closer to the opposite of Nick Land's idea might come to pass, in which sharp negative points are eroded away except for a few populations such as religious conservatives, including the literal Amish, and medical skeptics, paid for by big institutions like insurance companies and public health authorities. In twenty years, the likes of L0m3z, a right-wing Twitter contrarian, may write about the coming "Planet of Midwits."

As for Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis In-Vitro Fertilization, although it is currently being used for preventing the transmission of Huntington's Disease (if you have $35,000 to spare), the gains from embryo selection for other traits can be more limited than people might expect.

[Video] The Glenn Show: The Dark Matter of Developmental Psychology Glenn Loury & James Heckman, BloggingHeads.tv (2020/12)

GLENN: I'm talking to one of the great economists working on human development. What are you up to at the Center for the Economics of Human Development at the University of Chicago?

HECKMAN: Well, one of the great issues of course, always, is exactly how do you improve the lot of human beings. Namely, how do you measure what improvement is, what are the relevant life skills, and then how do you develop those skills? What's the proper role for social policy, and I don't mean just governmental policy, I mean social policy? There are some very strong interventions, evidence for interventions, showing how if you tell parents a certain amount of information that they lack, it can have huge effects on their children. And the same is true of interventions that occur in adolescent years. Human potential is not being fully utilized. [...] I've been working on this not only in the US, but in several countries around the world - a lot of time spent in China, recently.

[...]

HECKMAN: And then gradually society has become more and more cognitively focused. Well that sounds good. When Governor Clinton was governor of Arkansas, well all of these well-meaning officials were talking about how to improve schools, what do they talk about? Nate scores - reading, writing, and arithmetic. They don't talk about character formation. They don't talk about self-control, executive functioning, the way you can help govern your life. [...]

HECKMAN: One of the main lessons of this body of work, and I'm proud to have contributed to this, is in showing the power of social and emotional and personality skills in shaping lives. Skills that can be actually cultivated, and skills that can be cultivated not just at the beginning of life, but through adolescence especially.

What evidence is there? Aside from more contemporary study in his own field, Heckman mentions discusses the Perry Preschool Project, a topic which comes up sometimes when one is looking into this field. While increases in IQ scores failed to stick, the experimental group had improvements in other life outcomes such as earnings, home ownership, and lower risk of incarceration.

HECKMAN: ...but the way you take the kid to the next step matters a lot. You've got to do it with some patience, and with some empathy - some attachment. And so there's a whole subject matter in child development psychology which we're looking at now - we actively are exploring.

HECKMAN: By the way, I don't want to pretend this is all completely known. This is what makes the work that I'm doing now so exciting. Because now we're measuring these interactions, week by week. This is now not in the US, it's in western China, one of the poorest areas. We can see how the interactions between the parent and the child are leading to the growth of skills on the part of the child. [...]

HECKMAN: This was something that was tried in Jamaica some 40 years ago. I'm working with a group of people with a study that's still ongoing outside of Kingston, Jamaica. It's called the "Reach Up and Learn" study in Jamaica. The China study is patterned after that study. [...]

So the research the Heckman is focused on is not limited to a particular race, country, or culture.

HECKMAN: It turns out that a lot of parents don't really know how to parent. And what do I mean by that? They don't have a clear idea what a normal growth trajectory is for a child, what a child can do. And they often don't understand how powerful they are in shaping the life of the child. So you give them that kind of information. Nobody's being forced to do anything. Just empower people. Almost every caretaker of a young child really wants that child to succeed. [...] When they are told this information, they act on it.

Asian Americans live longer than non-hispanic white Americans, and have a higher median household income. [1☆][2☆] While there is some racial tension between white and asian Americans (see, for instance, ongoing 'cultural appropriation' arguments and other discourse), it's generally considered less of an issue than disparities between the country's white majority and black Americans.

Could parental information and mentoring programs reduce disparities in the United States, even if they aren't resolved? And could this turn down the heat on race discourse?

For instance, at $76k median household income, white households make about 77% of what asian households do. Black American households make about $45k, or about 60% of white American household income. At 77%, they would make about $59k, not far off from the $56k of hispanic households.

What are the potential downsides? The most likely way for the program to fail is for it to have no effect or, at worst, a modest negative effect. [3] It isn't incompatible with an ecological view of human society. It would cost money, but probably not much more than another couple years of additional schooling.

Given the modest downside risk, what are the potential upsides? If the reports on the Perry Preschool Program are accurate and the effects can be replicated, there are a large savings to be had, mostly from the reduction in crime. [4☆]

But can the effects be replicated? The sample size for the Perry Preschool Project was relatively small. As far as Early Childhood Education programs go, the effectiveness of Head Start, which provides more than just preschool and is "based on a 'whole child' model," is disputed. [5☆][6☆] However...

Two older "high-quality" preschool programs mentioned frequently in the research literature are the HighScope Perry Preschool program from Ypsilanti, Michigan, and the Chicago Child-Parent Center (CPC) program. These programs include parent education and support and thus differ in significant ways from the type of preschool programs offered by Head Start, as well as the more recent "high-quality" programs. They are also much more expensive on a per-capita basis. Both the CPC and the HighScope Perry Preschool programs were started in the 1960s, and researchers have carried out long-term cost-benefit analyses for both programs. These analyses conclude that better long-term outcomes more than pay for their higher program costs, mainly in the form of higher career income and lower rates of criminal behavior.

- Armor & Sousa [6☆]

By 2018, the "Reach Up and Learn" program Heckman was speaking of had been expanded to 9 other countries, with varying degrees of effectiveness depending on its implementation. [7☆] (Though its associated US domain has expired.) Heckman's own study is, as one would expect, positive about the effects - and was published in Science.

Early childhood education increased earnings by 25%, enough for growth-stunted children to completely catch up to the earnings of the non-stunted comparison group. The control group remained far behind. In fact, average earnings from full-time jobs were 25% higher for the treatment group than for the control group. Ninety-eight percent of treated children had been employed at age 22, with 94% in full-time jobs.

Jamaica is not America, and interventions that worked under conditions in Jamaica might be less effective in America. However, if it could be achieved, a 25% increase in median income would put black American households at roughly $57k annual income, just above hispanic households, and within striking distance of the $59k target.

A nutritional intervention was also attempted, however, although "Other studies have shown cognitive benefits from nutritional supplementation in the first 24 months," Heckman wrote, "The nutrition supplement for the child was often shared with the family, so it may not have been sufficient to produce better outcomes."

And the nutrition angle might be worth looking into - the study cited (preceded by an analysis, by one of the same authors, of 13 studies on the subject) by Scott Alexander in Society is Fixed, Biology is Mutable showed that vitamins didn't do much for well-nourished kids, but that a minority of undernourished kids may have benefitted greatly.

-☆☆☆-

[1☆] As of 2014, asian Americans lived about 86 years, hispanics about 83 years, and non-hispanic whites about 79 years.

[2☆] In 2019, asian households had a median household income of $98,174 US to white non-hispanic median household income of $76,057. (It should be noted however, as shown in this Wikipedia article that is easier to read than the government data it cites, that household median incomes for groups within "white" or "asian" are not all the same.)

[3] Heckman's program and attitude suggest that an ideological explanation of how we got here isn't included, just an assumption of lack of access to resources by impoverished parents, whether that's in Jamaica, Peru, or China. This suggests the program lacks a loop where program failure just means that the program wasn't tried hard enough.

[4☆] Updating the Economic Impacts of the High/Scope Perry Preschool Program (2005)

At a 3% discount rate the program repays $12.90 for every $1 invested from the perspective of the general public; with a 7% discount rate, the repayment per dollar is $5.67. Returns are even higher if the total benefits--both public and private--are counted. However, there are strong differences by gender: a large proportion of the gains from the program come from lower criminal activity rates by the treatment group, almost all of which is undertaken by the males in the sample. The implications of these findings for public policy on early childhood education are considered.

[5☆] Wikipedia collects a number of studies both for and against.

[6☆] The Dubious Promise of Universal Preschool David J. Armor & Sonia Sousa, National Affairs (2014/01, arch. 2014/01)

[7☆] Reach Up: how a Jamaican early childhood intervention swept the world APolitical.co (2018/04)

[silverhandy]

Verbatim

read on ao3!

Summary:  Having climbed all the way up from Heywood’s slums to Miyabi, one of the most high end casinos in Night City, Santiago "Sanny" Garcia thought himself a lucky man, right until the point when his employer, an Arasaka board member with a gambling business on the side, caught him stealing and offered an impossible ultimatum. Forced to pay off his debt or die trying, Sanny has to renew some old friendships and form some new ones to keep himself afloat.

On top of everything, when his cyberware starts malfunctioning, there’s only one person on his long contact list that he can call.

“Where’s your Trauma platinum when you need it, pendejo?”

“Kicking a man when he’s down? Never expected that from you” Sanny groaned, burying his face in a pillow. He’d give anything for the world to stop spinning, just for a second. Faced with a heavy silence, he cracked one eye open to see Maria’s disgruntled expression on the holo. “It got revoked, okay? I’m literally begging here.”

“You're not,” she replied, the frown still not leaving her face. Sanny could swear at least some part of her was enjoying it. “At least not yet.”

“C’mon, hermana. I’m-” before he could finish that sentence, he was cut off by another wave of nausea strong arming its way through him. He barely had the chance to haul himself over the edge of the bed to vomit into the bucket he put there, anything to avoid ruining his ridiculously expensive, silk sheets.

Sanny could practically feel Maria’s judging stare on him as she got a front row seat on her brother puking his brains out. He understood her, in a way - their last conversation wasn’t exactly a pleasant one. Maybe he went a little overboard with his bragging. Still, she was his only sibling that still kept in touch with him, all the rest a step away from declaring him a total stranger.

As he wiped his mouth, desperate to get rid of the bitter taste of bile, he entertained the thought of apologizing to her. Was that his new low? At the mercy of his older sister? Certainly not a position he thought he’d find himself in, not after he decided to say goodbye to Heywood for good. She had every right to resent him just as the rest of the family did, but despite it all, they still kept in contact. A sporadic, passive aggressive contact, but a contact nevertheless.

She let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. You’re lucky my day freed up, otherwise you’d have to call some other sorry fucker. Text me the address, I’ll be there in an hour, maybe two.”

“Two hours? You for real?”

“Don’t push your luck, Santiago.”

                                                              ***

“That ripperdoc of yours, how reliable is he?”

“He knows his stuff. Just bear in mind he doesn’t usually take on corpos.”

“Not a corpo.” Sanny mumbled, resting his forehead on the cold glass of the passenger's window.

“You sure as hell look like one” she replied, not taking her eyes off the road.

“When in Rome, do as Romans do…”

The car hit a bump, making Sanny smack his head against the glass. An explosion of pain followed as an array of angrily white stars danced in front of his vision, sprinkled with not less alarming system failure warnings. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Maria did that on purpose, but she wasn’t responsible for the state of the neighborhood's roads. Not directly, at least.

“We’re here.” Maria’s voice snapped him out of his stupor. Some time must’ve passed because when he opened his eyes they were parked on the edge of a wide, busy street, various shops, and nightclubs drawing customers in with their loud neons and whatever else they had to offer. Luckily for Sanny, they didn’t have to walk all the way through it, loud sounds and aggressively bright lights coming at him from all directions, mercilessly aggravating his headache before they turned the corner and walked through the gate leading to a small, crumpled backyard. Maria led him down another set of stairs to an unlabeled basement, one of those places you needed to know were there to find them.

“Hey Vik!'' she said as she passed the gate to the underground clinic, walking in as if she owned the place. Sanny followed behind, his usual confidence shrinking. If what Maria said was true, there was a real chance that the ripperdoc would turn him away and he doubted he had the resolve to drag himself to another one. Suddenly Fukuzawa’s offer of a bullet to the head seemed much more appealing.

When the ripperdoc turned his head towards them, a warm smile appeared on his face as his eyes landed on Maria. Tossing the screwdriver he’d been holding aside, he got up to greet her, though Sanny could tell he was eyeing him over her shoulder as well. He couldn’t blame him - he probably looked like a breathing trainwreck.

“Hey, good to see you.” the ripper said to Maria. “So you must be Sanny?” he asked, suddenly shifting his attention to the younger man, extending a muscular arm towards him. The ripper was built like a fucking truck and Mal could feel his mouth go dry, and only partially because he must be severely dehydrated at this point. Suddenly regretting that he didn’t at least take a shower before Maria came to pick him up, he took a step forward to shake the man’s hand.

“That’s me.” Sanny smiled nervously, his paled face twitching with the effort.

“Viktor Vector’s the name. Heard a lot about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Sanny could hear his voice cracking, mind racing at all the things Maria could possibly say about him while in her ripper’s chair. There were many and only a few made Sanny proud of himself.

“I’ll leave you boys to chat. Don’t want no part in this.” Maria said, a crooked smile on her face. “I’ll wait in the car. Vik, feel free to add this to my tab.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

And just like that, she left him there. Great.

“Alright, let’s get you seated, don’t want you to crack your head open if you fall.” Sanny heard Viktor say. Too busy trying to keep down the few sips of water he got before leaving the apartment, he didn’t even notice how his silhouette started to sway to the side, only stopped by the ripperdoc’s strong arm on his shoulder, steadying him and gently ushering him in the direction of the chair.

Looking back, the whole thing couldn’t have happened to him at a worse time, shortly after he got dropped from the Trauma Team health plan, his regular ripper bidding him farewell with an apologetic smile, even taking a step further to wish him luck. So much for the Hippocratic oath. Sanny watched silently as Viktor kicked himself a chair and sat down to fire up the monitors, typing away at the beat up keyboard until eventually, he reached out a hand.

“Your personal link, please.”

“‘f course” Sunny mumbled, handing him the cable and watching as the doc jacked it into the port, on the first try even. Must be the practice, Sanny thought and allowed his head to rest on the headboard, the blue leather cracking slightly as Viktor started running diagnostics on his cyberware.

“That’s an impressive set you got there”

If he wasn’t feeling so damn miserable, he'd smirk. Impressive was an understatement, with his array of the state of the art cyberware, from behavioral boosters to those refining his fine motor skills to a point he was practically a magician with a deck of cards. Or a lockpick, but he was yet to get desperate enough to give that career path a try.

“My job has its perks.”

“You a croupier at Miyabi?” it seemed that Viktor was rather keen on small talk, a quality that Sanny didn’t quite share, but hesitantly welcomed.

“Figured it out from my tech or did my sister tell you?”

“Bit of both, I suppose.”

Jacked and insightful. What more could Sanny possibly want?  Then again, it wasn’t a time in his life for romantic pursuits, both this specific moment, lying sick on the ripperdoc’s chair and in a broader sense, when he had a figurative gun to his head, a literal one soon to follow if he doesn’t resolve the mess he got himself into.

“Other than dizziness, anything else bothering you?

“Uh,” Sanny turned his head to look at the other man. There were many things bothering him and most had little to do with his current physical condition. “I haven't been able to keep anything down for a few days now. Not even the damn pills for the headache. Running self diagnostics didn’t spit out anything useful either.”

Viktor’s brows furrowed as he shot the younger man a glance from behind his shades. Disapproval? Concern?

“It’s been this bad and you’re only now seeing a ripper?”

“Maria told you where I work but didn’t share why I’m visiting a back alley doctor? How considerate.”

“You guys don’t get along too well, huh?” Sanny frowned at the direction this conversation was going, but there was nothing he could do but enjoy the ride.

“It’s...an on and off thing between us.” he just mumbled, desperate to avoid Viktor’s gaze. Lucky for Sanny, the ripper’s attention seemed to be entirely on the monitors in front of him.

“Just remember, kid,” Viktor said, finally turning to look at Sanny’s face. “she cares about you a lot. Wouldn’t bring you here if she didn’t.”

Sanny just hummed in response. Deep down, he knew the ripper was right, but the whole exchange only made him even more curious about what exactly Maria had been saying about him. It couldn’t be half as bad as he thought he deserved because not only had Viktor not kicked him out of the chair, but was even nice to him. Go figure.

“Alright then,” Viktor said, unplugging the younger man’s personal link. “had to do some cleaning in your CPU, you should be up and running in a few hours. Take this before going to bed for the night,” a strip of pills was placed in his hand “and in the future, watch what you plug your personal link into. I know you guys working in high end casinos get a fancy firewall as part of the package, but it’s not foolproof.

“It sure ain’t, doc. Thanks for the advice,” Sanny smiled, motioning to get up from the chair. “and everything else.”

Whatever Viktor did, the effect was immediate; the clinic was no longer swaying and his stomach didn’t threaten to twist itself inside out every time he moved his head. He still felt like he was experiencing a crescendo of the worst hangover of his life, but it was nothing that couldn’t be managed with a shower and a fresh change of clothes. Who knows, he might even get bold and eat something, though he still wasn’t sure about that one.

“Don’t mention it, I don’t often get the chance to tinker with Miyabi tech. And if you’re open to some more pieces of advice, you should be thanking your sister, not me.”

“I’ll make sure to do just that.”

“Should you run into more trouble with software, my clinic’s always open. I’ll send you the number, so don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

Did he just…? No fucking way, Sanny thought as he walked up the stairs, leaving the clinic behind.

                                                            ***

“So...how’re the Valentinos treatin’ you?”

“Actually, I…puta madre!” she shouted, blasting her hand against the car’s horn as she slammed the brakes to make her disdain loud and clear to the driver who tried to cut her off at the intersection. A litany of insults from the would-be culprit followed, another sound in a cacophony of Heywood’s streets. Maria shook her head, dark locks of her hair shaking with the movement like a swarm of angry bees. “I left.”

“And here I was thinking the position of the family’s black sheep was already taken.”

“Don’t ever think you’re the special one just because you shuffle cards for the big guys.”

“Oh, I could never. So what do you do now?”

“Independent. It took a while, but a friend got me hooked up with some reliable fixers.”

“A “friend”? Don’t tell me that on top of everything, you got yourself a man. Or a woman?”

Maria shot him a warning glare. “It’s nothing like that. Jackie just helped me get back on my feet, introduced me to some people. I’ve been fending for myself since then.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Way better than for you. The hell did you do to piss off your corporate overlords?”

“All I can say for now is that you can leave Heywood, but Heywood never leaves you. Took one too many risks and all it did was land me before the one and only Akio Fukuzawa, who apparently doesn’t take kindly to humbled employees when his eddies are missing.”

“And yet here you are, still alive.”

“What can I say? I’m a charming guy.”

They spent the rest of the car ride in silence, Maria’s eyes fixed on the road, maroon painted nails tapping on the steering wheel in the rhythm of whatever was playing on the radio while Sanny pretended to be mesmerized by whatever they were passing on their way, in reality pulling up his comms interface to scroll through all the text messages he sent to fixers before the damn virus made it impossible to see straight. Almost all of them were left on read and unanswered. Sanny presumed they were bound to remain so. He didn’t have the reputation necessary to land any of the bigger contracts and no time to build it up before Fukuzawa’s minions showed up on his doorstep.

They parked in front of his building, mere centimeters away from bumping into a lampost. Sanny choked down a sigh. There was no escaping it now.

“Thanks, hermana. I owe you one,” he uttered, motioning to get out of the car. Just as he pushed the door open, his comms chimed with a text message from an unknown number. Getting out of the car, he waved to dismiss it, thinking it must be another of those spam chains that’d been flooding his inbox from time to time, but froze halfway through when his eyes landed on the text. The contract was vague on details, but the reward was crystal clear. Sanny could almost feel his jaw dropping as he looked at the impressive number of zeros that followed the first digit. It should be enough. More than enough to pay Fukuzawa off, even if, as per the fixer’s demand, he’ll have to cut the amount in half and share with a partner. He was so dumbfounded he didn’t hear Maria’s reply, or if she replied at all, but when he turned back one last time, she was eying him from head to toe suspiciously. Then she just shook her head slightly as if shushing away a thought.

“And Sanny?” she said, rolling down her window and shooting him a glare from behind her shades. “don’t you dare fuck my ripperdoc.”

[ya-boiiiii]

Alright, headcanon time for my V

All characters listed as long time friends of hers had some part of taking care of her growing up

I headcanon Pepe (the bartender during the first part of the street kid life path) as thirteen years older than V

Victor Vector as approximately fifty during the main game

And Padre (fixer) as old as balls

V sees Padre as a dad

Victor as an uncle

And Pepe as that one fun extremely older brother

The only reason he counts as fun is that he's given V alcohol since she was eight

Padre found out and was pissed

How Pepe hasn't died yet is beyond me

Beyond everyone in the game as well apparently

Level 1000 chaotic himbo

V also never went to school so most of her knowledge comes from stuff she's picked up on the streets

Or from those three

Basically, she can't do division but knows how to transplant a heart, kill a man with a sock, make numerous cocktails, etc...

Was kinda sad that I couldn't do this in game but

She's very soft with Pepe

And only jokes about him owing her

They hug a ton

V passes it off as she was drunk

Everyone knows better

Mainly because she has an insane alcohol tolerance

She's been drinking since she was eight after all

I have more but that's good enough for now lol

I'll probably make more

[machinegunnerdave]

Vecpio Week Day 2- Payday

To the Chaotix Detectives, it was a perfect evening. They casually strolled down the streets of Seaside City, as if nothing mattered at all.

"I can't believe the robber was the mailman the whole time!" Charmy exclaimed. It had taken nearly a week, but they had solved their first case in what seemed like ages.

"He covered his tracks pretty well," Vector admitted. "But he was no match for us!"

"The most important thing is that the culprit is in jail now," Espio said.

"Don't forget the other important thing!" Charmy brandished a large sack filled to the brim with rings. "Hey, watch it!" Vector hollered as some rings fell out of the bag.

"You're right, Charmy," Espio said, "This is just enough to finally pay the rent."

"Yeah, or we could buy a dinosaur!" Charmy grinned.

"I don't know if that'll fit in the apartment," Espio chuckled, "But maybe you can get something at the toy store..."

"We haven't gone out in a while, maybe we can go see a movie," Vector said.

"YES! YES!" Charmy squealed, "I wanna see the new Walley the Wolf movie! PLEASE?!"

Espio sighed, "Charmy, you can either get a new MegaBrix set, or we can see the movie. But you have to pick one."

"Aw, no fair!"

"Or we could just go home, if you want," Vector smirked.

"No way, Vector!" Charmy whined, "I guess I'll pick....." He paused to weigh his options "movie! This is gonna be great!"

Vector grumbled. The last thing he needed was to sit through some dumb kid's movie. Oh well, he thought. At least I can get a nap in.

"Two adults and one child, that'll be... 75 rings, please!" The cashier said.

"WHAT?!" Vector roared, "For a kid's movie??"

"Well, it is the 3D showing, sir."

"It was the only one before Charmy's bedtime," Espio muttered before turning to the cashier. "Excuse me, but doesn't that sign say families get a discount on Tuesdays?"

"Wh- oh, right. S-sorry about that," the cashier stammered. "That'll be 40 rings then." Vector handed the money over, and the cashier gave them their tickets and glasses. "Hope you and your son like the movie!"

The three bought a small popcorn to share and went to find their seats. "All right, we're in Row E...." Vector muttered, "Seats 8,9, and 10. Right... here!" Vector sat in the innermost seat, followed by Espio and Charmy, who sat next to the aisle in case he needed to leave to use the bathroom.

"Espio?" Charmy asked, "Why did you tell that guy we're a family?"

"Well, we kind of are one, aren't we?" Espio replied, "We all live together, and we care about each other very much."

"But does that mean you and Vector are-"

"Quiet, Charmy!" Vector shouted. "Espio was just tryin' to save us some money, that's all!"

Espio couldn't help but notice that Vector's cheeks looked a little red, but that might've just been the screen lighting up as the movie started. He put on his 3D glasses. After all, if he paid to see a movie, why not try to enjoy it?

Vector had to admit, the movie wasn't the worst thing ever. The main character, Walley, was a robot wolf who was looking for a friend. Walley loved old music and finding rare objects. Later in the movie, he found Eva, a robot iguana who wanted to be a dancer. Sure, it was cheesy, but it was enough to warm Vector's heart. He reached into the popcorn bag, only to find Espio's hand.

Espio was so enthralled by the movie that he hardly noticed Vector touching his hand. The movie had reached its climax, where Walley and Eva were flying through the air together, almost like dancing. The motion was so smooth and so fluid, Espio could hardly believe it was a kid's cartoon. The plot had been building and building for this climax, and it was so amazing to see the payoff. Maybe there was more to silly cartoons than he previously thought.

Suddenly, Espio realized that he and Vector were basically holding hands in the popcorn bag. He quickly pulled his hand away and tried to apologize, but Vector didn't seem to mind.

A few minutes later, the movie ended with a sickeningly-sweet "happily ever after", and the lights came back on in the theater. Vector and Espio looked over to find Charmy sleeping peacefully in his seat. Vector shook his head and carried Charmy out of the theater.

"I can't believe Charmy of all people fell asleep," Vector said, "Oh, well. At least the movie wasn't a complete waste of money."

"Oh, come on," Espio said, "I thought it was sweet."

"Yeah, you're right. I liked the dancing bit, near the end. We should try something like that." Vector trailed off near the end, as if he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"You mean, you want to dance with me?" Espio asked. Vector immediately looked away, embarrassed. "I think that'd be fun. Maybe after next payday, we'll go out together."

"You really want to?" Vector asked.

"Vector, if this is your way of asking me out on a date, then yes. Absolutely."

Suddenly, Vector's phone rang. He handed Charmy off to Espio before picking up his phone. "Hello?" he answered, "What? You- ok. Yeah! No problem! We'll be there first thing tomorrow!" He turned to Espio with a dumb grin on his face. "You won't believe it, we got another client!"

Espio smiled, "Seems like payday's coming up again."

"You sure you don't wanna change your mind about the date thing?"

"Of course not!" Espio laughed, "How could I?"

To Vector, it was a perfect night. Not just because of the beautiful weather or the cash he earned.

But because Espio said yes.

[elbiotipo]

Gordon Freeman Saved My Life!

City 17 wasn’t on its best shape before the Citadel exploded; now, the quaint European streets and brutalist apartment blocks were little more than random piles of concrete scattered around. Many people left already after the final defeat of the Combine and the liberation of Earth. Even if Dr. Kleiner insisted that the radiation left by the explosion was “harmless, by the most part”, in all common sense, there was little reason to stay there.

But the thing is, City 17 was inhabited by humans. And where some humans just see devastated ruins, others see things worth cherising, a place worth rebuilding.

“I think a couple greenhouses would look good up there in that roof. Plenty of sun, and the rest of the building seems mostly intact, it would look downright decent with a new coat of paint. A good place to start anew... many people would love something like that... What do you think, Doc?”

Alyx looked at Gordon, deep in his thought. Even such little dilemmas of (now) daily life put the gears on his mind to work. She didn’t really expect an answer; a verbal one at least, it was rare from him after all (though more common lately...). But she did know he would respond with action, as he always did. He scratched his beard -he was letting it grow lately- and fixed his glasses. Frankly, of all the crazy things she’d lived with Gordon, the most amazing one was the fact he didn’t lose his glasses once. Good thing, too; the optical industry was just barely being rebuilt.

Gordon nodded at Alyx. He went ahead and entered through the broken windowshop and climbed the stairs of the abandoned building, crowbar in one hand, the gravity gun on his hip. Ecological restoration was going on steadily, but headcrabs were still a nuisance in urban areas -as much as a jumping rotisserie chicken that can horribly zombify you can be called a ‘nuisance’- luckily, this building was clean. He got to the roof. He felt the wind on his sweat, the soft spring sun on his skin, and thought, after some brief calculations, that it was good.

So he took out the gravity gun and started his job. With the patience of a kid on his last coin in a crane machine, he unloaded the supplies from the boxes labeled “FOR EARTH RECONSTRUCTION - BLACK MESA SCIENCE TEAM”; metal beams, rolls of plastic, pipes, soil, planters, seedlings, and other materials to build greenhouses to feed the citizens of what was still one of the world’s largest cities; and then slowly started to bring them to the roof of the old 20th century building.

He was very good at theoretical physics, but he could had been a good engineer too. Or a farmer. Physical work suited him, Alyx thought. A lot.

Even if the gravity gun did most of the job.

Heh. Physicist, physical.

“You’re an eager worker antlion today, Gordon. You didn’t even wait for me, huh?” she teased from below.

“You were right, Alyx.”

Gordon, of course, seldom spoke, and when he did, it was always in a serious tone. Even when talking from the top of a building. Despite spending so much time together, it still caught Alyx off-guard sometimes; while she felt easy to talk to him most of the time, to answer him often made her blush and stammer, no matter the topic.

She should just spit it out one of these days and be done with it, she thought. Goddamn it, wasn’t it time already? How long would she wait?

“W-what do you mean?”

“The angle of the sun is excellent here. And the roof has good space. Perfect for a greenhouse. Good eye, Alyx.” he said, not taking his eye from his work, like always.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, you know...” she scratched the back of her head. “Anything to make the work of my worker antlion easier.”, and gave a thumbs up with a wink. Gordon smiled, and while he was a bit far away, she swore he blushed. Yep, cute names worked. The wink couldn’t have hurted either.

As she watched Dr. Gordon Freeman manipulate the laws of physics with the amazing power of science, she had a fun idea.

“Hey, hey, Gordon!”

He looked at her.

“Pick me up!”

Gordon lifted his eyebrows.

“With the gravity gun! Bring me up to the roof!”

Gordon looked away, thinking. He was unsure.

“Come on, it’ll be fun! I’ll help you out when I get up there, promise!”

Gordon sighed.

“I’ll be careful! Come on, antlion!”

‘It was him who needed to be careful!’, he worried.

She would either keep at it all afternoon or be dissapointed later. And Gordon never wanted to disapoint Alyx. So he carefully checked the settings, and finally pointed the gravity gun at her and engaged it.

The graviton particle beam of the Zero Point Energy Field Manipulator surrounded her and produced a sensation on her skin that could be best described as ‘tingly’. She slowly lifted from the ground and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh yeah, this rules!” She said, and struck a Superman pose, while humming the theme from an old movie, as she got higher. She was getting close to the roof.

“Higher, Gordon!” She said, as she did a loop in mid air. “Woo!”. Gordon couldn’t help but smile, despite the anxiety that seeing her floating in the air sensibly provoked.

She ‘flew’ right in front of him. They both smiled, face to face, although he was standing and she was resting on an invisible air couch. Alyx giggled.

“Hey, take me higher! I wanna see the city from above!”

Gordon was, on his mind, nervously calculating vectors, trajectories and forces so that Alyx didn’t fall down. Even her weight, though maybe it was a little rude. It wasn’t the first time he thought about Alyx’s body, though, as much as he wouldn’t admit it at all...

The beam was on a weird setting to begin with, and as she flew over him, he was worried on how much longer he could keep it up. She was too high, and the gravity gun wasn’t as reliable as one would like, and if she fell down she definitively could hurt herself, and after all it happened, it couldn’t be like that, and he had to do something!

“Alyx...”

“Wooo! What is it, Gordon?”

He was trying to bring her down, when the beam grew fainter and she started to fall, walking in midair. It was just as he feared. He dropped the gun and ran to her.

He catched her on his arms. He wasn’t wearing the HEV suit (fortunately it was needed less and less...) but his arms were strong enough to carry her.. like a princess, maybe? He wouldn’t say that to her face.

The both of them gasped and then exhaled. Alyx was smiling. It got a little scary at the end, sure, but she had worse. It was more of a thrill than anything.

And another thing that was thrilling right now was being princess-carried by the One Free Man.

“Wow.” She sighed. “Uh, t-thanks for the, the catch, Gordon...” She stammered. She looked at his face. She expected to see him blushing and looking away, like he did lately. Instead, he looked at her with worry, breathing heavily.

“Don’t worry, I’m OK, Gordon!” she said, as she climbed down from him -not that she wouldn’t have minded staying a little more like that, but even she was a bit shy sometimes...- and stretched her arms, now in safe ground once again. “Thanks to you, of course! Gordon Freeman saved my life! What a legend. Though I guess you’re used to hearing that, huh?”

He just stared and smiled akwardly. He was really worried. Oh no. Ugh, now she felt really bad. If only she could rewind back what she said...

“Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine. You got me at the nick of time. Don’t worry.”

Gordon nodded, but his face was still concerned.

“H-hey, how about I help you with the greenhouse like I said?”

He nodded. She grabbed her tools and they put their minds and hands to work.

...

“You know what we should plant? Chili peppers. There’s this guy down the street, he was from City 9, I mean, Mexico, before they sent him here... He makes damn good tacos. He would be so happy to get his ingredients from here. Pretty sure they could grow in the greenhouse. It’s a good thing so many people brought their recipes and such here. Now that we have lots of seeds once again, things here might get a lot more tasty...”

The spring sun was setting in the horizon. While the reconstructed building wasn’t very tall, most of the city could be seen from there. Scattered here and there, there were neighboroods -those that have been deemed safe- turning on their lights. Most houses had patches of green on their roofs; some parks and gardens were already having flowers. And beyond them, in the center, the twisted alien metal of the ruins of the Citadel still stood, mostly out of inertia, as nobody could be able to remove it. It was part of the city now, in a way.

Gordon and Alyx were sitting -at a safe distance from the edge- in the roof of the building, with a brand new greenhouse behind them. A couple of bottles of cold water, scattered tools, and some pigeons kept them company.

“...I mean, I didn’t have much to choose when I grew up, with, you know, the alien invasion and the Combine regime and all, but I miss some good ol’ homemade food every now and then, you know? I’m sure you have some favorite foods you miss from the old times, too.”

He just nodded, looking at the sunset.

Alyx looked at him, and then again at the city horizon.

She sighed.

“Are you still mad?” She finally asked, softly, looking at her feet.

Gordon took quite a while to answer. She wasn’t worried about that; he always did. What she was worried about was the answer.

“...I’m not mad...”

Well, off to a good start.

“...I was just worried you could get hurt. That’s all.”

“Sorry. I... I just wanted to have some fun. And I did! but... I Didn’t want to make you worry. Sorry. Won’t do it again.”

Gordon’s idea of fun was more about reading about new research or watching bad old sci-fi movies. But to be fair, making Alyx fly was a little fun, it really was!

But he still felt uneasy.

“You’re fine, after all. It was just a little scare. And it WAS a little fun.” He clarified, smiling. “It’s fine.” He said.

And then Gordon found her looking at him, her eyes drifting away from the sunset to him.

It was time for Alyx to think. She stayed silent for so long that Gordon became a little worried.

“I’m... I’m always fine with you.” She finally said, softly. “If I’m in danger, you always come to save me. And you can trust I’ll ALWAYS do the same for you, too. You’ve always saved me. And I’m so glad. I’m so gald you did. So I could be with you.” She looked away, blushing. It was as close as a confession she could get. Even if maybe it wasn’t the best time.

She glanced at Gordon for a second. He was blushing. She was sure he got what she meant. In a way, it only made her feel more embarrased.

Another silence.

“Alyx... I... Don’t want to save your life anymore.” What? Before she could say something, he continued. “That is not the life I want for you, or me. I want... to live my life with you.”

Alyx stared at him, her mouth open, her entire mind blank, only a soft, tingly warmth, one that she felt so many times, yet like never as before.

“Gordon...”

“I don’t mind a little adventure every now and then...” he uncharacteristically added. “But... I would like to live a quiet life right now.” He paused, as if couldn’t continue.

He was absolutely red.

She wanted to say so many things. In fact, she didn’t expect Gordon to say all of this, at once, even.

“I’ll... try to... give you less headaches, then.” she giggled. “But you better do your part too, I mean... I know you like jumping in portals and crawling in sewers, Doc. You aren’t as innocent as you look.” She giggled. It wasn’t even that funny. She just tried to make jokes to lighten the mood. And she was feeling extremely happy after all. “Sorry, stupid joke.” Gordon didn’t mind. He nodded and sighed, smiling.

“And I’m up for it every time. But I... Really want to live a nice life with you too. I think it’s time.” she finally said, her words becoming softer at the end.

She got closer to him and took his hand. It wasn’t the first time they held hands, but it often was in more dire circumstances. Today, there was just the spring breeze and the soft smell of garden earth.

Earth.

He held her hand back. Alyx got closer. And a little bold, again. As she liked.

She rested her head on his shoulder. Gordon was frozen. But still very warm.

“Hey. Dr. Freeman.” She whispered. “Do you mind if we kiss?”

She was surprised when he answered instantly.

“Not at all.”

They returned very late to Black Mesa East that night.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

THE COURAGE OF PROJECT

Then when you start a startup anywhere. That's why mice and rabbits are furry and elephants and hippos aren't.1 The very design of the average site in the late twentieth century. He got a 4x liquidation preference. Google, it's hard to get into grad school in math. Can we claim founders are better off as a result of this new trend. Where you live should make at most a couple percent difference. But investing later should also mean they have fewer losers.

They make something moderately appealing and have decent initial growth.2 If you major in math it will be whatever the startup can get from the first one to write a paper for school, his mother would tell him: find a way to turn a billion dollar industry into a fifty million dollar industry, so much the better, if all fifty million go to you. The classic yuppie worked for a small organization. Before us, most companies in the startup funding business. The best way to get a big idea can take roost.3 4 or 5 million. This essay grew out of something I wrote for myself to figure out how to increase their load factors. But you can also apply some force by focusing the discussion: by asking what specific questions they need answered to make up their minds. This plan collapsed under its own weight.4 Startups happened because technology started to change so fast that big companies could no longer keep a lid on the smaller ones.

The only place your judgement makes a difference is in the industry.5 People who do great work, and it's a bad sign when you have a special word for that. One of the exhilarating things about coming back to Cambridge every spring is walking through the streets at dusk, when you can see into the houses. If you have steep revenue growth, say over 6x a year, no matter how many good startups approach him. Recently we managed to recruit her to help us run YC when she's not busy with architectural projects.6 This works better when a startup has 3 founders than 2, and better when the leader of the company in later rounds. I'm not saying you can get away with zero self-discipline.

We're not a replacement for don't give up. What you should not do is rebel. But while series A rounds from VCs. Someone who's scrappy manages to be both threatening and undignified at the same world everyone else does, but notice some odd detail that's compellingly mysterious.7 Even Tim O'Reilly was wearing a suit, a sight so alien I couldn't parse it at first. They can't tell how smart you are.8 The story about Web 2. Maybe one day the most important thing is to be learned from whatever book on it happens to be closest. This essay is derived from a keynote at FOWA in October 2007. They'll decide later if they want to raise.9

Sometimes it reached the point of economic sadism: site owners assumed that the more pain they caused the user, the more benefit it must be to them. It's cities that compete, not countries.10 Kids are curious, but the best founders are certainly capable of it. But investors are so fickle that you can fix for a lot of time on work that interests you, and don't just refuse to. But you have to be an insider.11 A key ingredient in many projects, almost a project on its own, is to step onto an orthogonal vector. So ironically the original description of the Web 2. Back when it cost a lot to like I've done a few things, like intro it to my friends at Foundry who were investors in Service Metrics and understand this model I am also talking to my friend Mark Pincus who had an idea like this a few years ago.12 0 seemed to mean was something about democracy. We didn't have enough saved to live on. There is another reason founders don't ask themselves whether they're default alive or default dead.13

So most investors prefer, if they wanted, raise series A rounds. They're unable to raise more money, and precisely when you'll have to switch to plan B if plan A isn't working. That doesn't mean the investor says yes to everyone. Miss out on what? It's so cheap to start web startups that orders of magnitudes more will be started. Investors evaluate startups the way customers evaluate products, not the way bosses evaluate employees. The bust was as much an overreaction as the boom.14 Startups are undergoing the same transformation that technology does when it becomes cheaper.15 Another way to fly low is to give them something for free that competitors charge for. After all, a Web 2.16 He bought a suit.

Instead you'll be compelled to seek growth in other ways. They all knew their work like a piano player knows the keys. But consulting is far from free money. They say they're going to get eliminated. What does it mean, exactly? If investors were perfect judges, the two would require exactly the same skills. And to be both good and novel, an idea probably has to seem bad to most people, or someone writes a particularly interesting article, it will show up there. The mere existence of prep schools is proof of that.17 So far the complete list of messages I've picked up from cities is: wealth, style, hipness, physical attractiveness wouldn't have been a total immersion. Don't just do what they tell you to do. But advancing technology has made web startups so cheap that you really can get a portrait of the normal distribution of most applicant pools, it matters least to judge accurately in precisely the cases where judgement has the most effect—you won't take rejection so personally. If raising money is hard.

There is no sharp line between the two types of startup ideas: those that grow organically out of your own life, and those that you decide, from afar, are going to get rarer. While some VCs have technical backgrounds, I don't know enough to say, but it happens surprisingly rarely.18 Most subjects are taught in such a boring way that it's only by discipline that you can never safely treat fundraising as more than a startup that seems like it's going to stop.19 It sounds obvious to say that you should worry? One reason startups prefer series A rounds? When I was in high school either. If you feel you've been misjudged, you can do. Google. Of course, someone has to take money from people who are young but smart and driven can make more by starting their own companies after college instead of getting jobs, that will change what happens in college.

Notes

Though they are themselves typical users. But it takes to get good grades in them to private schools that in three months, a valuation. Giving away the razor and making more per customer makes it easier to get them to stay in a time machine.

Apple's early history are from an angel investment from a mediocre VC.

In the beginning.

Plus ca change. But on the other.

And that is exactly the point of a stock is its future earnings, you now get to go behind the scenes role in IPOs, which allowed banks and savings and loans to buy it despite having no evidence it's for sale.

However, it will seem dumb in 100 years. Digg is Slashdot with voting instead of blacklist.

Sofbot.

I write out loud can expose awkward parts.

I've become a so-called signalling risk.

Hint: the way they have because they couldn't afford a monitor.

And it's particularly damaging when these investors flake, because there was a new search engine is low. They have no connections, you'll find that with a wink, to take care of one's markets is ultimately just another way in which income is doled out by Mitch Kapor, is to raise money after Demo Day, there would be easy to discount, but I'm not against editing. As one very successful YC founder told me they like the one hand and the exercise of stock options than any preceding president, he tried to shift back. At three months we can't believe anyone would think twice before crossing him.

Progressive tax rates has a significant startup hub. He, like speculators, that alone could in principle 100,000 sestertii apiece for slaves learned in the early adopters you evolve the idea is crack. As we walked in, we love big juicy lumbar disc herniation as juicy except literally.

It's sometimes argued that we didn't, they thought at least accepted additions to the modern idea were proposed by Timothy Hart in 1964, two years, it was cooked up by the National Center for Education Statistics, about 28%. I've come to accept that investors don't like the bizarre consequences of this essay talks about programmers, but I know of no Jews moving there, and should in some ways First Round excluded their most successful startups are competitive like running, not the original text would in itself deserving. This is not whether it's good enough at obscuring tokens for this type are also several you can't even claim, like play in a city with few other startups, because time seems to pass. Please do not try to avoid that.

This kind of people starting normal companies too. If Ron Conway had been raised religious and then using growth rate to manufacture a perfect growth curve, etc, and then a block or so.

But it is to trick admissions officers. I meant. The mere possibility of being harsh to founders. As he is at fault, since 95% of the class of 2007 came from such schools.

I started doing research for this purpose are still, as they are now. There was no more unlikely than it would be easier to say that it is dishonest of the next round, that suits took over during a critical point in the usual standards for truth. Wittgenstein: The French Laundry in Napa Valley.

It wouldn't cut their overall returns tenfold, because they wanted, so the best ideas, they mean statistical distribution. The original Internet forums were not web sites but Usenet newsgroups.

A doctor friend warns that even this can give an inaccurate picture. At some point, when the problems you have no idea what's happening till they also influence one another directly through the window for years while they think they're just mentioning the possibility is that in Silicon Valley. I find hardest to get rich by creating wealth—wealth that, isn't it? Look at those goddamn fleas, they have less money, the big winners aren't all that matters, just as if you'd invested at a famous university who is highly regarded by his peers.

Compromising a server could cause such damage that ASPs that want to pound that message home. He, like arithmetic drills, instead of blacklist.

Thanks to Tim O'Reilly, Peter Norvig, and the guys at O'Reilly for inviting me to speak.

[arabellaflynn]

I am so fucking over this plague thing. More accurately, I am so fucking over everybody being paranoid of this plague thing. Leaving the house isn't giving me panic attacks because of covid, it's because of all the goddamned people.

Look. I understand why people are afraid. When covid goes bad, it can go really bad, like 'intensive care with invasive ventilation' bad. It's just that this amount of fear is incompatible with also getting on with your life in any meaningful way, not to mention it's out of proportion with reality. Hospitalization rates of people with a confirmed case of COVID-19 (so, not counting people who never bothered to get tested, or people who have been exposed and fought the virus off, or people who have never been exposed) is about 82 per 100,000, or 0.082%. Condoms, when used properly, have about a 2% failure rate. If you trust in condoms to keep you childfree, you can trust reasonable, non-paranoid precautions to keep you from dying of covid.

If you catch covid, and you're an otherwise healthy non-elderly person, your experience is overwhelmingly likely to be like the one I had with chicken pox. I was born in 1981, so my prime years as a disease vector were before the varicella zoster vaccine. I caught chicken pox when I was 8 or 9. It blew. I was off school for two weeks, and I spent every moment of that itching like a motherfucker. But, like 59,999 out of 60,000 chicken pox sufferers, I got over it, and I'm still here. This doesn't mean that it's pointless to try to avoid catching it, and it definitely doesn't argue in favor of holding "chicken pox parties" so you can give it to other people on purpose. That's just idiocy. But it does mean that going to Howard Hughes-esque lengths in order to avoid ever coming into contact with it is maybe a little bit of an overreaction.

"Flatten the curve" was never meant to keep us all from catching COVID-19. The novel coronavirus is now endemic in the human population. Everyone is going to get this. Probably not every few months, like rhinovirus-driven colds, but more like pre-vaccine influenza, where if you had common sense and a bit of luck, you'd have a sucky few weeks once or twice a decade. The idea behind "flatten the curve" was to keep everyone from catching it at the same time, so that the number of cases that did need hospitalization never exceeded the number of available hospital beds. Believe it or not the news did explain that part, in tiny words, but everyone seems to have forgotten.

I had to hike into the next town over to pick up some stuff the other day. One of my roommates gawped in horror when I mentioned that I only wear a mask when around people. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts requires face coverings when indoors or when maintaining a distance of at least six feet from other people is impractical. That's fair; those are the circumstances under which cloth masks impede the spread of droplet-borne viral illnesses, be they COVID-19 or some other crap you've picked up. I had a mask, because I was going to talk to another human, and a good chunk of my route went through a populated area where I was likely to meet other people on the sidewalk. But a good chunk of my route also went through parks and quiet suburbs. I was outdoors, a place with notoriously good ventilation, and it was easy to stay 10+ feet away from the few people I saw. Under those conditions, masks have no effect. As long as you handle them by the ear pieces -- because you have been breathing damp schmutz all over the face part -- you can in fact take them off to cool down and breathe, and re-set them when you see people approaching again.

Said roommate wears a mask from the instant she exits the front door to the very moment she gets back in. Even when walking the dog in our wide-open neighborhood, where there is so little traffic you can dodge the other dog-walkers and joggers by walking down the middle of the street if you want. The neighbor kids bike and play games in the road all the time. You can wear a mask under those conditions if you want to, but I can't. I already have a hard enough time not being able to breathe when exerting myself in hot, humid weather. At that point, it's not doing anything physical. Its sole purpose is to act as a talisman to allay your own anxiety about all things covid. Not just anxieties about catching it, but anxieties about not displaying the correct amount of conformity and community-mindedness. I'm not really surprised; virtue signalling is something of a local sport. But that is what's going on. 

Another roommate has taken to disinfecting all the groceries. He started out using wipes but then we ran out, so now he's just got a spray bottle of Clorox and water sitting on the kitchen windowsill. I have politely gone along with this for the most part, but I also intercept my own deliveries, lest he get it into his head to bleach my raw produce. Dr Fauci does not bleach his groceries; I know, because Colbert was a wiseass and asked him on national TV. It's possible to get covid from contaminated surfaces in the same way it's possible to get herpes from a toilet seat, in the sense that it doesn't contradict any known laws of physics, but it's so unlikely that if you can actually demonstrate that it happened you will get written up as a case study. And frankly it doesn't matter what kind of terrifying things are on the outside of your packages as long as you wash your hands.

For those of you who do not have a psychiatric diagnosis, this is what's called an anxiety spiral. Something makes you anxious and you start to see it in terms of risks to your safety, so naturally your response is to start thinking about how to avoid it. You make a plan. But then you start noticing that your plan may not reduce that risk to zero, or may present risks of its own, so you make a second-order plan to plaster over those. But then that plan has holes, so then you need a third-order plan, and so on and so forth quite literally ad infinitum if you can keep it up that long, or until you decompensate rather spectacularly if you can't. The less reliable, concrete information you have about what's going to happen, the worse it gets. If you let it continue to the point of pathology -- which I am starting to see among the general population -- you eventually dig yourself in so deep that you can't get groceries without involving a contingency plan in case of nuclear first-strike from Canada. This, understandably, fucks up your life. I've seen this both first-hand in my own brain, and in being raised by a woman who suffered from such a massive unacknowledged anxiety disorder that she blocked off the front windows of the house for fear that someone walking down the street outside might see that she had the living room lights on.

Your risk of contracting SARS-CoV-2, now that it exists, is not zero. It will never be zero. A vaccine will not bring it down to zero. Technically, your risk of contracting smallpox is also not zero, because there are still a few vials of it lying around somewhere. Your risk of unintentionally spreading it -- which is what the cloth masks are meant to do; if it's not an N95 mask it does nothing to keep you from catching it -- is therefore also not zero. But there comes a point where it is low enough, and you have to just accept that it exists as part of the background chance that you might get run over by a car or fall in the shower or discover an anaphylactic allergy the hard way or keel over from an undetected aneurysm or any of the other ways you can die without warning.

The BLM protesters are doing it right, I think. That's an important thing that has to get done, so they're doing it. They're spending hours in a large crowd of people, so they try to keep a 6' distance and wear a mask, because that's not always feasible. You can't let your fear immobilize you, and there is a finite level to which you can let that fear prompt you to make yourself uncomfortable. Risk tolerance differs from person to person. My housemates are welcome to freak out over the idea of taking the trash out without a mask; I'm not, and I'm not putting one on to spend two minutes out in the side yard at midnight.

And anyone who froths over "kids these days" referring to it as "the 'rona" can cool their jets. This is basically a pandemic tradition. You get a shot every year so you don't catch "the 'flu" -- which, yes, was how it was typographically styled in 1917-19 -- so shut the fuck up.

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[rednexxsaysthing]

giggles this is your fault

ok so i already told you abt my red panda girlie so i put her first but if you want to ignore her cuz you remember her you can just skip to the undercut

Feign~(Fay-n)

Species: Red Panda

Age: 12

Pronouns: She/Her (Trans)

PTSD, ADHD, and in denial about depression

Bisexual queen <3

Team: Chaotix

Background (TWs: Death, murder, mass murder, torture, abvse, masking, fire)

Growing up as a prince in a kingdom, she came from a long line of powerful ancestors who were trained to protect. Her father was king and married her mom, who was extremely abvsive since she was more feminine than masculine.

One day, hunters sent in by Eggman, killed her entire kingdom. She had been out training to make her mom proud and came back to her bloody kingdom. (This was supposed to represent how red pandas are endangered)

Inheriting the money from her family, she wandered the streets of Pine Grove Village when the Chaotix had received a tip about a homeless kid. They went to check it out, and thus they had a fourth member.

During the Metal Virus Arc, she'd been kidnapped in the early comics, where Dr. Starline tried forcing her into submission so she'd work for Eggman due to having strong powers. She was saved by Sonic and Espio though, post Vector and Charmy getting infected.

She usually hides her depression and PTSD by acting overtly cheerful and bouncy, and this is because she's trying to force herself into thinking she's happy, when she secretly knows she's not (yes i know it's very angsty and i apologize TwT)

Max~

Species: Fox

Age: 13

Pronouns: He/Him (cis)

PTSD, depersonalization

Aroace king <3

Team: Dark

Background: (TWs: Animal testing, non consensual testing, kidnapping)

Max was really happy and a very optimistic fox in West Side Island, he was extremely smart and silly. A goofy goober, if you will. His parents were nice, he had good friends, he wanted to be friends with Tails but didn't want to be picked on, but anyways, it was really nice.

And then a few years later Eggman ended up kidnapping him and other foxes to test on them. He would drain their blood, give them shock collars, hit them, etc. Basically, a really shitty dude.

Max went through extreme pain and trauma, leading him to be drained of his color/melanin and becoming void of all emotions, neither experiencing or expressing them.

Team Sonic, as they did, heard about said experiments, and did their hero thing. They saved everyone except for Max and another creature (who'll be next).

After being wiped of all his color, emotions, happiness, etc. Eggman finally released him. Team dark stumbled across him, and he became a member. He's similar to Shadow, where he has a hate/like relationship with Sonic because of him leaving him.

He's basically team dark's collectively adopted son.

Cinos~ (Cee-nos)

Species: Hedgehog and robot

Age: 6

Pronouns: She/Her (cis)

Team: Sonic

Honestly, I'm too lazy to write a full fledged backstory for her.

She was stolen from Sonic's mom when she was first born, Eggman raised her and experimented on her, giving her robot pieces whenever she got too hurt (for example, he cut her arm off so he gave her a metal one)

Max helped her escape after team Sonic left them, Max tried to get her to join him and team dark, but she joined team Sonic and Sonic found out she was his little sister and ye

(Also, since you said I could tell you about them too, here @1dkanym0rez)

If either of you wanna draw them and want me to go more in dept on what they look like, (or draw a ref) lmk cuz I'd be honored

i want to tell you about my ocs but im afraid they're cringey as hell 😞

Blabber on all you'd like. I too am cringe

[momtemplative]

Once Upon a Time.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a Grammy and a Grampy who lived in a wonderful house in Boulder, Colorado. Two young girls, who happen to also be my kids, would come to visit them every Wednesday afternoon. Grammy would meet them at the front door with big hugs and their favorite lemonade in the fridge and their favorite snacks and fruit in bowls on the table. Their mom, who happens to be me, would then go to work massaging old people and then have the rest of the night to herself, time she would fill with heavenly kid-free activities—she would often see a movie in the theater or meet a friend for a drink, or maybe have an acupuncture appointment or hit the library for some writing. Such luxuries! Their dad would bring the girls home and put them to bed, and it would all seem so balanced and beneficial for everyone.

Then, abruptly, most of the parts of that simple paragraph were no more, as are most of the parts of many of the paragraphs for most people. No Grammy and Grampy’s house. No old people to massage. No movie in the theater or friends to chat with in-person or acupuncture or library. Two months later, we ask ourselves, is this the new normal?

Last week, I visited my in-laws for the first time since early March. Opal (she already visited them the previous week with Jesse) and I drove to their house in North Boulder, parked on the street out front, and sat on the sidewalk next to my car, using it for shade. It was toasty in the sun. The maple tree in their front yard still had no leaves to soften the emboldened springtime rays. Grammy brought a chair out into the yard that looked like it belonged in the lobby of a haunted hotel, wooden and upholstered—a benign artifact when out in the light of day. She plopped down. She mentioned the warmth a number of times, while wearing a thick yellow sweater, dark pants and heavy, black shoes.

Opal pulled her booster seat from the car and used it as a pseudo-stool while I sat on the sidewalk with my legs in a V (while Opal concerned herself with the red ants circling my bare knees). We joked that if this went on for much longer, we’d have to equip ourselves with more advanced accouterments for front yard hang-time. I just read about how people are now starting to use masks as a form of boutique expression—sewing sequins and affixing the fabric with dried flowers, like facial art. COVID lawn furniture could be the same: custom-made social distancing party goods—fancy awnings with RV lights, swanky travel chairs and shag-carpet lawn rugs. Kanye could develop his own line. There could be catalogues to order from.

For now, though, the front yard presented more classic, minimalistic furnishings. Grammy brought us a plate of fresh cookies and placed them at the halfway point between us on the lawn. Then she returned to her chair to sit down. I got up and put the goods in my front seat. Then, a moment later, Grammy remembered a few more things. She disappeared into the house, returned, and placed a bag of spicy chips from Trader Joes and a loaf of fresh local sourdough bread at the halfway point, and sat down again.

Nothing like this can happen with Ruth in the equation. She’s four. She would block, slow and question every minuscule action with a sort of stop-motion interrogation. Why are you doing it like that? Why does it look like this? Why is everyone acting so weird?

Ruth hasn’t seen her grandparents since early March. She doesn’t understand social distancing and masks are for Halloween. As for hand washing, well, she still picks her nose constantly. So we’ve kept her visits to video chats only.

While at Grammy and Grampy’s, our time went on like this, with Grammy dropping off merchandise for us in the yard before our very eyes, at least five times, like a part of some wonderful off-tempo choreography. We laughed and chatted as it went. When Grampy came too close with the oranges for Opal, she said— “Freeze! Leave them there on the grass please and my mom will pick them up.”

To that, all the grown-ups shared a sweet, impressed look. My expression said: Wow, the ten-year-old has more confidence and command around protocols then the cotton-picking president.

All the while, bees circled the hundreds of dandelions; they’d land, relocate, land, and relocate. The peony bush just began to launch forth. I know what glamorous blossoms it will grow up to have—soft pink ruffles like a doll dress growing upwards. But for now, it had a dozen stalks with finger leaves reaching, unabashedly, for nourishment.

Tiny purple flowers peppered the lawn, less like the star of the show and more like shading for a backdrop. Opal picked one and handed it to me, and it struck me as a tiny cluster of purple balloons.

I considered for a moment what kind of fairytale world would support a tiny purple balloon cluster. Then, Grammy sat down another pile of goods for us on the lawn. This batch was arts and crafts to take home for the girls to play with, together, and without her.

Everyone is doing the Grandparent Experience differently. It’s a supremely individual thing. Some friends have grandparents living in the same house with them and their children. Some friends continued to visit with grandparents, even as the other compartments of their social lives shut down. Some, like us, agreed with the grandparents on the importance of keeping our distance. (My parents live in Ohio, 2,000 miles down the road, so distance is built in to the equation. Insert sigh here.*)

Our little family-of-four has, for the last eight weeks, spent the lion share of our time in the house. We are (presumably) not little fleshy vectors of contagion. Hell, we are more pristine and untouched by the outside world as we have ever been or likely ever will be. Even if Ruth cannot keep her distance (or her fingers out of her nose), now seems to be a pocket of time when the stars are aligned for us to be the safest to come in contact with.

Add on the fact that Trump is determined to ‘liberate’ the world—May 1 was his target date—and that many local businesses are lighting their OPEN signs (though I don’t plan to get a haircut anytime soon), it does seems like the next conversation to be had is, when’s the grandparent party and who’s bringing the sangria?

I checked in with the oracle of the internet to see if I was on the same page as the rest of the country. But, as per usual for the duration of this craziness, I found myself searching for answers from a vacuum of uninformative noise. I keep hearing, “Let the states decide,” but there is nothing from Polis except that he is joining the republican governors to reopen many non-essential businesses, and that he has a plan. There was much written about taking precautions with grandparents at the beginning of the story, back in March. Lifetimes ago. 

The only thing I could find that has been posted since March (and it’s May!) was an excerpt from a larger article from April 21, from a website called CNET. (—?) Two small paragraphs about visiting the elderly—“While the decision to hang out with your grandparents is a personal one to be made by your family, just remember that these are the people who are most at risk at developing a serious and potentially fatal illness if infected with the novel coronavirus.” Buzzkill.

A few things to consider:

1.  We could all be silent carriers. From the Associated Press: “A flood of new research suggests that far more people have had the coronavirus without any symptoms, which means it’s impossible to know who around you may be contagious. That complicates decisions about returning to work, school and normal life.”

2. With the impending re-opening of businesses and retailers, comes more exposure for all of us. Flash forward to fall, when schools start again and the kids are on top of one another, we’ll be much more likely to be silent (or loud) carriers than we are now. What this all says to me is, we better get on with it! Knowing full well that we will likely need to dial back the interactions and reinforce more social distancing come fall and the presumed second wave.

3.  It’s been proven that the virus is much more likely to be contracted while inside, and that outside is a much safer option for (socially distant) meeting. Seems obvious but good to consider. And thank god it’s spring.

The conversation across my in-laws’ lawn veered in numerous directions. It was the most satisfying of small-talk bits, precious little morsels that, during a typical era, would have likely gone overlooked. We were catching up, which is something you don’t typically have a chance to do with local family. (Also to be noted, we were without the fantastic but impressively distracting Ruth.)

Grammy asked if she could come and park on our street and watch the girls play in the front yard from her car. 

Grampy said, “Yea, I wonder when we can start doing Wednesdays again. I miss Wednesdays.” Then, he rolled down the driveway on his bike, a white scarf around his face that, with the shades, made him look like an outlaw.

“Soon,” I said. “Hopefully, soon.”

[attract-mode-collective]

Nothing Sez “Student Game” More Than The Dinosaur Evening News (that’s a good thing, btw)

The above is Mediazoic, which takes place in an alternate reality in which dinosaurs have come back to rule the earth and they've hired you, puny human, to make sure their televised broadcasts are dino family safe.

You moderate comments left on message boards, censor full frontal dino nudity, and so on. It's a student game alright, and one of my top picks from the NYU Game Center Student Showcase2018!

I was also fond of Dreams For Your Computer because CRTs, magnets, and cats...

... Here's what it looks like in action, btw.

Though the one game that I liked the most, and which would actually fare well on the marketplace, would have to be Static...

And honorable mention goes to an updated take on Flight Simulator, which recreates a 6 hour long commercial flight as a passenger...

... The best part was the look on Stephen Totilo's face, who kinda didn't get it.

When was the NYU thing btw? Over two weeks ago, and it’s been even longer since the last update. Sorry about that. You know the deal: a million, billion things going on. As usual.

Hence why it’ll take not just one, but two bursting at the seams posts, to cover the second half of May! So onto part one…  

Please, please, PLEASE let these Game Center CX Blu-rays have an English language option (via miki800.com)...

Not a day goes by in which I don’t wonder how that guy who appears in the instruction manual for Bomberman B-Daman is doing these days (via videogameartarchive & videogameartarchive)...

I really love the “are you for real?” vibe that Samus gives off in the instructions for the original Famicom Disk System release of Metroid (via nintendometro)...

If you’ve ever wondered what a pair of bosses from Mega Man 9 & 10 would look like with 8’s 32-bit sheen, well here ya go (via mendelpalace)...

A print ad for the Famicom adaptation of Akira that wasn't all that hot (via videogameads)...

Though whenever anyone hears the words “Akira video game”, this is basically what immediately comes to mind. Anything else is a disappointment, no matter what (via aaronkraten)...

Welcome to the rabbit hole that is the Memorex VIS (via @ColinWilliamson)...

Is the soundtrack to some ultra-obscure home banking software for the Mega Drive worth a listen? You goddamn right it is (via mendelpalace)...

… The accompanying article is also totally worth a read.

It’s the Battletoads X Blue Swede mashup that you can’t believe hasn’t been done yet (via SiIvaGunner)...

Replace Link with myself & Navi with my iPhone, which I use as an alarm clock, and you have earlier this morning in a nutshell (via nintendometro)...

“So where you going?”

“Down a road. A low poly road…”

“Where you headed towards?”

“Whatever’s at the end of this street. This low poly street...”

“If you look up, what do you see?”

“Low poly buildings, under a low poly sky. Who knows, maybe there’s some low poly birds up there, behind those low poly clouds…” (via pmpkn)

From looking at low poly skies to soaring high above them, but what a difference an arcade board makes huh (via kazucrash)...

This is what Metal Max 2: ReLoaded on the DS looks like, at its normal resolution...

And this is what it looks with the resolution bumped up (via gaucheartist)...

Is this sprite of a BMX biker animated unusually well or am I just out of touch when it comes to 2600 software? Granted, it does come from a game made in 1989 (via segagenesisevangelion)…

According to the law: “NO JUMPING” (via vgadvisor)

“Hi guys.” (via beowulf-ultra)

Such a heartwarming scene (via @PicturesFoIder)...

This is what VR looked like many years ago, which is basically how it still looks today as well (via peazy86)...

It’s Yuji Horii, from way back in the day, presumably before he had created Dragon Quest (via videogamesdensetsu)...

Why yes, I have heard of the Ocelot Arcade System, by virtue of it being Quality Simon Carless content...

... BTW, “Quality content” is in reference to this. Moving on: yes, I've also heard of VecFever. It plays games that you might be familiar with, since it emulates old vector MAME titles...

Meanwhile, am only just learning that Tiger released their handhelds in Japan under the Game Vision label (via segacity)...

The Sega Dreamcast: it's thinking... about you, cuz it cares about you (via posthumanwanderings)...

"Wait… was he always there?" asks the official Sonic the Hedgehog Tumblr (via sonicthehedgehog)...

And the final nail in the coffin for this gag came courtesy of the official Sonic Tumblr as well (via sonicthehedgehog)...

"Good news everyone skyrim has been ported to the Bethesda offices carpet" 

"Who the fuck designed support pillars to obstruct a quarter of the hallway?" 

"Bethesda" (via mysteriouslypeculiar)

Yet another "it's funny cuz it's true" (via highlandvalley)...

So annoyed that I only find out about this Games Glorious shirt on the very last day of kylefewell‘s Japanese extrusion (via miki800.com)...

Not a fan of the game (don’t hate, I just don’t find it very enthralling), yet for whatever reason, I REALLY want this vintage Mappy sweatshirt (via namcomuseum)...

When video game attire looks plausible IRL (via @cvxfreak)...

Much like with regular attire, with cosplay, sometimes it’s all about the accessories (via frankiebalboa)...

Don’t think I’ve ever seen this piece of Marvel Super Heroes vs Street Fighter art before (via segacity)...

For those who dig POC, as well those who dig VF, and also those who dig FV... that last one's Fighting Vipers, BTW (via fightersmegamix)...

It’s a crying shame that Fighting Vipers is such an unknown commodity these days (via kazucrash)...

Virtua Fighter vs Virtua Fighter… Kid (via segacity)...

It’s a crying shame that Fighters Megamix is such an unknown commodity these days (via segacity)...

So hyped for RPG Time, based solely upon the headline image used for this 10 ten list of BitSummit games (via @indiegameweb)...

Please enjoy yet another thing that I originally posted on a Saturday late at night, whatever time it might on your end right this second (via contac)...

Been a while since I’ve seen the handiwork of Joe Bleeps, largely since it’s been a while since I’ve been collecting Game Culture Snapshots; the man has certainly stepped up his game (boy mods) since way back when (via kotaku.com)...

Am also very much impressed by the Game Boy Macro, though once again, am super irritated that GBA games do not rest flush with the DS Lite’s body...

An example of function over form I guess (@gamesyouloved)...

Familiar with Line Wobbler? Ever wished you could play it on the go? Are you into demakes? For the Game Boy Advance? (via @diskmem)

Today’s corrupted GBA boot up sequence is (via corruptionasart)...

Can anyone tell what Famicom game we’re seeing that’s all glitched out? (via mendelpalace)...

My fave part of this NES 2 print ad is how, in order to truly drive the message of “EVOLVE OR BECOME EXTINCT” home, whomever felt it necessary to include a little picture of a dinosaur (via nintendometro)...

Was this an ad for the SNES? I ask because it’s considerably more sophisticated when compared to what you usually encountered in gaming rags at the time (via nintendometro)...

This ad for the GoldStar version of the 3DO, hailing from Korea, makes me so proud to be (half) Korean, you have no idea (via notablegamebox)...

This Space Invaders tribute piece is like the cover art to some 80s heavy metal record (via shmups)...

Meanwhile, the album art for the Metal Black soundtrack feels more Pink Floyd-ish than anything else (via reportal)...

As amazing as it would have been to attend a ZUNTATA concert 20 years ago, I desperately wanted to see them perform various Darius cuts live just the other week (via miki800.com)...

This cover art for a tribute album celebrating 25 years of Mega Man is still quite good, 31 years after the fact (via rnn-draws)...

My recommended reading this time is a comparison of all the various Mega Man sprites that have been, including a few that you may not be familiar with (via retrovania-vgjunk.blogspot.com)...

Apparently there was a Mega Man boss that was part arcade machine, but he only appeared in some mobile game, for f's sake Capcom (via mendelpalace)...

Guess now’s a good time to share another random game canter pic (via gogopri)...

Pathos at the game center, even among Sailor Scouts (via funnysailorm00n)...

A pride & joy of my personal collection is both the original retail Japanese release of Jet Set Radio & the available via Sega Direct only edition: De La Jet Set Radio (via videogameartarchive & videogameartarchive)...

Here's an alternate take on it’s alternate cover star (via @Drooling_Demon)…

Putting together the necessary gear to properly grind the streets of Tokyo-to (via kiroziki-cosplay)...

JSR tales place in a fictionalized, idealized interpretation of Japan, whereas this gif is a very realistic take, yup (via dehtyar)...

Meanwhile and elsewhere, somewhere in the United States of America it would seem (via behexagusthegreat)...

There's still dinner time in the future (via kirokazepixel)...

My contribution to #WorldGothDay (via it8bit)…

From dark & dreary, to warm & fuzzy, yet still black & white (via this old post from a few years back)...

Old photos of a Japanese school kid obsessing over the Famicom are somewhat dime a dozen, but the PC Engine? A very rare treat (via gamingremembrance)...

From black & white photographs of Japanese 80s kids playing consoles, to a full color animated gif of US 80s kids at the arcade (via tvneon)...

Time to wrap things up by touching upon something that kept me awfully busy over the past few: Death By Audio Arcade X Dreamhouse II. Here's a rather mysterious image that appeared on the FB event page, and which was utilized in my promotional push...

... Did it work? You’ll have to find out in my part 2 of my Attract Mode X Tumblr: May 2018 recap! Due tomorrow. Maybe.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

130lb of Ukrainian Courage (pt 18) ‘Fuckin’ Milkovichs/Bachelor Party pt.1′

Ian wanted to go down to the court house and get married immediately. Mickey wanted to save up for a few months and try to have a proper do. They compromised and set themselves a target of four weeks. It isn’t long enough to save but it’s long enough to plan a party, get a couple of things together and let Mickey feel like he is doing right by them.

Due to the time scale it it’s going to be a ‘cost-effective’ wedding which is Ian’s delicate way of saying that what with the time he had off to recover, the new house and putting food on the table for Mandy, they are (as Mickey put it less delicately) ‘poor as fuck’.

With that in mind Ian lets go of the fleeting idea of matching suits, matching gold bands and a mini-tux for Yev. Despite Mickey being the one who insisted on having an actual wedding, predictably it is Ian who takes over the wedding planning. However, Mickey takes more interest than anyone, including himself, expected him to and offers opinions on most things including the rings Ian is looking at on his battered old laptop. Side by side on the sofa, Ian is half focussed on browsing and half concentrating on fingering the in-seam of Mickey’s pants, enjoying the small noises of appreciation each movement earns him.

They’re on an online Gothic themed jewellery store that sells silver bands when Ian turns the screen round and doubtfully shows it to Mickey, he is instantly taken with a medium width band called ‘Blood and Bone’.

“Fuckin’ sweet name, man.”

“It’s part of their … eternally enslaved collection.”

Ian wrinkles his nose but Mickey just grins and grips the back of Ian’s neck tightly, leaning in to kiss him hard.

“Kinky. I like it. Get two of those.”

“You sure? I mean I like the style but the name ...”

“It’s a kick-ass name. Better than ‘Happily ever after’ or some shit.”

Ian shrugs, happy that Mickey is happy and orders two rings for less than half the price of one traditional gold band.

“You sure you don’t mind it being silver? If you want gold ...”

Mickey rubs the back of Ian’s neck lightly, his brows knitted

“Nah. Silver’s good. Gold doesn’t really suit your whole ‘Ice King’ look.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know: black hair, pale skin, blue eyes, black clothes...”

Ian breaks off realising that he is getting The Annoyed Tongue as Mickey’s eyebrows raise and a bulge forms in his left cheek.

“It’s sexy, Mick.”

“Sounds fuckin’ weird. I got different colour clothes.”

“Yes you do.”

Ian agrees. He knows from experience that agreeing is the way to end this discussion swiftly and that a swift resolution is for the best. Mickey lights a smoke and eyes him suspiciously but lets it drop as Mandy wanders in, yawning.

“What’s up?”

“Ordering rings.”

Ian grins and sits back to let Mandy have a look at them on screen as she leans over the back of the sofa.

“Sweet name!”

She exclaims happily and Mickey gives Ian a smug look which earns him a cheerful middle finger.

“Oh hey, I gotta ask you something”

Mickey says, craning his neck to look up at his sister who is eyeing his cigarette wistfully

“Yeah? What?”

“Don’t sound so fuckin’ suspicious.”

Mickey scowls and Mandy rolls her eyes, walking round and dropping herself dramatically into his lap and breathing in the heady smell of tobacco.

“What the f...”

Mickey leans back in his seat, scowl deepening as Mandy grins up at him and flicks his chin.

“Can’t shove me, I’m pregnant.”

“Wanna fuckin’ bet? Move your ass!”

Mandy stands up and ruffles her big brothers hair affectionately

“Okay dicksplash, what did you want to ask?”

“No forget it.”

Mickey grouches, smoothing his hair back down but Ian gives him a swift kick and opens his eyes wide, prompting him.

“What?”

Mandy’s interest is piqued and she glances between the two of them impatiently

“I was gonna ask if you … if you wanna be my best man.”

Mickey looks up from under shyly lowered brows and Mandy’s face softens into a sweet little smile

“Really? You’d really pick me?”

“Well apparently I can’t pick Ian,”

Mickey shrugs, shooting his fiancé a slightly dirty look, still not over Ian’s rebuff of that particular request.  

“So yeah. I guess I pick you.”

“Awww Mickey...”

Mandy wraps her arms tightly around him from behind and Mickey suffers the squeeze as well as he can, awkwardly patting the forearm locked around his throat.

“You wanna do it or not?”

“Of course I do! This is gonna be so great!”

Mandy releases her death grip and kisses the top of his head.

“I’m going to start planning your bachelor party right now!”

She kisses him again, and then looks at Ian

“Who is your best man?”

“Lip.”

He looks almost apologetic but Mandy just shrugs, chin held high.

“Great. Mick, who do you want at your party?”

“I don’t know … you and Iggy? Maybe Svet?”

Mickey gives her his usual impatient glance and Mandy nods. To be honest, she really isn’t sure who else she would invite. Her brother has never really had friends and the only person he really likes hanging out with is Ian. So it’s going to be small, fine, that doesn’t mean it won’t be wild. Mandy grins at him and does a double thumbs up

“It’s going to be awesome. I’m on it!”

“Can’t wait.”

Mickey drawls but both Ian and Mandy see the little excited twinkle in his eye and share a knowing glance. Fuckin’ Milkovichs.

*

Lip draws on his cigarette and eyes his little brother frankly. They’re in a booth at the Alibi although neither of them is drinking anything stronger than soda. They could go somewhere else, Lip almost definitely should but it’s familiar and they’re both comfortable so they stay.

“I’m not inviting Mickey.”

“I know.”

Ian nods but Lip holds up a stern finge

“I mean it, Ian. He’s not coming.”

“Jesus! Okay … wait, why?”

“Because I want to get some seven foot Adonis to wiggle his balls in your face without having to cough up bail money for your fiance.”

Ian rolls his eyes and grins, sipping his cola and running the cool glass between his fingers ignoring his brother’s lewd grin.

“A stripper? Really?”

“Yes. A stripper. At a Gay club and the only reason I’m telling you this is because I need to know which ones you worked at so I can avoid them.”

“Uh … I never worked at Heavy Load or Jack Hammer.”

Ian blushes slightly realising that those are two of the only clubs he hasn’t pulled a shift or two at. Lip taps the names into his phone and nods.

“Cool. So now, are you sure you want to join the ranks of the indoctrinated married folks of this fair land?”

“I am. It’ll be good for us.”

Ian fiddles with the label on his jacket sleeve and it is Lip’s turn to roll his eyes

“You’ve loved him for your whole fucking life. How does a piece of paper...”

“You’re being a shitty best man, I just want you to know that.”

Lip grins his usual sardonic little grin and shrugs.

“So are you becoming a Mil...”

He bites the question off and clears his throat guiltily

“Sorry, man. Stupid question.”

“No it’s not stupid.”

Ian frowns. He has no intention of taking Terry’s family name but isn’t sure how to bring it up with Mickey.

“We haven’t actually talked about it.”

He admits finally.

“Mickey Gallagher works fine. Sounds about as Irish as it gets.”

Lip jokes and Ian’s frown clears at the thought of Mickey being a Gallagher.

“I guess I could ask him, see what he says.”

“Yeah you should. We got a an ex-con landlord, an alcoholic genius, a bipolar queer, a teen mom, an juvie kid turned military, and a black kid with two white parents. We got room for a ...”

“Whatever you’re about to call my fiancé, massively fuck you, Lip.”

Ian dips his finger in his cola and flicks it at his big brother.

“Seriously though, I’m really happy. I want this, man.”

Ian is radiating so much happiness that Lip wants to tell him he’s a fricken’ beacon and there really isn’t any need to tell anyone but what he says instead is simply:

“I know.”

“And I want you to be better with Mickey.”

“We do fine together. We had a coffee that time...”

Lip grimaces at how feeble that sounds. One coffee in ten years of knowing the guy. Ouch.

“You pick on him and you press his buttons ...”

“Dude! Come on. Mickey is like a human fucking calculator! He’s 99% buttons.”

“And he’s good at math too.”

Ian smiles smugly as Lip sighs impatiently and taps his finger on the vaguely sticky table top.

“I guess I could tease him a little less.”

“And I want you to say something nice about him in your speech.”

Ian finishes his mental list of demands and sits back contentedly. Lip raises his eyebrows at his little brother and sits back in his chair.

“You’re turning into a proper groomzilla.”

“I know. But do it anyway.”

It’s going to be far too much effort to bicker so instead they clink glasses and Lip wonders if his imminent brother in law has had a similar talk. From Ian’s moony-eyed expression, he kind of doubts it. Fuckin’ Milkovichs.

*

The bachelor parties are scheduled for a week before the wedding to allow sufficient time for hangovers to clear up, bruises to heal and any other shenanigans to blow over. Mickey had not really known what to expect, and thus gone with his life time habit of not expecting much.  

However, now as he is stumbling along the street from where the taxi dropped them off, Mickey realises he’s had a fucking excellent day. Mandy took him and Iggy to a new shooting range with the fancy moving targets and he finally got to try firing a Kriss Vector, something he’s wanted to do for years. After that he and Iggy smoked a whole bunch of pot, out the car window and got Taco Bell drive through, something Ian never lets him do, and then they just started drinking and catching up back at the house.

It’s been years since he spent so much time with his siblings and truth be told Mickey was a little nervous about it but it’s been more than just alright. They shot shit, ate shit, smoked shit and talked shit. It’s been one of the best days he has had in quite a while and the night is only just getting started.

He is already a little wasted. Ian and his posse came to the house for a few drinks before both parties headed off in their separate directions. Mickey likes the Gallagher’s a lot more once he’s had a few drinks and actually had a pretty decent time.

The topper was when Ian had dragged him off to the bedroom before they left for the night. Ian had called it marking his territory in that breathy, deep voice that always gets Mickey going and yanked Mickey’s pants down hard enough to chafe his thighs.

The slightly possessive jealousy that inspired the action pleased Mickey almost more than the actual blowjob. Ian doesn’t normally get jealous ... probably because Mickey doesn’t let anyone else so much as look at him without confrontation but whatever! It was fucking great!  

As he lurches from one side of the street to the other, Mickey loops his arms around each of his siblings.

“You guys are fuckin’ awesome, you know that?”

“Oh shit! Mick, you look trashed!”

Mandy laughs with a grimace and stops to try and smooth her brother’s hair a bit

“Yeh, I think I am.”

Mickey’s grin is wide and a little goofy as Iggy peers round to look at him.

“Ha! Little brother, you’re gonna pass out soon if you don’t slow down.”

Iggy hasn’t called Mickey ‘little brother’ for over fifteen years, not since they were kids and Mickey drunkenly grips the back of the thickly muscled neck in his hand, pressing a fierce kiss to Iggy’s cheek.

“You got anything to sober me up a little?”

“Until we get where we’re goin’ all I got is time, bro.”

For some reason, in Iggy’s slow South Side drawl, this little bit of accidental pseudo philosophy cracks Mickey up and he laughs until his legs won’t hold him and he has to sit down on the curb. Mandy is cackling too but Svet, is trying to hold herself together. Throughout their marriage, if Mickey found something funny, Svetlana did her best not to, and he supposes old habits die hard. Mickey glances at his gang of revellers and is about to tell them something about being glad they came out for his party when the laughter jiggles him a bit too much and with a convulsive shudder, he throws up.

The spray of beer, Jack Daniels, and home-brew vodka that Svet made erupts in a surprisingly neat arc straight into the gutter. Mickey looks down at his shirt to check and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth with a shaky laugh

“Shit. That was lucky!”

Svetlana tuts and steps forward, squatting in front of him in her stiletto heeled boots and producing a little packet of wet wipes and a bottle of water from her purse.

“Swill and spit. The you take a mint.”

She rattles a tiny metal tin at him and proceeds to wipe his free hand with a towelette.

“What the fuck, Svet? Why do you even have this shit?”

Mickey surrenders his other hand and accepts the tongue cluck his limp digits earn him as Svetlana cleans him up.

“Because your son is as messy as you are. I always thought it was bad parenting, turns out it is genetic. This is good news for me.”

“Nah, he’s a great kid. Nothin’ bad about him at all.”

Mickey shakes his head with a proud, one sided smile that creates a dimple in is left cheek.

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re sober.”

Svetlana smiles and offers him a hand up.

“Where are we goin’ anyway?”

Mickey asks and Mandy gives him a sly look from beneath heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

“A gay bar.”

“What?”

Mickey’s eyes flare wide and flick toward Iggy, his shoulders tensing involuntarily

“Yep, Mandy picked the place so if it’s not your scene, that’s on her!”

Iggy swigs out of his beer can and offers the rest to Mickey who takes it, still not fully processing what is going on.

“You’re comin’ to an actual gay club? You know you can’t fag bash in those, man.”

“Don’t be retarded, I haven’t done that shit in years. Didn’t feel right what with you being a queer and all.”

Iggy shrugs and grins mischievously at his little brother

“Besides, I looked this shit up online. I’m either a ‘Slim-Bear’ or a ‘cub’ and either way they’re two of the good types of gay to be. I might get laid.”

“Wha...”

Mickey looks around to make sure the others have just heard what he has but before he can question Iggy further, his brother is continuing, warming to his theme

“Ian’s a Jock now. He used to be a Twink but ...”

“Hey! Don’t fuckin’ call him that!”

Mickey snaps, but Svetlana interjects with a shrug

“No it is true, he would have been classed as a Twink before but now, definitely Jock.”

“I don’t … what that fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Mickey sips his beer and rubs a hand over his forehead in confusion.

“Types of Gay men, Mick.”

Mandy smiles, and links her arm through his.

“It’s bullshit really. Kind of like horoscopes of something.”

Mickey chews on his lip and glances at Iggy

“So … like … everyone has one, huh?”

“Pretty much. You wanna know yours?”

“No… Yeah … Okay...”

Mickey pauses in his stride and stands up to his full height, puffing his chest out and lifting his chin as if he is about to pass or fail a crucial life test. Iggy considers with a squinting scowl that earns him a ‘what the fuck’ sneer from his brother.

“You’re a Cub, but a specific type, you’re Discreet Cub”

“No! He’s a Wolf!”

Svetlana shakes her head at Iggy who frowns and tips his head, considering Mickey again

“No … not hairy enough.”

“But he is too aggressive to be a Cub.”

“Well he’s clearly a Power Bottom. They sit more in with Cubs. Mick, you’re bossy in bed, right?”

“Excuse me? What the fuck did you just ...”

Mickey begins but Svetlana waves him off and speaks over him

“Oh, most definitely a PB. But a Cub? No.”

Mickey is doing his best not to act in anyway that might mean he gets bumped to something less than satisfactory but the assessment is taking a bit too long and he can feel his patience slipping.

“Which one’s better?”

He asks irritably and then noticing that he is posing in the street, shakes himself off and keeps walking.

Svet smiles triumphantly and gestures to Mickey’s slightly wide-legged stance

“See! He even walks aggressive. Like cowboy. Like Wolf!”

“Yeah, yeah that is true. Okay, Wolf.”

Iggy nods as Mickey looks to Mandy for confirmation and she nods sagely with a reassuring wink

“You want to be a Wolf, they’re badass.”

Mickey smiles a little and rubs the edge of his nose. The whole conversation was weird as fuck and he’s not entirely sure why he let it happen but it turns out he is the badass kind of Gay dude so that’s something. He glances round at the them all again and grins to himself. Fuckin’ Milkovichs.

*

[bubble-tea-bunny]

what to do when you have a crush on your best friend 

[peter parker x reader]

author’s note: watched homecoming last night and i loved everything about it. this took a while to write because i kept getting distracted, and that title is whatever because i literally couldn’t think of anything else lolol

word count: 2,369

Peter gets the text message that afternoon during physics.

Happy: Tony’s got a new mission for the two of you.

Chat bubbles appear and two seconds later another message pops up.

[Name]: OMG. Down

Happy: What?

[Name]: You know

[Name]: like

[Name]: I’m down for a new mission ???

Happy doesn’t respond, but he’s probably shaking his head because working with “kids” (as he likes to call the two of you) is very nearly out of his pay grade most days. It makes Peter wonder just how many gray hairs he might’ve gotten since Tony recruited you and him. He smiles as he glances up at where you sit across the classroom. You give a glance to your phone before turning your attention back to what your teacher is writing on the board. There’s a hint of a smile on your face.

Peter looks back down at his phone and types in his own response quickly.

Me: Yes! Let’s do it!

Suddenly the vector diagram on the whiteboard is the least interesting thing in the world. Peter’s fidgety and in order to alleviate it, he bounces his leg. Just the thought of going on a new mission is making adrenaline rush through his veins. It had been a while since the last time you’d been called in by Tony. Between such calls, the both of you have been handling things in the neighborhood. It still kept you on your feet of course, and with two of you in the area, the work could be split evenly. At one point there had been an agreement that you would switch off, so that one person could take the extra time to concentrate on school, but you never actually talked about it anymore than that, didn’t figure out who would go out on what nights. You’d both just show up whenever there was a robbery to thwart or a stolen car to retrieve, clear evidence that you’d rather do the work together.

When 2:45 rolls around, Peter, you, and Ned walk out the front doors of Midtown High School. The flow of students is like a flood, some getting onto the buses, others walking down the sidewalk.

“I got the Imperial Star Destroyer set yesterday,” Ned begins. “We should build it tonight. It’s not as big as the Death Star one so it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Maybe not tonight,” Peter tells him.

Ned looks up at him, brow raised. Peter doesn’t say anything, just gives him a smile that’s half apologetic and half excited. Then Ned glances at you, and your smile is much the same. It clicks then, and his eyes light up. “Something came up with the internship?” he asks eagerly, voice hushed. He already knew your secrets, working for Tony as superheroes and such, but you’d all agreed to continue calling it the internship so as not to arouse suspicion if Ned got a little too animated and forgot to keep his voice down. The calls from Tony are few and far between still, picking and choosing as he is what missions to assign to you until you’re ready for tougher ones, or at least more frequent ones. And because these missions seem to appear once in a blue moon—at least, that’s how it feels to the three of you—it’s easy to get excited.

You crack first. “Right?" You practically squeal, thrilled as you are to have a change from nabbing bike thieves and saving cats from trees. “I mean, what do you think it’ll be this time? What if our assignment brings us to Manhattan?”

Manhattan is where all the bigger crimes happened, since it’s the economic and administrative hub of New York City. Tony had never given you missions in that area, preferring you to stick to easier ones for now. Besides Manhattan attracting more dangerous criminals, all the skyscrapers and bumper-to-bumper traffic made damage control a challenge. With each day you and Peter take to the streets of Queens in search of miscreants, you’re honing your skills. It’s slow, but it’s consistent. You might not notice the improvements and increased control of your abilities over time, but maybe now they’ve gotten good enough that Tony will let you take on the big guys.

At your speculation, Ned gasps, becomes just as giddy. “Dude, that would be so awesome!”

Peter laughs at your guys’ antics but to be fair, he feels really excited too. Just getting a call-in from Tony is amazing in and of itself, no matter if it took you two to Manhattan or if you were staying in Queens. Whatever the mission might be, it was one brought to Tony’s attention and one he wanted you to take on yourselves, and that’s incredible to consider.

The three of you part ways at the end of the block. “Good luck,” Ned tells you both. “Tell me all about it when you’re done!”

You laugh. “If you don’t see it on the news first!”

You and Peter go to his apartment to wait for Happy, who would be picking you up to bring you to the Avengers facility upstate for your briefing. It feels like it takes the subway forever to arrive today, and Peter is jittery again. He wrenches his hands together while the two of you wait on the platform because he doesn’t have anything else to keep them busy. He rocks himself to and fro on the balls of his feet. He sighs heavily as he stares at the tracks which disappear in the distance, willing the train to just show up already.

“It feels like we’ve been waiting forever,” he remarks.

You glance up at him amusedly. “We’ve been waiting for two minutes.”

“That’s so long,” Peter drags out the last two words in a tone of exasperation that’s equal parts joking and genuine. “What if Happy gets there before us and wonders where we are?”

“Doubt he’ll beat us to your apartment. He’s probably stuck in traffic.”

You end up being right. Happy arrives fifteen minutes later than the time he gave in the group chat. You and Peter slide into the backseat and as soon as Peter’s closed the door behind him, Happy’s merging back into the street, muttering something about “stupid traffic” and “people don’t know how to use blinkers do they even know what blinkers are?”

Unfortunately the mission doesn’t bring you to Manhattan. The two of you are tasked with following some vehicles carrying suspicious cargo. In Tony’s words: “I want you to tail ‘em, find where they hide out, and shut ‘em down if the operation isn’t large-scale. If it is, let me know and I’ll bring in backup.” You and Peter are sitting at a conference table, the wood cool to the touch, as you watch surveillance tapes. They give you an idea of where to start, and what the trucks look like. Come nightfall, the two of you are suited up and staking out a warehouse the trucks are supposed to be leaving from within the next twenty minutes.

“What do you think they’re carrying?” Peter asks you, the eyepieces of his suit shrinking slightly to imitate the way he’s narrowing his eyes as he stares at the loading bay.

“I want to say pastries, but I think that’s just because I’m hungry,” you respond easily, eyes also watching the loading bay attentively.  

“An underground pastry trafficking organization?”

“Dangerously delicious and highly lethal to your health,” you quip playfully.

Peter laughs, thinks that if such were the case, he’d be curious to try one of those pastries himself. He glances at you. You’re not wearing a mask since you don’t need one for your superpower, and while the place you’re hiding out in is dark, his suit HUD adjusts accordingly, allowing him to see you clearly. Usually you like to tie your hair to keep it out of your way, but you’d lent out your only hair tie earlier in school today and you’d depleted the spares you kept in Peter’s room (you either lent them or lost them). So tonight it flows freely over your shoulders. Your [eye color] eyes are full of focus, your face etched in concentration. He smiles almost subconsciously as he studies you, but you can’t see it because he has his mask on.

“Hey, they’re finally leaving.” At your words, Peter turns his attention to the loading bay. Two trucks enter out into the street, but before the two of you can get a move on, the vehicles go in two separate directions.

You and Peter look at each other in confusion. “Think they’re heading to the same location?” he inquires.

You sigh and stand up. “Only one way to find out.”

“Stay safe.”

You look back at Peter and smile softly. “Always am. You stay safe too, Spidey.”

His cheeks warm at the nickname and he stays where he is when you jump down. You start shifting, no longer an unassuming teenage girl but a large and menacing werewolf. The suit you wear had been engineered to adjust to your size whenever you shifted, so it fits snug to your body as you take off after one of the trucks, keeping a comfortable distance as you follow it. These trucks take industrial roads so there’s no reason for you to be worried about being spotted by anyone else, especially at this time of night. Peter gets his bearings back quickly and takes off after his own truck before it can disappear.

“You like her,” Karen speaks up, her voice a familiar presence while he’s in the suit.

“Who, [Name]?” Peter plays dumb. “Of course I like her. She’s one of my best friends.” He really hopes that’ll be the end of the conversation, but knowing Karen, it won’t be.

“You’ve got a crush. I can tell.” If Karen had a face, she’d be smiling teasingly.

“I do not have a crush,” he says, cheeks burning all over again.

“Your heart rate’s increased.”

Damn. He’d forgotten about that feature. “I’m just excited the mission is finally getting started.”

“It increased when the two of you were still hiding. Before the trucks left. While you were staring at her.” Right. She could see what he saw. He forgot about that too.

“Okay, maybe I do like her a little.” A pause. “Or a lot.” There’s no sense denying it anymore. He’d basically revealed his crush on you to Karen without meaning to. When he’s in the Spiderman suit, it’s like she’s a part of him.

“Have you told her?”

“No! What if she gets all weirded out? I’m not risking our friendship!” He cannot believe he’s having this conversation while tailing a truck.

“She won’t be ‘weirded out.’ I promise.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you’re Peter Parker, and your heart is gold. If I were her, I wouldn’t be weirded out at all.”

A warm feeling settles in his chest at Karen’s words. He swears she's like his personal cheerleader. Despite being just an AI, she seems so human, perfectly willing to give him advice outside of what’s relevant to his missions. She reminds him of Aunt May, encouraging as she is. He smiles. “Thanks, Karen.” He means it with his whole being when he says that.

She hums as though to say you’re welcome, another mannerism that’s so reminiscent of humans. “Ask her on a date,” she suggests.

“How?” They seem to be closing in on the hideout now.

“Just ask. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. It could be while you’re doing homework.”

The truck starts to pull in to another factory building, and Peter tries to find you, hidden somewhere in the darkness, to confirm whether or not the trucks had indeed been traveling to the same place.

“Karen, help me find [Name], will you?”

“Initiating thermal vision.”

The HUD turns blue and Peter scans the area, searching for heat signatures. There are some he can spot inside the factory. He sees you behind a power box, just outside the fences. The form is no longer a werewolf but a person. You’d shifted back. He goes to find you and drops down next to you. You don’t flinch when he does.

“Looks like they did come to the same place,” you comment.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees as his HUD switches back to normal. “It didn’t look like there were many people inside. I think this is something we can take on our own.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“And, um, [Name]…”

Peter trails off and doesn’t actually finish the sentence, and you look over at him. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the ground. “Hey, you okay?” you ask worriedly.

“Did you uh…” No turning back now, Peter. Spit it out! “Did you maybe wanna go get some ice cream after this?”

It takes you a moment to realize just what he’s asking, but when you do, your grin is wide and your stomach is doing somersaults—and not because you’re hungry.

Peter hasn’t looked up, too nervous that you might reject him, and he’s surprised when he feels you kiss his cheek, lips passing over the smooth material of his mask. He looks up at you, eyepieces widening, and you laugh.

“I’d love to get ice cream with you.” Your smile is bright and gosh, you are so pretty. Peter feels light as air and he swears he can fly all the way to the moon. You look so happy to have been asked, as though this is something long overdue. Now he wonders why he ever felt any doubt, because clearly it was misplaced. He can’t but smile too.

“Now come on, let’s clear out that warehouse before Baskin Robbins closes!” Before he can respond, you’ve jumped over the fence, shifting mid-run and taking off toward the loading bay, where the doors are still open—your ticket inside. Peter follows, clearing the fence easily, and sets off in a run.

“Hey, uh, Karen?” he begins. He doesn’t worry about you hearing him since you’re just a tad out of range.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Peter.” He can practically hear the smile in her voice.

[captainmortgage]

So for my creative writing class I had to write a story of a character I made up meeting a zombie for the first time. So that happened. Anyway, I kinda liked it so here it is under the cut

Allow me to describe for you the first time I encountered the undead. It’s a moment that sticks with you, not just because of how terrifying it is, but because of how often you’ve imagined it before. And how wrong you were each of those times. You see, I’d always imagined that someday I’d run into some slow, sniffling, mostly-dead-but-not-really mass of rotting tissue in a dark alley, slowly cutting off my only escape and dooming me to a final five or six minutes of pure terror before it eviscerated my sorry ass. Or, if I was feeling particularly confident that day, I’d imagine how it would feel to run into that same situation and beat the living shit out of it. Well, non-living shit. You get the idea.

           I’d imagine it cutting me off in the alley and slowly ambling toward me, my resolve hardening as the threat grew closer. Then, if I was feeling romantic, perhaps there would be a distressed, scantily-clad, damsel behind me, relying on me for her defense. Naturally, this fantasy would progress to me absolutely brutalizing this poor undead bastard, somehow without ruining my hair, and then the aforementioned damsel would be so impressed by my stunning display of masculinity and martial affinity that she would demand that I make love to her right then and there, undead corpse (is that superfluous?) notwithstanding.

           And then I would wake up and remember that, considering who I am as a person and the women that I typically keep company with, this situation would probably be reversed. Whatever woman was unfortunate enough to babysit my useless ass would go re-murder the creature while I hid behind a dumpster, taking solace in the fact that I wasn’t the only trash in the alley and letting out a few super-manly squeaks whenever a piece of the undead getting its shit kicked in happened to land near me.

           But, surprisingly enough, neither of these things is what happened the first time I met an undead. For one thing, we met at the Wendy’s drive through. On the other hand, I honestly didn’t realize what it was until I’d literally touched it. Now, I recognize, and freely admit, that I’m a grade A, FDA-approved dumbass. But this might’ve been the single dumbest moment of my life. Actually, I take that back. That thing with the C4 in the fireplace probably was (shut up, I needed to hide a birthday present). But this was the second dumbest moment of my life.

           As I said before, I was in the Wendy’s drive through. You’d think that a literal zombie apocalypse would close down Wendy’s, or at least the drive through, but you’d be wrong. Living dead in the streets? Fuck it, let’s get a frosty.

           The zombie had apparently had the same thought, and I ended up stuck behind him (them? Does gender carry over into zombieness? I kinda doubt it. I mean, I guess I could’ve asked them for their preferred pronouns but I don’t know how to spell argghghhgughghugh very well. Shit I just did. Ok, I don’t want to type that every time I refer to it. Or try to figure out plurals and possessives and all that shit. Fuck it, I’m just gonna use them. Or it. They/it can eat a dick-shaped brain if they don’t like it.) So here we were. Me, in my ’97 Toyota Avalon, in line for a Baconator and a frosty. The zombie, just standing right by the window doing nothing while a tired teenager who wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with this tried to convince it to go away. Now, I had the windows up and had some music on (Here I Go Again by White Snake. What? I’d had a shitty day and needed some motivation to go on. You try listening to that song and not getting motivated. Hell, it almost motivated me to order a chicken sandwich instead of the Baconator. Almost.), so I didn’t hear any of this. All I saw was delicious beef and bacon, and some stupid fuck standing in my way. So I honked. A lot. And when that did nothing, I did what any rational human being would do: I kept honking. Because I’m a problem-solver.

           After about thirty seconds of honking, my attention span was stretched to the breaking point and I decided to get out of the car (pro tip: NEVER GET OUT OF THE CAR EVER YOU STUPID ASSHOLE) and confront this idiot standing in the way of my impending lunch. Now, I’m not normally a very aggressive person, but when I get hungry, things change. Snickers had it right. So I walk up to the thing in my way, and with all the confidence of a 22-year-old who’s never punched anything before, but has played about 300 hours of Tekken, I grab the figure’s shoulder and say, “Hey buddy, why don’t you AGHH OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!!?”

           I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Wow, that was an unexpected way for that sentence to end. He went from bluster and belligerence to abject pants-pissing terror in the space of 3 words.” To which I would reply with: 1. You clearly don’t know me very well, that happens about once a week. And 2. Let’s see you almost eskimo kiss a zombie and not freak out. Quit judging me. Asshole.

           So yeah, the thing turns around and it’s a zombie. Right in front of me. About 3 inches from my dumb face. And this was honestly one of the most surreal moments of my life. It was like I was so scared I went all the way back around the spectrum to calm again. Like my body didn’t know what to do with this insane spike of emotion, so it just said “Fuck it. No emotions for you.”

           The zombie stood just in front of me. They were about 6 foot 2, just within the “kind of intimidating but not overly so” range of heights. They were wearing a large hoodie, which explains why I didn’t realize it was a zombie until I literally touched it. And its face was…weird. Like, really weird. Its mouth was open to a point that was unsettling without being obvious why. See, if it had been just slightly ajar it would’ve looked like someone breathing through their mouth, and if it had been wide open it would’ve looked like someone who was either really surprised or trying to catch some food in their mouth. Instead it was at an awkward in-between stage. Like the middle school of mouth openings. Like it couldn’t really decide what it wanted to be, so it decided to be half of all the things it thought was cool and that ended up being literally the worst choice it could’ve possibly made and all the other kids made fun of it and it had to sit at the lunch table all alone eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches on white bread and trying to pretend like it wanted to get picked last for kickball… sorry, what was I talking about? Right, the zombie. So its mouth was weird, we’ve established that. And projected a little bit. Moving on.

           Stepping back and taking in the whole face, everything just moved further down the uncanny valley. Their face held a blank expression, as expected for a zombie, but it’s hard to describe what kind. You see, there are several types of blank expressions. There’s the blank expression you have when you watch someone steal your parking space right in front of you. The kind of blank expression where you just sit there and blink a couple times, staring off in a random direction like you’re Jim in The Office and there’s a camera watching you. This is the kind where you have to take a second to process. To sit there and think, “Wow, did that really just happen? Does God really hate me that much? Is this payback for candy bar I stole when I was 9? Who knew God was such a petty bitch.” This is what I call the Angry Blank.

           There’s also the Confused Blank. This is the kind of blank expression where it’s your first day of college and you walk into your first class, all excited for this new journey you’re about to take and all the friends you’re gonna make, and you spend the first 15 minutes of class accidentally daydreaming about how great the next four years are gonna be and then you look up at the board and see a bunch of bullshit equations on the board and wonder what the fuck is going on, why are there equations in a first-year religion class, and then look around and see no one else questioning it, and then realize that you’re in the wrong room and this is a vector calculus course and your dumb ass could barely pass algebra 0.5 so you stand up and have to awkwardly step over about 13 seniors who are all trying to take notes and then the professor notices and stops talking for a second and you know he’s staring at you but you can’t turn around because it’s like you’re Frodo and the professor is the eye of Sauron and if you look at him he’ll steal your soul or some shit and you run out of the room and straight back to your dorm where you get on the computer and drop your religion class so you never have to go in that building again. That kind of blank expression.

           And there are a few other types, but they aren’t relevant here so I’m going to ignore them like I’m a GOP senator and they’re climate change evidence. The zombie had a strange mixture of these two blank expressions on their face, like they were angry and trying to process it, but then while they were processing the anger they forgot why they were angry. So now they were just walking around, angry, hoping to run into something that would give them a brain-blast or something and remind them of why they were angry.

           I took in all of this in about a second and a half, so terrified that I felt calm again, as I mentioned before. The zombie just stood there and looked at me, its dead eyes (both in the literal sense and the figurative sense) locked somewhere above my left shoulder, which was honestly the scariest part of the whole encounter. Either it was looking at something behind me, in which case I badly wanted to see what it was but didn’t want to turn away from the zombie in front of me because fear. Or it simply couldn’t focus its eyes on me and that was the best it could get, which is pretty creepy. We both stood there for a while, me not moving because I was afraid that its vision was based on movement like it was a goddamned T-rex and the zombie not moving because who the fuck knows? Eventually, the poor teenager working the window asked me if I was gonna order anything, drawing the zombie’s attention back to the window, and that was enough to break my reverie. I broke and sprinted the five feet to my car, got in so fast I slammed my head against the roof, possibly giving myself a concussion, and hauled ass out of that drive through, narrowly missing the zombie on my way out.

           I drove straight to the Wendy’s on the other side of town and ordered myself a Baconator and two frosties because I’d fucking earned them. I just stared death in the face and ran away like a little bitch. I needed the calories if I was gonna keep running like that. Endurance had never been my strong suit.