#what is staff augmentation

[mitrmedia]

https://www.mitrmedia.com/resources/blogs/what-is-staff-augmentation-and-its-importance/

What is Staff Augmentation? Key Benefits & Insights

What is staff augmentation? Learn its importance and how it can enhance your business by providing the right talent at the right time.

[ourjobagency]

When a software company or a corporate department needs to accelerate project timelines and cut down personnel costs, companies often turn to technology staffing services for help.

[termagax]

i do think cyberwizard drugs is a funny trait for victor. ostensibly this is for his magic and to maintain his connection to his cybernetics but its kind of like a guy who gets a medical card for back pain and then makes weed his primary personality trait.

[realtruefirms]

TrueFirms is not just a platform; it's a catalyst for business growth. Listing your company here helps build reputation effortlessly, access qualified leads, improve services through feedback, and explore diverse categories across industries.

[truefirms1]

What is staff augmentation? Why is it important?

[drdemonprince]

'The Telepathy Tapes' is Dangerous, Unscientific Nonsense that Promotes a Widely Discredited "Communication Method" Used to Abuse Autistic Kids

Facilitated Communication is bunk, with many facilitators having used it to put words in the mouths of children. This massively popular podcast is just the latest instance of abuse involving FC.

I have been getting a lot of questions lately about the incredibly popular podcast The Telepathy Tapes, which briefly unseated The Joe Rogan experience as the most listened-to show on the Spotify charts this past fall, and has been occupying a comfortable position in the top five most popular podcasts ever since. The Telepathy Tapes has an enviable 4.6 star rating on Apple Music and a 4.8 on Spotify, with nearly 5,000 reviews on each platform apiece, and the show’s been covered everywhere from Variety and The Atlantic to the Rogan-esque Jay Shetty show.

For the uninitiated, it’s show about how nonverbal Autistics have psychic powers. Yeah, I’m distressed at how well it’s caught on, too.

Per Spotify, “The Telepathy Tapes dares to explore the profound abilities of non-speakers with autism - individuals who have long been misunderstood and underestimated. These silent communicators possess gifts that defy conventional understanding, from telepathy to otherworldly perceptions, challenging the limits of what we believe to be real…Through emotional stories and undeniable evidence, The Telepathy Tapes offers a fresh perspective on the profound connections that exist beyond words.”

Much of the ‘undeniable evidence’ that The Telepathy Tapes relies upon comes from the practice of facilitated communication (FC), a widely discredited interpretation method in which an abled facilitator supposedly draws words out of a nonverbal Autistic client by taking hold of the client’s arm or hand and “assisting” them in typing out meaningful messages.

Facilitated communication (also known as assisted typing, supported typing, or the rapid prompting method) was introduced by a variety of different practitioners and support staff throughout the 1960s and 1970s — it seems many care providers who worked with Autistic kids each independently had the idea of being a disabled child’s “voice” by helping them type.

The facilitated communication method was dismissed as unscientific by practitioners in Denmark in the 1970s. Then, FC reemerged in popularity throughout the 1980s and 1990s largely thanks to the advocacy of an Australian special educator named Rosemary Crossley. News articles throughout the period celebrated FC as a revolutionary new method that could help bring notoriously hard-to-reach Autistics outside of themselves. Gruesome accusations of child sexual abuse were collected by teachers and specialists using FC on their nonverbal students, leading to incarcerations even when there wasn’t any other evidence.

Facilitated communication was experiencing a major boom. And then, over 40 peer-reviewed studies came out showing no evidence that facilitation communication actually worked — virtually all of it suggesting that facilitators were ‘interfering’ with nonverbal clients’ reports. Throughout the 1990s, the American Psychological Association, the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association, and the International Society for Augmentative and Alternative Communication all issued strong statements against the use of facilitated communication, all of which it stands by to this day.

To quote from the American Speech-Language Hearing Association’s current guidelines on the subject:

FC is a discredited technique that should not be used. There is no scientific evidence of the validity of FC, and there is extensive scientific evidence—produced over several decades and across several countries—that messages are authored by the "facilitator" rather than the person with a disability. Furthermore, there is extensive evidence of harms related to the use of FC. Information obtained through the use of FC should not be considered as the communication of the person with a disability.

I wrote all about the history of Facilitated Communication and The Telepathy Tapes. You can read the full thing for free (or have it narrated to you by the Substack app) here.

[crimsontentacles]

that's *Lord Captain* Camilla von Valancius to you!

Some lore musings under the cut

Born as a bastard of an old noble family and living her life as a servant until young adulthood, at which point all the legal children managed to kill each other, and she was the only living semblance of an heir, so the matriarch begrudgingly brought her up to the estate.

Quite a few augmentations helped bring her up to speed in military training and education to be fit for the role. It was still grueling.

"Never forget where you came from" was something her stepmother used to whisper to her at all times, intending to remind Camilla about the shame of her rabble origin; instead she chose it to be a reminder to not let her privilege make her cruel, and that nobles and high command are not her friends and never will be.

As a result, she's often conflicted between enjoying her position and the influence and luxury it brings and the Enormous Imposter Syndrome. Does her best to not let it show.

Quite a talented officer actually, has a natural talent to make people to listen to her. Some speculated it's a proof of low-grade psyker abilities, but it never manifested enough to put her on the radar.

Firm but understanding with common soldiers and staff; merciless with anyone of the higher rank. In her mind, the higher the position, the higher the expectations.

Dogmatic when necessary, Iconoclast whenever she can get away with it. Has a very "nod, agree, praise the Emperor and then turn around and do your own thing" attitude towards the Imperium (it drives Argenta insane).

Unfortunately has the "I am too smart to fall to Heresy" trait, paired with boundless curiosity, which will surely never become a problem (this is what we call foreshadowing).

Often acts flirty and coquettish, partly because it's fun to see people caught off guard and partly because it makes them underestimate her will and intelligence. Heinrix was an unfortunate victim of both.

Can never refuse a glass of good amasec.

[lu-is-not-ok]

A super quick question, but do you think Xichun’s passives imply that she’s taken boluses before?

Putting these two questions together since they're on the same topic.

I think that yes. Xichun is absolutely using treatments via Bolus as a form of physical augmentation. It's quite clear that the Jia Family is heavily involved with H Corp (if not outright a part of the Wing staff itself), so it makes sense Xichun would have enough access to them to use them as enhancement rather than direct treatment.

As for what exactly the treatments she's using could be... Well that's something that I'm much less confident on since the best I can do is pray googling will be enough, but I'll try.

Ba Jiao Banana seems to be a reference to musa basjoo, a plant also known as hardy banana or Japanese fiber banana (which, despite their name, originate from China). According to Wikipedia this plant can be used to reduce "heat-toxins" in traditional Chinese medicine, however the source for that no longer works so I can't confirm that for sure.

However, that's not all funnily enough. From what I found while going on this wild goose chase, the term for this plant tends to also be translated as "plantain".

Why is this important? Because while bananas aren't mentioned in DOTRC, plantains are. They're mentioned multiple times when describing the Daguanyuan/Grand View Garden (which H Corp is partially named after), and Jia Tanchun (Jia Huan's sister and Baoyu's half-sister) takes on the pseudonym "Plantain Lover" for the poetry club she and the other main characters founded in the Garden.

Now, how does this relate to Xichun specifically? Well, in DOTRC she is also a member of the poetry club, and at one point gets commissioned to make a painting of the Garden by Grandma Jia herself. ...That's all I can gather from feverishly CTRL+Fing through the novel at the very least.

So, from all of that, here's what I can gather for the Ba Jiao Banana Bolus Passive.

I have no idea if there's any specific connection between the actual effects of the Passive and its name. However, the fact that the plant used might have medicinal use shows that a Bolus can use the essence of traditional herbal treatment. Additionally, it maybe might serve as a subtle reference to DOTRC Xichun's involvement in the poetry club hosted at the Grand View Garden.

As for the other one...

Jin Gang seems to be another name for a vajra, a ritual tool used in Buddhism. From what I can gather it's associated with indestructibility, fitting as the effect of the Passive gives Xichun Defense Level Ups.

While there is already a connection between Xichun and Buddhism through her beliefs (and her ending up as a Buddhist nun after the Family falls), I think there might be another connection here. The vajra includes lotus flowers as part of its form, and it just so happens that Xichun's poetry club pseudonym is 'Lotus Dweller', which she's given due to her living by the Lotus Pavilion.

To summarize what we can gather from the Jin Gang Bolus Passive:

Similarly to her other Passive, this one shows a possible essence a Bolus can use, though this time it's that of religious rituals, fitting due to DOTRC Xichun's religious nature. The effect of the passive directly correlates with the indestructibility that the ritual tool is associated with. Additionally, this might be another subtle reference to DOTRC Xichun's involvement in the Garden poetry club, though this one much more personalized to Xichun herself.

Oh. And just for full completion.

Xichun also has one non-Bolus related Passive named Bursting Strike, Breathing Siphon. It's a straightforward reference to the fact that her Passive giver her Poise upon killing a target with Rupture. The first part references the Rupture kill, the second references the Poise gain.

[monster-disaster]

A) have access to a facility with an unlimited budget and staffed with the most highly trained scientists, geneticists, surgeons, and wizards ( yes wizards as this is a theoretical fantasy) that can change or augment your body in any way you can imagine.( Temporarily or permanently)

Or

B) the same type of facility similarly staffed and equipped, but they can engineer or clone any type of being(s) or creatures(s) you can imagine with the mental instincts to fulfill your deepest desires.

lizardman!Rask x human!Reader Warning: tease but no smut

A/N: My answer is B) and I will bring the smutty second part tomorrow under your other request. :)

_

"I… I did something." Rask’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet in the stillness of your office.

The lizardman stands awkwardly just inside the door, his hulking frame still wrapped in a lab coat. Underneath, his crispy white shirt is buttoned all the way up to his thick neck.

"What did you do?" you ask him, eyes scanning his meek posture; hunched shoulders, head tilted downward, his yellow eyes avoiding yours as they stare at the hard metal floor.

Rask hesitates, his claws fidgeting with the edges of his coat. "I… I tried the cloning machine."

Your brow furrows further. "So?" you ask, trying to make sense of his guilt. "We use it all the time."

"No." He shakes his head sharply, his yellow eyes flicking up for the briefest of moments before dropping again. "I mean, yes, but… I used it on myself."

Your eyes widen in disbelief. "What?" You lean forward in your chair, hoping that you misheard him, but the way Rask shrinks further into himself confirms your fears.

"But why?"

"I was curious," he admits, wincing at his own flimsy excuse.

"Rask," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers.

"I know," he says quickly. "I was stupid. I shouldn’t have-"

"Where is your… clone now?" you interrupt. His tail flicks behind him at the sharp edge of your voice.

"In one of the cells," the male replies. "I didn’t know what to do with him."

"You should have thought of that before you tried something so reckless. We work by strict protocols, Rask. How am I supposed to explain to the board that one of my employees used himself as a test subject?"

"I’m sorry."

You let out a long breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. What’s done is done. You can’t undo his actions, and while his apology won’t fix the situation, there’s no point in berating him further. You’ve worked in this facility long enough to know that curiosity often walks hand in hand with chaos. Scientists push boundaries, sometimes too far. It’s the nature of this place.

You stand, closing your laptop with a click. "Go home, Rask. And I want a detailed report about your… experience on my desk first thing tomorrow."

His head snaps up, yellow eyes wide with worry. "Will you fire me?"

Shaking your head, you reply; "No, Rask. You’re a good worker, and you’ve proven yourself time and again. But this... this can’t happen again. I’ll figure something out."

Relief flickers across his face, though his tail continues to swish nervously behind him. "Thank you, boss."

You walk him out of your office, closing the door behind you. "Come to my office first thing tomorrow morning. And make sure that report is ready."

"Yes, boss," Rask repeats, nodding earnestly.

As you watch him walk away, his shoulders still hunched, you can’t help but shake your head. This job was never going to be easy, not with the kinds of minds you worked with, and now, you had Rask's clone to deal with.

The building is almost empty. Most of the staff have already clocked out, leaving only the guards for the night. The long corridors stretch before you, their silence broken only by the soft scrape of your shoes against the floor. Above you, dimmed fluorescent lights flicker occasionally, following you up to the upper floor, where long rows of cells stretch out before you. From behind the thick metal doors, you can hear the creatures stirring. Some shuffle restlessly, the faint sound of claws scraping against walls or floors reaching your ears. Their growls and snarls are low and guttural, but muffled by the walls of the cells. You catch glimpses of them through the small, reinforced windows set into the doors, sharp eyes watching, shapes shifting in the shadows.

The cell of Rask’s clone lies at the very end of the long, dimly lit row. Through the narrow window, a pair of sharp yellow eyes meet yours, the slit pupils unblinking and focused. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of his door. His posture is unnervingly still, almost statuesque, and for a moment, you’re frozen, unsure of what to do next. What Rask did was reckless, a line no one had seriously thought to cross. And now, you’re face-to-face with the fallout; a creature that is, in every way, Rask and yet undeniably someone else.

How are you supposed to handle this? How can you possibly sweep something like this under the rug?

Damn it, Rask.

You exhale slowly as you reach for the security pad beside the door. Your fingers hover over the screen for a moment before you punch in the code. The soft beeps echo faintly down the hall, followed by a sharp hiss as the door unlocks. Your hand lingers on the handle, your grip tightening as hesitation creeps in. This isn’t a decision you should take lightly. You know better than to step into a confined space with an unknown entity, especially one born of such uncharted science, but as your mind races with all the ways this could go wrong, you push the door open and step inside.

He’s still watching you, his body eerily motionless save for the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest. His yellow eyes track your every move as you carefully step further inside while the door seals shut with another hiss.

Every thought you had about safety, protocol, and caution evaporates as you take in the figure before you. He is Rask, but he isn’t. The shade of his scales is identical, a familiar blend of muted greens, catching the dim light in the same way you’ve seen a hundred times before. His broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, even the way his tail hangs behind him. It’s all unmistakably Rask. And yet, there’s something else. Something off. It’s not just the uncanny stillness or the way his eyes seem to pierce through you. It’s something deeper, something that sets your instincts on edge.

And he is naked.

Your gaze flickers downward before you can stop yourself. His lean, muscular form is undeniably Rask’s, only now seen in a way you never have before. Every ridge, every scale, every taut line of his body is familiar, yet it feels foreign. That dissonance gnaws at the edges of your thoughts as you force your eyes upward, meeting his sharp yellow gaze again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift to cover himself, and shows no sign of embarrassment or awareness of his nudity. Instead, he simply stands there, watching you with an intensity that feels almost predatory.

"Do you understand me?" Your voice comes out steady despite the unease coiling in your stomach.

For a long moment, the clone says nothing. His eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, unyielding. Then, slowly, he tilts his head. "Yes," he finally replies, carrying the same cadence as Rask’s but with a subtle, unnerving edge.

You nod, a small motion that feels heavier than it should. "Good." You lick your lips, suddenly aware of how dry they’ve become. "Do you know why you are here?"

His gaze slides over you, unhurried and deliberate, lingering in places it shouldn’t. It sends a ripple down your spine.

"Yes," he says again, his tone measured.

You exhale, nodding as though to convince yourself that things are still under control.

Cloning is still new and its outcomes are unpredictable. It’s why the facility operates in secrecy, why every precaution is taken to avoid the public eye. Clones may appear identical to their originals, but there are always differences. Some emerge feral, untamed and violent, while others manifest traits that were either latent or entirely unexpected in their originators.

But Rask’s clone…

At least he seems to understand you. His speech is coherent, his demeanor calm, calmer than you anticipated, given the circumstances. Yet that knowledge brings you no comfort, only questions.

What are you supposed to do with him? What can you do?

"Are you here to mate?"

The sudden question shatters the momentary silence, making your breath hitch and your eyes widen. You snap out of your thoughts, staring at the lizardman who stands barely a few inches taller than you.

"What?" The word escapes your lips in a rush, half disbelief, half reflex.

"I can feel your desire."

Your mouth opens, but words fail you for a moment. "No, I-" Whatever you wanted to say dies on your tongue when your gaze falters, and you see it: his hard cock emerging from its sheath. Heat blooms beneath your skin as you force yourself to look away.

"Do you want my original?" he asks with a slight tilt of his head.

"No," you snap as if it could get back the control into your hands.

The slits of his pupils narrow as he studies you, his unblinking gaze like a predator locking onto its prey. "You are lying," he says with unnerving certainty. "You find him attractive… and you find me attractive too."

Your breath catches in your throat, and by the time you force yourself to exhale, he’s already in front of you. You didn’t even register the space between you closing, but now his presence looms, overwhelming and steady. The scales of his chest glint faintly under the dim light. His scent, metal and earth, curls around your senses, making it impossible to focus.

"I’m not lying," you manage, though your voice is quieter than you intended.

"You feel one thing… and say another."

You step back instinctively, but your back hits the cool wall of the cell.

"You can’t hide from me," he says, his breath warm as it brushes against your skin. "I can feel it."

"We have more important matters than-" You try to deflect, the words tumbling hastily from your lips, but before you can finish, they falter into a sharp inhale. His head dips, and you feel him at the crook of your neck. The heat of his proximity is dizzying, but it’s the sudden, wet flick of his tongue against your pulse that sends a shiver rippling through your entire body. You gasp, your breath catching as the sensation floods your senses. His tongue glides over the sensitive skin, deliberate and unhurried, as if he’s savoring every beat of your racing heart.

"You’re thrumming," he murmurs against your neck.

"You need to stop," you whisper.

"Do I?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze is intense and unwavering. "Or is that another lie?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and challenging, as you struggle to steady your breath.

There’s a choice to make, and despite how obvious it seems, the words refuse to form. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

You shouldn’t.

He is a clone. A being created from the mind and body of someone you trust. Someone you work with. Someone you’d even call a friend. But he’s not Rask. Not entirely. Yet, he looks like him, every detail painstakingly identical. The same sharp yellow eyes, the same strong jawline, the same deep voice that carries a hint of warmth and familiarity. But this clone is different. Where Rask is often a whirlwind of restless energy, his thoughts spilling out in frantic tangents, this version is steady. Calculating. Confident.

"Another lie." Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, yet it cuts through the charged air between you.

You can’t deny it. The ache and curiosity you feel are too overwhelming, too raw to deny.

A slow, confident smile curls on the corner of his lips, one you could never see on Rask's face. And his hand settles on your hips like Rask's never would. You can feel his claw grazing over your skin where your shirt has ridden up.

"You don’t need to fight it," he says. "I'm here to fulfill your desires." His breath brushes against the sensitive skin of your neck. It’s warm, teasing, and far too intimate.

The heat of his body radiates against yours, and before you can react, his thigh presses firmly between your legs. The hard curve of his muscle nudges you through the thick fabric of your jeans just enough to make your breath catch. He moves slowly. He doesn’t rush. Every shift of his body, every subtle press of his touch is deliberate as if he’s testing you, learning you. His sharp pupils narrow, catching every flicker of your reaction, and a self-assured smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m not him, but I can give you what you’ve been denying yourself." The words cut through your hesitation, leaving you exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for. Your hands press against the cool wall behind you as if it could somehow anchor you, but his presence is everywhere, drawing you in despite yourself.

"I can give you what my original can't."

The words are bold, unapologetic, and hit far too close to home.

How does he know? You are sure Rask doesn’t. You’ve never said anything, never let even a hint slip about your silly little crush or the urge to climb him every time he rambles on about something you don't even understand.

"N-not here," you stammer, your voice trembling as the burn in your core spreads, impossible to ignore.

His movements stop, and you catch the faintest twitch of his lips. He is trying not to smile, but his smug satisfaction is undeniable.

"Will you take me out of here?"

It’s a crazy idea.

It’s reckless, absurd, dangerous.

You shouldn’t.

"Yes."

[ourjobagency]

When a software company or a corporate department needs to accelerate project timelines and cut down personnel costs, companies often turn to technology staffing services for help.

[todaysdocument]

Cable from Graham Martin, Ambassador to South Vietnam, to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger Concerning the Evacuation of Vietnam

Collection GRF-0127: Saigon Embassy Files Kept by Ambassador Graham MartinSeries: Copies of Files Removed by Ambassasor Graham MartinFile Unit: Saigon to Washington, 4/9/75 to 4/28/75 (1)

[word crossed out] TOP SECRET/SENSITIVE 26/142Z APRIL 1975 VIA MARTIN

CHANNEL

SAIGON 0743 IMMEDIATE

DELIVER IMMEDIATELY

APRIL 26, 1975

TO: HENRY A. KISSINGER

GERALD R. FORD LIBRARY [found in a circle stamp]

FROM: AMBASSADOR GRAHAM MARTIN

[hand written note illegible]

REF: WH 50763

1. With respect to para 2 of your message, I have little to add to my 737.

2. I have exhausted staff and I am not repeat not going to reduce the U. S. Government side, either direct hire or contractors, any more as long as you want us to continue with the airlift. I don't know what you mean by "only" thirty contractor personnel have been reduced. Which of the 243 left would you suggest? We need communications, the tugs for the E&E. Do you want us to abandon any interest in orphans? If so, I'll send out the 5 with IRC. Do you want to tell George Meany we have no interest in labor leader. If so, I'll send out.

without transportation? If so, I'll send out the Air America 87,

who are our last resort when the military gets conflicting instructions from Washington. Do you want to send in more Marines? If so,

AMB: GMartin:ek {crossed out] TOP SECRET/ SENSITIVE

4/26/75.

DECLASSIFIED

E.O. 123556. SEC. 3.4

MR 94-31, #7 State Hr. 5/13/94 [Hand written ?]

By KBH NARA, Date 6/6/94

TOP SECRET[crossed out]/ SENSITIVE page 2

I'll send out the Mission Warden force. As far as other categories are concerned, I don't really know what level we will reach by Sunday night. Attracted by the drama of Big Minh, more reporters are coming back in. With the continuing lack of any military activity, several of the businessmen, we hear, are thinking of returning.

advise . GERALD A FORD LIBRARY[ in a circle stamp]

3. Unless you wish me to [word blurred out] the GVN to refuse any admission to press and businessmen, the former will grow considerably and the latter a little bit over the weekend. I can ask the GVN to deport some of them, but I would prefer you have someone in Washington do the nominations .

4.I really think we have about come to the end of the road on any further pressure on us there about the America community. Since you have left the decision to me, I am not going to reduce any more on the American official community. We have notified other Americans that they are now staying at their own risk.

5.As far as the military pressures on the President are concerned, you might care to inform him that the reports of the SA 2s, which so panicked one of your WSAG meetings, and which resulted in the closing of the Saigon airport to America commercial airlines, turns out to be incorrect. What was sighted was several logging

TOP SECRET[ crossed out]/SENSITIVE

Top Secret/Sensitive

trucks full of logs, I think if the President would simply say that the American community has been reducted to the smallest possible number commensurate with our ongoing activities, although he should not say this) (principally evacuation of "high risk" Vietnamese, and the rest of the community is mainly comprised of American press, which in its best traditions is augmenting its forces somewhat to cover news, he will be home free and maybe the rest of us will have time again to work on more important problems. 6. Warm regards

Martin

GERALD R. FORD LIBRARY [ Grey Circle stamp]

[joaofelix70]

MISS DIPLOMAT & MR. CHARMING |

dominik szoboszlai x female reader.

author's note: this handsome man's living rent-free in my head. he's a freaking masterpiece. talented, funny, charismatic, attractive. i watched interviews, tiktok videos made by supporters and much more to understand a little bit of his language, personality and what he does towards friends and loved ones. laughed a lot! i made my homework as a writer, hope you enjoy it! (compliments and any kind of retributions are more than welcomed).

summary: your job is involving the commitment of unify the population and create interrelations to another countries, using the eurocup qualifiers and the hungary national team executions. you just didn't expect to fall in love with the no. 10's captain player.

words and characters: 1,811/11,223. it was three days working too hard on this story. i'm begging for your consideration, lol.

────

sports diplomacy: it's the unique power of sport to bring people, nations, and communities closer together via a shared love of physical pursuits. this responsibility is the reason of a transition between strangers to connected individuals, advancing foreign policy goals and augmenting sport for development initiatives. the complex landscape where sport, politics, and diplomacy overlap become clearer, as do the pitfalls of using sport as a tool for overcoming and mediating separation between people, nonstate actors, and states. the power of sport has never been more important. so far, the 21st century has been dominated by disintegration, introspection, and the retreat of the nation-state from the globalization agenda. in such an environment, scholars, students, and practitioners of international relations are beginning to rethink how sport might be used to tackle climate change, gender inequality, and the united nations sustainable development goals, for example. to boost these integrative, positive efforts is to focus on the means as well as the ends, that is, the diplomacy, plural networks, and processes involved in the role sport can play in tackling the monumental traditional and human security challenges of our time. credits: international studies association and oxford university press.

────

MLSZ (hungarian football federation) ──

new training ground at telki.

"i can't believe that being in places like this made up my most theoretically utopian childhood dreams. what a progress in front of me!" you still witness exciting moments where you pinch yourself, trying to believe in the reality that surrounds you: visiting the new training center of the players who are just a few meters away from you, getting ready to represent an entire country.

"your presence is our privilege. a voice of the spread of eurocup to our nation, right here…" the technical director gives you deference, obtaining a measure of humbleness and respect by you.

"the honor belongs to me in its entirety. grateful for having me, sir. while the view is immersive and captivating — my fervent congratulations to everyone involved — could we retreat from the pleasant glass-enclosed room and see everything closer, on the outside? please? i will never get used to this atmosphere." you pour politeness and charisma to the staffs around you, being directed to the proximity of the field and saluting the employees who pass through your path.

meet dominik — your szobo — instigates the nostalgic combination of detailed moments in which your thoughts display as photographic retrospectives. you're incapable to oppose the little enthusiastic laughs, fidgeting the rings between your fingers and avoiding possible suspicious glances from others. however, for you, this wouldn't actually work. the lives of you both are correlated, but different.

the training session is finished. clapping your hands and celebrating the performances, you greet the athletes and recognize some familiar people. nevertheless, reality slows down after those dark woody eyes capture through your soul. his arms tattoos are glorified by the sun's rays, the same illuminated smile is offered to you: that one you got during the very first time you saw him — instantly knowing he made you testimony the accuracy of freedom, catharsis and emotional amorous complement. that he'd be the one to introduce you what you never experienced, what you thought you'd never receive or deserve. what love truly is. when you were novices in your actual professions, not even imagining the future gifts of your unreal purposes.

"there you are!" intimately, dominik points at you, being reciprocated by vibrant nods and your old sort of secret — not that mysterious or serious — handshake. "még mindig emlékszel rá? (still remembering it?). you're a real one!"

"hogy tudnám elfelejteni? alábecsülsz engem. (how could i forget it? you're underestimating me)". your defensive actions demonstrate purposeful falseness. masking any sensitive, verbal or figurative communicative fragment from him is a difficulty that makes you give in over time. honestly, you never complain about this. it's like he wants to understand the factors and layers of you.

"a te kézfogás fickó. ne merészelj lecserélni engem. (your handshake man… don't you dare to replace me)". a shameless wink is send to you, butterflies acquiring space in your stomach.

"és hivatalosan is a szavamat adom rá. (and you officially have my word on it)." your gloss is pigmented against your fingers while you raise it up, displaying an oath, wondering if szoboszlai comprehends that his replacement in your life would be blasphemous.

"diplomata kisasszony, (miss diplomat)…" the hungarian fingerprints are shared and you recognize the sign to hold them, ready to perform your typical fashion icon moment. "gorgeous as always. go ahead! you know what to do!".

amusement surrounds you with the nickname's citation. although, you could feel some curious glances, from the outsiders, about the intimacy between you and him. "i appreciate, our top-class national bless…" you move your body in rotations to exclaim the outfit's characteristics, lifting your feet to show off the specificities of your heels. "how is your hair so well-groomed after sweating, though?" your arms cross and you raise an eyebrow in questioning, trying to hide your fascination.

"thank you, my number-one fan, but don't change the subject. finish our inside joke, c'mon!" dominik grabs his water bottle and spreads the cooling liquid on his forehead, wiping the glowing droplets across his face as he lifted his jersey high enough to exhibits his fortified abs.

your attention is directed to any surrounding scenery, throat being piked. szoboszlai pretends he doesn't notice, preventing to embarrass you.

"alright, alright! you've won, bájos úr… (mr. charming)". your final comment escapes as, practically, a whisper. you can't control the shy laughter, coupled with the considerable redness invading your cheeks.

"that's the secret to make my day!" using his tongue to reproduce a sharp noise, he matches your humorous reactions. "would you like me to show you the infrastructure changes? i'm just gonna take a shower!"

"i've already been granted a tour around here, but in case you insist…" during the dialogue, some athletes cross your space, wishing them good luck for the competition. your concentration on the activity is significant, at the point that dominik's silent admiration goes unnoticed.

"i mean, you know me! i'm gonna insist anyway, so…" he reaches your captivity, bringing you jollification.

"i'll rate you as a personal tour guide. now, go there!" jesting each other, you both exchange exaggerated reverences, like a challenge of who makes the most chaotic one.

────

walking around the area, various subjects are explored, informations entrusted. you ask and are updated about his ethereal younger sister.

portraits of the generations are framed. you magnifies his presence in celebratory pictures, dedicated to find him in the memories and achievements on that wall. pride shines from you and the hungarian finds it lovely.

"you know i'm a sucker for accents… they're much more than mere verbal characteristics, they're stories: life experiences, marks and scars. identities and cultural integrations." the topic is random. through generalized opinions, you're explaining conceptions and dominik is retaining mental observations. he exalts every scrap of your identity, like a faithful worshiper.

"basically, you're admitting being enchanted by my accent. i can see the stars in your eyes. a win is a win!" szoboszlai and his frequent attribute to physical touch, tickling your ears and playing with them. it doesn't bother you, actually: adoring the affection exuded by you and him. you feel like a little girl dealing with your one and only love.

"it's beautiful, how can you blame me? and hey, i know mine's making you grin too." he holds your arm, shivers running down your spine, the two of you being euphoric in the midst of your own enthusiasm.

"putting me against the wall? okay, hum… what were you saying before?" he's changing the subject and you have a natural wit to boo him. lifting his shoulders as a surrender, the hungarian focuses on the specific loose strands of his simple bracelet, which you get used to help him tie it again, willingly.

"trying to avoid the truth? fine! let me take care of you while i talk about my admiration towards globalization and communication. like, with every fiber of me…" you accept the conversation's direction and utter a 'voilà' towards the accessory's new appearance.

"that's why you're the best person i've ever seen doing this job." dominik compliments you, an act full of honesty.

"thanks a lot, mate. but which job? as your bracelet helper or my real one?" you provide tenderness, looking amused.

"i mean… both of them." szoboszlai chuckles, revealing courtesy by your continuous helpfulness.

"literally? because i know you know a lot of people. you're so young and already is the national team's captain." you nudge him in a form of tease. he's a starboy, it's undeniable.

"flattered! literally, thought. you were born for this, believe me." vulnerability collides to you, as his words are deliberated: emotions embracing you and warming your insides.

"dominik szoboszlai, my dear friend, you're gonna make me cry, right here. i'm sorry, i need to do it…"

innocent satisfaction builds strength over you and executes unthought-of approach to the tangibility of your gratitude — his colony enrapturing your sensitive olfaction — in the most out-of-control way. the sounds reach your hearing: a choir of angels singing hallelujah. he reciprocates the contact, laughing at your juvenile excitement. joining him and doing the same thing, harmonizing the triumph. in the separation of the touch, you both remain close to each other and the hungarian doesn't miss the opportunity to feel the softness of your side face, caressing the skin. appreciation and satisfaction invade your structure, delighting on the palm of his hand.

"just a dear friend? why are we pretending all this time?" dominik's reading you. the intimidation at the sight of him overhanging you is paralyzing. you don't usually back down, but in that instant — superior than your most repressed desires — your gasps are escaped.

"who is putting who against the wall now?" insisting and failing on your witty answers, shyness and uncertainty corrodes you.

"please, look at me! i'm not kidding anymore." his voice is questioning, intrigued — contradictorily vulnerable and calm — your rationality being fragmented, fragile.

"you know i'm not the kind of woman you're surrounding by, domi. i'm not an influencer, bikini model. i'm not a public figure. i don't live for the cameras and gossip platforms. i live to work hard. i didn't achieve any of this with some type of perk. my routine and your routine are based on traveling..." who could deny it? szoboszlai's always been all that you see. it's much more than a mere passion. your attraction to him is magnetic, intense, vivid. consequently, terrifying.

"i'm just asking for a chance, (your nickname). i don't lie when i say i've never met someone like you. i may be surrounded by a crowd and you'll still be the one to steal my attention, because nobody compares to you."

your eyelids are closed and the exhalation of his sigh penetrates your lungs with the numbing breath of life you've never experienced before. it's happening: the rare situation where thinking carefully about the pros and cons is unworthy, dumbness. your decision is made and the privilege's resolution unify your lips. the beginning demonstrates slowness and patience — the intensification through the concluded wait of the longed-for reality, transforming light and magical kisses into open mouths discovering each other and witnessing the endearment that both offer — hairs, necks, shoulders and waists captured.

"you're the first to create a meaningful presence in my mind and heart. i want you to be the last one too. i love you, kincs (my treasure). i'm finally brave enough to demonstrate it with no fears." dominik's forearm covers your upper torso. your back against his chest, noses resting on each others. rejoicing at the miraculous, incomparable circumstance.

"i love you, drágám (my precious). you're finally mine and it was so fucking worth waiting." his whisper: the living proof of celestial existence.

"how blessed we are…" intertwined bodies, coalesced essences. solitary melodies turning into the sweetest and most complete symphony.

[infini-tree]

episodic - part 4

< back | next >

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Summary: Everyone doubles down.

A/N: alternative chapter summary: Melvin Has A Normal Day.

once again thank you art of book for listing all the faculty names and subjects. 

on that note: Melvin's characterization. since this au is primarily based on movie continuity, in the end i decided to defer to its lead. which makes things difficult, as most of his inventions were all pretty lowkey (and the turbo toilet had been further augmented by a third party), and some future plots hinge on his more OP inventions. scene 2 is meant to bridge the character gap between all his incarnations, and also narratively sets some stuff up for this AU. i did say he's a core secondary,

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

With the final bell rung, Benjamin made quick work of packing his suitcase. Considering how fast the kids ran out of the school, the halls should be quiet now. The last thing he needed was noise and talking. And so, he stepped out into a reception room filled with faculty. 

Not just talking– yelling. At him.

He glanced over to Anthrope, who should have shooed them all away. Her now-empty seat was still swivelling. 

“Of course,” he grumbled.

“Whadd'ya mean 'of course'?” Rected griped.

“We’re up to our eyelids in marking these brats’ worksheets!” Ribble waved a stack of papers at his face– all from the impromptu beach day, if he read the date right. “And you expect us to mark an entire grade’s worth of volcano projects?!”

“Clearly it's not just the students that need to apply themselves.” 

The rest of the teachers froze.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He narrowed his eyes, his tone still as clipped from the announcements. “Aren’t you the one always complaining about their marks?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“But nothing, you're the one who insisted on teaching three subjects.” He moved on to other teachers. “Meaner, you’re only doing the running tests– I don’t see why you’re complaining. The most you have to do is make sure they don’t trip over their own shoelaces.”

“The papers–”

“Because its so hard keeping track of when kids stop running.” He turned to Guided. “And you– all the tests are based on stuff your class should have covered by now.”

Guided grumbled something about how the topics were from the start of the semester, no one remembers that.

“Dayken–” Said teacher jolted up from the back. “What are you even doing here? You're a kindergarten teacher.”

“I wanted to feel included--”

“In any case, all I’m hearing–” He pointed an accusatory finger at all of them. “Is that all of you are mad that you need to actually do your job.”

“Excuse you?!” Ribble shot back. No other teachers spoke up.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do before you barged in here.” He pointed at Rected and Ribble. “You have until the end of the week to make it work.”

He could feel something tighten in his chest flare as he saw the teachers back off. It wasn’t relief, but it was a near thing. At least he wasn’t on the back foot. 

“Dismissed.” The tone broached no argument.

The impromptu staff meeting ended– not with a bang, but a whimper. More accurately, it was a grumble of swears that cannot be recounted in a fanwork made for general audiences. He watched all the teachers skulk out of the room with a leveled glare. 

None of them dared to look back.

If we could have, we would have. Who else would agree?

He stood there until he was absolutely sure he couldn’t hear anyone nearby. After that, it was just a matter of going down the steps. Of making it through the hallway. 

Ignoring how unmoored he felt. He looked to his feet– left, right, left, right. Repeat until he was at the door.

It wasn’t the first time anyone would have thought that about him. Heck, it wasn’t the first time the quiet part was said out loud. It was, however, the first time it was actually doable.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Ben?”

“Guh–” He whirled around. “Edith!”

She blinked. He stared. The silence lingered a bit too long for his liking, though it was clear she wanted to say something. 

“Do you need anything?” he managed.

“Are you alright?” When no answer came, she continued to trail off. “I mean, I– I saw everyone goin’ up to your office. And then there was the announcement earlier, so–”

“Of course I am.”

Another blink. “O– oh, uh, ok, then…”

“OK, then.” 

Edith persisted. She trailed behind him closely as he came closer to the door. Most days he’d be a little endeared to it, but right now, right now–

“So, where are you going to set up this whole ‘science fair’? You, uh. Forgot to mention it.”

Of course he did. “The cafeteria. It has the space for it.”

He held a hand up to the door. 

“I guess the floors have to be cleaned early…” she mumbled. “Uh, hey– wait!”

He had barely half-opened it.

“If you need anything, just ask, OK?” Then, in a lower voice, she added: “I don’t know why you’re actually doin’ this, but–”

His hand was gone as he whipped back to look at her. “Actually?” he snapped back. 

“I– I know you, and you wouldn’t be doin’ this without a reason.”

“Know me?”

His rage was already so spent– from the boys, the teachers, the other guy, it can only persist for so long. It doesn’t billow out so much as burn him out from the inside. And when pushed that far, something had to give.

“It took you a month to realize I wasn’t being an idiot on purpose,” he said. “The real question is why didn't I do it sooner.” 

Edith’s eyes widened and her shoulders shrank at the remark. Guilt curdled in him, but it was a distant thing. He wanted to leave. He wanted to reach out and take it back. His body chose the worst compromise between the two and made him stand there like an idiot.

“OK then.” She looked away. “Um, I guess I’ll prep the cafeteria for it then.”

“OK then,” was all Benjamin could manage before she left to do just that. Which was fine. That’s what he wanted, right? He needed to get going too.

Left, right, left, right. Car. Drive. He forced himself to focus on the road completely. To hold onto the wheel like a lifeline. And it worked. At least until he hit the first red light– and then the thoughts crept in.

He should have said something different. He should have said it differently. What kind of answer was I should have done it sooner, anyway? 

His knuckles turned bone-white at his grip. 

Still, he felt unmoored– like a sharp turn would make him leap out of his own body, and– If we could have, we would have, George’s voice rattled in his head. They had the motive, and they had shown time and time again they had the means. 

And yet here he still was: sweating in sixty-degree weather.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was yet another thing to mull over and hang over the other guy.

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

For the next two days, the elementary school was a minefield for George and Harold. Which was why they found themselves stumbling around a corner and quickly entering the nearest empty classroom. The small mob ran past the corner none the wiser.

Harold gave a forlorn look to the stack of comics in his arms. “I don’t know how much of the sales can take this.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” George placed a hand to the other boy’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

A pause. The other boy gave a cautious look around, now that they had a moment to breathe.

“Well, maybe put that on hold for five minutes, what the heck is up with this classroom?”

The classroom looked normal for the most part– if you ignored the absurd number of desks. There had to be triple the amount– several stacked up on each other like a fortress or maze walls. One precarious tower looked further away than it should be possible in a room this size, but it could easily be tiny desks.

“What the…”

“You two!” a voice cried.

“Ah!” Harold yelled.

“Ah!” George yelled with a little jump.

‘Ah,’ Melvin did not yell. Instead, he said: “I’m surprised you two aren’t out for recess.”

They were still standing by the door so there was no chance of him sneaking past them, and his shock of ginger hair would have stood out if he had decided to stay in. 

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you, uh… you…” George said, letting the statement hang. “-- That you’re not working on something for that pop science fair.”

Melvin didn't react. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse– especially after Krupp made that dreaded announcement.

“What is it this time?” he continued, gesturing to the desks. “Something that increases the amount of class per classroom?"

"A scale model of the school’s pop science fair-- with additional statistics?” Harold added.

“Something to make people remember why they went into a room!” George added with a laugh, before snapping to a more contemplative look. “No wait, that’d actually be… not half-bad.”

“Hm. I’ll make a note of those,” Melvin said as he continued to stand there and not do that. The conversation lulled into silence a beat longer than comfortable. Before they could speak up, he added: “And for your information, I am working on it. Hold on.”

The both of them gave another cautious once-over to the room. The room– outside of the weird amount of desks– looked normal. It looked free of any invention, save for the muffled rattling noise. George had even peeked behind the teacher’s desk on the off chance it was hidden. 

“What do you mean hold on? There isn’t anything here.”

Melvin didn’t answer. 

Instead, the walls and some of the surrounding fixtures started shimmering different colors before settling on the color of error bars you see on TV.

Harold jumped away from a nearby desk he was leaning on as he felt it shift and become less sturdy, wobbling like heat hazes. As they lifted up to the ceiling, the whir had become a fraction louder.

“What’s going on?” he turned around. “Melv– ah!”

George let out a yell, seeing Melvin’s shape shimmer until he was a mass of red and greens. He ran to him, and his first instinct was to try and grab where his shoulder was. All his fingers met was air. Then thin strands as his hand sailed past where his shoulders would be and into the now-clump of what was the tattletale.

“Melvin!”

The strands rose up and darted away like all the other ones until they were standing in a regular classroom with its usual amount of desks and a third smaller than it looked before.

“He was too young!” George said.

��It should have been me!” Harold threw himself to the ground, bashed a fist against it, and stopped. He thought for a moment before continuing in the same dramatic cadence: “OK, I take it back, that’s a bit too much, but you get it!”

“Are you two done yet?” 

“I swear I can still hear his voice, even now–” the boy whipped his head around so fast his tie went askew. “Melvin!”

He got out of his overdramatic kowtow. “What the heck?!”

“Like I said, I’m working on the Warp-Weft-O-Tron 2000,” he said like it would explain everything. “Stress-testing it, to be more accurate.”

“The wh–” Before George could finish his sentence, the other boy stood up and pointed at the whirring thing behind Melvin.

In the corner of the classroom, around some tools and papers was something that took the space of two desks. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a sewing machine grafted beside a blocky computer . The needle continued its work and its now-unobscured rattling.

They all followed the threads converged to the machine, now completely colorless. They could just barely see the shiny thread zip through it and up the machine until even that thread dissipated. And once it did, the needle made its final whirring before powering down.

The adrenaline of seeing a kid disintegrate, like the strings a few seconds ago, dissipated to incredulity. 

“What kind of science is that thing for–” Harold pointed an accusatory finger at the machine. “Freak-People-Out-ology?!”

“It's built on the principles of techno-textiles and a bit of virtual simulation.” Melvin clicked his pen a few times before pointing it at them. “How about you two?”

“Huh?”

That was apparently the wrong answer as he put a finger to his temple. “I’m merely curious what you’re working on, seeing as Krupp’s announcement said you two suggested the pop science fair.”

And you believe him? George wanted to say, before answering his own question– of course he’d believe that.

Or at the very least, he wouldn’t cast further doubt. Doubting Krupp would mean doubting The Man. Plus, grades were on the line, and that was top priority to the tattletale than trying to think through whether they would ever suggest that.

It had only occurred now to George that that was the reason why Melvin wasn’t automatically on the defensive.

“We’re, uh– keeping it under wraps,” Harold said, realizing the other boy was taking too long to reply.

“Of course.” Melvin nodded in understanding as he made his way to the Warp-Weft-O-Tron and pulled out a spool the size of a lava lamp sitting on top of the sewing machine half. Its threads were soot grey and frayed. He placed it to the side and put an empty spool in its place, but not without grumbling about the material being insufficient.

“I will admit, the sudden nature of this assessment adds a wrench to everything, but– nothing like the stress of an unforeseen deadline to get everything in gear.”

Harold stared at the machine, and then to the boy still engrossed in fixing… whatever. In gear was an understatement if he made a simulation machine on a time crunch.

“You were really holding out on us all these years,” George said, eyeing the computer.

Rows of code scrolled up its screen. Most of it was gibberish, but there were parts he could understand. A record of previous commands and whether it was typed out or recorded through audio. S., MELVIN x1, DESK x15, and more distressingly, a MATERIAL PROCESS WARNING, whatever that was.

“How’d a sock sorter beat this out when you were picking out stuff for the Invention Convention?”

He poked around a nearby toolbox– which was more of a folder of assorted squares of materials. Many of them looked like normal threads, but a good chunk of them weren’t, from how the light bounced off them. 

“Firstly: it's a sock matcher. Secondly: Krupp only accepts the ‘practical’ ones–” He pulled out a square of the latter and placed it in an adjacent slot. Something between contemplation and annoyance edged into his tone. “The Turbo Toilet was pushing it. But, the pop science fair has no such restrictions!” 

“...It doesn’t?”

A thread the same color as the square spat out of some unseen cavity and began wrapping itself around the spool.

“I asked Ms. Ribble about the specificities for this assignment, and she said, and I quote: ‘sure, do what you need to do’.”

George and Harold both sucked a breath through their teeth. Unlike the tattletale, they knew that wasn’t full permission, so much as the classic grown-up tactic of dismissing a kid by giving them a vague answer to sate them.

“Guess not even tattling can get you all the perks you want,” Harold said carefully.

Melvin stopped typing on the computer part of the machine for a moment. With him faced away, they weren’t sure what expression was on his face, but they could feel a shift. Nothing as drastic as what happened in the principal’s office, but it was there.

“You should go.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “I need to troubleshoot.” 

Harold looked to the clock. Recess was almost over, which meant their opportunities to prepare were dwindling.

“Right,” George said.

And they slipped back into an empty hallway. They looked back, and through the window-sliver on the door, they could see the threads shoot up and around the room. The classroom became a black void, though it slowly made its way along the color spectrum.

“What do you think?” Harold asked.

“That our playground street cred is in the gutter at this rate,” George replied.

He gave him a light punch on the arm. Despite everything they couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing through the hall. 

“We could use it in the Captain Plan,” Harold replied. “It might be a little difficult to, ah–”

“Turbo Toilet it?” George finished, thinking back to the Invention Convention. He watched as Melvin tried to recalibrate it. “It’s a pretty big wildcard.”

As if on cue, after a few basic prisms popped into existence in the classroom, a rough approximation of a cat did. That, apparently, was too much as the simulation spooled itself back up like before. 

“But I think we do need a wildcard. It'd drive Krupp up the wall.”

Harold winced. “Well, I mean it can’t make anything worse.”

The both of them walked off to the abandoned art room. Harold shuffled his backpack to the front of him as he counted up the supplies he pilfered. To name a few: flour and water to make glue on the fly. Baking soda and vinegar, because those were Classics. Toilet paper– ‘nuff said.

He stared at a box labelled Office Supplies. In it were huge packs of sticky notes, for irony.

As wrong as Melvin was about whose idea the pop science fair was, he was right, frustratingly, about one thing: nothing like the stress of a deadline to get everything in gear.

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

The Captain Plan was one of their simpler plans, in theory. 

It was simple in the sense that it was meant to only target Krupp. The hard part, for obvious reasons, was that Captain Underpants was integral to said plan.

It amounted to swapping them out at strategic places they set up. Things he can’t stand. Things that he’d be afraid of. Long enough for the experience to stick. Then they’d swap him back to Captain and slowly amp it up. Rinse and repeat.

They’d keep doing this until he took everything back– the whole assignment gauntlet, the whole thing with the science fair–

The whole capital T Thing with Captain. 

And if he refused, well– there wasn’t anything else for it except to rinse and repeat until he did. They’ve got almost half a decades’ worth of grievances to pull back up. 

(“Krupp won’t– can’t expel us for this,” George said the night before, his form backlit by a jumbo flashlight. “I mean, he’ll need us to ‘deal’ with Captain.”

The Treehouse’s windows were boarded up to get ready for the colder weather. They should be prepping it for winter, putting stuff away so it won’t get messed up, since they insisted they didn’t need George’s parents’ help, but here they were– 

“I mean, he could hold us back now.”

“But would he really want to keep us there if we keep doing this?”

Harold shivered. “Point taken.”)

The walkie-talkie in Harold’s pocket made a noise. 

“Yyyello’.”

“How’s it going?”

Right now, the ‘it’ in question was scoping out the cafeteria. The tables were all neatly arranged in rows and ready for whatever project the fourth graders will put on them later. There was no one here save for Edith, who was deep in the kitchen.

“Melvin’s stuff is here.” 

He made his way over to the Warp-Weft-shaped tarp. After double checking for any Tattle-Turtles, he was disappointed to find no obvious screws to loosen at the access hatch.

Harold began pulling at the spool on top, unsure of how exactly to mess it up outside of tying the thread in knots. One end of the thread snaked its way to the needle, while the other end–

The other end came out of a small hole, which in turn was connected to the strange hatch Melvin put in that material square that one time. He pulled out a pair of undies, courtesy of Captain himself, and stuffed it into the slot.

The sewing machine whirred, clearly having difficulty with processing a non-square material. The thread didn’t move to spool itself, but it must have processed it by the way the underpants were disappearing in the slot.

As for the computer: it reminded him more of the school printer. There were menus upon menus of settings. In any case, Harold set out to randomly poking at them all. Some he understood– audio commands on, because that may be useful for their plan since it would be easier than trying to get close to type anything out. Everything else?

“...What the heck is a Young’s Module?” Harold asked, less out of curiosity and more to commentate for George’s benefit. “What do you think? Max or minimum?”

“I mean, Krupp’s pretty old…” his voice crackled through the walkie talkie.

“High it is!” And with that, he quickly swiped it as far to the right as he could before quickly closing everything out to the first screen. “OK, I’ll get back to y–”

“Ben!” Edith’s voice called out from across the cafeteria.

Harold ducked under the tarp before either of them could see him.

“We got a situation. Krupp’s here,” he whispered loudly.

“What? Why?!”

Harold hazarded to peek at the small gap between the tarp and the floor. He had been expecting like-liking goo-goo talk. If he had to be honest, he would have preferred that to whatever angry inspector routine Krupp was doing.

“Checking, I think.” 

He tilted his head at the principal running a finger over a table for dust. The action was clearly more for acting out… whatever this was, than any actual concern for cleanliness. The lunch lady continued to trail behind him, trying– and failing– to start a conversation.

There was a quick inhaling noise through the speakers. “OK, give me a minute. Move when I give the signal.”

Harold didn’t reply, mostly because they were close enough that he could hear them. Even from this distance, he could see how heavy the bags under his eyes were. How his posture was more hunched than usual.

Krupp sighed deeply, and his shoulders sagged even further. “I’ve been through worse. Trust me.” It almost sounded like a plea.

The lunch lady had no time to dwell on a response as the intercom screeched to life.

“Principal Krupp, please report to your office immediately,” George’s voice crackled through the intercom with a mock-smug air.

“Oh, for–” Said principal ran past her brusquely that the pin that was keeping her bangs up over her face had jostled to cover half her eye.

The signal!

“Good talk!” she called after him belatedly, but made no move to go after him. Then with a big sigh, she mumbled, “I’m blowin’ this.”

And with that, she made her way back to the kitchen and finally gave Harold an opening to get out of there. He made a mad dash to the doors, making sure to not slam it as he trailed him. Now that he was in the hallway, the faint sound of crackling and shuffling echoed throughout.

“Hey, how far is he from the office?” George asked, his voice crackling from both walkie talkie and still-active intercom.

“He’s making his way up as we speak.” 

“Cool.”

Krupp was up the first half of the stairs when he turned around. He was breathing heavily, and it was definitely not just because he was speed-walking up the stairs.

“You two have got a lot of nerve disrupting everything–”

“You’re one to talk,” Harold replied, thinking about the pop science fair coming up in a few hours. To all their years in school. To the capital T Thing with Captain.

The principal halfway down a step to approaching him until–

SNAP. The sound reverberated through the school intercoms. For a split second he saw something cross his face. Wide eyes. Furrowed brows.

And then Captain Underpants fell on said face.

He snapped back up, the toupee sitting lopsided on his head. “Sidekick! Where’s–”

Harold held up the walkie talkie. 

“Up here,” George replied.

He gave an unsure look as he tried to find where up was in relation to a walkie talkie.

“In the office,” Harold clarified. He walked past him and up the stairs, motioning him to follow.

Captain stood up, wiping the grit from his cheek. It might be because he took a heck of a tumble, but there wasn’t the typical shock of liveliness he expected when he swapped in. All things considered, he was… well, maybe not calm, but expectant.

George was standing at the receptionist half of the office, one of the curtains tucked under his arm. 

“You ready?” Then, in a stage whisper to Harold: “Anthrope’s gone off because of… ‘printer repairs’.”

Harold stared at the empty corner of the room. There was a smattering of printer ink at the walls, outlining the office printer that was not there anymore. They couldn’t help but snicker conspiratorially.

“Er,” Captain leaned over to look at what had got their attention. “What’s the plan to Free The Children now, sidekicks?” 

“We’re putting Krupp through his own personal gauntlet.”

“I don’t think it’ll take long for him to crack.” Harold gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “We’ll make sure of it. Everything’ll be back to the way it was faster than–”

“A speeding waistband?” the superhero offered. He was definitely hiding it as he shimmied out of the principal’s clothes and put on his cape, but that same look was back on his face. 

“Exactly.”

“Where do we start?” He approached the ink stains on the wall, as if expecting the answer to pop out of the mess.

“Uh, Captain?” George pulled his attention back to the door of the principal’s office. He opened it with an overdramatic flourish. “Just step into our office for this first bit.”

Harold let out a low whistle at the sight. Every surface of the room was covered in sticky notes, leaving the room in an unsightly pale yellow that made the room look flat. Between the writing and the shadows, it did little to help figure out where everything was as Captain nearly tripped on a chair.

“What do you think of our Prankovation 2– trademark?”

Captain took to floating, mindful not to touch anything. He looked confused– he probably didn’t get things like irony yet. “…How long did this even take you?”

“Prankster’s trade secret.”

“This looks done, though,” he hedged. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help you here– especially with this–”

He gestured to his wrists, now tied together by jump rope courtesy of Harold. The boy went over to the sticky notes-engulfed water cooler and poured out a thimble’s amount into an open hand.

“For this one, we need to swap you back over to Krupp,” George explained. Seeing the superhero's disappointed look, he quickly continued: “This part's quick-- we're going to bring you back right after for the next bit.” 

“O– OK, then sidekicks. I trust you.” Captain twisted around so his face was in patting distance. This close, he could see the expression for what it was– hesitation.

And Captain was gone, leaving Krupp to fall on the floor, a flutter of pale yellow in his wake.

[joshdonnas]

do you have any j/d fic recs? :D

Absolutely!! This fandom is really blessed with some of the best writers I've seen, so there's a lot of really good content out there to read, but I'll list some of my favorites under the cut ☺️

FAVORITE AUTHORS 💛

I thought I'd start by listing some of my authors, I’ll also be listing some of my personal favorite fics from theirs down bellow, but any of their works are totally worth the read: 

jessbakescakes | sam_writes_fics | BeneathAnOrangeSky | thotsandfeelings | littlefoolswritings | thefinestmuffins | joshatella (shuuuliet) | hanyolo | flowersinapril | spooky_spacegirl | hufflepuffhermione | mikaylawrites

FAVORITE FICS (in no particular order) 💛

running, by andyoureturntome (work in progress, rated M): "Matt Santos is running for president. Josh and Donna are just running away. Augmented canon for seasons six and seven. Ventures into AU territory from 6x18 on." (when I say this is one of my favorite fics ever you have no idea how much I mean it. it’s honestly so good, a must read in my opinion. it’s still in progress, and it’s not updated very frequently , but it’s still so so worth it (here’s to hoping we’ll get a next chapter soon!!).

the other side of the door, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated M): "Donna wanders out of the bathroom, baffled by how late it is for the hundredth night in a row, and she drapes her coat over a chair before moving to plug in her cell phone. The blinking light catches her attention, and she flips it open. One missed call. From Josh. Perfect. Post-ep for 7x13: The Cold." (I honestly read this one every time I watch the cold)

say you’ll never let them tear us apart, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "what would it be like in the santos era for josh and donna to get media coverage as a couple?"

love grows (where my donnatella goes), by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "the first year of the santos administration in four parts"

how i love the view when i'm beside you, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Josh and Donna on Valentine's Day; Chiefs of Staff era J/D"

cutting me open then healing me fine, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna are in the press room when it gets shot at, and the trajectory of a bullet changes the trajectory of their lives. Evidence of Things Not Seen AU."

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

even cnn is wrong, sometimes, by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "She snakes her hand between them, high instead of low, wrapping it around his bowtie. Starts to pull. And it’s this that snaps him out of it. Because Josh Lyman isn’t a press secretary and he isn’t a communications director and he isn’t Sam or Toby and he sure as hell isn’t Will, but he’s spent enough time around enough writers to appreciate the art of analogy (at the end of the night you wanna be able to pull it open like tony bennett), to recognize symmetry (donna? my tie’s falling apart), to understand that codas don’t exist merely in cello suites or stump speeches; that life makes space for sartorial bookends, too. Like bowties being tied, then untied." (utterly obsessed with the way this author writes)

gather ye rosebuds, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "A one and done smutshot, canon-divergent from 20 Hours in LA, in which Josh realizes where his rosebuds are and goes back to his hotel room to gather them."

we've been living on a fault line, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "6x02: Josh spends five days at Camp David, and every night all he thinks about is Donna."

burning slowly, my one and only, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated T): "I can't stop thinking about you."

sacred new beginnings, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): " But now, he doesn’t need her anymore – or he shouldn’t, anyway. So she’ll go back to her apartment, and he’ll go back to work, and things will go back to normal, whatever the hell that means. There’s something about that idea that makes his stomach churn."

an act of charity, by thatTWWgirl (finished, rated T): "A date with the White House Deputy Chief of Staff is put up for auction at the First Lady's fundraiser, and he's not too happy about it."

domestic days, by spooky_spacegirl (finished, rated G): "One day Josh and Donna look around and realize that, somewhere along the line, they have slipped into something that can only be described as Domesticated. One-Shot collection. Post-Canon." (so so so cute, never fails to bring a smile to my face)

this is the wonder (that's keeping the stars apart), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (work in progress, rated T): "A soulmate AU".

I want It all or nothing, no more in between, by scarmophogoghs (finished, rated E): "Want to go to Hawai'i? With me? Please?” (huuuge Hawaii fit we all cheered)

stuck with nowhere to go, by littlefoolswritings (finished, rated E): "what if it was only Josh and Donna who'd been left behind by the motorcade? just the two of them?)" (I love this one my god)

a pathological avoidance thing, by yanak324 (finished, rated M): "Josh isn’t sure what to make of the lack of surprise on the President-elect’s face when he explains why he’s taking time off. He has bigger fish to fry though." (this one is from Josh's POV, and this one is from Donna's!)

when a woman loves a man (who loves a woman), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "“You’re sensitive. It’s sweet.” She bites back a smile at the image she’s evoked. Everyone thinks they know the real Josh Lyman. Bartlet’s bulldog, political wunderkind, the man behind Washington’s curtain. But they don’t know him like this. She brushes a sweaty tangle of hair from his forehead and pretends not to notice when he leans into her touch. No, this side of him is reserved just for her. His mouth opens in surprise, voice pitching up a notch, “I am n—” “Your system,” she amends. “Your system is sensitive.”"

of the united states, by violet_storms (finished, rated G): "Fifty states, fifty sentences, fifty snapshots of Josh and Donna falling in love on the campaign trail."

on the line, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated G): "Josh and Donna and a pathological inability to hang up the phone."

you can run (but only so far), by swancharmings (finished, rated M): "The room is quaint, if a bit tacky, one sad sprig of holly greeting them at the door. A fine representation of how she feels this Christmas."

love is the only thing, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "The Moss-Lyman girls read Little Women; Josh has a lot of feelings."

it was like autumn, looking at her, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "His eyelids flutter open, gentler than usual. Blearily, he catches the alarm clock blinking a red 7:48 a.m. If this were five years ago, he would already be on his third cup of coffee. If this were five months ago, he never would have made it to bed in the first place. But it’s now—and he wraps his arm tighter around Donna’s waist."

it's paradise as long as I'm with you, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated E): "Hawaii."

only bought this dress so you could take it off, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "josh has a thing for donna in red (as he should)"

nothing that i wouldn't do (to make you feel my love), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Josh re-arranges his priorities. A Gaza hospital fix-it fic." (I'm always thinking about this one)

hell was the journey but it brought me heaven, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "On the drive, it starts to hit him. Leah was born on the anniversary of the Rosslyn shooting. What would this mean for him? Leah deserved a father who wouldn’t be absolutely miserable on his daughter’s birthday every year. Of course, he’d love to think that her birth could erase all of the negative feelings he’s ever had toward this day, that it could make all of the anxiety and trauma melt away. But if he couldn’t pull it together on the day she was born, the day she came into the world, what evidence does he have to support the idea that next year will be better? Or the year after that?"

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

how to say I love you in subtext, by RhapsodyInProgress (finished, rated T): "If you know where to look and what to listen for, Josh and Donna have been telling each other how they feel for years. A series of vignettes on a theme."

annus primus, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "The first year of the Santos administration, in twelve movements."

sit with you in the trenches, by swancharmings (finished, rated T): "”So you’ve got health and strength.” “And we’ll steal the rest?” “Bet your ass.” // Four ways they did exactly that."

oversight, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "War Crimes angst + hooking up" (a MUST read!!!)

can't call you a stranger (but i can't call you), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "King Corn. The elevator gets stuck."

for a long time, by onelargecoffeepls (finished, rated M): "Seven short glimpses into Donna falling in love with Josh based on "Love You For A Long Time" by Maggie Rogers."

this is how mythology is written (or: shards; scars; and whole again), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "The mosaic of Josh and Donna." (GOD this one!!!)

where the lovelight gleams, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Donna brings Josh home for Christmas and has some thoughts about him in a holiday sweater; takes place during Transition" (OBSESSED!!!)

the way old friends do, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "Donna, Toby, Charlie, and the chaotic people they love."

the first 100 days, by BimadaBomily (finished, rated T): "100 moments in Josh/Donna's relationship during the first 100 days of the Santos Administration."

like we were in paris (we were somewhere else), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (work in progress, rated M): "Josh, Donna, and the worlds they transform together // or: an ode to Paris (Taylor's Version)" (again, the way this author writes??!!?!)

find ourselves in the winter snow, by swancharmings (finished, rated E): "It’s when he leads her to dance, holding her impossibly close and swaying gently through the upbeat tempo, that she truly doesn’t know what to expect of the evening."

please linger near the door, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "They’re definitely not dating when there is a presidential dinner and they don’t think to invite dates. Instead, they assume they’ll go with each other. Him in a black tux, her in a red dress. Their arms are interlocked as they enter the ballroom, and Donna even goads Josh into dancing with her. It’s friendly, nothing more. They’re just having sex. That’s it."

with one hello, I'll never be the same, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna and how 'hi' means so much more than 'hello'."

all you ever wanted from me (was sweet nothin'), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Donna hadn’t had a nightmare about her ex since she started dating Josh, since well before she moved in with Josh after their week in Hawaii, since her life became better than it ever has been, since she became happier than she ever thought that she could be. Which is probably why she’s so shaken when the nightmare returns. Set post-series, in the Santos CoS era." (soooo sweet)

AUs 💛

i like shiny things (but i'd marry you with paper rings), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "In the aftermath of the First Lady's birthday party, Josh, Donna, and the rest of the Senior Staff deal with the fallout of Donna's realization that she's no longer a U.S. Citizen. CJ, Sam, and Toby have taken it upon themselves to get this figured out, and it’s a good thing, because Josh’s brain can only present him with one solution: Marry Donna Moss."

my days now end as they began (with thoughts of you), by flowersinapril (work in progress, rated T): "A new neighbour moves in next door to Josh and she isn't happy with how loud and chaotic he is." (can't wait for the next chapter of this one!!!)

sometimes it's like you grew up down the street, by starsontheceiling (finished, rated G): "Afterwards, he’ll say he did it without thinking and all their friends will laugh at him in disbelief, and he understands why but it’s still true."

you came like a resolution (under a starry sky), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Donna, this is my brother, Josh. Josh, this is Donna. She lives across the hall"

an everlasting love, by sam_writes_fics (work in progress, rated T): "best man and maid of honor au" (has not been updated in a while but I love the idea of this pic so so much and I think about constantly)

think i missed the gun at the starting line, by ansatz (finished, rated T): "After qualifying for the Olympics in 2016, but being unable to compete due to an injury, Donna Moss is back, ready to run, and completely focused on earning a medal for Team Canada. Enter Josh Lyman, reigning Olympic champion with a heart of—you guessed it—gold. Two countries, two sports: one chance to fall in love?"

what if i told you, i feel like i know you? but we never met., by donnatellamoss (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss meets an unfamiliar face when she knocks on Sam Seaborn’s door for their English project. His name’s Josh Lyman and he’s good at bothering people."

absolutely smitten (never let you go), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): "Josh feels all the air whoosh out of his lungs when he sees the teacher standing on the other side of the door. She looks at the group standing outside her door, puzzled for a moment, until her blue eyes lock with Josh’s. Her blonde hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, and pumpkin earrings dangle from her earlobes. She’s wearing a copper-colored fall sweater, adorned with leaves around the collar that match her bulletin board. Her ID badge dangles from her neck, one of those ink pens in a bright, funky color clipped to her lanyard.  “Miss Moss,” CJ says. “This is Mr. Lyman from the high school."" (always thinking about this one honestly I need more!!!)

the campaign around the corner, orphan_account (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss is working for Howard Stackhouse's presidential campaign in 1998. Josh Lyman is working for Jed Bartlet's presidential campaign in 1998. The two cannot stand each other. Little do they know the person each of them is beginning to fall in love with over email is the other." (you've got mail au!!!!!!!!!!)

everybody talks (it started with a whisper), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Being the White House Press Secretary, Josh realizes, is one of the toughest jobs in the administration to begin with. But with her co-workers' propensity for going viral, CJ certainly deserves a raise. The West Wing, set 20 years later." (soooo obsessed with this one MY GOD)

darling, so it goes (some things are meant to be), by mikaylawrites (finished, rated M): "The story of rising country singers Josh Lyman and Donna Moss." (so good!!!)

ballerina, you've must have seen her, by thababes (work in progress, rated G): "It was always supposed to have been Josh and Mandy. After their successful run of Carmen, it had been expected that The Washington Ballet would stick to what worked. There was never supposed to be another audition. Company principles seemingly traveling from role to role was the usual. It had been an unusual season — schedule conflicts and last minute alternate class partners — and suddenly, everything seemed to have changed. And it had all started when he had danced with her." (I think about this one constantly)