#well this job is temporary so hopefully things will get better soon in this aspect.....

[knightzp]

once again facing the eternal dilemma of wanting to go to sleep already bc eepy vs not wanting to go to sleep yet bc i dont want today to end and wake up early for work tomorrow

[rickybowxn]

hey!! ok so i just need someone else’s opinion bc i haven’t seen anyone talking about this and i literally can’t wrap my head around it lol ok so ricky and nini dated for a YEAR and never once said i love you? and if ricky isn’t ready to say it was he going to wait till 2 years? 3? 4? or was he never going to say it? i also don’t understand why he doesn’t understand that he broke her heart :( i love him but he essentially broke up with her after she told him she loved him on their anniversary 😭

hiya! this is such a great line of discussion and so there’s a lot to break down, bear with me this is gonna be a long one :)

let’s start with the thought that ricky doesn’t understand that he broke nini’s heart. i agree and disagree with you on this. i think that as a 16 year old boy, in the heat of the moment after he saw the instagram post and was clearly overwhelmed by it, he definitely didn’t know that he deeply hurt nini when he decided to not say it back and break up with her. he was as impulsive and sudden in action in response to a post/declaration that in his perspective, was impulsive and sudden by nini. he definitely underestimated the consequences and the weight of him not saying it back in respect to nini’s emotions, and thought that there was space to come back from not saying it back (and i’ll get to why he assumed that in a bit). now, fast forward to junior year, i think he’s definitely understood just how much he broke nini’s heart. i think kourtney’s resentment toward ricky in respect to how nini was treated and more importantly, nini’s general irritation/stand offishness and just distaste towards him throughout the first three episodes allowed ricky to understand how hurt she was by it.

now let’s get when ricky was supposed to/will say ‘i love you’. i don’t know about you but i personally believe that every relationship has a pace, and that pace is different for everybody. saying ‘i love you’ simply doesn’t have a timer on it, it could happen in weeks, or months, or years. how fast or how long it takes to say those words neither validates nor weakens the relationship, and that’s what i believe. personally, i’d argue that throwing around ‘i love you’s’ at 14/15/16 is more unusual/immature than a healthy/mature response (and i’ll elaborate on that in a bit as well) in a relationship. with respect to rini/rickini/ricky and nini, it’s more about each character’s motivation and circumstance with respect to their relationship, as well as their relationship as a whole. tackling that first bit, ricky is in a really rough spot in his perception of love atm, it’s been skewed into negativity since his parents’ marriage started falling apart, i’ve mentioned it in another post of mine when i was analysing ep4 - ‘the only concept of love that he grew up with, his parents - he witnessed them be in, and slowly fall out of love. his only understanding of love is that it is temporary and painful’. now parallel that with nini’s perception of love, beautifully explicated by the subtext of kourtney’s (kinda) monologue in ep5 “i don’t get it, what happened to the seventh grade nini who used to belt this song… ever since you discovered boys, you’ve spent way too much time trying to see yourself through their eyes”, we know that they are worlds apart in how they perceive and pace the idea of love, as well as a relationship itself. nini, from what kourtney said, can be deduced to loving the idea of love - having a boyfriend, getting attention and affection etc. she’s a 14/15 year old girl who started a relationship with the first boy she met and seriously had feelings for. it’s even safe to assume that she jumped into saying ‘i love you’ because she thought ricky was ‘the one’ and she must have watched about 3737328473 romcoms and musicals that pushed the agenda and romanticised relationships and being in love (which no doubt influenced her version and understanding, which is still completely valid and integral, of love). it’s really important for us to understand that just like ricky’s understanding of love is twisted, so is nini’s, neither of them have really gotten to knowing the depth of how good and not so good love can be, and how big of a commitment it is, and that’s because of what i talk about next!

the bombshell that has created the entire arc of the ricky and nini relationship is immaturity. immaturity! ricky and nini are teenagers who are still developing skills such as communication, their independent values and beliefs, as well as self-image. these are all fundamental aspects that encourage and foster a healthy environment for a romantic relationship to grow. getting into a relationship so young, at 14/15 and committing to a person is so difficult simply because you don’t have a developed skillset of these things yet, and ricky and nini are a poster example. remember how i said i’d get back to why ricky thought that he could come back from not saying ‘i love you back’ to nini? well we’re here now, it was immaturity. ricky didn’t have the empathy or emotional maturity to understand how it would effect nini, and nini didn’t communicate, (and actually still hasn’t communicated), why not saying ‘i love you’ back hurt her, she’s just been lashing out so far. now the mature thing to have done is to have sat down with ricky and talked through it, asked him and understood his train of thought. she didn’t do that and ricky just walked away without explaining himself. that, is called a lack of communication. and that skill, comes from learning and ageing. yes it was obvious to us as an audience what he’d done was so wrong, but seriously, as a 16 year old coming from a broken home and never having experienced/seen a healthy relationship, i doubt you any of us would be able to fully grasp it if it was happening to us. and that’s why i’d argue that taking a relationship slow, feeling it out and getting into it as older and more mature individuals is more thought-out. your feelings at any age toward another person are valid, especially in the case that they are reciprocated, but that doesn’t mean you will have a functioning relationship. that’s because relationships. are. work. and kids can’t handle the work because they don’t have the skills that match the job description. ‘i love you’ encapsulates that promise - exercising communication, empathy and support, it’s more than just an emotion i think. in this case, i actually think that ricky understands that better than nini does, because as i said in my other post, one of the motivating reasons he didn’t say it back is because his parents didn’t keep their promise - they fell out of developing their skillset and supporting each other. 

now the most important side-note: none of us will ever perfect these skills that make a relationship work, its constant practice in empathy, in communication, in understanding, in esteem and confidence, and in support. i just think that nini and ricky never got to experience even developing those skills independently and that’s why their relationship fell apart in the way it did. this break has already matured them, ep5 showed nini gaining genuine confidence in herself and ep4 showed ricking communicating to nini how he felt about everything going on at home. them independently going about their lives and growing is already inevitably readying them for being in a relationship and committing to them the right way, when they’re ready for it! i’m so excited to see it

finally, as for when ricky will say/was planning to say ‘i love you’ - i think the writers are taking us on that journey right now! the break ricky and nini have been going through is perfectly setting them up for that mutual and satisfying understanding of the love they have for one and other. i personally think that ricky has loved nini from the get-go, his fear of externalising those emotions is that he’ll have the same outcome as his parents, his insecurities right now don’t allow him to believe that he can have, or even deserves, more than his parents’ fate. hopefully gets out of his rut with talking about how he genuinely feels about nini and how he’s ready for that relationship soon. nini is already getting better at being more sure of herself and what she wants, i think she’ll soon realise how ricky is different to her, and how that doesn’t take away from his legitimate and very strong feelings that are ever-present for her.

what ricky did sucked and he was undoubtably a douche. but that was the exposition to his, and ricky and nini’s story, it only gets better from here! it already has xx

(i’m so so sorry it’s this long, you just really got my analysis flowing lmao, hopefully this wasn’t just a mumble and was kind of an insight. i have so much to say but my brain feels like ramen rn)

[stlouisshutdown]

Nick Openlander -  Bar manager, Moonrise Hotel

I asked them and a few others to tell me a little from their point of view on Covid19 and how they are dealing with things, this is what they had to say...

Did  Covid19 affect your career? “yes” 

Is this Temporary?  “Yes”

Are you Looking for work or just riding this out? What are you doing in the downtime? “Currently riding it out, but that may change. In the meantime, I've been painting, reading, watching tv, exercising. The apartment’s never been cleaner!”

Before all of this, What was your outlook, expectations, and feelings about the year at the beginning of 2020? “Optimistic, and I still am. My expectations were to continue doing a job I love, be creative and spend time with family and friends. Obviously some of that has become more complicated with current events, but I do see this as temporary, while simultaneously realizing the gravity of the situation. People are sick, people are dying. Ultimately, what I can do right now is be compassionate and considerate of the wellbeing of others as well as myself. I try to keep in mind as well that whenever I experience hardship or loss, it's important to remember and be grateful for everything I still have.”

When / where did you hear about the coronavirus AND were you worried? “I first heard about it through news outlets in December, and I wasn't worried. From what I understood at the time, symptomatically it was similar to a cold or the flu, but more contagious yet having a fairly low mortality rate. It seemed so removed from me that I saw no reason for concern.” 

How did you feel about COVID-19 as it related to you and your wellbeing on March 1st? “My feelings have changed, it's definitely more personal. There's an added level of caution and awareness as soon as you walk outside. There's also sympathy for so many others who feel lonely and are distanced from so many aspects of their lives. This is so different because it's not just a recession or a terrorist attack, it's a public health crisis and so many more people are vulnerable. Everyone's life has been shaken up. I'm currently not working as well as most of my friends. So much of how I spend my free time, going out to restaurants, bars, concerts, have all been put on hold which coincides with being able to spend time with family and friends. Something as simple as visiting my mom isn't viable right now. All of that seems trivial though as hospitals are being overwhelmed. It will pass, but there's hardship along the way.."

How did you feel about COVID-19 as it related to you and your wellbeing when the city officially shut down? “Similar to the answer above, it hits so much closer. Hearing about our city, as well as so many others and even countries going into lockdown shows how serious the situation is and from I understand can/will worsen before it gets better.”

What are your Personal hopes/goals for when this is over? “They remain the same as they were at the beginning of the year. I'm eager to spend time with loved ones and get back to work. I also hope for myself, and for others, to be more present and aware of the people in my life. I hope we come out of this more sensitive and appreciative of our relationships and how much they enrich us. As far as society goes, I hope we can consider ways or elect candidates to improve/expand healthcare and create a climate that is more efficient and responsive to crises that may arise in the future.”

What do you think the new normal for you will be when this is all over? “I hope as far as the routine goes, my life will resume its previous state, I was pretty happy with where I was."  

What do you think will be the new normal for STL after this is over? “It will take time to recover, but ultimately I imagine things will more or less return to their original state, but perhaps, and hopefully, with an added level of kindness and charity towards others. Every challenge is an opportunity, this is a moment to reflect upon how much we value our relationships and what we can do for our friends, family, and community, and everything they do for us. Also, once everything is up and running and knowing this city, I'm expecting a perfect storm of mardi gras/Stanley cup/world series level of partying to continue FOR MONTHS.”

[imperium-romanum]

Welcome to 2019, everyone!

I spent the last week and a half at my family’s shack, enjoying the company of close family and friends, and Kali the #ClassicsCat, of course! I’m excited about the fresh start the New Year brings. 2018 was a difficult year for me personally. I haven’t talked about it on the blog because I prefer to focus on positives but as I prepare to face this New Year head on, I would like to reflect on some of the major hurdles that I had to overcome in 2018.

In January, my partner and I were forced to get a restraint order against my neighbour of six and a half years who became aggressive and threatening due to severe (suspected) drug-induced paranoia. We moved in with my parents while we went through the process to have the temporary restraint order confirmed. The restraint order was confirmed in February – a win – but we were not able to return to our unit. The local council, after 11 years of my parents owning the property, decided that our unit was not a legal dwelling. Bureaucracy at its finest.

During March and April, we fought the council for an explanation and started to try and resolve the problem. It seemed we were much more willing to work with them than they were to work with us, though. Shortly before the Easter break commenced my parents received a threatening letter from the council claiming that we were still living in the unit and that we would be fined approximately $20,000 AUD for the violation. This claim was blatantly false, but we still had to go through the process of overturning the impending fine.

We continued to try and solve the problem with our unit in May, but this was soon put on the back-burner when our cat, Kali, developed ketoacidosis due to undiagnosed diabetes. Within the space of 12 hours, she went from being her bright happy self to knocking on death’s door. She spent four days in constant care. I am forever grateful to my parents who paid for her care, which quickly tallied in the thousands. Without their compassion and love for her, we would have been forced to put her to sleep. I recieved many well-wishes during this time from followers, and I am thankful for the support and kindess you showed.

Left: Kali at AHVEC, weighing just 2.7kg. Right: Kali snuggling me and my fiance at a much healthier 4kg.

Kali's struggles weren't over, in June. She again visited the emergency vet hospital after getting into the bin, pulling out a wedged in chicken container, and eating the silicone absorbent pad while we were out for a half-hour at most. We still don’t know how she managed to do it! Thankfully it wasn’t serious in the end; she brought it all back up and suffered no consequences apart from all the dirty looks that my family gave her because of the panic she caused.

After a couple relatively quiet months, my fiancé’s family dog, Jess, also developed diabetes. She was not as lucky as Kali, however, and did not respond to treatment. Within weeks she went completely blind, among other problems. At only 9 years old, my fiancé’s parents were forced to make the difficult decision to put her to sleep. While I do not regret being there for them, it was the first time I had to deal with death in such a confronting way and it was a terrible reminder of how lucky Kali was to survive.

I hit perhaps my lowest ever point mental health-wise around this time. Although the semester was very rewarding, after such an intense period of balancing my personal life and commitments, PhD research, studying a language, and tutoring both academically and privately, I felt emotionally and mentally used up. The best way to describe how I functioned during this period is that I was on auto-pilot.

 Although 2018 was undeniably the most difficult year of my almost 26 years of life, there were plenty of positives too. In January I completed my Confirmation of Candidature, which involved presenting a 20-minute paper on my research topic. Then, in February, I was very lucky to upgrade my car by 12 years. Again, I am very grateful to my parents and very aware of how fortunate I am that they are willing and able to assist me financially, with work flexible enough to fit in with a PhD being so hard to come by.

I entered my second year of candidature in late February. It was a reasonably uneventful couple of months until, over two days, I gave two more presentations in May – one at Pint of History titled ‘Catastrophic Crassus: Parthia, #EpicFails, and the Death of Rome’s Richest Man’ and one at the Humanities Showcase at my university, titled ‘It Speaks! The Voice of the Door in the Roman Paraclausithyron’. 

I also secured a casual job at UConnect, UTAS’s student services. I had four weeks of nearly full-time work at the start of both semesters which allowed me to save enough money to get me through each semester.

In June, Kali’s glucose curve stabilised, much to ours and the vet’s relief; she has settled into diabetes life well ever since.

July was a month of firsts. I went to New Zealand for the first time and attended my first conference, Amphorae XII. At Amphorae XII, I presented my first conference paper, ‘Pompey’s Eastern Settlements: Considerations and Consequences’. I met some wonderful people, including some mutual followers! I also visited some of the sights, including the Auckland War Memorial Museum, Auckland Art Gallery, Hobbiton, and Hamilton Gardens.

When I returned from New Zealand, I enjoyed another four-week stint working for UConnect and, through the semester, I was also lucky to tutor the first years for HTC104: Introduction to Ancient Rome. This was my first time tutoring in an official capacity and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

When September came around, I received the good news that my abstract had been accepted for ASCS40. My fiancé and I were also finally able to move out of my parents’ house and back into a place of our own. The situation with our unit is still up in the air, unfortunately, but it is moving slowly forward. Still, it’s important to appreciate the small milestones, so to celebrate our return to relative independence we established a small succulent garden in the back area and grew far too many tomato plants.

In November, I reached a major milestone in my PhD journey by completing the necessary coursework element (what UTAS calls a Graduate Certificate in Research) of my degree. As a result, I now have the equivalent of a minor in Latin on top of the Certificate itself. Imperium Romanum also reached its first anniversary!

Finally, in December, my fiancé and I spent many weekends at the family shack enjoying the blessedly warm weather that usually skips Tasmania. Over the Christmas-New Year break, I went to the beach a record three days in a row. Sometimes, you just need to enjoy the simple things.

And so I must turn my attention to 2019. This, like the years before, will be another big one. I’m venturing into the third year of my PhD candidature in late February and, with the GCR finished, I’m looking forward to devoting my time to research. I’ll be attending not one but (hopefully) two conferences this year. The first is ASCS40, 4 to 7 February, at the University of New England in Armidale. It’s now only 33 days away – my funding was approved in December and I’ve booked my flights, accommodation, and hire car. As with Amphorae XII, I’ll be live tweeting the conference and blogging about my adventures in Armidale, which I have not visited before. I’m also hoping to attend Roman Memory: Pacific Rim Roman Literature Seminar 33 in July at the University of Newcastle – I’ll keep you posted on that one.

To finish up, I have a few New Year’s Goals that I would like to share with you. I won’t call them resolutions as I find that term comes with a lot of negative connotations; I’m not solving problems nor do I need to ‘better’ myself. Instead, I want to focus on enjoying all aspects of my life, from the private sphere to the academic. 

 1. Read more fiction. 

I love reading, yet, over the last few years, I’ve noticed that I do very little reading simply for the pleasure of it. Because the last six years of my life have been so academically focused – having gone straight from a Bachelor to Honours to a PhD – I’ve spent so much time reading for university subjects and research that the thought of doing more reading, even fiction, is exhausting. I could probably count the number of new books I’ve read (that haven’t been set for a class) on my fingers. I’ve set myself the goal of reading two to three new fiction books every month – if I can read more, great!

 2. Do more activities.

Last year, I went on a fantastic one-day road trip with two friends to Freycinet National Park on Tasmania’s east coast. Then, through December, I enjoyed many more small adventures with my fiancé. Even though I’ve never been particularly fit, I’ve always enjoyed the outdoors. Now that I’m equipped with some top quality hiking boots, I want to get out more – do more bushwalking, walk more rugged and rocky coastlines, and explore more of Tasmania’s wilderness.

I also want to spend less time playing computer games (much as I enjoy them), and more time making things. I’m no artist, but I still love to create things. I’m going to start off by making a pom pom rug in my Harry Potter house colours – Ravenclaw – to go under my desk. I won’t be posting my creations of Imperium Romanum, but I will be posting about them on Instagram and Twitter for those who are interested.

 3. Participate in a ‘100 Days of Productivity’ challenge.

While I have a reputation for being a productive student with good grades, the truth is that I am a chronic procrastinator who happens to be very good at whipping up strong assignments last minute. Even outside of the academic sphere, I’m somewhat of a procrastinator, thanks in part to anxiety. So, while I will continue to bring you the latest Classics news, there will be some changes coming to Imperium Romanum as I turn more attention to the everyday realities of studying Classics and my experiences as a student. Life can often be overwhelming, and acknowledging this and finding a better way to tackle the day-to-day burdens before the month-to-month or the year-to-year is going to be a major focus for me. I think that a productivity challenge is an excellent way to do this. Starting January 3, I’ll be documenting my productive efforts via Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr. While I expect most of my days will be related to research, I have no doubt that the challenge will have a positive impact on my life outside of university.

  And with that, I’ll wrap up. To all my followers, old and new, I wish you a very happy and prosperous 2019. I hope you’ll share your adventures with me too, and I encourage you to share your New Years Goals – my ask box and submissions are always open!

~ Admin @sassy-cicero-says

[axiomabstractions]

I forget exactly where I heard this (probably a podcast), but I recently adopted the idea of conceptualizing my place in the world not by what specifically I want to do but rather by what role I want to have in my community/society. I find framing it this way more useful, because it grants me more options than does specific thinking. To me this grants that no matter what I am doing, so long as it fits within my model of who I want to be to the people around me, it is probably worth my time and energy.

My baseline is providing value, in whatever form I can, no matter what service or product I’m providing specifically (another idea inspired by another). My full-time job right now is working with Uber and Lyft. It’s not glamorous and is a job I could easily see inspiring feelings of insignificance, but, through my effort to provide exceptional service in all dimensions, I am consistently rewarded by the genuine appreciation of my customers. This may seem trivial, but the value of feeling like what you’re doing is worthwhile can hardly be overstated.

I think it’s also essential to have a “northern star” of some sort. By that I mean something you aim for, whether it be a principal, a dream, a vision of the world, or even just a life you imagine for yourself, that no one else can take away from you. Ideally, it would be something you can’t accomplish. Have an eternal mission or idea for yourself that can endure the test of time and is applicable across all disciplines and industries. This way, you have true security.

People like to blab about “Job Security,” but that’s temporary at best (dependent on changes in economic and political circumstance) and nothing more than an illusion at worst. Any form of “security” which can be simplified to “my ability to earn a living hinges on someone else choosing, or being able to, pay me week after week” is not security at all. It’s a ticking time bomb waiting to violently blast you into the grasps of uncertainty and chaos.

We should each do everything in our power to minimize this risk for ourselves and move towards forms of increased autonomy in our pursuit of something greater. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying “quit your day job.” I have a day job, and it is essential for me, at this point in my life. What I’m saying is the amount of real security you have is contingent on your ability to be the arbiter of events in your own life, so the amount of influence anyone else has over your livelihood should be strategically reduced over time. If you have to take that unexpected 2 p.m. call from your boss on a Sunday, while you’re at the family barbeque, else your livelihood may be at stake, you have absolutely zero security. Regardless of how much money you make, if someone else can just strip your income away from you at a whim, that’s no bueno.

My northern star is a mission. My mission, put simply, is to assist everyone I can in their pursuit of self-fulfillment. Hopefully, you can instantly see how this is a mission I can never accomplish. The work will never be done. There will never be a point when I have successfully helped everyone reach their highest state of self-fulfillment. Furthermore, no one can take this mission away from me. It’s mine. It will always be mine. That is where I find my security. Through all my successes and failures, my mission will never change unless I decide it changes.

Now the real kicker here is, how do we take something that’s a useless, intangible notion and breathe life into it? How do I pursue something as vague and far reaching as the aforementioned mission and produce something meaningful with that? That is the real challenge, as I see it.

It’s been helpful for me to view my northern star simply as a compass. My mission has become the primary lens through which I frame my interaction with the world. It’s nearly always relevant, and it begs an array of questions, questions I believe good answers can be found for, any time human suffering or any form of lacking is brought into focus. However, that simply produces a compass which would continuously spin on its axis. There’s immeasurable suffering and scarcity being endured in this world, despite us as humans having created so much abundance for ourselves. We each need a compass that points a direction in which we can move confidently. One that is constantly spinning does not serve that purpose well.

This is where patience becomes your saving grace, as a moderator. It’s okay to have huge, unrealistic dreams, and to pursue those dreams passionately, so long as the amount of time you’re willing to devote to that pursuit is on par with the size of what you wish to accomplish. When you stretch tasks out over time, the compass tends to settle down a bit… a lot actually. And yes, this is to say that I have mapped out real, tangible ways to manifest my fairy dust, woo-woo mission. However, every key element of this manifestation would be an enormous undertaking, so stretching things out over time is the only way to choose a direction and move confidently. Otherwise, there would just be too many things to do, and no time to get from point A to point B. The compass breaks, right?

My thinking on what I want to accomplish and, more importantly, by when has gone from weeks to months to years to a lifetime. This isn’t to say that I ever deluded myself to thinking I could accomplish anything requiring millions or billions of dollars within the span of weeks. I never thought that. However, my lack of patience with myself and with my pace of progression towards the things I wanted has been the source of so much anxiety and indecision I almost pity myself. Looking back on things with this framing, I do believe that I’ve always had a very strong compass, it just never stopped spinning given the size and scale of what I want to do paired with my lack of patience.

For me, and this is something I’ve only started working on the past few months, employing patience as the moderator between where I am now and the actualization of unrealistic, intangible dreams has started clearing up a lot of time and space in my head. Now, it is becoming okay to spend my weeks voluntarily working 60+ hrs, because I’m confident I will be in a financial position, soon enough, to take action on the next essential part of my professional growth. My social life is something I have felt was lacking for years, yet I never took the actions necessary to improve it. I still struggle with that, but now I’m taking responsibility for it, and I know it’s something I need to take an active role in improving, if I’m ever going to successfully build a team talented and driven enough to continue molding this vision with me in the years to come. There is also the fact that my devotion to my own health has been greater and lesser over the years. This is something I will need to get better at, if I aim to be around long enough to see any of my vision through to fruition.

Inviting patience into every dimension of my growth is becoming more relevant and powerful with each passing day. For the record, this is not to be confused with a lack of urgency (I could write quite a bit detailing my struggle with balancing urgency and patience. Perhaps another time). This is simply an acknowledgment that every aspect of my growth is an essential element of living my mission, so every step counts and is deserving of love, presence, and effort. This means it’s okay if I focus on one dimension of my growth a little more heavily today or this week at the expense of some other form of growth. It’s all connected, and as long as I don’t lose sight of where I’m heading and what I need to accomplish to get there, the process can be as flexible as I need it to be. As long as I am making progress along some vector of growth which I have deemed meaningful and worthwhile, I feel I am winning the day.

So, if you’re having trouble figuring out what you’re doing with yourself, or what you’re doing with your life, or what’s next, or where do we go from here, etc. here’s my recommendation, in no particular order:

- Decide what person you want to be to those around you.

- Find yourself a northern star which can provide you security and meaning throughout all your successes and failures. You need something no one else can take away from you.

- Exercise patience in your process of growing. This will allow you to pursue multidimensional growth with flexibility over time.

For me what this looks like is:

My ideal vision of a future for humanity is one in which each individual has the tools and resources necessary to be successful in their pursuit of self-fulfillment, and the obstacles to effectively utilizing those tools and resources are minimized. Insofar as I can imagine improving the world we currently live in to this effect, I am devoted to the process of doing so. I realize this is a task no man, woman, or team of people can ever accomplish definitively, and that each particular element of the solution I envision will likely take years, if not decades, to actualize. Since I know I am devoting myself to a lifetime of work, I have resolved to allow myself to grow in any dimension I believe will make me more effective in my pursuit. Along the way, as I continue to grow and build, I will aim to provide value to others in whatever way I am capable.

[creativitytoexplore]

Forward: March by Mike Lee https://ift.tt/3flTpur Mike Lee tells the story of two American political refugees in the South American country of Antanzia, with a complicated personal history; by Mike Lee.

"How exhausting all this was. In fact, if only people knew how madly tiresome it is to be a criminal!" 

- Hermann Hesse, Klein and Wagner 

The question was resolved with an answer I steadfastly refused to accept. My hands became putty in this memory of a profoundly painful aspect of my past. That is, doing something that seemed a good idea at the time, but really never was to begin with. This fact was laid out before me while with my old camp mate Stefan at a table at the beach in Antanzia City. We sat under a fuchsia umbrella chatting over some business regarding his novel and likely temporary employment writing copy for a public relations firm I had an excellent connection with. I am his literary agent; managing his often-difficult navigation through the publishing trade in the country we now call our home. As refugees coming to grips with the truth that we may never return home, Stefan and I carve out our own palos in this new garden in South America, channeling our lives in a manner where we have a sense that we no longer have to look over our shoulders in the street, or listen for the baleful knock on the door by the national police. Having said that, living in Antanzia is a struggle, and today's business meeting was no exception. Being in a new land, though with us having now spent three years for me, and coming up on one for Stefan, has its issues once you get over the relief of escaping a dictatorship and finding room to breathe and hopefully thrive. After that sense of relief passes, one is confronted with the difficulties of being accepted. Antanzians are outwardly welcoming, but we certainly have collectively been grating on their nerves since the United Nations negotiated for political refugees to come to this country. The Antanzians tire of being a dumping ground while we weary of being treated like shit by our hosts. This creates an impasse that is an abyss to traverse in what can best be described as a politely passive-aggressive manner. Yet for some reason that none of us could quite put our hands on, they were indifferent to our plight, and often angry. We were an inconvenient presence, often ghettoized in Briklin, the slums in the inner part of Antanzia City, or sent off to the mountains, or worse yet working in the steel mills and iron ore mines in the northern border areas around the city of Bataille. It was sometimes hell. Shopkeepers threw change at us at the markets, and landlords overcharged for rent. Employment services usually shifted Americans into construction, and contractors consistently violated the labor codes regarding wages and work conditions. We took it, though, because in these transactions both parties knew we had no power to complain. We could not go back, unless you saved enough money and moved on to Brazil and Argentina, which treated us a little better. Not by much, but there were better opportunities and a modicum of respect that was lacking in our hosts. But I was a literary agent for non-citizen writers, namely my fellow Americans, and a subeditor for a refugee journal and website. I had a visa and permanent work permit, and citizenship was on the horizon. My Portuguese was good, and I got respect from my indigenous peers. Stefan was a dreamer. Isolated in a house in the far mountains of the O'Doul Range, writing his novel, and churning out book reviews and literary essays for print and online journals catering to our growing community. I thought of him as a man trying to erase memory. This was reflected in his writing: scribing dreamy parables influenced heavily by Hermann Hesse and Ernst Junger that I believed had more appeal for the locals than it did for exiles. We liked words that tasted of the whips we endured. Fiction that threw us against the wall, sentences that burned like the cattle prods. Shoved face down in toilet seats, sitting hungry in isolation cells, martyrdom with a bullet was what appealed to us, because it was all we knew. In America, political conflict eventually was settled by the crack of gunfire and people dragged into darkness at four in the morning. That's our game. In this country, you can spot one of us by the look of past incarceration. We have a post-traumatic stare. We do not look at you, but through. Looking at Stefan I saw something lacking in his expression. He was direct and steady. He was not one of us. It was becoming apparent during the conversation, I made a mistake befriending this man. I did not trust him. I long ago learned not to.

Today is a Thursday late morning in March, the end of the Antanzian summer. I am older now, and I like fitting in so I dress my age, and try to look local in my tan linen suit and black oxfords. I began sporting a wide-brimmed straw hat, my vanity too much to show my receding hairline. Fitting in is something I didn't do well back home, but here I found it easy - to a point. As I sat across from Stefan my nascent disdain began to slowly percolate. Dear Stefan in his blazer and ill-fitting slacks. He needed to dress better, and I know he could, so I decided to keep our encounter on the beach, but intended to tell him to dress better when I took him to the editorial meeting. The work I had for him was simple enough. After countless delays, the RSA had planned the first human mission to Mars. The Gagarin mission was cobbled together under Russian/Indian leadership, using whatever resources were left in the now-collapsed European Union, and American technicians who no longer had a country willing to engage in anything other than staring at their navels. The international crew was mainly Russian, and Stefan minored in Russian in college, so it was a fit - somewhat - mainly because he spoke the language and knew Soviet history. But there were no Soviets, only Russians again, and the lot of them seemed to be blissfully unaware that being the last nation of any technological might left standing after a political and economic collapse does not leadership make. But, they did enough to launch for Mars, with grandiose plans to planet hop through the solar system and on to the stars. Considering the Antanzians had the tracking station in the northern mountains near the border, it was planned to boost their national pride by playing up their role in the Gagarin mission. So he was tasked to find someone who could write something for the local papers. Who better than an American? Why not us? We kicked the whole thing off with a few dreamers such as Goddard, a few weirdoes like Jack Parsons, and a slew of Nazis to work on releasing humanity from the taut bounds of Earth. We were the dreamers, with the means and spirit to get it done. We were Americans, and after World War II ruled - well, half the world. But we had a competitor with a knack to beat us. They got a satellite up first, shipped up a dog, a man, then a woman in space, did the first walk outside of a space capsule. Then we got serious, using the improved rocket design developed by our Germans using the fuel that Parsons invented, and set out for the big prize: the Moon. The other half withered and eventually crumbled, canceling their planned missions. Eventually we worked on a joint project, and then the other side totally collapsed, unable to keep up economically. The vastness of space before us was an American opportunity. At that moment, we were the only ones. The problem was, we lost our faith, distracted by events and an innate ability to stare at our navel and question ourselves endlessly. Dreams soon ceased to be. Sure, we managed to send out and land various craft, and launch exploratory vehicles which kissed the planets and several moons of our Solar System, but when it came to human exploration, as we had done with the Moon decades ago, we stayed with both feet on the ground. Then, due to events unforeseen, the balance of power shifted. One empire that had collapsed regenerated while the other - ours - crumbled into tertiary status. So, who better than an American? We still loved our country, though neither of us at this table liked it for what it had become, and America hated us to the point where we had become landless individuals cast out to at a table under an umbrella on the shore, under azure southern skies, marking time with all the other exiles, dreaming of a home that no longer was. So I did not trust this man. Not in the least. But I needed someone for the job.

The camp was situated in the desert outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. The stark, treeless mountains framed our landscape beyond the wire fence. I found out after my arrival that communications to the camp headquarters was by landline telephone only and all radio and wireless communications were jammed by satellites. This was complete isolation, but we made do with the Saturday visits from relatives who drove on the single two-lane blacktop leading to the main gate. We furtively did our work there. Our resistance was to the banal, and our enemies were in the main rather boring. They dumped us in camps, fed us the three square meals consisting of aging meat and stale potatoes, and when in the mood occasionally kicked the shit out us, usually without warning. In that regard, their neglect gave us an internal freedom that quite often at times gave us a false sense of fearlessness. We could talk amongst ourselves, and communicate messages to our loved ones visiting us at wire beside the front gate. That went on for a year. Then things suddenly transmogrified into horror. It began when the camp commander issued orders to forbid the visits. The posting was announced at morning roll call as we watched a detachment of reserve units guarding the fence perimeter. They also announced that the road to the camp was ordered as a secure military zone with shoot-to-kill orders for any nonmilitary personnel. Mail and packages were now to be confiscated. Guards ransacked our huts while we stood in the high desert heat. That night came the first raids. Units of five soldiers each entered at both entrances and their commanding officer ran off names from a computer printout. Sometimes only two or three were taken from a particular hut; other times far more. Most were members of the camp resistance. The others known personalities from the old days, former elected officials, military, writers, professors. Anyone who had been in a position of power before the onset of the current regime. They were loaded on buses and taken out of the camp. We only heard the trucks move out because we were ordered to stay in our bunks. Two soldiers stood at the doors, their guns pointed in our general direction. The raids continued nightly for a week, until the entire active membership of the resistance was removed. Those who remained were the cursed lucky, the noninvolved and suspected informers. Stefan, of course, was one who remained. Before the camp lockdown and the raids, I never paid much attention to him. I do remember that because of his journalism background he was approached by the resistance to do occasional writing. He wrote a few minor efforts that were passed through the fence, but as far I knew was not involved more than that. Stefan usually sat at a bench, reading his novels. He liked Hermann Hesse, which made sense because before the camp he taught German literature in a university. At first, I thought he was lucky like me. I was into the resistance a bit deeper, certainly enough to be taken away into the night to unknown destinations. I kept caution from the wind and figuratively burrowed further underground. The remaining members of the resistance did the same, exchanging furtive glances in the yard, in our huts, and during muster, like gangsters in a French film noir. We did not know which from whom anymore. All of us were innocent, or a traitor. Or a bit of both. One cannot separate in these stressful conditions. We passed each other as the dead to one another. The triumph of the regime over us was clear to all. Take a few of us, and leave the remainder to quietly question their worthless place in our universe, was the message we received. Paranoid, and remaining silent while waiting out our lonely days and nights in the desert camp. I did talk to Stefan during this time. Nothing much in common except for a shared interest in academia. I was a journalist and found him an interesting companion regarding book recommendations. I kept the conversation to that, and the miserable desert heat in spring and summer, and equally wretched cold in winter. I thought those conversations were unrevealing. Sometime I lay awake at night trying to remember everything we said. My memory of those days is still shot. All I can recall is fragments of mid-century European literature and the desperate need for shade from May to October. But like in Melville's Army of Shadows, there would be a reckoning once we put together another resistance unit in the camp to find the traitor. That never happened, unfortunately. A second early morning raid followed, and this time I was unlucky. Yet in torture I gave no one up. This last time was a week in a basement, somewhere. My knees ache in the wet winters, and the burn scars from the cattle prods still mark my back and upper thighs. I also came close to a heart attack in the experience. At the conclusion I learned who ratted me out. It was a phrase I overheard at the end, while lying on the concrete floor. The man in the blue serge suit, looking for all the world like a dandy, oversaw my interrogation. He had clean, well-manicured hands, and as he stood over my prone body, he told the brute with the cattle prod that there was nothing else to get from me. The man in the suit was a big chief. He told the guy to quit, and ordered over his cell phone for medical personnel to collect me. As I was loaded on the gurney, I heard the suit say, "Yet again, the scribbler is more wrong than right. This one is of no use to us." He looked at me, grimacing, and I detected a mere smidgen of mercy. "Yes, that man is a Klein, not a Wagner," he said, sighing. "Well, enough of him. He's got his walking papers and out of our hair." I immediately recognized the reference. That was the book Stefan read. I had read it, too. Klein and Wagner was a novella in Hermann Hesse's Klingsor's Last Summer. This was the only book I read completely through while imprisoned at the camp. I knew it was Stefan who betrayed us. All of us.

My erstwhile betrayer asked for another coffee, for which I had to pay. I do not have a problem with covering his expenses, viewing it as a means to fatten the cow, gaining his trust. Stefan also needed me to provide him a job. I willingly - happily - complied. I motioned for the waiter and ordered two American coffees. As we sat in our seats under the fuchsia umbrella, we concluded our plans, relaxing quietly before taking our leave for the appointment. I had already called ahead. Goltz, the senior assistant public relations director at the firm, was expecting us. During the coffee I studied Stefan's face as we conversed. It was light speak. He talked about his girlfriend, a photographer he knew in the years before the regime, and of his writing cabin in the mountains. He was deep in the forest, and it dawned on me that this made perfect sense. I suspected he assumed we would be looking for him if we got to Antanzia. But what surprised me is he searched me out for work. I wondered if he was mad, clueless, a sadist. Innocent never entered my mind. He was guilty as hell. We spoke of writing. I dared to mention Herman Hesse. Without registering a reaction Stefan talked about the Hesse novels, from Peter Camenzind to The Glass Bead Game. I mentioned I particularly enjoyed the novella collection he produced relatively early in his career. "My favorite is Klein and Wagner. I love the story of a normal family man, who commits a crime and flees to Venice under an assumed identity. Eventually one identity takes over another and this dooms the character." Stefan paused before responding. "I don't think that was the motive for Klein's suicide. I believe guilt did him in. Hesse was going through a marriage breakup at the time, and his feelings of guilt were worked through on the pages of that story." That got him. I already figured out what his code name was. I fantasised of that man in the blue serge suit, sitting behind his desk looking at Stefan's file, and probably laughing his ass off. "Yes," I said. "In the end, the truth will tell." "What do you mean by that?" "Just that the truth wins out over all the subterfuge." I sipped my coffee. "We had those hopes in the camp that the truth wins out. In a manner, it happened. We exist. We live." I swung my arm across this beach. "We have all this beauty that surrounds us. Sure, this isn't home, but we are safe." "Yes," Stefan's gaze was a little glazed. He shifted nervously in his seat. "We are safe." Stefan straightened up and refocused his attention. I believed he knew what I implied. "I love my mountains, and the forest passage I walk in the morning with Patricia." "Yes, I understand," I said, wanting to reach out and strangle him. I sucked in a breath. "How is she doing with finding work? I read in NdM that she will be exhibiting at the Refugee Center in May." Patricia wasn't one of us, having been fortunately stuck on assignment in Australia when the regime came down on us all like sleep in the night. She had the reputation, though, to be seen as not one of us. I noticed her upcoming gallery show at the center was about us refugees. There was a certain irony to that. Engineers digging ditches, doctors as restaurant doormen, professors working behind the counter at gas stations. We, like everyone else in similar circumstances throughout the world, were exiled to a country that doesn't like us, begrudgingly accepted with sneering caveats, and starting again from the bottom up. Yeah, isn't this ironic? Goltz and I were among the lucky ones. Or clever - pick one, or take both. As for Stefan, he had his house with the artist girlfriend deep in the woods, yet so desperate for cash he relied on people he'd sold out for a passport out. That's the way I saw it. Maybe he saw it, too, and in his desperation he was taking this risk with me. He had to know one of us figured his game out. This was only a matter of time and I didn't understand it. For now, I think several motives were running through his mind. I settled on sadism: being represented by the guy who spent a week being beaten, his head shoved in ice water, and struck with a cattle prod. Getting a problem resolved by someone who nearly had a heart attack while writhing on a cold, damp concrete cellar floor. And here we were talking about Klein and Wagner. The character of Klein could no longer live with his guilt and the person he became. So he got in a rowboat, paddled out and drowned himself. Klein could no longer bear to be Wagner, and it killed him. Stefan kept his name, and was the same erudite, quiet and distant man he was at the camp. I paid for the lunch, and the coffee. I was getting him a job. He sat there across from me, enjoying the scene, hopeful for a potentially big payday, a favor from an old camp comrade. When the waiter looked in my direction, I raised my index finger. "A conta, por favor." Nodding, the waiter moved toward the wait station to fetch our bill.

The auditorium was in the Neuenschwander, built in the style of neo-Brutalism architecture favored by the Antanzians. The eggshell-white concrete windowless skyscraper loomed over the northern part of the central city, casting its shadow over the Bricklin neighborhood. We took a cab from the taxi stand by the beach and avoided the old neighborhood. While the driver took the fabled short cut around the Cathedral Plaza to avoid the congested main avenue, I pondered what I intended to do with Stefan once I had the chance. The problem with murder in Antanzia is that it gets the death penalty, and a crime of revenge doesn't cut it around here. The justice system in this country views these acts as a personal insult to their hospitality. In tandem with the driver, I instinctively cross myself as we pass the National Cathedral. I say a silent prayer for guidance. This never works, but I never give up trying. A higher power will eventually hear me, or at least give me a nudge. Stefan stared out the window, his hands carefully folded across his lap. I stared out the window of the taxi and looked for familiar landmarks. We were skirting the edges of Bricklin. I see the American-style diner where I used to take breakfast before starting my first job at the newsstand, standing behind a counter selling cigarettes and beer, watching his neighbors reading the newspapers instead of buying them - with few exceptions. He tolerated it, because back then everyone arrived broke and out-of-work while waiting for their permits. Beyond the scraps provided by Catholic Charities and the Refugee Center, we received nothing in terms of support. A work permit - a permiso - was what you received if you kept your nose clean and didn't scare the locals too often. Some had to wait months to receive one, depending on the waiting list. In the meantime, you existed on rice and beans and the housing was predicated on the kindness of strangers. It was a hard life. Stefan arrived and received a cottage gifted by one the leaders of the resistance, who was his friend and admired his writing. He was the one who insisted I take him as a client, citing loyalty to the cause and the brotherhood of experience in the camps. In that conversation, I never mentioned Klein and Wagner. Instead, I said yes. I didn't have a choice. After the meeting, I felt betrayed again, this time by myself. Stefan and I sat in the darkened auditorium and listened to the lecture. The main speaker was one of the cosmonauts returning from the first mission to the Mars colony. He was the chief engineer of the mission, and spent a year at the colony working mostly in near-isolation in the pod that provided access to the computers that kept the colony going. I could identify with the solitude he described in relating his experiences. I'd been alone for many years, now. Stefan sat in rapt attention, taking notes on his electronic pad, filling the screen, scribbling. He took to this with the intensity that only an artist of words could. Yes, he did write very well. I recall the polemics he wrote that later were smuggled through the fence. Yes, messages of hope and defiance. Pretty little words that eventually landed us all here. On Mars, I suppose. The speaker was familiar. He was one of the two mission participants from the Western Hemisphere. The cosmonaut was from Trinidad, and talked about his childhood, raising horses with his family. Talked rather wistfully of riding a pony along the surf. While listening, I smiled, thinking of ponies on Mars. The cosmonaut talked of the dust storms that blew from the mountain range into the deep valley where the colony was situated; describing the dangers the colonists faced as the high winds buffeted the small, hardened pods that dotted the valley. They had been spread out in distance far enough for a quick walk in full gear in the thin Martian atmosphere. He explained this helped lessen the wind speed associated with a tunnel effect found in urban areas during storms. A good-sized piece of titanium used in the unsecured heavy equipment at the colony could pierce the pod walls. Even with the sophisticated weather gauging instruments at his command, it was often too soon to see a windstorm before they were able to move all the equipment into the hangers. As he talked, I continued to feel sympathy for his loneliness in performing his duties. He told that at times he was alone in the engineering pod for as much as a week, checking on life support, energy and above all, the weather. His only contact was with his commander, who remained at the colony. He spoke of her with a certain longing. I could tell by the change of tone in his voice. It was softer, poetically heartbreaking as he described their intense relationship during times of crisis, and the languid longer-than-Earth hours when there was little to do. He obviously loved her. I was moved by his words. Yet, this cosmonaut had to be the one to return. The commander was due to leave in six months. I wished their future well.

After the question time, where the gathered reporters asked the cosmonaut dumb questions about sustainability, terraforming and the like, I motioned for Stefan to follow me. The interview with Goltz was in a conference room at the end of the corridor behind the auditorium. Goltz waited at the door as various individuals, including the cosmonaut, passed through. After I introduced Stefan, Goltz took Stefan gently by the shoulder and led him through the door. Goltz turned to me before the guard closed the double doors. "I already got the call from upstairs. He's got the job." I shrugged. "Cool. So how long is this?" "He should be done in two hours. If it is longer, I will call." "Okay then, I will wander. Good luck." I wandered through the park near the Cathedral, brooding about the choices I made. I made my way to a bench far from the granite fountain, a gift from the French Third Republic dating from 1880, honoring the 50th anniversary of Antanzian independence, citing its commitment to the principles of liberty. I read the inscription often when I stop in the park. I do not do it as much anymore. The words are written in four languages, and reading them helped me learn two of them, and the third a little better. Carved on the granite is a quote by Jose de San Martin. A military leader, he played the decisive role in the liberation of Argentina, Chile and Peru. Late in life, San Martin assisted the Antanzians in negotiating their own freedom, using words as his saber in a complicated series of negotiations with the Argentines, Brazilians and the British. If not for that, I would not be here, and so I look at those words a little differently on this day. This line always struck me as apropos, particularly more so in the moment I am living in: "The conscience is the best and most impartial judge that a righteous man has." A few blocks away sits a cosmonaut waiting for a woman on Mars, while being interviewed by a man who betrayed me. Caused me pain. Destroyed others. Yes, he is being protected, and I believe I will never know why. This is a terrible piece of judgment, but people above my rank made a decision. My conscience is torn between choosing whether I will be Klein, or be Wagner. Both drowned. I would rather not be either. Stefan likely faces the same contradiction from the decisions he made. Perhaps he isn't mad, sadistic or stupid. There is something else at play in that man's mind. It struck me then that there is the possibility he is capable of feeling guilt. That will do. I can accept that. I have a life I do not want to lose. When I was told to help Stefan out and be his agent, I am left with no choice. I did not like the decision I struggled to reach, finding it personally immoral, but wisdom prevailed. I stare up. As I scan the sky I try to find Mars. I cannot see it, but the planet is there, behind the cumulus formed at the left. I will pick Stefan from the Neuenschwander, give him an advance check for the project and drop him off at the train station. He returns to his house in the woods to his Patricia, either as Klein or Wagner. Whoever Stefan comes home as matters nothing to me, because I will collect my fee. Goltz is quick with the paperwork. I'll get the check by the end of the week. I return to my home with my conscience intact.

[bookgirlfan]

Always Beside Me

I’m almost afraid to post this, I’ve been working on it so long, but it’s time. Hopefully someone other than me enjoys it! 

AO3

"What the [flip] just happened to us?" Mick growled from where he had fallen to the floor.

Jax laughed. "Dude, what happened to your voice? You been sucking on helium?" Then he looked over. "Oh no."

Mick scrambled upright, standing in front of Jax at his full height – which now only reached Jax's shoulder.

"What happened to me?" he growled.

"It seems, Mr Rory, that your age has somehow been regressed," Stein commented from his seat beside Jax. "Is that correct, Gideon?"

"That is correct, Dr Stein," Gideon's tranquil voice came from above. "Mr Rory and Mr Snart have been regressed to their adolescent years."

"Snart?" Jax asked, while Mick's gaze jerked to the ceiling, then around the room.

Mick caught sight of something on the other side of the room. "Lenny!"

He rushed over there, and the others' gazes followed him, watching as he fell to his knees besides another teenage boy, this one much smaller and curled into himself.

"Lenny?" Mick repeated. His hand hovered over the boy's shoulder, but did not touch. "C'mon, Lenny, show me something."

Len uncurled slightly, one hand lifting up to flip Mick off.

Mick chuckled. "That's it, Len. Up you get, Snowflake, no more lazin'." His hand finally made contact with Len, landing on his shoulder as he uncurled.

"Mick?" Len finally spoke, voice rough yet higher than any of them but Mick had heard before. "What happened? Where are we?"

Mick looked up at the rest of the team, glaring at them back, then back to Len. "We're on the ship. Do you remember that?"

Len considered for a minute, then slowly shook his head. "I remember we were on a job. Job went bad, we went home to lay low..." He looked up at Mick fearfully. "I was with my dad. So was Lisa. Where is she?"

"Lisa's safe." Some of the tension went out of Len's shoulders. Mick continued, "Do you remember where we are now?"

Len scanned the room, eyeing the rest of the team, who were still staring at him and Mick. "This is the Waverider. We're trying to stop Savage. You and I are here because we're thieves and super villains, and if this lot don't stop staring at me, I'll see if being fifteen again has changed my accuracy." His lips curled up in a nasty smile. "Even if it has, I'm sure I'll get there again with some practice."

"You were a natural from the start," Mick said fondly. He reached out a hand, and Len took it, rising to his feet before wincing and leaning against Mick. "Drove me [fudgin'] mad, watching you shoot." He frowned. "No, not fudging, [flaking]. No – What the [funk] is this? Gideon!"

"The child-safe policy has been engaged," Gideon said pleasantly. "No swearing will be permitted while minors are onboard."

"Yeah? What if the [frickin'] minors are the ones who want to be swearing?" Mick growled belligerently.

"No swearing will be permitted while minors are onboard," Gideon repeated. "Swearing from minors is included."

"You've got to be [sprouting] me," Mick grumbled.

Len snickered. "You'll survive, Mick. I'm rooting for you."

Kendra giggled, then quickly clamped her hands over her mouth.

"Lenny..." Mick groaned.

Len gave him a look of wide eyed innocence. "I just think it's nice you have a chance to use some flowery language."

Another giggle escaped Kendra, and this time Jax and Ray joined her.

Len smirked widely, very aware of his audience. Mick just buried his head in his hand, still holding up Len with the other. "I will drop you," he threatened.

"And break up a budding friendship?"

Kendra finally lost it, bending over in a fit of laughter. Jax and Ray were still giggling, and even Stein had cracked a smile.

Rip clapped his hands together, bringing everyone's attention to him. "As thrilling as this is," he said sarcastically over the sound of Kendra trying to get her laughter under control, "we need to get Mr Snart and Mr Rory to sickbay so Gideon can check them over and find a solution. Children will not be able to help us defeat Savage."

"Hey, maybe she can also help with those bruises!" Ray said helpfully.

"Bruises? What bruises?" Kendra asked, the mention enough to shock her into sobriety. She turned to look again at Mick and Len, soon followed by Jax, Rip and Stein.

Both boys were bruised, but while Mick only had some dark-but-lightening bruises on his jaw, and some yellowing splotches on his arms, Len had a thick row of dark fingerprint-shaped bruises around his neck that were visible now that his shoulders were no longer hunched defensively, and was holding his side like it pained him. He was wearing long sleeves, so his arms weren't visible, but nobody doubted that he would have more bruises there. The minute he saw them looking, though, he straightened up, away from Mick, and glared at them. "We don't need sickbay. Gideon can scan us from here."

Surprisingly enough, Mick was the one to disagree. "I remember that job, Len. Those ribs are cracked, and you put any more pressure on them, they're gonna break."  

"You had those kind of injuries at fifteen?" Kendra exclaimed, all thoughts of laughter now forgotten. "What– how?"

Len's eyes narrowed. "Daddy dear wasn't too pleased to hear I had gone on a job without him," he drawled. "He didn't like Mick much either."

An awkward silence fell.

Jax tried to break the tension. "I've had cracked ribs a few times from football. Mick's right, man. You should get those looked at."

"Kid's right." Mick looked at Len, still standing stubbornly upright and without help, then rolled his eyes, grabbing Len's arm and slinging it over his shoulder. "You're being an idiot. Let me help."

Len begrudgingly leant into Mick, almost immediately looking more at ease.

"You busted your ankle as well?" Mick asked, voice low enough that the rest of the crew had to strain to hear. "How come you never told me?"

"Wasn't that bad," Len said, equally low. "It'll heal in a few days."

"Not this time. Gideon's going to heal you now." Mick's voice rose to normal speaking volume again. "And one of you sneaky [figs] can go find some better clothes for us." He hiked up his waistband in emphasis, drawing attention to the fabric pooling at his feet. "Anything stupid, I'm settin' it on fire."  He looked over at Len for a minute. "And Len's with long sleeves."  

Ray opened his mouth to ask, but Sara quickly shook her head at him. She'd noticed his bruising from the start, and had a pretty good idea of where it came from, and what else Len's long sleeves might be hiding. Len would be feeling vulnerable enough right now, suddenly being a teenager again, even if he and Mick were handling it well. He shouldn't have to be reminded of the nastier aspects of his past any more than he already was.  

Mick and Len limped off towards the medbay, arms still tightly wound around each other. The rest of the team trailed after them – the sole exception being Rip, who returned to his study to continue scanning for more evidence of Savage.

In the medbay, Gideon quickly scanned and healed Mick and Len's injuries – beyond the ones they had already seen, Mick had some bruises on his back, revealed when he took off his shirt for the examination, that he explained only with a gruff, "Foster dad." Len had a sprained ankle, which he offered no explanation for, bruises around his neck, cracked ribs, and refused to remove his shirt. No one was surprised. The whole time, Len and Mick were never more than two feet away from each other, their closeness as adults even more pronounced as teenagers.

"Mr Snart and Mr Rory are once again in full health and able to resume their usual activities," Gideon pronounced.

Mick snorted. "Ain't quite full health when we're still teenagers. You got a cure for this yet?"

"Or at least a diagnosis, perhaps?" Stein suggested. "If we know what has happened to them, we may be able to find a cure ourselves."

"Certainly, Dr Stein. Mr Snart and Mr Rory have been deaged."

A hubbub of conversation erupted as the team all asked Gideon for explanations. Any answer she made was lost in the general cacophony, with the group shouting first at her, then at each other, each trying to figure out what had happened and what could be done.

Mick jumped on top of one of the beds, roaring, "Everyone, shut the [fund] up!"

They quieted immediately.

"Much obliged, Mick." Len's voice cut through the sudden silence. He straightened up from his position leaning against Mick's leg and strode over to the rest of the crew – even smaller than all of them, he still carried a distinct air of menace. "I'd say, since this happened to me and Mick, we should be the ones asking the questions."  He directed his next question up towards the ceiling. "Gideon! Explain what happened to us. What does deaging mean?"

"Deaging is a rare but not unheard of result of unsecured time travel," Gideon helpfully informed them. "This case was most likely caused when Captain Hunter returned to the time stream before Mr Snart or Mr Rory could strap into their seats."

"Then how come it didn't happen to me?" Kendra asked. "I wasn't in a seat, but I haven't been," she wrinkled her nose, "de-aged."

"Maybe it's because of your whole reincarnation thing?" Sara suggested. "Keeps you immune?"

"That is correct, Miss Lance," Gideon said smoothly.

"Enough about Bird Girl. Can you fix it?" Mick interrupted, jumping down from the bed to move and stand next to Len.

"The deaging process will reverse itself in three to five days," Gideon told him. Before anyone could process that well enough to be relieved, she added, "Common symptoms include loss of memory, confusion, paranoia, nausea, migraines and exhaustion, and will worsen before recovery."  

"Define 'loss of memory,'" Len drawled, voice hard.

"In this case, loss of memory means you and Mr Rory may experience an inability to remember events past your current bodily age, or to experience confusion surrounding such events," Gideon informed him. "This condition is only temporary, and all memory loss will be restored upon recovery."

"Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring." Seemingly unconsciously, Mick and Len moved closer together, as though preparing to ward off a threat.

"Don't worry," Ray beamed. "We'll look after you. What's the worst that could happen?"

***

Despite that ominous sign, for the rest of the day, nothing major did happen. Mick and Len were taking fullest advantage of their restored youthfulness, sneaking around the ship and scurrying through places their adult bodies were too big to fit. At night, while the rest of the crew drifted in and out of the kitchen, fixing their own meals, they caught moments of Mick and Len in there, trading terrible puns back and forth and eating like the teenagers they currently were.

It wasn’t until the second day that the symptoms really started to show.

Mick woke up, blinking, and feeling strangely light. Beneath his cheek he could feel something hard, like last night he’d just fallen asleep wherever he was standing. Had he and Len celebrated too hard the night before? But no, he didn’t have the headache that normally came with being hungover. In fact, for the first time in years, nothing really ached at all.

Suddenly panicked, Mick threw off the blanket and grabbed for his shoulders, straining to feel the familiar touch of burns. He had earned those burns, lost so much, nearly lost Len, for him not to carry that token of his truest love on him for all to see.

His shoulders had no burns, but were also too small, and in a flash Mick remembered what had happened yesterday. He and Lenny were teens again, and as a teenager he hadn’t had those burns. The flame hadn’t evolved him yet.

His questing fingers reached further, past his shoulders and to the metal wall behind. He really must have slept where he fell last night. Now that he remembered what had happened, he could remember that he and Len had been exploring the Waverider, discovering all the hideaways and smuggler’s holds they’d been too big to find before. Fifteen year old Len was a little twig of a thing, though, with a knack for finding hiding places, and the curiosity to explore all of them. Mick had tagged along to keep an eye on him and get him out of any trouble he couldn’t escape on his own.  

Except at some point, Mick must have fallen asleep, and now he had no idea where Len was.

"Len!" he called. He coughed, voice croaky with sleep, then winced as the action caused pain to shoot through his head. "Len!" he called again, more softly this time. "Where are you?"

Still no answer.

That didn't feel right. Len was a light sleeper, especially when not in a safe place. There was no way he would sleep deeply enough to miss Mick calling him, so either he was choosing not to answer, or he was no longer in hearing range. Mick really hoped it was the first one. He didn't want to go racing across the ship to try and find Len, not until he'd had some decent breakfast.

"Len!" he called, one final time. If Len didn’t come this time he’d leave the brat to find later. "Get the [flick] out here or I'm getting food without you."

A squeak, quickly muffled, came from the vent beside him. Mick crouched down, peering into it. Wide frightened eyes peered back.

“Len?” Mick asked hesitantly. He’d know those eyes anywhere, and it had been a very long time since he’d seen them this vulnerable. “Lenny, it’s just me.”

No response. Just those terrified eyes silently peering back at him.

“Did something happen last night?” It wasn't a big ship, surely nothing that bad could have happened, nothing that would scare Len badly enough to make him revert back to this. Unless it wasn't something, but someone –

“Mick?” Len’s voice distracted him from his quickly forming anger. “What happened?”

“You tell me, boss.” His anger had disappeared as quickly as it had formed, and worry had taken its place.  However it happened, for those few moments there, Len hadn’t remembered him. Len had been caught up in a memory or something, something he hadn’t seen since Len had finally put Lewis down for good, and had forgotten Mick, been scared of him. “Woke up, and you were hiding in here. Didn’t recognise me when I talked to you.”

Len climbed out of the vent, Mick standing aside to let him pass. He was careful enough to give Len his space, no matter how much he’d prefer to stay close. If whatever had just happened happened again, he didn’t want Lenny freaking out because there’s a stranger standing inside his considerable personal bubble. Better to stand further back, and give Len the space to move.

“Gideon said there’d be symptoms,” Len said slowly, brow furrowing. “Just ‘cause we haven’t had them yet doesn’t mean we ain’t gonna get them at all.”

“When I woke up, forgot where I was for a few minutes,” Mick confirmed. “But Gideon said we’d forget being adults, not that we’re kids right now.” His voice lowered. “That what happened with you?”

Len’s shoulders tensed. Mick knew what that meant. He changed the subject. “So what’s the plan, boss?”

“We hide it,” Len answered. “If Hunter thinks something’s up, that we might be a liability, he’ll kick us off, or worse. Kids find trouble so easily. Right now he thinks we’re too young to be useful or dangerous, and we want to keep it that way.”

Mick nodded. “Stay away from the others, specially Hunter and Canary–”

“–but not so much it’s suspicious,” Len completed. “If we have to stick with someone–“

A noise echoed down the hall, footsteps clanking against metal. Len and Mick immediately silenced.

Jax walked into the room, then froze. “Sorry, didn’t know you were in here. I’ll, I can go.” He turned to leave.

Mick caught Len’s look and nodded. If they could get someone on their side, someone to argue for them if plans came to worst, that would be one less vote for English to throw them overboard. It was exactly the kind of backup plan Lenny would want, and another reassurance that whatever had happened earlier, Len was over it.

“Kid. You wanna see something cool?”

Even as Mick shook his head at the pun, he could see it working. Jax stopped, turning back into the room. “If this is you asking me to steal the jump ship so you two can go back in time again, then no, [fry] that [spit]. I am not helping you erase yourselves from existence.”

“This is something different,” Mick said. “You’re a mechanic. You’ll like this.” If anyone was going to appreciate a timeship flight simulator, it was definitely going to be a mechanic barely out of his teen years. Maybe next they could even convince him he should try out his newly acquired skills on the real thing.

***

"That was awesome, man!"  Jax cheered. He slapped Len on the back, flushed with pride and excitement.

Len flinched.

Mick hadn't seen that reaction in years. Len had worked hard to overcome it, and although he still had his days where even a breeze would set him on edge, he hadn't flinched at sudden movements since they were in their twenties. Which was still a good five years away for this Len, Mick realised, heart sinking.

Jax hadn't noticed, Len covering it almost immediately. Mick covered it even further, gradually moving until he was walking between them, his body shielding Lenny from further touches. Len sent him a look, but Mick ignored it. Obviously this deaging thing was having more of an effect than they'd thought, if this morning wasn’t enough proof, and he wasn't going to let Len suffer just to keep up an act.

"We're getting some food," Mick grunted. "You comin', kid?"  

"Kid?" Jax looked momentarily irritated, before a smile of delight crawled over his face. "I'm not the kid anymore, Mick!"

Mick slowly nodded. "Good point. Then I guess you can make the food."

Jax's smile dropped off. "Uh, I can make some fried rice? And toast? Or Gideon could make something, she can do that, right?"

Len wrinkled his nose. Mick'd forgotten he used to do that. "If we wanted to eat computer generated cardboard, we would have just said so.”  

“Fried rice sounds good, though,” Mick grinned. “You can make that.”

“Alright.” Some of Jax’s uncertainty gave way, replaced with determination. He strode towards the kitchen, letting the other two follow after, exchanging amused (and slightly fond) grins.

Jax got to the kitchen, circled around for a moment, looking for a pantry, then pulled it open with a triumphant “Aha!”

Empty.

Mick snickered loudly at Jax’s comical look of distress. “Never any fresh food here, kid. You gotta stock it yourself if you don’t want to be eating all the processed stuff.”

“Is that what you two do?” Jax asked. “But I saw you guys eating last night, you had real food!”

Mick jerked his head at Len. “This one would eat processed food all day if I let him. Thinks a packet of M’n’Ms count as a meal.”

“It’s food!” Len protested half heartedly. “Anything’s a meal if you eat enough of it.”

Or if you’re desperate, they both knew, but neither of them were going to tell the kid that. If he didn’t already know the kind of desperation that meant eating anything you could get your hands on, chewing nails off your fingers, bark off the trees, just so there was something in your stomach – if he didn’t know that already, he never needed to.

“We’re gonna eat real food. Feel around in the back of that cupboard,” Mick directed, changing the conversation. “There’s a hidden latch at the top, right at the join. You feel it?”

Jax felt around carefully, face set in concentration. “Yeah, almost.” A small click was heard. Jax ducked his head down to look and whistled loudly. “You sure managed to fit a lot in here!” He pulled out a bag of rice, two carrots, an ear of corn, a bundle of bok choy, a small bag of potatoes, and finally a bottle of soy sauce, before looking over at Mick in amazement. “How did you even fit all this in here?”

“Mick has a way with food,” Len answered for him, smirking. Mick didn’t mind. Getting in good with the kid was still their best play, and if Len wanted to use food to do it, he’d follow Len’s lead. Not like he minded doing a bit of extra cooking. He still wouldn’t be sharing their main food stash, though. That one was just for him and Len. No one else needed to know what exactly they’d managed to sneak on board, and Lisa would kill them if he and Len didn’t bring back some goodies for her.

“That rice is going to take a while to cook,” Jax said. “You sure this is the right way to go? I mean, if you got some bread, we could just have sandwiches or something.”

“Finished off the bread last night,” Mick said. “Here, kid. Watch.” He took over, throwing rice into a steamer for Gideon to cook, then preparing the vegetables. “Would be better with some sausage,” he continued, smoothly chopping up a carrot, “but this’ll do.” He frowned at the carrot pieces. They weren’t as even as he would like; he hadn’t had as much practice chopping veggies when he was this age. He shrugged, throwing them in with the rice, then adding a dash of soy sauce. “Gideon’ll keep an eye on it. Should be done in a few minutes.”

“She can do that?” Jax asked in amazement.

“Oh, there’s a lot of things Hunter never thought to mention about what this ship can do,” Len said darkly. “Word of advice, Jackson. Always research your own jobs. Never let someone else tell you about it.”

“Don’t you eat, kid?” Mick interrupted. As much fun as it was watching Jax’s surprise at everything, it didn’t make a lot of sense. With how long they’d been in this ship, he must have some way of getting food. Besides, if he didn’t distract Lenny now, Len’d get caught in his head for the rest of the day, and if he hated that on his normal Len, it was ten times worse on teen Len.  

Jax shrugged. “I found the main storage cupboard the first day. There’s milk and cereal and noodles in there, then later there were some big dishes of food, like spaghetti and meatballs or that one really good curry, so I ate those too. I just figured Gideon must be supplying it.”  

Mick grunted. “All Metalmouth’s food tastes like [furling] cardboard.”

Len smirked, bad humour thankfully diverted. “As I said. Mick’s got a way with food.”

“That was you? You made those?” Jax looked at Mick, shocked. “Man, my mom would kill for that curry recipe. Curry is her favourite.”

“She’s got good taste.” Much better than Len. Len had never liked his curry, always claiming it was too spicy. What good was a curry if it didn’t make your mouth tingle and burn with the heat? “Remind me later. I’ll write it down for you.” If he did it before he and Len turned back into adults, maybe he could pretend it was all teenage enthusiasm, and that he didn’t care a bit for the kid.

“Mr Rory, your rice is ready,” Gideon’s pleasant voice rang out.

He pulled the rice out of the steamer and dished it into three bowls, leaving the rest behind. They’d probably end up eating that later. “Dig in.” Not waiting for them, he grabbed his own bowl, shovelling the food into his mouth. It had been a long morning. Even if it wasn’t morning anymore, and he wasn’t going to be bothered asking Gideon to check, it was still a long morning. He was going to eat his food, make sure Lenny had eaten his, and then they could figure out what to do next.

He stopped suddenly, putting a hand to his stomach. Something didn’t feel right.

Len noticed, because of course he did. “You alright, Mick?”

Jax frowned concernedly at him. “You’re looking a little green, man. Something wrong with the food?”

“Somethin’s up.” He’d made this meal himself, chosen his own ingredients; no way there was something wrong with his food. Must be something else.

Len watched him critically. “One of the symptoms was nausea. Or someone–“  

Mick cut Len off, throwing himself against the sink and vomiting noisily into it. After several long minutes, during which it felt like his stomach was trying to exit his body through his mouth, he finally stopped, panting.

“Sure it was just a symptom, Mick?”  At some point Len must have come closer, and was now leaning beside him, close enough for him to feel the heat from Len’s body but not quite close enough to touch. Len’s gaze was carefully directed away from the sink, which made Mick feel absurdly grateful. Being sick felt like weakness, and he never liked feeling weak.  “Came on pretty sudden.”

Mick shrugged. He didn’t see what Len was getting at. “It’s a [furzing] time disease. Who knows what’s sudden for that.”  

Len hummed, but didn’t say anymore.

Mick wiped his mouth and stood straight again. He considered grabbing his bowl and continuing to  eat, but he didn’t really feel like rice anymore now that there were bits of it floating in a puddle of vomit in the sink. Instead, he turned on the tap, washing the puddle away, and dumped his rice back in the steamer. Maybe it’d seem better later.

“You still feeling sick?” Len asked.

Mick scratched idly at his cheek. “Nah, ‘m alright now. You should finish that,” he added, gesturing to Len’s bowl, still sitting in the counter. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Neither did you,” Len pointed out, but he still grabbed his bowl off the counter and started to eat.

“I’m not the one who looks like a string bean,” Mick retorted. He’d grab something from one of their stashes later and be fine for it. Len was the one who could go a whole week without eating a decent meal, and it showed. If Lisa was there, he’d at least make sandwiches or something, but left to himself he’d survive on M’n’M’s and potato chips unless Mick made him eat something better.

“You eat too,” he added to Jax. “Len ‘nd I will be out of this in a few days. You’re still a kid.”

“No complaints here, man.” Jax held up his bowl, showing the few scraps of rice that still remained. “Your food is the only one I’ve tasted that comes close to my mom’s. D’you mind if I have seconds?”

Mick blinked. He knew Len and Lisa had always liked his food, and the Rogues had never complained either, but none of them had grown up with a family and a parent who could put some decent food on the table. Mick had been pretty happy with that, knowing that even if his food wasn’t the best, it was still homemade, from Mama Rory’s old Irish recipes, those that hadn’t burnt. But Jax? Jax had a mom, knew what homemade food was supposed to taste like. Knew about food made with love, in a way most of the Rogues had never known and Mick barely remembered and never even hoped he could replicate. That Jax liked his food that much, even comparing it with his mom’s, that was something special.

Len laid a hand on his arm, knowing what he was thinking in that way he always seemed to. “Eat all you want, kid. Mick won’t mind.”

Now he definitely had to get the kid that curry recipe later.

***

“Len? Len, buddy, come back to me. Think about it. Where are you right now?”

After there hadn’t been any more memory incidents yesterday, Mick had really thought they were over this, that things were finally starting to improve. Of course, that’s when Len decided to wake up and completely freak out.

“Len, you need to calm the [fuse] down. Close your eyes and [fiefing] think.”

It felt like it had been hours now and Len was still panicking. Right now he was curled up on top of the bed, back wedged into the wall, nails digging into his palms; he didn’t know where he was, barely recognised Mick - every time he had demanded to know where Lisa was it felt like someone had shoved a carving knife down Mick’s throat.

“Lenny, if you don’t - oh, for [fig’s] sake.”

Mick couldn’t handle this anymore. He grabbed Len’s hands and squeezed them tightly, forcing Len to look at him. “You know who I am, Len. I know you do. Can you just trust me that it’s safe here? It’s safe, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

Len gulped, throat bobbing, but nodded. His breathing started to slow.

“Alright. Alright. So, just, calm down, okay? I’ll look after you.” Mick took a chance, and let go of one of Len’s hands. Len didn’t move.

What could he do now? Len was calm, no longer freaking out, but he still couldn’t remember. What was he supposed to do? Len was the one who made the plans, but Len currently couldn’t even remember how old he was. Was Mick supposed to take over? What if they couldn’t fix this?

He forced himself to take a long breath. He couldn’t get worked up right now, not with Len in this state. Lenny needed him to keep it together and find a solution.

He looked back over at Len, and jolted in surprise. “Len? You back with me?”

“I’m back, Mick.” Len sounded tired, but that familiar hard glint had returned to his eye. “We’re on the Waverider, and I forgot again. It’s getting worse.”

“Took longer for you to remember this time,” Mick confirmed. “Even after you remembered me, didn’t know where you were until –“ He cut himself off, turning towards the ceiling. “Gideon, how long did it take for Len to remember he was on the Waverider?”

“From when Mr Snart woke it took him twenty three minutes and fifty seconds to remember your name, Mr Rory, and a further forty one minutes and six seconds to remember he was in the Waverider,” Gideon told them. “Does that answer your query?”

“Yeah, that covers it,” Len said, scowling slightly at nothing.

Mick could take a guess at why. Len hated being weak or missing information, and right now, he was both. This was the second morning Len’d woken up not remembering where he was or how old he was supposed to be, and Mick was pretty sure there had been a few other moments throughout the day as well.

He hadn’t exactly escaped unscathed either. Even if he didn’t have the confusion and memory problems Len was having, he definitely hadn’t forgotten that moment of being spectacularly sick in the kitchen yesterday, or the migraines that had been plaguing him for the rest of the day.  He considered mentioning that, then dismissed it. Unless Len was much worse off than either of them had thought, he already knew. Mentioning it would just make him worry.

“It’s only a few more days,” he said instead. “Metalmouth said three to five days, and this is the third.”

Len slowly nodded. “Two more days. We’ll stick with the same plan, stay out of everyone’s way–“

“And don’t tell anyone what’s going on,” Mick finished. No way were they going to risk anyone thinking they were vulnerable like this, or worse, a liability.

He winced as his headache from yesterday made a painful resurgence. “Wasn’t missing you,” he muttered.

Len’s eyes narrowed. “Come here.”

He hesitated, wary of getting too close to Len so soon after his freak out, but Len squeezed his wrists, dragging him closer. “Not gonna break, Mick. You know me. Ice doesn’t shatter so easily.”

“But it can melt.” Still, he let Len drag him up onto the bed and his head down onto Len’s lap.

“Some things are worth melting for.”

Mick froze, stunned, then burst out laughing. “Did you just quote [forking] Frozen at me?” He managed through his laughter. “Really, Len?”

Len smiled smugly down at him, utterly unrepentant. “You recognised it.”

“Because Lisa watched that [shirt] every day for three weeks solid,” Mick replied, laughter renewing again at the memory. Not only had she watched it, but she got Len into it too – somewhere, he had a video of the two of them singing along to ‘For the First Time in Forever’. “Was bugging me about sandwiches for weeks.”

“Mick,” Len said faux-solemnly. “I think you need to let it go.”

Mick’s laughter burst forth again, but it was quickly tempered by a flash of pain running through his head. “[Ship] [shin] [shucks] [shire] [shine],” he groaned, bringing one hand up to cradle his head. “Could this [freezing] headache get any [farming] worse?”

Len might have made a reply, but Mick didn’t hear it, overcome with a sudden overwhelming urge to vomit. Of course. He’d watched enough of Len’s dumb movies to know that you should never challenge fate, but of course, like an idiot, he forgot and went and did it anyway.

Staggering over to the other side of the room, he pounded his fist against the wall, hoping Gideon would get the message. He’d seen the way she could conjure up bins for kitchen scraps – he could very well get the same now, or he’d spew all over the floor and see if there was a cleaning system installed too.  

Fortunately, a bin did appear, and he leant over it, vomiting. Even when his fingers started to ache from how tightly he was holding it, the vomit still didn’t let up. Part of him was aware of Len moving around behind him, doing something in the room, but it didn’t really register. All that he could feel was the burning sensation in his throat, and the pain in his fingers where the metal edges of the bin dug into them.

A wet cloth appeared at his forehead, and he shrank away from the sensation, before relaxing into it. The coolness of the water felt good against his head, abating some of the pain of his headache. Unfortunately, it had no effect on his vomiting.

Finally, it stopped. Mick let his fingers unclench from the bin, examining the red marks left behind. Now that he wasn’t throwing up, other sensations were coming back, including the burning feeling in his fingers and the throbbing pain of his migraine. Even the cool cloth wasn’t really helping anymore, just providing another sensation to his overloaded brain.

He collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his head. That vomiting had done his migraine no favours, but at least it seemed to be over for now. He squeezed his eyes shut, watching the flashes of light that formed behind his eyelids. If he squeezed his eyes tight enough, and stared at them long enough, the flashes almost looked like flames. Flames, dancing in the dark, flickering then growing stronger, swirling into patterns. So many colours, so many sparks; he could watch them for hours. He barely even felt the pain in his head anymore, too distracted by the sparking lights.

Some unknown amount of time later, Mick was drawn out of his entrancement by the sound of rustling fabric, a sound that he slowly identified as Len standing up. He winced. However long he’d been lost in the flame, his migraine hadn’t abated. If anything, it was worse, every sound causing a new wave of pain.

“Mick?” Len’s voice came, softer than usual but still far too loud. “I’m getting us food. I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’ need food,” Mick slurred. Just the thought of eating was enough to make his stomach feel queasy again. But even if he didn’t want to eat, Len still needed to. “Jus’ go.” Len could eat something, and Mick could get a few moments of true quiet without boring Lenny to pieces. Really, as much as he normally wanted Len’s company, right now he couldn’t think of anything better than some alone time, just him, his headache, and a chance for some sleep.  

He faintly registered the door closing, and relaxed. Lenny would be fine, he told the nagging voice in his head, and watched the flickering flames behind his eyelids until even those couldn’t keep him awake any longer.

***

The very moment he woke, Mick knew something was wrong. To start with, Len wasn’t there. While he may not have the internal clock that Len did, always ticking away, he had enough of a sense of time to know that several hours had passed, definitely long enough for Len to have come back with food.

But even more than that, his sixth sense for trouble, or “Snart-radar”, as Lisa liked to call it, was pinging, telling him that wherever Len was, something had happened. Len was the one who did the planning, Mick worked off instinct, and right now all his instincts were telling him he needed to get to Len, and fast.  

He staggered to his feet, grateful to find that the headache that had plagued him before had finally receded, now just a dim presence in the back of his mind.

Where to look first? Len had originally left to get food, so the kitchen would be the most sensible place to start. Even if Len wasn’t still there, which Mick had to admit seemed a bit unlikely at this point, confirming that he had been there at all would make a good place to start.

Mick headed out the door and towards the kitchen, cursing his short legs that made everywhere seem so much further apart. Really, he wasn’t that much shorter, only a few inches, but those few inches were enough to make everything so much more inconvenient. It wasn’t just the height he was missing either, but the muscle. Nobody wanted to argue with the guy who looked like he could bench press you.  Mick had kept up that look for exactly that reason.

Now he was younger, a teen, and even though his farm background meant he had more muscle than most teens, it was still nothing on him as an adult. Not enough to keep Lenny safe from trouble. Hopefully Len was fine – getting food from the kitchen was not a complex task, especially as he didn’t even have to make it – but Mick’s nagging feeling said otherwise.

Mick had nearly made it to the kitchen when he was distracted by voices on the bridge. Someone was speaking in a low, purposely even voice, like the one police used to calm hostage takers. He made a quick turn. Even if Len wasn’t directly involved, he would still want to know about it.

Of course, once he stepped on to the bridge, he figured out that Len was most definitely involved. Involved meaning that he was backed into a corner, knife held out in front of him, hissing and spitting like a kitten in the rain. Mick would have almost thought it cute, except for the look of mixed confusion and terror on his face.

“What the [fungus] is happening here?!” Mick thundered quietly. He only hoped all the rage and disbelief he was feeling was coming out as strongly as he wanted. Len had only left to get food, and now he was panicking and losing himself again! Whatever they had done, he needed an explanation. Now.

“We thought he was fine, man!”Jax protested. “He came with us to get some food, then when we came in here he pulled the knife on us!”

“It’s a knife from the kitchen,” Sara said. “He must have pocketed it when we were in there.”

Mick could already feel his headache starting to return. “Why the [figleaf] didn’t one of you [freighters] come get me earlier?” he hissed.

“You were so sick you could barely stand upright,” Sara snapped back. “We weren’t going to make you come out here if we didn’t need you. Len said he’d be fine.”

“He always says that,” Mick growled. “Don’t make it true.” Ignoring Sara, he made his way over to Len, careful to move slowly with no sudden gestures. “Lenny? You remember me?”

Instead of answering, Len reached out, grabbing Mick with surprising strength and pulling him behind him. “Did they hurt you?” he demanded, not taking his gaze off the others for an instance.

“What?” Mick was honestly baffled. “Len, no, they’re our friends.”

If anything, Len just looked more terrified. “You can’t believe them, Mick! They’re trying to kill us!”  

Instinctively Mick’s gaze snapped back to the others, scanning them as potential threats before he even realised he was doing it. He shook it off, wincing as the action made his headache worse. "They won't hurt us, Len. Don't you remember them?"

"They're holding us captive, they're trying to hurt you!" Len didn't seem to be listening. He finally turned to look at Mick, but his eyes only widened further. "They're hurting you now! I'm not letting them get you!"

"Len!" Mick tried to protest, but his thoughts were getting fuzzy. He knew Len shouldn't be fighting the team, but he couldn't quite remember why. Did they need them for a job? But they'd only just gotten out of juvie, too soon to be pulling jobs yet. No, they weren't in juvie. He had a gun that spat flame, that wasn't from juvie. That was from when he and Len were grown. Then why did Lenny look so small now?

"Mick?" Len's voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. "Mick!"

Mick felt his knees buckle as he collapsed to the ground, blood streaming from his nose, only vaguely aware of Len crouching beside him, trembling with rage and terror, before he blacked out entirely.

(It was at that point the others realised this might not be as simple as they thought.)

***

Mick woke up. His head felt fuzzy and thick, somewhere between a hangover and medication, and for some reason he was lying on a cold steel floor.

"Mick?"

"Lenny?" he slurred. No matter how sore he was, he'd always recognise Len's voice. Lenny would be able to explain this. He was always the smart one of the two of them.

"Mick! Can you tell your crazy partner we aren't trying to kill you?"

That wasn't Len.

Mick inched his eyes open, blinking away the blurriness. An angry blonde was staring at him from some distance away. Wait, he knew her, didn't he? "Sara?" Then her words penetrated through his cloudy thoughts. "Wh'ts up wi' Lenny?"

"He thinks we poisoned you! That's ridiculous, right?" That was Palmer. Haircut. He remembered that now. His thoughts were slowly clearing, memories returning to where they belonged.

He slowly lifted his head off the ground, wincing as his cheek left the steel and he could feel how cold it really was. Cold was always Len's thing, not his. "Where's Lenny?"

"Mick?"

He looked up, and saw Len standing over him, facing off against the team, ready with what looked like a kitchen knife to cut them if they came too close. Every few seconds, his eyes darted down to look at Mick, before returning to glaring at the team. "How do I know it's you?"

Mick thought back, scrambling to find a memory that this fifteen year old Len would remember. He and Len had made a lot of memories over the years, good, bad, and in between, but most of those were from when they were a bit older. The few that he could remember from this era, he didn't think his grown up Len would want the team to know about.

Finally, one came to him. "Just after juvie, when you were fourteen, Lisa was with your grandad and you wanted to get out of the house for a while," because of your father, went unsaid but not unheard, "so we went out to a restaurant, real fancy place, and ordered every dessert they had on the menu. Chocolate cake, that weird Spanish one, a cheese platter, everything. Even the one on fire." He still remembered the way the flames had flickered, just like he remembered Len's smirk, and the way he'd drawled, "I heard this was the hottest dessert around," like he'd never even thought Mick's love of fire might be dangerous.

"Then what happened?" Haircut asked, ripping Mick from his thoughts. He'd forgotten the rest of the team were there, too busy remembering what it was like to be a teenager with Len.

"We stole all their candles and skipped out on the bill," Len said, eyes warm as he looked down at Mick. He still looked cautious, but he held his hand out, and Mick took it, getting to his feet.

Almost immediately he swayed, migraine striking with sudden ferocity.

"Mick?" Len sounded panicked.

"'M alright," he mumbled, forcing his eyes back open. He hadn't realised he'd closed them. "But trust me, Len, these guys don't want us dead. And even if they tried, I wouldn't let the [fruiters] anywhere close. Now c’mon.” He slung his arm over Len’s shoulders, moving slowly enough that Len could move away if he chose. Len didn’t, letting his arm settle and sinking into it. “We’ve got a room on this ship, so we’re gonna use it. And if any of you know what’s smart,” he turned his gaze threateningly on the rest of the team, “you won’t follow us.”

The rest of the team obligingly stepped back, clearing the space between them and the passage to the rest of the ship. Mick could feel Len relax under his arm the further away they got, tension seeping out of his shoulders. Len felt so small standing beside him, barely reaching his shoulder. How had he even managed to keep the kid alive first time around?

“So when you said we’re going to use the room...” Len drawled, smirk audible in his voice.

Mick thought about that for a minute, then recoiled, his arm dropping from Len’s shoulders. “To sleep! That’s all!” Please let Lenny have remembered that conversation. It had been awkward enough the first time, he wasn’t having it a second.

Len laughed, shoulder shoving up against Mick’s. “I know. It was a very memorable speech.”

“Good.” Hopefully that meant Len would stop it there.

Len, of course, did not stop there. “‘I don’t care what you got under your pants,’” he quoted, “‘I don’t want any of it.’ Very classy.”

“Knock it off,” Mick growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed, but it had probably been because of Len then too.

The atmosphere changed, feeling suddenly heavy. Mick looked over at Len and saw him frown, looking unsure in a way he rarely did anymore. “You know I don’t care about that, right? It doesn’t stop us from being partners.”

Mick huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, Lenny, I know. And yes,” he answered the unvoiced question, “we’re still partners. Even here.”

Len didn’t reply, but when Mick held his arm out again, Len stepped right under it.

“They have a word for it now, you know,” Mick quietly confided. Maybe it was stupid, especially since in just a few days this Len would be back to being his Len, who had been the one to find it in the first place, but he didn’t care. Len would want to know, because Len liked knowing things, and Mick had never been good at denying Lenny what he wanted. "They call it asexual."

Len gave a pleased little hum, and Mick pulled him closer. "They got lots of words, here in the future. More of those Star Wars movies you like as well." He hesitated, then continued, saying the words he wanted to say, even if he didn't know if Len would believe them. "You're happy here. We've got a good life here, better than we ever talked about in juvie."

"What about Lisa?" Len asked softly. "Is she happy?"

Mick grinned. "Very happy, buddy. She's got a gun that shoots gold now." He left out the part where she was maybe-dating the guy who made it. This Len didn't need to worry about it. Honestly, his Len didn't need to either, but at least his Len had met the kid, and liked him too. Much easier to convince than a fifteen year old Len whose baby sister couldn't even tie her own shoes yet.

They got to the door to their room, and Mick swiped it open, relishing in the gasp of awe from beside him.

"It's just like Star Trek," Len breathed.

"Yep," Mick said proudly. He'd known Lenny would like that bit. Mick had never really gotten into Star Wars, with all the space wizards and lightsabers and dramatic moments (no wonder Len was such a drama queen), but he had plenty of memories of watching Star Trek with his mother on the old black and white TV they had out on the farm. Wasn't 'til juvie he'd figured out why they call them redshirts, and by then his mother wasn't around to share it with.

Mick made his way over to the bed, collapsing onto it and letting his eyes fall closed. He felt Lenny curl up between him and the wall, right in the space he had instinctually left, and let the comfort of that carry him off to sleep.

***

Mick tried to resist the urge to roll his eyes. After being called out of his warm, comfortable bed in the middle of the night, leaving an asleep but still unstable Lenny all alone, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to Hunter blathering on about something to do with him and Len being kids again. They all knew what had happened. Unless he had a way of fixing it quicker, there was no point going on about it.

The only thing that kept him from just leaving and going back to bed was Len’s earlier insistence that they not make waves, don’t do anything which seemed weak or unstable. Len would definitely think storming out of the room while Rip was speaking as a sign of childishness, so Mick couldn’t do it. At least, not without a decent excuse. The second he got one, he would be out of here, and anything Hunter had to say about it could wait until a decent hour.

“...would be best if he did not remain on the ship.”

Mick tuned back into the conversation just in time to catch Hunter’s final words, followed by an expectant expression. He mentally rewound the conversation, trying to match the scraps of conversation he remembered hearing with what he knew of Hunter and his possible motives. Hunter wanted someone off the ship, and for some reason Hunter was coming to him about it. Couldn’t be for him; he doubted Hunter would give him the courtesy of a discussion, especially not one he was included in, so it must be for someone else.

The pieces clicked. “Lenny?”

Hunter looked curious, and Mick quickly corrected himself. He’d forgotten that Hunter had been locked in his study the last couple of days, too busy to notice when his and Len’s old habits started to come back. He’d never been quite comfortable calling Len by his last name, mostly because of the man who gave it to him, but it looked like he’d have to get back in the habit now. “Snart’s not a danger.”

Of course, Len probably was a danger, and definitely would be if he thought he needed to, but Hunter didn’t need to know that. Besides, they were on the fourth day by now. Couldn’t be too much longer before they were back to normal and it could all be forgotten.

“This would be equally for the safety of Mr Snart,” Hunter assured him, leaning across the table as if to give his words more strength. “He is obviously experiencing the effects of this disease very severely, and even though this is the first outbreak, it’s unlikely to be the last.”

“Snart’s safer with me,” Mick grunted. No way he was letting Hunter take Lenny away. It was Mick’s job to protect Len and keep him safe, and he’d do it even if it killed him. He’d rather die than let Hunter take Len to some unfamiliar time and place and leave him there. Death would be kinder than the guilt.

“Mr Rory,” Hunter was starting to sound frustrated. “Can’t you see that staying on this ship could do more harm than good for Mr Snart? This ship is not a safe place for a child. He could start pushing buttons in a panic and jettison us all into space!”

Mick was intrigued by the possibilities of that last statement, but ignored it, focusing on the more important part. “Snart’s not a child, he’s a teen. And as long as I’m with him, nothing will happen.”  

“And what about if you can’t be with him?”

Mick smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “If that ever happens, guess we’ll find out.”

Their stalemate was broken by Gideon’s voice chiming from above. “Mr Rory, Miss Lance requests your presence at your bedroom.”

“Oh yeah?” Mick didn’t take his eyes off Hunter. “And what’s Blondie doing there?”

“Currently she is attempting to persuade Mr Snart to take the knife away from his neck.”

Mick froze.

***

“– time, where. Is. Mick.”

Mick only caught the tail end of whatever Len was saying as he came racing up the hall, but even that was enough for him to hear the sheer panicked terror and desperation in Len’s voice, only barely held in check by Len’s iron will.

“Len! Lenny, I’m here!” He came abruptly to a stop right in front of Len, ignoring the others standing there in the hallway. None of them mattered right now. All that mattered was getting that knife away from Len’s neck.

"Lenny! Lenny, relax, alright?" Mick reached out, curling his hand around Leonard's and gripping it tight. "I’m safe, I’m right here."

Len didn’t move, hand still poised, ready to strike.

“Len,” Mick said warningly. He squeezed Len’s hand tighter, but still not hard enough to make him let go. As much as he hated it, this had to be Len’s choice. Right now Len was paranoid enough that if he tried to get Len to stop, Len might just think he was the enemy too. “You don’t want me to have to tell Lisa her big brother got hurt, do you?” he coaxed.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Len croaked. His voice was weak and barely audible, but it still made Mick breathe a sigh of relief. Len talking again was a good sign; a Len who didn’t speak was always a sign he was in a bad place.

“I know, buddy. But Lisa deserves better.” There was no point saying Len did too. Len refused to accept it, and Mick already knew.

As always, Lisa was the magic word. Len let his arm drop, the knife no longer at his neck but pointed loosely at the ground.

Mick took it from him, stowing it in his pocket.

“Don’t you think you should put that somewhere safer, Mr Rory?”

Mick started. He’d completely forgotten there was anyone else present. He quickly took stock of the situation: Len in front of him, up against the bedroom door; Stein and Sara standing behind, and Rip coming up the hall. He turned, facing the others. None of them would be able to get to Len through him.

“Mr Snart is a noted pickpocket, after all, and clearly cannot be trusted with a knife.”

“Kleptomania,” Mick grunted. “Can’t help it. And if you’d just told him where I was, we wouldn’t’ve had a problem.”

“Stop taking Mick away from me,” Len muttered, glaring at Stein. “You can’t have him. Mick is mine.”

Mick took a moment to process that. That kind of possessiveness seemed like it should’ve been alarming, but really, he just found it touching. No one else had ever wanted him that much before. “You’re mine too, Len,” he finally said, unsure how else to respond. “I won’t let them have you either.”

Len nodded, apparently finding that perfectly acceptable. “You’ll have to share with Lisa,” he warned. “I was hers first.”

“This is real sweet, guys,” Sara interrupted, “But we still have a problem. Snart needs help.”

Mick moved protectively in front of Len. “We don’t need help. We’re fine.”

“Not you, Rory,” Sara brushed him off. “But can your partner even remember our names right now?”

“Mr Snart is currently very dangerous,” Stein agreed. “It would be safer to have him off the ship until this... illness, has passed its course.”

Mick considered replying to tell them that Len was always very dangerous, but figured it probably wouldn’t help his case. Besides, he didn’t want to drag this out even longer. His head was starting to hurt again, he just wanted to go to bed, and hopefully they would wake up cured.

“I’m not leaving Mick,” Len snarled, saving Mick from having to reply. “Who knows what you’ll do to him if I’m not there?” His fingers clasped around Mick’s elbow, trembling slightly but still with a grip like iron.

“He’s probably safer with us than he is with you!”

Stein’s shout, combined with Sara’s sudden move forward, were enough to startle Mick, making him take a step back. He was thrown even more off balance when Len took advantage of the opportunity to drag him backwards, through the door and into their room. “Computer!” Len shouted. “Lock that door!”  

“Len, what...?” Mick started to protest, but the initial adrenalin surge that had come from Len being in danger had started to wear off now that the two of them were safe. Against his will, his eyes were starting to close.

“It is not safe to leave you two in there, not when we don’t know what state Mr Snart is in!” Stein shouted through the door.

“In other words, let us in or we’re breaking in!” Sara joined in.

“I’ll be dead before I let you take Mick away!” Len yelled.

Mick gripped tighter onto Len’s shirt, trying to calm him down, but his eyes stubbornly kept fluttering shut. Staggering backwards, he fell onto the bed, Len falling down after him with a thud.

“Gideon,” he vaguely heard from outside, “we need this door open now. Rory’s safety may be–“

“What’s going on here?” Jax’s voice interrupted. “What happe–“

“Mick? Mick!” That voice was a lot closer. He turned. Looked at Len.

Len was shouting something, but the roaring in his ears was too loud now. He couldn’t hear it.

The smell of burnt rubber, and an elastic feeling, like being stretched on a taffy pull, were the last sensations Mick registered before the darkness overtook him.

***

Mick felt heavy.

It was the first thing that rose to his awareness. His limbs felt like they had been encased in iron, weighing him down and pinning him to whatever he was lying on. It was soft, so probably a bed. Really, that wasn’t so strange – he’d woken up feeling heavy like this last time he was sick, and he slept in a bed nearly every night – but there was one significant difference this time: Len was missing.

Len never left him alone while he was sick. Len was weird like that, worried that if he was left alone while sick he’d wander off or die or something like that. Between the two of them Mick was not the one who, while sick, had planned and carried out a job, threw up over the loot, and was barely back at the safehouse before passing out. He also wasn’t the one who had deliriously tried to throw himself out a window. No, the worst Mick had ever done while sick was lie around, watch terrible television, and maybe accidentally caught the house on fire.

Of course, when he wasn’t sick, Len wasn’t always with him when he woke up. Len had an annoying habit of staying up far too late, working on some new heist idea, and would only go to bed if Mick picked him up and carried him there. Then he’d get up early the next morning and be back at it again – at least, until the heist was done, at which point he wouldn’t get out of bed before noon.

But right now, Mick had the strong feeling that Len should be with him, right beside him, and Len wasn’t.  

“Len?” he called, voice gravelly. Surely it wasn’t that deep yesterday. “Where’d you go? You planning somethin’ again?”

He opened his eyes, and with one look at the dull steel of the ceiling, everything came flooding back.

“Len!” He shot upright, frantically pawing at the sheets. Surely he would have noticed if someone had taken Len away? He had been out of it, definitely, but never could he be so out of it that he wouldn’t notice someone stealing Len from right beside him. “Lenny!” “Mick!” A hand grasped his, and he instinctively fought it, before recognising that grip more familiar to him than his own. He relaxed, pulling a full-sized Len down to him in a hug. Len only tolerated it for a few minutes before squirming free. “We’re alright, Mick. Think the magic turning back knocked us both out.”

Mick let him go, watching him as he straightened out his clothes. After nearly four days of fifteen-year-old Len, it was a little strange having him as an adult again, but Mick was happier for it. It had been some of the worst moments of his life, dealing with a paranoid teenaged Len who only sometimes remembered who he really was, and he definitely wouldn’t miss the headaches. Still, there were some things he would miss. “Think I liked it better when you were smaller,” he said, heaving himself up from the bed. It’d take a little while to get used to being big again. Len looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah? And why’s that?” “Made it easier to do this.” He reached over and tried to ruffle Len’s hair – not that he really could, now that it was short again. Len ducked out of the way, but, to Mick’s relief, didn’t flinch. “Don’t remember liking it before either.” He scowled. “Lot of things I don’t remember liking about before.” They were quiet. “Think everyone’s still out there?” Mick finally asked. “Gideon!” Len called to the ceiling. “Where’s everyone else?” “The crew are assembled on the bridge,” Gideon readily informed them. “I have informed them of your recovery.” “Thanks, Metalmouth,” Mick grunted. He turned to Len, something settling back into place at his ability to once again do so. “What now, boss?” Something changed around the corner of Len’s eyes, like he too was happy to get back to normal. “Now we deal with the fallout.” He stepped up to the doorway. Mick stepped up beside him. In a moment of clarity, remembrance, sentimentality, whatever you wanted to call it, he flung his arm around Lenny’s shoulders, pulling him close; just like when they were kids. “They ain’t gonna break us, Len. Remember, you’re mine.” Len smirked at him. He’d missed that smirk. “What, we getting all sappy now? Need an “I love you”, Mick?” Mick smirked back, fiercely proud of that kid he’d met in juvie, and who they had become together. “Nah. Nice to hear you admit it, though.” With one last squeeze, he let go of Len, and they stepped out through the door.

[duckandrollblog]

Change at the table

It's September and Duck and Roll is back! This time of year is full of change both in the weather and in people's lives. To celebrate that, this month's theme is Change. All month long we'll be talking about changes in scenery, adventures, stories, and more!

To start things off we're going to talk about change at the gaming table, and some of the many forms it can come in. A tabletop game, and a gaming group as a whole is a living thing that grows, shrinks and evolves with very little provocation. I have no doubt that every person to roll a set of dice has encountered some pretty big changes in their group or groups. Let's take a look at some ways that the players of your game may change and how to make the best of a situation.

 Loss of a player: People move away, people lose interest or get busy, and sometimes they have to quit for other reasons. When a group looses a player it can be a very sad occasion and it can leave an empty void not only at the table, but in the story and the dynamic of the group. Sometimes a DM or storyteller can fill the gap by bringing on an npc to serve a similar purpose. For example:  If the player who served as the group's link to the mafia can no longer make it, a new member of the organized crime family reaches out to join the party. If the party finds itself lacking a melee powerhouse, a mercenary companion or loyal ally may take up arms to help the heroes. (or antiheroes if that's your thing). Sometimes the role a player occupied can be replaced with an item, a plot device, or a change of situation. An adventuring party suddenly lacking a magical healer might find that a magic wand or crate of potions does almost as well. A superhero team short of their fire breather might come to realize that throwing cars is about the same damage (if somewhat messier). Some plot elements may have to get reworked fairly considerably depending on the importance of the player's character. Some common ways of adapting are to have the party take up their old friend's mantle, identity, or destiny, or to have an outside source hold the team responsible for the deeds of their former associate. There's also a lot that the other players can do to try and pick up the slack. If your lost player used to track initiative, try volunteering to fill their shoes. If your wizard can't play for a few months, maybe the Rogue or bard can grab some scrolls. It's easy to be dismayed or disappointed in a friend, and to fall to a defeatist attitude. "I guess we aren't doing any ghost stuff without our sin eater." But stepping up, having your mage learn a few dots of death magic for example, shows a maturity and initiative that is sure to get noticed. As much as I love my weekly sessions and my gaming group, as much as I've made it my life's ambition, I understand that at the end of the day other people have responsibilities to uphold. It's important not to take someone bowing out of a game personally. A lot of the time it's cleaner and easier to have someone choose not to play with your group rather than being distracted, not giving it their all, or not having fun at the table.

 Addition of a player: Tabletop games are big, and they get bigger every year, more and more people are getting into it, and that means those players are going to wind up at the same table as you. A "New" player might be a 30 year gaming veteran, or they might have never held a character sheet before. When someone joins your group, regardless of if you're a player, storyteller, DM, Ect, it's your job to make them feel welcome and help them to get accustomed to things. Different groups have different rules and customs and it's important to be patient and open minded. If your spectacular roll was suddenly nullified because "Floor dice don't count" you might be pretty upset too if you'd always had them count before. Try to be sympathetic to this newfound stranger at your table. And if YOU are the new one at the table, do your best to pick up on how your new friends do things. Don't be afraid to offer a different point of view, but understand that no two groups are the same. From a story perspective it can be challenging to integrate a new player, especially if your plot involves a specific number of people, and it can likewise be difficult to catch someone up on the details they've missed. One of the easiest solutions to this problem is so simply explain to the player only a bit more than their character knows, and introduce their character as an outsider only meant to offer temporary aid. Soon one encounter turns into two or three, connections form, and consequences fall on both parties. In the long run of a game a player can start even halfway in and still feel like a fully fledged party member by the end.

  Change of role: As my groups Forever GM, I deeply understand the desire to change up roles sometimes. Everyone should get a chance to play, and some people are better off running games than being on the party. When a new player picks up or takes off the storyteller hat it can be a tumultuous time. Table rules could change, new campaigns may be formed, old plots might be rewritten, and styles may clash. When someone steps up and offers to run a game, the most important thing to remember is that everyone is on the same side. You all want to have fun, and nobody shows up to the table with the intent to ruin other people's enjoyment. That being said, some people do things very differently, and not everyone is cut out to sit behind the screen. And not all great storyteller's make great players either. The easiest way to help a transition like this along is to come together as a group, to listen to each other, and be willing to try out different styles. If the new GM isn't working out, see if you can all clearly come to the conclusion as to why, and find a solution that works for everyone. It's easy to fall into the same roles as always, the same GM running for the same players, but only by trying new things and new compositions can you really find out what works best for everyone.

 Change of identity: Sometimes people change, and those changes aren't always easy for the person involved or for the people around them. Some people are more comfortable when their character has elements of them self in them, and when a part of someone's identity changes they may want that change to be reflected in their character. Of all the changes that can occur at the table, these sorts of changes are the easiest to know what to do, even if some people have a lot more trouble dealing with them. All that required here is communication. If a player wants to go by a different name or pronoun, all they should need to do is communicate that desire. If a player is no longer comfortable with a certain type of content, they should only need to mention it and that aspect can be downplayed to a comfortable level or taken out entirely. When a player undergoing a major life change wants that change to be reflected in their character there are two main ways to handle it. The first is to have the character also undergo a similar change, which depending on the game or setting might be a very quick change, or it may be a very long one. This experience, if done right can even be very theraputic for a player and can help enrich the setting and the character's arc. The other option is to retroactively change things so the character always had the qualities being changed to. This option is much faster and easier to implement and requires a lot less attention. Fortunately it's not hard to figure out which to use, just ask the player what they'd prefer and proceed from there.

 Hopefully this has helped some people deal with big changes at the gaming table among their players. It can always be a trying time when the things we're used to change, but hopefully this can help keep you centered and give you some guidance for getting back on track.

For more articles like this check out: http://www.duckandrollgames.com/