#which means that saying 'oh no credit cards' does NOTHING to help people long-term

[chibisquirt]

#this is why you don't buy shit on credit #the likelihood of it financially destroying you is high

I'm sorry, but that is absolutely the wrong take in response to this.

Buying on credit is not the problem; in fact, in many cases, it's the only way to do something. Think about buying a house; most people don't exactly have the cash to buy outright! Oftentimes buying a car, or furniture, is the same kettle of fish. Heck, that's how I bought my furniture! 12-months no interest, yes please!

The problem comes when you lose track of how much you have bought on credit--and you can lose track of how much you've bought just as easily with a checkbook as you can with a credit card or loans.

When I bought my furniture on 12-month no-interest financing, I made damn sure that I wasn't committing to more than I knew I could pay in a month, and I kept track to make sure that I had it paid off before the promotional period ended. And look! No problems!

The people the above person is talking about have purchased much, much more than they can conceivably pay off independently. That is the issue with that scenario. They've spent more on transportation than I spent on my house, given the economic bracket he's describing they probably spent a minimum of $350k on the house and that's in my incredibly low cost-of-living area--on the coasts who knows how much it would be--and they have more on their credit cards than I spent on my car.

So yes, they have a problem with finances--but the problem isn't the existence of credit. The problem is the absence of accountability. After all, I, too, have a car loan, a house loan, and credit cards; the difference is, I live within my means.

[yandere-sins]

How would the Miya twins interact with their darling when it’s her birthday? Does she even know it’s her birthday if she doesn’t have any way of tracking the date? Is this intentional by the twins so she is more reliant on them?

Oh I love this, thanks for the request!

Rated Lemon

»»———————— ♡ ————————«« 

Atsumu

♡ Atsumu totally forgot that this day was coming up despite being told about it a few times in advance. Every day they spend together is a day worth celebrating with happiness and laughter, but Osamu telling him that there's a birthday coming up one week prior to it is a total game-changer. Atsumu spends almost three days pressing his darling for things she wants. Any new games? Books? Clothes? It's a little hard not to blurt out it's for her birthday, but hey, he's trying. He can't always rely on his brother to make an effort for their sweet, adorable captive. Atsumu wants to have the final say in what she gets from him. Finally, it pays off that he is annoying and stalked her a lot before the twins took their darling to be theirs.

♡ All the money he has is well-spent if it's for the love of his life. He goes full out on the materialistic things, stocking her up on things to occupy herself with for as long as it takes to play and read through all that he gets her. His credit card is flashing so many registers as he buys her games to play with him, snacks to eat with him, books to read to him, and as an extra, he gets her a diary and some stationery to go with it. There is never enough to know about her, and she probably won't mind if he reads it in secret, right? He's a good boyfriend and very proud of himself for coming up with that idea as he leaves the store, only for his eyes to get caught up on a peculiar little shop that he just can't miss. If he convinces her to put on some of the lingerie he buys her, there's no telling how he will react to it, but it will be nice for both of them for sure. No one said Atsumu can't have a little fun on his darling's birthday either, right?

Osamu

♡ Osamu is a little, and rightfully, miffed at the fact he needs to tell Atsumu about the upcoming birthday over and over three weeks before it happens. But he won’t let his own preparations be influenced by the indifference of his brother. Osamu starts fixing things around the apartment that his darling is bothered by. Her bathroom door gets a new lock, and he oils the hinges, cleaning the bathroom thoroughly while he’s at it. Seeing the bathtub, he starts thinking about what to gift his beloved, settling on the idea of a new shower curtain with a motive she likes and some bath bombs for her. He also noticed that her shampoo is unscented whenever he hugs her, so Osamu will stock up on different ones for the future. His thoughts about presents are much more fixated on long-term comfort than his brother’s, but he hopes the little gestures will make his darling all the more happy.

♡ Investing in new bedding or a new mattress may be a big effort, but it’s about time she receives what she deserves. One day on the way back from work, he stumbles over a really adorable plush that he can’t help but buy, wrapping it in a ribbon and hiding it in his bedroom from the darling and his brother. Already weeks before her birthday, Osamu started learning to bake cakes in his restaurant, selling them to see how people react and trying out new flavors. Only the absolute best is good enough for his darling, and he will have decided on the final recipe on the very day he has to prepare the cake. Two tiers, real fruit, handmade. Goldfoil on top and a taste that will make her drool all over him. That’s what Osamu is hoping for.

And on the day...

♡ They arrange everything on the kitchen counter and light the candles, all smiles and giddy as they prepare for their darling’s birthday. The twins think they were very slick with their apparent behavior the last few weeks, so this should come as a surprise. Still, they were never thinking about hiding their darling’s birthday from her. Why would they? The time they spend together is precious. There is no reason not to celebrate it. Osamu sets down the big plush on the chair last minute while Atsumu storms ahead to get their darling, who they think is still sleeping soundly in her new bed. Getting up early is worth it, but they were patient enough to at least let their beloved sleep in for once. Not like she hasn’t been lying awake for hours at that point, listening to the silly discussions and preparations outside her room, unable to sleep that long, but hey, the twins are really trying to be accomodating on this special day.

♡ Nothing about their joyfulness is unreal, as they genuinely are happy to be spending this special day with their darling. Their gifts are what they really want to present to their darling, even if that doesn’t mean they won’t take them away later again if she misbehaves. But until then, they are pretending as if everything was normal. As if their darling wasn’t a captive, and they aren’t absolutely mad about them, but instead, just the people who love and cherish her (which, to a point, is true), wishing her a happy birthday from the bottom of their hearts. They even hold back from arguing about who goes first in congratulations (Osamu) or which brother’s presents get to be opened first (Atsumu’s). However, when they can, they steal some rare alone time with their darling, hugging, touching, and kissing her at every opportunity they can. It’s so bittersweet for her to have this celebration in the situation she’s in, but crying and throwing a tantrum is sure to ruin the good mood the brothers have. And if she is behaving exceptionally well, Osamu even brought some bottles of alcohol home to celebrate if she wants to drink. They are much laxer that day, and she can go where she wants in the apartment, eat as much cake, and even request things from them (like some space if Atsumu gets pushy, or a special dish for dinner, etc.) without facing repercussions, the twins just letting her have a good time so they too can enjoy the day, happy to see her interested in the gifts they bought for their darling and seeing her smile for once.

♡ Well, that is, except for one thing: the lingerie dangling from Atsumu’s finger once the day shifts to night. Because he really, really, really wants to see her in it, saying it’s just to see if it fits. Osamu holds his brother back a little, but their darling can clearly see how much he’d like to see it on her too. And maybe, just to keep the peace and not end the day on a bad taste, she should comply, even though all three of them know that there won’t be much holding back once she put on what her captor bought her as ‘such a nice present’.

[twstarchives]

More Accurate Than Any Scale

Card: Lab Coat - SR Characters: Vil, Rook, Trey, Riddle (mentioned)

Chapter 1

—LABORATORY—

Vil: It was rather kind of the science club advisor to let us use the lab and its chemicals.

Have you been acting oddly compliant with your club activities lately, Rook?

Rook: He gave me the okay right after I told him I just wanted to help make some chemicals to use for special effects in one of the film club’s shoots.

Although, he did ask me to turn in a list of all the chemicals and reaction formulas I’ll be using, how long I’ll be in here, and a safety plan in case of an emergency.

Vil: You’ve gotten your teachers awfully wary of you! I suppose that means you act as free-spirited as you always do in your clubs too.

Well, let’s start already to avoid putting the time you got us to waste.

Now then, the chemicals we’ll be using are... ah, here.

Mix a spoonful of this in the colored water...

(Poof!)

Rook: Oh! That made black smoke appear! Are we finished already, then?

Vil: It’s a little different than the color I have in mind. It should be darker... black enough that it could blend in with the night.

I’ll try adjusting the amount we put in a little. A little more than a spoonful...

(Poof!)

Rook: Hmm. It grew a little darker. How’s that?

Vil: Not quite. It’s a little too blue now. Perhaps there’s something wrong with the water...

Rook: Would you even be able to tell the difference through the camera?

Vil: Do not ask me to compromise with something that’s going to appear in front of an audience. The smoke will take up a very wide portion of the screen.

Without an effective color that highlights the costumes, as well as the actors’ expressions, hair, and eyes, everything will be ruined.

We need to keep making small adjustments to prevent that. ...Perhaps this will work?

(Poof!) 

Vil: ...Yes, that is a nice black.

Now that we’ve made the smoke, our next shooting will be flawless.

Rook: Oh, even though you haven’t taken care of yourself yet?

Vil: ...Excuse me?

Rook: When are you going to start your diet?

Vil, you’ve gained a little weight here these past three days. Your jawline looks slightly off.

Vil: What—?! That can’t be right.

I’m never careless about my health, and not a single one of my 5 million-plus Magicam followers has pointed anything like that out.

Besides, I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary when examining myself in the mirror.

Rook: Ah, Roi du Poison. Between me and everyone else, who would you choose to believe?

I’m always telling you this: I’ve spent much more time looking at you than you have spent looking in the mirror.

Above all else, that is the one thing I’ll always guarantee you.

Vil: ...Alright. I’ll take your word for it.

Rook: Oh, I should get going now. It’s time for my very important fieldwork.

Vil: Ah, hold on! ...Running off right after he said what he needed to, I see.

Well, I’m finished with the smoke, so I should clean up and then head back.

—EXTERIOR HALLWAY—

Vil: I need to get back to the dorm as soon as I can to check my scale.

Trey: Hm...? Fancy meeting you here, Vil. Were you doing something in the lab?

Although, I could’ve sworn I’ve heard about a private lab in Pomefiore’s basement.

Vil: Oh, Trey. Today was an exception; there were some chemicals I needed in the school lab.

Rook let me know there should’ve been a bottle of the kind I needed here after I’d realized I was short.

Does everyone in the science club keep track of which chemicals are kept in the lab?

Trey: No, Rook’s just particularly observant. I don’t remember anything except the ones I use myself.

He’s good at memorizing the most random things, huh?

Vil: That’s for certain... Like people’s jawlines.

Trey: Jawlines...?

Vil: Oh, nothing.

Trey: I see. Hey, do you and Rook like sweets?

I actually have some cake leftover. Baking one in an 18-centimeter pan ended up a little too much for Riddle’s afternoon tea.

So I’ve been going around offering slices to everyone.

Vil: I was wondering what you were doing wandering around with that thing in your hands... So there’s a cake inside that box?

Trey: Yeah. Gotta say, I really outdid myself on this one. See how fresh the strawberries are? Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?

Vil: Very true. But I’ll have to pass. I’ve just begun dieting.

Feel free to make Rook take two servings, though.

Trey: Seems like something happened between you two... Well, I can probably take a guess.

Vil, if you’ve got time, why don’t you stop by Heartslabyul?

I could offer you some of this delicious herbal tea I have.

Vil: Herbal tea... Is there any chance it has lemongrass in it?

Trey: Ah, yeah, it does.

Vil: I’d love to, then. Its detoxifying properties would be perfect for me right now.

Chapter 2

—HEARTSLABYUL DORM - KITCHEN—

Trey: Thanks for waiting, Vil. Here’s your herbal tea.

Vil: Thank you, Trey. ...It smells lovely.

Trey: I also brought a piece of cake just in case. I baked it fresh today, you know.

Vil: I can tell just by looking at it that it’s something you’re proud of. But, I still think I’ll just stick to the tea.

               (Vil takes a sip)

Vil: ...Mm, delicious. Where did you find these tea leaves?

Trey: The school store. It’s rare to see leaves with a hundred years of history behind them in stock.

You can take some back with you if you’d like; I’ve got plenty. I wouldn’t be able to finish them all myself before the flavor faded.

Vil: Well, if you insist. I take it you’ll wrap them up later.

Trey: Oh, and about our earlier conversation. What did you say happened with Rook?

Vil: It wasn’t anything important. I suppose you could say he’s just been watching me a little too closely.

Of course, it’s helpful that he’s able to notice changes in me quicker than even I can...

But don’t you think it’s so rude to just tell me “You got fat” out of nowhere?

There’s a difference between being honest and being considerate. I suppose he just left his ability to be “considerate” back in the woods.

Trey: Ah... Well, it’s true that wasn’t the best way to word it...

Rook always blurts out his thoughts, whether they’re good or bad. It surprises me at times too.

Vil: Hmph. Perhaps I should’ve expected that he’s like this even during club meetings.

Trey: The other day, actually, our club advisor proposed an experiment and Rook immediately went “That’s such a boring idea.”

We ended up doing a much more complicated experiment. The freshmen couldn’t figure out how to do anything, so they just wound up just standing around for the rest of the period.

Vil: I can imagine how that must’ve looked.

And it was all left up to you to lead the freshmen, wasn’t it?

Trey: Saying I “led them” is giving me too much credit, but... a little, yes.

Vil: You always work so much.

Riddle is lucky to have you in Heartslabyul.

Trey: What?

Vil: You know, you come up in conversations at the dorm leader meetings sometimes. About how great of a vice dorm leader you are.

Trey: Oh, that’s... the first I’ve heard of that. Honestly, I’m a little surprised.

I just don’t want to lose my head. I don’t think that should warrant any praise.

Vil: There’s no need to be so modest. You should accept praise when it’s given.

Those who can’t read into things might just blindly believe your words despite the fact that you’re just trying to be humble.

Well, if that’s the kind of impression you want to give, then that’s fine... but it’s still just selling yourself short.

Trey: You sure are harsh. But you must know what you’re talking about, as someone whose job is wholly based on others judging you.

I’ll try to watch myself from now on.

Vil: Yes, please do. It makes the one doing the complimenting feel good too.

Besides, letting yourself feel happy about getting praised helps alleviate stress.

Especially for you, who is always running around to tend to your selfish young master.

Trey: I really don’t think I’m stressing myself out over Riddle.

Vil: Well, alright. If you say so...

Trey: It’s the truth. After all, I have a trick to not feel stressed.

Vil: Oh? A trick? I’m curious.

Trey: Wanna know what it is?

Vil: My, you’re certainly acting cheeky now.

Trey: I’ll only say it once, so listen carefully!

Vil: Alright...

Trey: It’s to not hold back on the sweets. Especially cakes filled with fruit.

Vil: Incredible. I was wondering where you were going with this. ...Heh.

Alright. I’ll try a bit of your fruit cake.

I’ll just have to add a few extra laps to my run tomorrow morning.

Trey: I probably shouldn’t be telling you this since you’re a model, but...

I really don’t think one slice of cake is going to do anything to your figure. You’re already so skinny anyway.

Vil: I’d prefer the term “fit,” if you wouldn’t mind.

But Rook’s watchful gaze on me is more accurate than any scale. Perhaps even more than a mirror.

Trey: Really...

Vil: Mm, delicious. You’ve gotten better at this, haven’t you, Trey?

Do let me know if Riddle ever has it be off with your head. I’ll make you our dorm’s personal pastry chef.

Trey: I’ll try not to let that happen.

Having to worry about the calorie count with every dessert I make for Pomefiore sounds troublesome.

Vil: Wouldn’t it be a great learning opportunity?

[roc-thoughtblog]

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 20

Chapter 23, Pages 119-126

Previously, poor Elinor... four years... poor Elinor... four years...

Having given it a little thought, it occured to me that the twist from last chapter worked extremely well for something that I would have expected to occur narratively anyway. And I have complete certainty that it's because the twist went completely overboard by a shocking, twisty margin. Four years!

That's definitely something I'm keeping very close in consideration. Noted, circled and underlined. Just because the basic element of your narrative twist may be heavily foreshadowed or just predictable, doesn't mean the whole part of it has to be. There can and probably should be more than one layer of twist to your twist.

In fact, isn't this a form of misdirection in itself? Put people at ease with something that could be interpreted as simple, then throw something else out from behind it. Wait, now I'm just describing the basic element of a twist... a general principle of playing with expectations... Hmm, anyway!

Readthrough below.

Chapter 23

HOWEVER SMALL Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case,

IN THE PRESENT CASE? WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN MS. AUSTEN? Is this just a general statement about her unwillingness to question anything right in this moment? Or is it also a foreboding statement that Lucy's word will not be trustworthy in the future? Ms. Austen are you deliberately toying with me? D:

Elinor embarks aboard a long train of thought. The facts as presently established are thus:

There is altogether too much evidence of Lucy's claims being truthful; ergo they are engaged and all evidence presented is true.

She wasn't alone in believing Edward held feelings for her. Her family (supportive) and his sister (unsupportive) both acknowledged the case, so it's not any personal delusion or her own, or positive bias on the part of her family.

Trying to reconcile those two premises, she can draw various possible solutions that might satisfy both:

Eddie has been deliberately playing with her heart. :(

Eddie has unintentionally and hopelessly succumbed to Elinor's affection. :?

Eddie's engagement with Lucy was going nowhere to begin with. :/

I'm personally gonna float a fourth possibility, that Edward forgot Lucy Steele existed until she returned to his life recently to get him to fulfill his engagement promise, and now he's in a pickle. Not going easy on him though, the only scenario in which he doesn’t bear a significant burden of responsibility in this mess is the one where, iunno, Lucy’s been blackmailing him the whole time or something.

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to everything but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years [...] must have opened his eyes to her defects

Oh, so is this why Mr. Palmer was introduced with the following (lemme dig it up) line?

His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many of others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias towards beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman - but she knew this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.

When I was reading it I thought it was coming uncharacteristically close to laying a man's responsbility over his own emotions at the feet of his wife instead (even if Mr. Palmer was immediately following diagnosed with class angst instead). I suppose the real purpose of this line would be to prep the reader, so that the possibility of hasty engagements on Edward's part seem reasonably expected, and also to, well, suggest at the possible result of such a hasty, valueless engagement being followed through?

I know there’s a Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, is there a Sense and Sensibility and Alternate Timelines?

Well, either way, I'm given to conclude that the Palmer chapter really does a lot more to set up pacing and expectations than I give it credit for. Though I still don’t think I like these particular expectations very much.

Also, Elinor, as mature as you project yourself to be, you think these thoughts of foolhardy youth as though you're not also presently nineteen right now. :'D

Also geez, you're really picking on Lucy hard for her lack of education, which has so far been presented much more a lack of opportunity than anything else. I noticed while reading the Other Stories in Susan and Stories that many of the protagonists were definitely a little on the not-like-other-girls side of the spectrum. I always love when education is valued, but it does make me uncomfortable when I see it presented as though a virtue in itself, rather than the product of opportunity and environment.

I'm still holding out on general judgement of Lucy as I haven't really felt like I've been introduced to her outside of Elinor's lens. There's a sort of tell vs. show element to reliability of information in the narrative voice I've been sitting on; one where I've been told a lot about Lucy from Elinor's feelings and thoughts (that she's artful or selfish), but I haven't actually seen Lucy behave in any way I would interpret as more than some level of insensitive.

It's really hard for me to get a read on Lucy or Edward. Unlike with Willoughby or Brandon, their actions as depicted do not immediately align with evaluations of their character made by the Dashwood sisters. Lucy has been very little shown to have done anything to earn Elinor's harsher assessments of her character (except insensitivity). Edward, I don't even know what about him I can take at any sort of face value except that he's ambitionless.

As these considerations occured to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself.

Oh, Elinor... She's worried about how Edward must feel, that his family could possibly support his engagement to Lucy when she is in a worse position than Elinor in every regard.

Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness,

Oh, Elinor... she's rationalised away her natural freedom to be unhappy for unhappiness' sake. And she puts the mask back on. No telling her family. She will take this burden on very alone indeed.

It'll have to be up to Marianne to save her, on the day that Marianne finally throws a fit over Edward's mysterious lack of flirting. Oh, and what about their little moment chapters back where they shared a joke over Willoughby? Oh it will hurt if they ever have a real confrontation... :(

and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed,

oH NO! Well if you're going to say that! If Edward was four years engaged then what's Willoughby going to have been? Secretly married ten years?? I forgot Marianne is still pining hard. Wait what's even going to happen when Edward and Willoughby meet as promised?

"Hi, I'm not marrying a Dashwood sister." "Hi, it turns out I'm also not marrying a Dashwood sister." "What was the purpose of our meeting again?" "Breaking Dashwood hearts solidarity?"

What is even happening? Please come back Brandon, at least your secret daughter can't break hearts. Also because you can't break hearts in general because noone loves you. Wait, ouch. Sorry. Also because your daughter might become friends with Margaret!

Oh Elinor, she's also justifiably disinclined to tell her family anything anyway because she knows they'll make a gigantic deal out of it, and probably Say Things that she doesn't want to hear. I mean, almost certainly Eddie has done you dirty here Elinor, if at bare minimum through negligence in communication. He's gonna deserve some of that tongue lashing.

Well, now that Elinor has come to terms with her situation, she has new objectives. To talk to Lucy again, and in doing so:

Discover the true depth of Lucy's feelings for Edward

Estimate Edward's regard for herself by gauging Lucy's jealousy towards her (HA!)

Convince Lucy somehow that no, she was never interested in Edward, haha, what a funny joke, I am not hurt or in pain at all. Didn't have a minor breakdown in front of you yesterday, nope. Perfectly fine, no feelings here.

Ah yes, the "What doesn't kill me NEVER HAPPENED" approach. Maybe in a couple of years she might even manage to convince herself she had never loved Edward at all, or indeed, anyone ever?

Apparently for all of Sir Middleton's parties, it can be surprisingly hard to get one-on-one time. Yeah, I get that. It takes Elinor some time before she can speak to Lucy privately again: at a party Sir Middleton arranged but is not attending. Heh.

"Insipidity." That was a word I wanted for the past few days but could only remember "vapid." Also wow, the narrative is pulling no punches over how insipid, boring and generally valueless this gathering and it's conversations are. Elinor's usually polite about things but internally she has no patience anymore. She needs to talk to Lucy and everything about this party is very much Getting In The Way.

So some party shenanigans happen and Lady Middleton is very easily manipulated as usual through appeals to her motherhood, to provide space for Lucy and Elinor to talk. Lucy is trying so hard to finish a basket for little Annamaria before tomorrow you see, and Oh! It is so much work, surely Elinor needs to help her! Works like a charm, Lady Middleton lets them out of card games and leaves them right alone to chat at a worktable.

Marianne just up and ditches Lady Middleton for the piano haha, with all the grace and tact of... iunno, Marianne I guess. Zero subtlety. "I hate cards, piano time starts now." Narrative says she's lost in her own thoughts and emotions while playing, I choose to interpret that as "angrily and noisily."

But it provides the appropriate background noise cover for Elinor and Lucy to talk with some approximation of privacy, which seems to follow directly in the next chapter.

Well, this has been a chapter devoted to Elinor's processing of... last chapter. Considering the weight of some such revelations, yeah, there was a lot for Elinor to process.

I feel as though I could go on to make some observations on the differences between Elinor and Marianne's approaches to processing heartbreak, but, they're just so... comically and wholly contrastive I wouldn't know where to begin except in broad terms. Marianne lets it all out, expressing her internal turmoil to almost performative levels and with complete emotional conviction. Elinor suppresses everything she can't rationalise away, and she tries to rationalise away everything, up to and including her own personal right to be upset.

Also it seems unusual to have a chapter immediately succeed from the events of the previous chapter as the next one does, so I imagine the hits aren't slowing yet. No idea what else could come out right now though.

[bobasheebaby]

200 Brooklyn 99 Prompts

Rosa

1 “Talk to him, that's what friends do.” “Nope. I'm gonna wait 'til I'm on my deathbed, get in the last word and then die immediately.” “That's your plan for dealing with this?” “That's my plan for dealing with everything. I have seventy-seven arguments I'm going to win that way.”

2 “I'm already seeing somebody, NAME.” “Oh, and just like that, things got interesting.” “And just like that, I left.”

3 “NAME is even wearing his/her formal leather jacket.” “It's the one without any blood on it.”

4 “Right, that's the guy/girl you said the lame stuff about. Like he’s/she's a good listener.” “Sorry, what do you look for in a guy/girl?” “Real stuff, like the shape of his/her ass.”

5 “Sorry I'm late. I had to go back to the deli and return my Everything Bagel. In what world does everything not include beef jerky?” “All of them.”

6 “He/She also likes to look up recipes online and go, "Who's got the time?"

7 “Thank you, NAME. Your entire life is garbage.”

8 “NAME , tell us about your family.” “I have one.”

9 “Anyone over the age of six celebrating a birthday should go to hell.”

10 “I am dating his/her nephew/niece. Now we are hanging out on weekends. What is next? Oh! Small talk.”

11 “Wait, is that a smile I see?” “Possibly. My immune system is too weak to fight off my smile muscles.”

12 “Whoa, what happened? You know what, forget it. I'll just read NAME’s notes.”

13 “NAME? Are you stuck in there?” “No, I'm in here by choice.” “Oh, 'cause I hear some banging noises as if someone was struggling to open the door.” “No. That was the pipes.” “Or, is it the sound of you learning how to ask for help? You know, you can't spell ‘independent’ without ‘dependent.’” “And you can't spell ‘Go [bleep] yourself’ without ‘[bleep] you.’”

14 “I've said "excuse me" more times this morning than I have in my entire life. Twice!”

15 “Oh, nothing better after a long shift than coming to BAR NAME. It's like Cheers, where everybody knows your name.” “A place where everybody knows your name is hell. You're describing hell.”

16 “So, what is this? Casual, serious? I need to know how to make fun of you.”

17 “NAME and I broke up. He/She ate soup too much.” “What, like every day?” “It happened twice.”

18 “So, what are you drinking?” “I'll have a margarita. But, like, a skinny margarita. So, like, tequila, lime, and a tiny splash of agave.” “Mm. I refuse to order that.”

19 “What are you looking all wistful about?” “Just thinking, about relationships and love, and how I'm way better at them than I thought I'd be. Should I do a TED Talk on it?” “Doesn't seem any dumber than all the other TED Talks.”

20 “Why didn't you tell me? I had no idea things were getting that serious.” “Yeah, it's very embarrassing having feelings.”

21 “So are you bringing someone to the wedding?” “No, I'm taking a break from dating for a while.” “What?” “I'm sick of asking people how many siblings they have. Oh, is it somewhere between zero and two? How fascinating.”

22 “I grew a goatee and it looks amazing, and I know you can see it.” “Of course we can see it, NAME. It's horrible.”

23 “It feels like you're being a little harsh.” “Thanks, good note. I was going for extremely harsh. I'll turn it up.”

24 “Are your senses heightened?” “I think I might be pregnant, not bitten by a radioactive spider.”

25 “You're what sneezes are!”

26 “Seriously, you guys should stand up once in a while. You know, for your hearts.”

27 “NAME, this is dumb. I'm just gonna go.” “No, no, no. You promised me more time. I still have seven minutes.” “I really don't want to miss my flight, and I cannot physically stand the way that room smells anymore.” “Just breathe through your mouth.”

28 “You know, some people say, ‘Mo money, mo problems,’ but those people are idiots. Money's amazing.”

29 “Dude, just admit you ruined everything and turned our lives into a living hell. No biggie.”

30 “We don't want anyone getting alcohol poisoning, so if you throw up, you're disqualified.” “I never throw up. I just tell my stomach to deal with it. My body is terrified of me.”

Jake

31 “I also have a hairline fracture in my thumb. Mankind's least important finger, am I right?”

32 “I wasn't hurt that badly. The doctor said all my bleeding was internal. That's where the blood's supposed to be.”

33 “How much could I possibly owe you? Fifty, sixty bucks?” “Two thousand, four hundred and thirty seven dollars.” “Dollars?! Wait, of course dollars. Why was that the part I was surprised by?”

34 “So, I'm going to grab a healthy breakfast.” “Are those gummy bears wrapped in a fruit roll-up?” “Breakfast burrito, but yeah.” “I pity your dentist.” “Joke's on you. I don't have a dentist.”

35 “I'm talking to my credit card company. I tried to get an online subscription to the New Yorker and they declined me. Apparently, based on my previous purchases, they assumed it was fraud. That's crazy. I'm fancy. One time I had coffee-flavored ice cream.”

36 “Rules are made to be broken.” “They were made to be followed. Nothing is made to be broken.” “Uh, piñatas.” “Glow sticks.” “Karate boards.” “Spaghetti when you have a small pot.” “Rules.”

37 “Hey, can I ask you something?” “Mm-hmm.” “If the toilets drain into the ocean, does that mean a tiny shark could swim up and bite me in the butt?” “No, not at all.” “Psh, lame.”

38 “NAME, super important question. Which one of these shirts should I wear to dinner with your dad/mom tonight?” “Those are exactly the same.” “I have a signature look, NAME.”

39 “Hello, good sir, I'd like your finest bottle of wine, please.” “That will be $1,600.” “Great, I'd like your $8-est bottle of wine, please.”

40 “I am straight-up depressed. NAME’s been doing her best to cheer me up. He/She gave me this sticker this morning just for waking up.” “Ew, it's like you're dating your teacher.” “I know, it's so hot.”

41 “Wait. Before you say anything, I want to guess what happened based on your face. Someone died. No! You won a prize. I'm not getting better at this.”

42 “What is the bandwidth on the wifi here? We have much content to stream.”

43 “Oh, you sweaty, chair-spinning morons. You're gonna get us out of here.”

44 “Sir, I think I speak for all of us when —“ “He/She doesn't.” “He/She doesn't.”

45 “So, your brother/sister's a bit of a nightmare.” “I wouldn't say that. I mean, at most, he’s/she's a daymare.” “Those are so much scarier.” “Yeah.”

46 “Look, NAME, I burnt two hundred calories.” “That's your heart rate.” “Yeah, that checks out.”

47 “I don't slump, people. I opposite of slump. I pmuls. That's slump backwards and it's what I do. I pmuls all over this bitch.”

48 “Excuse me. We were just looking for a place to —“ “Boink.” “Yes, boink. That's my preferred term for it, too.”

49 “Thank you for doing this. I love you.” “Noice. Smort. I love you too.”

50 “Adult parties? I believe they're called orgies.”

51 “I have a sexy voice!

Champagne.

Mountain range.

Hugs.”

52 “Has anyone ever told you you look just like a statue?” “Yes.”

53 “NAME, you're smiling. It's very weird. Like seeing a turtle out of its shell.”

54 “You look happy. Let me guess. Your egg sandwich fell on the floor, and they gave it to you for free.” “No. Can you do that? Why doesn't everyone just drop their sandwiches on the floor?” “I was trying to insult you.” “And instead you gave me an amazing life hack!”

55 “So, we gonna talk about what happened back there? I haven't seen someone cry that much since NAME heard they were remaking ‘First Wives Club.’”

56 “Hey, there, NAME. Everything okay?” “No, I'm having a meltdown.” “Props. That was amazing.” “Thanks. It was a lot of work.”

57 “Almost makes me wanna take things seriously all the time. But then I'm like ‘boobs, farts, boobs, whatever’.”

58 “Ahh, babe, this is so nice. There are hot stones on our butts for no reason.” “Not on mine. My butt stones keep falling off, because I'm so tense about NAME being here and ruining everything.”

59 “Okay, don't shoot! That's how people get shot.”

60 “Rule number 3: Let's not have sex right away.” “Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt. Good rule. No sex. Good rule.”

Charles

61 “Okay, but I thought since you were in charge, maybe I could be your right hand man? Your Tinker Bell?” “Tinker Bell?” “Let me tell you something about Tinker Bell. Tinker Bell is a loyal lieutenant and a real thorn in the side of Captain Hook.”

62 “NAME, why don't you show Danger what a fax machine is.” “Okay. Imagine a letter had unprotected sex with a phone.”

63 “Hey, NAME, are you ready to go streaking?” “What?” “That's what my dad/mom and I called getting blonde streaks in your hair. We used to do it to our ponytails on road trips. You just take a little lemon up top, and let the sun do the rest. We called it giving each other road head.” “You just said you called it going streaking.” “It had a couple names.”

64 “So we have good news, and we have bad news.” “My Nana always said, ‘Bad news first because the good news is probably a lie.’ Fun fact: she made me cry a lot.”

65 “What about me? What if something happens to NAME, and he never gets to meet my baby? I don't want to hang out with some stupid baby who's never met NAME.”

66 “Oh, you're right. I'm gonna tell him/her. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow. It definitely won't be later than tomorrow. So pretty much today or tomorrow then.”

67 “No! I was eavesdropping. I'm always eavesdropping.” “I don't like it.” “Look, I didn't spend the last seven years watching your love ripen, only to have it sullied by a city hall wedding. You're getting married right here, right now.”

68 “I know you think my judgement's clouded because I like him/her a little bit.” “You doodled your wedding invitation.” “No, that's our joint tombstone.” “My mistake.”

69 “How many times have I smacked you in your face?” “Lost count.” “And you still have no fear of me.” “I'm trying to read your womb vibe.” “Exactly. Knock it off.”

70 “Okay, first of all, NAME, you look amazing. Secondly, I made an appointment at the salon with Nikki, for you, under the name Gabriella Fuentes de San Miguel Estrada. I had fun with the name.” “Clearly.”

71 “He’s/She's got a type, which is really any one but you.” “Yeah, that was my ex-husband/ex-wife's type, too.”

72 “Sexy train is leaving the station. Check out this caboose. Later, sluts.”

73 “I can't wait to see you, my luscious little breakfast quiche. I just want to draw you a bubble bath and spoon-feed you caviar. I think we should open up a joint checking account. I love you. [pause] What am I doing?” “It's okay. I hung up right after ‘Chucklebunny’.” “Help me. I've gone Full NAME.”

74 “Do you desire a crispen potato?” “Oh, don't mind if I do-ble. Wait a minute. Crispen potato. Why are you fancy talking.” “How dare you, sir/madam. I speak the common tongue.” “There it is again. You only do that when you're lying or hiding something.” “Hiding? Ha. Pish-posh.”

75 “Hey, donut holes. Don't mind if I do. Eurgh! Fish? Fish donuts, NAME? What is wrong with you?” “It's takoyaki. I'm drowning my sorrows in octopus balls.”

76 “Put on a T-shirt for all I care. It doesn't matter what you wear.” “Of course it matters. He has to wear the smaller checks. Big checks wash him out. Where are you, NAME?”

77 “Ooh, if they have your phone, we can track where they're going. I have ‘Find My Phone’ set up to track you. What? I do that for all my friends, not just you.” “Show me.” “There's no time!”

78 “You okay?” “Yeah, no burns. The doctor said I was lucky my body was so damp.”

79 “You guys have been down here for two hours. What, did you have sex forty times?”

80 “What? You don't need closet space. You have, like, one outfit.”

81 “You just graduated pie school, bitches. [pause] Sorry I said bitches, I'm just really worked up.”

82 “So, I know you're NAME’s best friend, and —“ “Did he/she say that? Did you get that on tape?” “No.” “No, he/she didn't say that or no, you didn't get it on tape? Doesn't matter. Either way, you screwed up big time.”

83 “What you did is the culinary equivalent of unprotected sex.”

84 “That's right. Boom. Just kicked Santa in the testicles.”

85 “No, there's no one in my life. [wink] Sort of a sad thing to wink about, I realize now.”

86 “NAME! Were you dreaming about NAME again?” “Why did you wake me up?! I told you never to wake me up!”

87 “You used all the touching time, NAME. I get 100% of the goodbye touching time. 100%.”

88 “Do you wanna know why he/she went out with him/her and not you?” “Yeah.” “Because he/she actually asked him/her out.”

89 “NAME, will you taste this batter?” “Mm-hmm. Hmm. I think it's a little off.” “You know what's off? Your mouth! Why NAME lets your stupid tongue anywhere near him/her I'll never know. Nope, I forgot the sugar. That's on me.”

90 “There's no need for NAME to see me unleash the beast.”

Captain Holt

91 “Look at you. Always working. What happened to my fun big/little brother/sister?” “Fun? I was never fun. You take that back.”

92 “It's the most fun day of the year. Something you wouldn't understand because you're not programmed to feel joy.” “Yes, but my software is due for an exuberance upgrade.”

93 “Sticks and stones, NAME.” “Describing your breakfast?”

94 “NAME, how are you feeling?” “Better today. I even managed to eat some plain toast this morning.” “Smart. Something bland.” “That's my favorite breakfast.”

95 “Joining us for lunch, Sir?” “Oh, no, I've already consumed the required calories for this day period.” “Yummy.”

96 “You all right, NAME? Tough weekend?” “I went to Barbados with my husband/wife. We wove hats out of palm fronds and swam with the stingrays. I've never been happier.”

97 “Maybe I should wing it. Love, it sustains you. It's like oatmeal.” “Okay. Okay. Not bad for winging it.” “I lied. Took me two hours to write that.”

98 “I do not have a problem. If I want to play Kwazy Cupcakes, I will play Kwazy Cupcakes. Kwazy is a difficult word to say in anger, but I think I've made my feelings clear.”

99 “This place is so romantic.” “Yeah, and so intimate.” “Don't worry. I'm not listening to you. I'm just thinking about how this sea bass is cold but not as cold and cruel as the hands of fate that have thrust my entire life into darkness.” “Ah, damn it. I just ordered the sea bass.”

100 “Yeah, and your new shirt is very aggressive and confusing. Is the pineapple the slut, or is it calling someone else a slut?” “Clearly the pineapple is the slut.” “Huh.”

101 “Oh, I've caused a problem. I think I am getting a text message. Bloop. Ah, there it is.”

102 “So nice of you to greet us, NAME. I thought surely you'd still be crushed under that house in Munchkinland.”

103 “So, do you NAME --“ “Yes.” “And do you --“ “Yes. Yes. We do. We're married.”

104 “I mean, don't people call you NAME?” “How dare you.”

105 “So you lied to me? Out of pity. You pity me.” “I wouldn't put it that way.” “I would. I am offended. I am angry. I am very tired. So I'm gonna take a nap, but when I wake up, oh, you are in for it.”

106 “Look at that. You've helped me find my smile.”

107 “Huh. Meat from the street. Sounds like a fun treat. Hah. I'm a poet and ... I didn't even know I was rhyming those words. But it happened anyway.”

108 “Oh, look at that. An alert. I'm probably trending already. What? My account has been deactivated?” “Twitter thinks you're a bot.” “Why? I am a human. I am a human male/female.”

109 “Care to sit? I'm sure you'd like to take some weight off your cloven hooves.” “Call me the devil, NAME? How original.” “Actually, I was calling you a goat. You goat.”

110 “NAME! I'm coming with you.” “Thank you, NAME.” “I'm also coming.” “Not necessary.”

111 “Spot checks are done. Needless to say I'm thoroughly underwhelmed.” “Huh. From your expression, I would have guessed constipated. Or chilly.”

112 “NAME, you have a pretty low bar for what you consider drama. Once, I used an exclamation point in a email. You called me Diana Ross.” “I assure you, in this case, I do not exaggerate.”

113 “I know they say it's not good to have a TV in the bedroom. Which is why I don't.”

114 “NAME, did you just laugh?” “Uproariously.”

115 “You know when you play along with the robot jokes, it kinda ruins my enjoyment of them?” “Yes, I know.”

116 “And what do you hope to get out of this, NAME? Let me guess revenge on Dorothy for killing your sister?”

117 “It was a good game though for a dumbass.” Okay, you're kinda overusing that one. Maybe switch it up a little bit.” “Oh, good note. You dick.” “That landed good.”

118 “Dancing over. Situation defused.” “No!”

119 “All right, NAME, I'm sick of you wasting time. So, yes, I spilled some minestrone on my pants and I'm sitting in my underwear. Happy?”

120 “You found me. Drinking seltzer in the shadows.”

Gina

121 “It's a sloppy Jessica. Mac n cheese, chili, pizza on a bun. Its everything I've wanted to eat for the last 48 hours.” “What happened? I thought you were gonna 'last forever bitches.'” “Turns out I gave up easy. You hear that bitches? I gave up so easy.”

122 “If NAME had a twin, he/she would have eaten him/her in the womb.”

123 “Wait a minute, I think I just figured something out. I got to go.” “Aren't you forgetting something?” [person a gives Person b a kiss on the forehead] “Uh no, pay your bill! Damn, who raised you?”

124 “The English language can not fully capture the depth and complexity of my thoughts. So I'm incorporating Emoji into my speech to better express myself. Winky face.”

125 “All right, gang. Diet day 4. How's everyone holding up?” “Honestly, I'm going to last forever. You hear that bitches? I'm gonna last forever.”

126 “If I die, turn my tweets into a book!”

127 “The only reason I didn't tell you is I don't value you as people, so why be honest?”

128 “Breakups are a cartoony thumbs down. They make people feel face-with-Xs-for-the-eyes.”

129 “I'm sorry. I just don't think this is something you're good at.” “What? The only thing I'm not good at is modesty, because I'm great at it.”

130 “Click. I just captured the exact moment you realized you had failed. I guess we all got something out of this.”

131 “It's so addictive, right? I play so much that when I close my eyes at night, I just see cupcakes instead of my normal dizzying array of flashing lights.”

132 “Forget your ex with meaningless sex. It rhymes because it's true.”

133 “NAME. NAME. NAME, I screwed up, big time.” “NAME, given your daily life experiences, you're gonna have to be more specific.”

134 “So, talk to me, goose. How are we looking?” “Sexy, but not like we're trying too hard. Like, sure, we're trying, but it's almost effortless.”

135 “Give me the ring.” “You sound like Gollum.” “That means nothing to me. I don't see those movies, I'm too pretty.”

136 “Oh no, six drink NAME isn't fun. He’s/She's just sad. Damn it!”

137 “I never have second thoughts. That's the luxury of having great first thoughts.”

138 “Ugh, constantly getting NAME’s approval is the worst.” “Yes. I can only imagine.”

139 “You think you can just bully people, but you can't. It's not okay. I'm the bully around here. Ask anyone.”

140 “This just might work out after all.” “You're damn right it will, 'cause we're a ragtag, scrappity, fart-dumb, moron parade, smart-ass team!”

141 “Okay, NAME, stop freaking out. I have the day off. I can step in and help.” “Yeah, me too. I'm not off, but I come and go as I please. It's part of my charm. I'm like an outdoor cat.”

142 “Gina, please keep an eye on NAME today. He's/She’s gonna say something to the wrong person and get himself/herself punched.” “Sure, I'd love to see NAME get punched.” “Try again.” “I will stop NAME from getting punched.” “Correct.”

143 “Oh, I want him/her out. But I'm too scared to tell him/her. “ “All right, listen. I know that your spirit animal is a caterpillar that's been stepped on —“ “Mm-hmm.”

144 “What are you creeps doing? You made me look away from my phone. You better pray I didn't miss a text.” “In the two seconds you looked away?” “Seventeen texts. All of them important.”

145 “What is my favorite soup?” “Chicken noodle.” “Potato leek.” “Corn frickin' noodle. I mean, chowder, damn it.” “You're all wrong. I've never had soup.” “Don't bother. They all suck.”

146 “Okay, so that plumber was useless. But we are two smart and capable people who can definitely figure out how to fix a toilet.” “Of course we can. The internet will tell us what to do. She always does.”

147 “It's crazy how much he/she flirts with me.”

148 “Good morning.” “For whom?” “For you-m.”

149 “So he/she didn't say what happened, which can only mean one thing.” “He's/She’s in a fight club.”

150 “What's up? How can I help?” “Well, when I was a kid, I invented a magnetic flashlight clip so I could read under the covers. This clip and I went all around the world together the Shire, Sweet Valley High, Terabithia.” “But never to a friend's house, huh?” “Uncalled for.”

Amy

151 “That stuff with us is in the past. We talked about that.” “I know, but that was before you saw me in this dope ass tux. I mean you must be freaking out.” “Oh, I really am. I'm really into rented clothes. I love how many butts have been in them.”

152 “You know, we're birds of a feather, you and I.” “I hate cliches.” “Cliches are the worst.”

153 “And now I don't know what to do.” “I think you do know what to do.” “Thanks, NAME.” [leaves the room] “I have no idea what he’s/she's gonna do but that's the safest way to give NAME advice.” “Yep.”

154 “Insult me all you want, for I have only this to say —“ “Victory shall be mine!” “I heard you practicing in the shower. You can't surprise me. Letting me into your life was the worst mistake you ever made.” “Cool, fun take on our relationship.”

155 “NAME, where you at?” “Four drinks.” “What's four-drink NAME again?” “Why don't you come over here and find out?” “Right, Horny NAME”

156 “I'm sorry. We only excluded you because you're kind of an over-texter.” “Over-texter? That's not even a thing.” “Oh really? So you don't remember the time you sent 97 unanswered texts in a five-minute span?” “My phone vibrated itself off the desk. I think it was committing suicide.”

157 “What the hell? I used NAME's exact recipe. I know I'm not a great cook, but I love following instructions.”

158 “What's going on? Is this a dream? No, I'm not holding a label maker.”

159 “My power went out last night and my alarm didn't go off.” “Your alarm is power dependent? You brought this on yourself, son.”

160 “I'd also like to apologize for my friend. His /Her parents didn't give him/her enough attention.”

161 “I'm in! A bet which improves someone's manners? Double score.”

162 “He’s/She's scared.” “He’s/She's not scared. With all due respect, NAME, NAME has no feelings.”

163 “I'm so cold even my fiery dance moves aren't keeping me warm.”

164 “I'm sorry. I tried to be myself and they hated it.”

165 “All right, someone's gotta go out there and kill that feathery bastard. NAME, you're always looking for an excuse to behead something.”

Sergeant Jeffords

166 “It was like taking candy from a baby.” “Why are you giving candy to a baby in the first place? Don't give candy to a baby! They can't brush their teeth!”

167 “I was raised on disco. Little NAME loved to hustle.”

168 “Or is your favorite artist really Taylor Swift?” [Scoffs] “No.” “Lie.” “All right, fine, she is. She makes me feel things.” “She makes all of us feel things!”

169 “Urgh, what's in these?” “Potatoes, butter, a little milk. Oh, and I ran out of salt, so I used baking soda.” “Why wouldn't you? They're both white powders. Of course they're interchangeable.” “Yeah.”

170 “I warned you against using donuts. They're my trigger food.”

171 “Hey, NAME, you know how you're really good at doodling?” “I know you think you're complimenting me, but calling them doodles is an insult. You a big fan of Picasso's doodles?”

172 “Your tone's braggy but your words are real sad.”

173 “See, NAME? Tough love works.” “Damn it! NAME proved the wrong point.”

174 “Now, be respectful and grieve your asses off.” “I don't know why this is happening.” “NAME, I love it. Everyone follow his/her lead!”

175 “Everything's spoiled. My lunch is ruined. My chicken, my potatoes, pasta, my meatballs, ham, my yogurt.” “Wow, that's a lot of yogurt.” “I love yogurt.”

176 “Kind of seemed like you were gonna get up and leave after saying all that.” “I was, but I think I hear NAME.”

177 “You better look cute in this picture, or no one's gonna want you. Do something with your damn paws!”

178 “My tolerance has really changed since I had kids!”

179 “I'm hungry!” “Oh, you're in luck; the fanny pack is filled with granola.” “Mmm! Loose granola.” “I don't want fanny granola! I want steaks and whiskey!”

180 “You probably can't tell, but I'm flexing my brain like crazy right now.”

181 “What's that smell? That's lavender. NAME loves lavender.”

182 “Okay. Excuse me. Can we please eat? My body is starting to digest itself. NAME needs nutrients!”

183 “Don't look at me. NAME wastes all that time building muscles, make him do it.” “Oh, come on, you all know these are just for show.”

184 “Sorry? You bumbling son of a bitch. You just ruined my life. I hope you get hit by a truck and a dog takes a dump on your face.” “Nothing to see here. Just a little hypoglycaemic rage. Move along.”

185 “I feel like a proud mama hen whose baby chicks have learned to fly!”

Hitchcock

186 “NAME, why do you have your shirt off?” “Can't spill food on your shirt if you're not wearing one.”

187 “What bet? What are you guys talking about?” “Seriously? The bet? They've been keeping score all year. It comes up all the time. What are you doing all day?!” “Nothing. Why, you want to hang out?”

188 “So you just want us to lie on the ground and do nothing like a bunch of losers?” “Yes, precisely.” “No!” “Jackpot!”

189 “I don't like it. Something stinks.” “Well, I'm sorry, but I refuse to mask my natural musk with a bunch of chemicals.”

190 “My God. NAME, are you the only person still making sense?” “Yeah. It's bad.”

191 “All right, food is ready, decorations are set, guests should start arriving any moment, and the chairs are still perfection.” “He/She said they're perfection. I'm so proud of you, buddy.” “It was you. You made this happen.”

192 “Who do you think it's gonna be?” “I've no idea.” “I bet it's me. I just hope I'm ready.”

193 “Okay, look, this was maybe a weird way to start the night, but the good news is, we can still make our dinner reservation and no one got hurt.” “Actually, I cut myself real bad.” “Of course you did.”

Scully

194 “Oh, so your plan is to not take this seriously at all?” “Oh, I am as serious as a heart attack. No offense, NAME.” “Nah. Mine are never that serious. I call 'em ‘oopsies’.”

195 “I miss my home chair.” “You miss a chair?”

196 “Are those thumbtacks? What the hell, NAME?” “I thought they'd make good confetti.” “Why?”

197 “All right, anyone else have questions? NAME, NAME, you've been weirdly silent.” “We didn't want to say anything that would get us uninvited.”

198 “Okay, first of all, I want to say that this was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. There is so much talent in this room.” “Just tell us, bitch. Act as if you already have the role.”

199 “I'll be back. Don't move.” “Not a problem. I hate moving.”

200 “Where should we begin? Do you have any experience with puzzles?” “Yes. I've never solved one.”

[haberdashing]

One Step Behind Your Memory

TMA fic building off the AU established in Yesterday Is Here by @cirrus-grey, in which a post-season-5, married Jon and Martin go back in time to the pre-season-1 Archives to prevent the worst of the future from happening as it did in canon.

October 2017: Martin’s mother dies, the second time around.

on AO3

Jon could tell that something was bothering Martin today. Martin wasn’t as able to focus on their shared research, to stay engaged with what the two of them still had left to do to help fix things, to avoid being distracted by anything and everything around them. Despite it otherwise seeming like a perfectly ordinary day--well, ordinary by their standards, at least--Martin was... off, slightly, and thinking of it made Jon’s heart ache.

Jon wanted to know what was on Martin’s mind, wanted to know what he could do to help, but he knew better than to outright ask.

Instead, when Martin started trailing off his speech in the middle of a sentence for the third time that hour (not that Jon was counting), Jon simply pressed his hand against Martin’s and said, softly, “Martin?”

“Sorry, I got distracted again, uh-”

“No need to apologize, love.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand gently. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Yeah, today’s just... well, today. Makes it extra hard, I suppose.”

Without looking at the chart that he and Martin had compiled together of when everything had went to hell the first time around, Jon couldn’t remember what, if anything, had happened on today’s date before. He’d been in his coma at the time, though, that much he knew, so it could well be something he’d missed when it had happened.

“I can’t remember what happened today.” Jon confessed.

“You know, I’m not sure I ever told you.” Martin’s face was growing redder by the moment. “It probably shouldn’t bother me this much-”

“But it still does.” Jon finished.

“Right, yeah.”

A moment passed where neither of them spoke, Jon staring down at their intertwined hands as he waited silently.

Then, finally, Martin’s voice, hardly louder than a breath, after a furtive glance at his younger counterpart: “Mum dies today.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice was as hushed as his husband’s, and the arm that wasn’t already partly on top of Martin’s wrapped around him in a tight half-hug. “Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry.”

Martin just shrugged, but when Jon looked him in the eyes, he could see that Martin was trying to hold back tears.

“I don’t think that’s on the chart, we could have-”

Martin shook his head as he interrupted Jon. “No, no, we couldn’t have. Out of all the-” Martin let out a soft, bitter laugh. “-the supernatural boogie monsters that took over our lives, her dying is the one thing that was, well, normal. I mean, she was sick for a long time before she died; hell, there were times I didn’t think she’d last as long as she did.”

“...right.” Jon gently massaged Martin’s shoulder with his free hand. “But still.”

“But still.” Martin echoed, letting out a soft sigh before looking at his younger counterpart, careful to keep his voice low enough that they were unlikely to be overheard. “At 3:37 PM, he’s going to get a call from the nursing home... you know, the first time around, I actually let it go to voicemail.”

“Really.” Jon couldn’t imagine that. For all the time he’d known Martin in the Archives, he’d had his phone on him (except when he hadn’t had a phone), occasionally on vibrate but usually with the ringer on, scrambling to answer it whenever it rang, because few people had his number and those that did rarely called for innocuous reasons. There had been a time when he’d found it annoying, and a time when he’d found it endearing, and a time when he’d accepted that was just part of what made Martin Martin.

“Yeah, I was, was talking to Peter Lukas-”

Jon’s face must have revealed some of how he felt about Peter Lukas, because Martin interrupted his own explanation to add a quick “I know, I know,” before continuing.

“So, my phone was in my pocket and I could feel it vibrating, but I knew if I answered it he’d chew me out for it later, so I just... let it go. Wasn’t until a bit after that I thought to check who called, and they just. Left that in the voicemail. Waiting for me.”

“Oh, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

“‘s not your fault.” Martin tilted his head to gesture towards his younger counterpart before adding, “Don’t think he’ll let it go to voicemail, though.”

Jon had thought they’d managed to keep their voices low enough that the others wouldn’t notice, but either he was wrong on that count or that particular gesture was unsubtle enough to be noticed regardless, because at that moment younger Martin squinted at them and said, “Are you two talking about me over there?”

Martin’s face went red, and Jon could feel his own face heating up.

“Only nice things, we promise!” Martin--his Martin, Jon’s Martin--replied.

Sasha glanced over at them before adding, “Nice things don’t usually need to be said in whispers.”

Jon jumped in this time. “They’re complicated nice things.”

“Everything’s complicated with you two, isn’t it?” Tim said.

Jon and Martin snorted with amusement in sync at that one.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Martin replied.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jon waited for a long moment for the others to go back to their work before saying in a near-whisper, “We could tell him, you know. Before he gets the call.”

“What, and have him start grieving early? Have her death get wrapped up in all the rest of this?” Martin shook his head. “That sounds like a bad idea to me.”

“There has to be something we can do, though. We can’t just... just sit here and wait for it to happen.”

“I mean, we can, but...” Martin bit his bottom lip the way he did when he was trying to concentrate, and Jon stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt Martin’s train of thought, until Martin squeezed Jon’s hand and spoke up again. “Actually, you’re right, there is something we can do.”

“A-”

Jon’s half-formed thought was interrupted by Martin shoving him over so that he could use their shared computer. Jon was pinned between Martin and the wall now, which might have been uncomfortable if it wasn’t Martin there, if it wasn’t his husband’s body pressed against his, soft and warm and right. He’d take that kind of uncomfortable any day.

Martin opened the Internet and entered a search term before looking back at Jon, who gave him a silent, tentative nod of approval.

They spent their time planning without speaking, thoughts shared with meaningful glances and with judicious use of the shared keyboard, and before long their plan was put into place.

3:37 came, and younger Martin’s phone rang, and he answered it on the second ring. Jon and Martin glanced at one another before eavesdropping on him mumbling through responses before ending the call and staring at his desk, eyes wide and unfocused.

Younger Jon was the first of the younger archival staff to approach Martin after the call ended; unsurprising, perhaps, given that those two were quickly growing almost as close as their older counterparts. (Though Jon and Martin would insist on that “almost”’ being there; there were certain connections only surviving an apocalypse together could bring about, after all.)

“Who was that on the phone?”

“The... home. My- my mom’s nursing home.” Young Martin’s hands shook along with his words, and he stopped to take a deep breath before adding, “She’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry, Martin.” Younger Jon wrapped his arms around younger Martin in a tight bear hug.

“I mean, it was always just a matter of time... and now she’s not, not suffering at least...”

“It’s still a loss, though.” Younger Jon’s head was sitting on younger Martin’s shoulder, muffling his voice a bit. “You still deserve to grieve.”

“...thank you.”

Tim and Sasha exchanged a look before heading over to younger Martin’s desk and joining in the hug, wrapping their arms around younger Martin. Jon and Martin exchanged a look of their own before Tim waved them over, saying, “Get over here, it’s not a group hug without everyone joining in!” and they went along with his instructions.

“You guys, you don’t need to...” Younger Martin let his sentence trail off, and as Jon got closer, it became clear that his face was covered in tears.

“But we want to.” Sasha said in a tone of voice that left no room for argument.

A long minute passed in silence with five pairs of arms all wrapped around Martin and each other, intermingled to the point where it was hard to tell whose limbs were whose, the silence only breached by younger Martin’s soft sniffles.

Then younger Martin looked up at Jon and Martin and said quietly, “You two, you, you knew-”

Mercifully, that was when the deliveryman arrived in the archives, approaching the mass of hugging people with a bemused look on his face as he asked, “Delivery for one Martin Blackwood?”

Martin and younger Martin looked at one another before Jon pointed at the latter and said, “That’d be him.”

“Right, well, here you are. Just sign here.”

The group wordlessly took a collective step back, giving younger Martin the space needed to reach out and sign the receipt, though his signature was noticeably messier than normal, his hands shaking as he held the pen.

The bouquet was every bit as magnificent as Jon had hoped it would be. It was primarily blue and white, filled with bluebells because they were always Martin’s favorite flower and carnations because they were her favorite, with a few other flowers mixed in, some for meaning and others just because they looked nice. Jon had known it would be big, by the price tag (charged to the Institute’s credit card, thankfully) if nothing else, but it was one thing to know it and another to actually see the thing. The bouquet was comically huge, and when the deliveryman set it down before hurrying away, it took up a good half of younger Martin’s desk.

Younger Martin opened the card attached to it, a fairly generic “Sorry for your loss” card with the writing within revealing it to be from Blackwood and Sims, though he likely could have figured that much out regardless.

Then younger Martin pressed his hands against his face and made a noise that was half sob, half laugh, his body shaking with the sound that emerged.

Jon looked over at Martin and gave a slight nod of approval. Maybe the gesture wasn’t perfect, but it felt right just the same.

[darkestwolfx]

Chain of Command - Re-Review #23

“How quickly can we stablise that bridge?”

“Faster than you can say ‘Thunderbirds are go’.”

“Thunderbirds are go.”

“Ok, maybe I was exaggerating a little.”

So... Firstly I thought you would all appreciate Scott popping up like that in your feed! Secondly though, that didn’t exactly go to plan... I mean, there’s meant to be a bridge and the bridge kinda tumbles, and with that we have our first known failed (I use that word lightly because the only thing lost was something which can be rebuilt) rescue and our episode!

“Head’s up!”

“Heads up? Thunderbird Two, how about duck?”

“Duck!”

“This may not be as bad as it looks.”

“Really?”

I’ll admit I was a little worried about Scott falling... and I just want to say that that was a very mean place in which to insert the opening credits!

“Scott, head’s up.”

“Don’t you mean duck?”

“Not this time.”

P.S. Thunderbird One has a Protocol Alpha in case of emergency? That is just so cool!

“It’s settling. All structures do.”

“Oh no.”

“It times like this I’m glad I’m up here.”

Yeah, I’m with you John.

So Colonel Casey (right) has always played a big part in the Thunderbirds story (for playing a very little part in the actual series). Colonel Casey’s only televised appearance (prior to TAG) was in the TOS episode ‘The Edge of Impact’. In this episode we are told that he knows nothing of IR’s operations. However we later learn in ‘The Imposters’ that Jeremiah Tuttle (left) does know, and is even an Agent like Lady Penelope! This always struck me as odd, as in the TV series (1965), Casey is described as being one of Jeff’s best, long-term friends from when they both worked with the World Space Association. In the comics and cards that were released also in 1965, they adapted this, and implied Tim and Jeff met when they were young and then ended up re-meeting due to both working at WSA. Whichever you take as your gospel, both versions imply long term connection.

With all that in mind, and with him knowing the boys so well, it did always miff me as to why he wasn’t brought in on it. It does make more sense to have her involved in TAG. In TOS we had Tim, in TAG we have... they never said, so take your pick.

And enter Janus. Now, Janus originated in Ancient Roman Religion&Myth. In many ways, he’s like Hades (Greek Myth) - a keeper of gates, except the Roman’s didn’t associate him with ‘death’ as such, rather beginnings and endings or transitions. They also associated him with time (like Pluto), but in many ways he was imagined more like Mars (War). Images of him show him having two faces.

Janus was later associated with the Devil through the Witch Trials, believed to be a Witches God (but later proven as a male Priest dressed in a double faced mask). In the original saying of people being ‘two faced’, it was to imply they were like Janus, looking backwards and forwards, thus playing the field. So whether you want to think of him like Pluto, manipulating time, or like Mars, inciting war, or like Hades, seeking death, or just the two-faced keeper of pathways - ultimately it is undeniable that Janus is manipulative.

Exactly like this man, who doesn’t only manipulate the field during the episode, but is actually being manipulated himself by none other than The Hood.Talk about two faced, right?

P.S. Anyone else think these two were made to be at loggerheads with each other? I mean, look at those expressions!

“International Rescue has been answering to no-one for too long.”

“That’s the way we like it.”

“From now on we have to get the GDF permission to deploy. We’ve been grounded!”

“Scott, you haven’t technically been grounded. You just have to ask Colonel Janus for permission.”

Um... Lady Penelope, in his mind, they are the same thing.

The cross-talk is still perfection on this show too.

“That little control freak wants to get ‘is teeth hinto heverything.”

“Parker’s right. We can’t let Janus do this to us!”

“hI wasn’t talking habout the Colonel.”

But really Scott’s annoyance at being grounded! Heck, I can imagine he might have been one hell of a child to manage at times.

“I’ve got this.”

“Don’t forget to get permission.”

The little silence here just said it all. Alan isn’t helping the situation and scott better not do it because the conversation would turn into an argument.

“I’ll take care of that.”

Another good call, John.

“Permission denied? How can they do that!”

“Scott, you need to turn around. We really have been grounded.”

Maybe not the best thing to have to say to Scott though...

“Will ‘is Majesty be joining hus, M’Lady?”

Parker carrying Sherbet on his arm and under that umbrella was priceless! i love how the dog got the umbrella and not Lady Penelope!

“Soon to be the world’s tallest city.”

“Or the word’s shortest.”

“Call the Principal’s office and secure us a hall pass.”

“Way ahead of you.”

“This time we won’t take no for an answer.”

“And the answer is no.”

And the answer is actually: Thunderbirds Are Go.

Look at the family all together and bad-ass. That’s the brother’s we know right there. And I love how many of these moments this episode gave us. It was like a power house of Tracy family moments as well as well-written action and thought-through deceit.

“All agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Really, when they want to, these boys find it incredibly easy to agree and not bicker .I know I said it before in ‘Skyhook’, but I really do admire how they managed to write that quality so believably. In a family of that size you’re bound to have your fair share of disagreements - and through those, their agreements are perfectly valid and believable.

“Guys, this isn’t the time.”

“John’s right. We still have no word from Brains if it’s effective.”

“Sorry Scott, I really need to work on my phrasing. What I meant to say is... you have a situation.”

Maybe they should all work on their phrasing after this episode?

“Stall him while I track down Lady P. Maybe her connections will help.”

“If she doesn’t torpedo us for rocking the exact boat she told us not to.”

I’m calling that Gordon so got the blame (especially from Parker) for this one.

I love how many failed attempts this GDF team ends up with. Did they really think it would be that easy to break into a Thunderbird? Biggest mistake ever. Or maybe the biggest mistake ever was lying (oh, sorry, not knowing the truth to tell) to Parker.

“It was sabotage. Not our Equipment.”

“I knew it!”

Yeah, okay, give Alan a prize. He did call it ten episodes that you could find a picture of The Hood in the dictionary under the word sabotage.

Excuse me everyone whilst I get in contact with Oxford Dictionary and ask them to the the hundredth - and whatever number we’re on - reprint.

Together again! That’s twice in one episode - seriously, how lucky are we! But seriously I do love these moments because they are definitely how the boys live when there isn’t IR work to be done and serves to remind us of their humanity.

[drferox]

Pet Insurance

To be honest, I'm not totally convinced with this whole 'Pet Insurance' thing.

It certainly exists, and it's becoming increasingly common, but it's not exactly a good product and it's getting harder to recommend to my pet owning clients, as well as a general pain in the patootie to get money of sometimes. I have to say, I'm becoming increasingly disappointed and disillusioned with it.

I got curious the other day and looked up what it would cost me to get Accident & Illness cover for Trash Bag. No preventative care (it's cheap enough for me anyway as I can do a lot myself), just for sicknesses and illnesses. He's a 2yo neutered male, indoor only cat. He's a really low risk cat, and that's a quote without pouring through his medical history or pre-existing conditions. Even though any issues he'd had before taking out insurance would have been automatically excluded.

And it's still about $600 for the year, with only reimbursing 75% of the bills back, with no excess. What that means in real terms is that I'd have to have a $1200 vet bill in order for me to break even with pet insurance.

That would be plausible, with the median sort of 'expensive' vet bill for a stay at a 24 hour clinic or major surgery being around $3k, but the odds of that actually happening for me are extremely unlikely at his age.

Now, it might be a good deal, if I could expect to have that rate for his entire life. But that isn't going to happen.

Pet Insurance in Australia will guarantee 'lifetime cover' but what that means is not that you're paying this rate for the animal's entire life, but that they will give you a new offer of cover every year and it's up to you to accept it. They can't stop covering my cat, but they can make it more expensive every year so maybe I'll stop covering my cat. If they don't want to cover me, they will make me an offer they hope I will refuse.

Let's say I have a lot of small claims. The insurer might amend their letter of offer to include a $100 excess. That means I have to pay the first $100 of any vet bill on my own, and now they reimburse me 75% of the rest. So for a $100 vet bill, I can't claim anything. For a $200 vet bill, I get $75 back, and I'm still paying at least $600 a year at this point. Now I need a $1500 vet bill to break even.

They may also limit the amount payable for certain types of things. For example, a lot of the Australian policies have a $300 annual limit on consultation fees. In practice that translates to about 5 consults with a general practice vet, or two with a specialist. That's not a whole lot if you've got a pet with something chronic.

Tick paralysis and cruciate ligament injury have annual limits to their payouts too, and they're not quite what these things would really cost to treat.

And to add to the deception, some insurers will exclude bilateral conditions. If your pet had a sore eye one year, they may exclude all eye conditions going forward, even if they're not related, and even for the unaffected eye. Sometimes they will exclude unrelated conditions for the same organ system. Demodex as a puppy? Wont cover skin allergies now.

Pet insurance works like a bet. You're betting that your pet will get sick, and the insurer is betting that it wont. If you win, you get paid out.

But if the insurer doesn't like those odds, they change them, or they change the rules for the payout. They're not going to lose, they're going to change the rules to make sure of it, and you either agree to their terms or you stop playing.

So how do they make you stop playing?

The insurer is entitled to increase the cost of the pet insurance policy each year, based on the age of the pet and previous claims. Or they can increase the excess you pay for each claim. Or they can exclude covering conditions that you've claimed for in the past.

Progressively, it gets more and more expensive to cover your pet for less and less, and this is something veterinarians are progressively less happy about.

Now, if we were talking about a car and not a cat, you could take your quote and shop around for a better deal. But the catch with pet insurance is that if you switch providers, then suddenly everything you've ever claimed for, or that appeared in the medical history, now counts as a pre-existing condition and wont be covered. You lose coverage by switching providers, and probably don't save all that much.

Oh, there is, to my current knowledge, only two insurance underwriters for pet insurance in Australia right now. So of the 200 or so brands out there, 199 are actually all written by the same mob. Because that's not ripe for corruption at all...

Every 12 months, the insurer can review and change your premiums, excess, excluded conditions and rebate rate.

And unlike human health insurance where you scan a card, the total comes off your bill, and you pay the rest, with pet insurance you're still paying the vet clinic everything up front, and then get money back after your claim is processed, which may be a few months.

Pet insurance companies are really trying not to pay out, they want to make money, not give it away.

This makes writing medical histories a little bit tricky, because it's not vets reviewing the history to decide what they will and wont pay out on. If the insurance employee doesn't know what pemphigus folleaceous is, they might decide not to pay out. Then I have to call them up, request a review, talk it through, or send more documentation to explain what's going on.

Pet Insurance requests, demands, access to the pet's medical history. It's not like human insurance where they just see an itemized invoice. And this makes vets not entirely happy about handing over medical histories all the time when client's money is at stake. Especially when any potential mention of a vaccine preventable illness gets the whole claim thrown out, even if it's in the differentials list and not the final diagnosis.

So pet insurance is nice to have if you end up with a single, large vet bill, but it's not so helpful for chronic conditions, and you still need access to that cash BEFORE you get any back.

So, honestly, it just wouldn't work for me, and I'm a vet.

The point I would like to get to, other than Pet Insurance in general needing to be better regulated and honestly a bit of a gamble, is that is can't be used as a solution to everyone's problem, especially after a pet is already sick. You still need cash to pay the bills up front, even with pet insurance.

There are other options besides pet insurance. I can never recommend against it, but I do recommend people understand what they're signing up for, and as long as they've got some sort of plan in place for paying vet bills that's okay.

Popular in my area is just using a mortgage redraw facility. With these home loans you can pay extra into your mortgage each week/fortnight/month and it counts against the interest you pay, as a method to pay it down early. But because it's being paid 'early' you can withdraw the extra funds again if you need them, such as for a vet bill. It functions like a savings account, but you're paying down a debt you already have instead of accruing interest.

An emergency credit card is another option, one you just keep paid off unless you genuinely need it.

And 3rd party payment plans exist. Most vet clinics will not do their own payment plans, or will not admit to ever offering them, because we simply don't want people to rely on the vet clinic, a small business, taking on the financial risk on behalf of the owners because, frankly, most people never pay. This is especially true if the pet dies. A clinic might offer them for immediate life saving treatment if they know the client well, but the emergency last resort should never be anybody's number one plan. That's not fair.

Wonka also does not have pet insurance. I asked a couple of insurers at an industry exhibit once whether, because he has a neurological condition, whether he'd be covered for a broken leg if he fell off the couch. And none of them could assure me they would, in case in fell off because of the neurological condition. And that was not reassuring.

So when do I recommend pet insurance? Well I kind of don’t, specifically. I advise which companies other clients have been happy with, and what sort of things a pet owner needs to look for in terms of exclusions, limits, and fine print.

There are always some breeds I do recommend it for, because they are disasters waiting to happen, and for many young animals when the insurance is still cheap, nothing is pre-existing and we don’t yet know if they have a congenital condition, at least for that first 12-18 months of life. There are some you can look at as puppies and be highly suspicious this animal is going to be a money sink.

I see a lot of internet comments saying “should have had pet insurance!” or “go get pet insurance!” on various posts about affording pets or vet bills or emergencies, but pet insurance doesn’t help at all in these scenarios. Pet insurance gives you money back, you had to already have had money in the first place to take advantage of it. Pet insurance is no panacea or cure-all.

I just have a savings account. Putting aside what you would have paid in pet insurance anyway is a decent estimate for how much you’d need to save for a normal pet.

This post was accessed early by my Patreon Supporters.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 5 - Up the Ante

Catch Perfect by George deValier

CHAPTER FIVE

UP THE ANTE: To increase the stakes in a game.

"You're what?"

Denmark stared at Berwald incredulously, his brow furrowed in outrage, his hands on his hips, attempting to stand imposingly over him. Berwald just stared back evenly, his impassive expression the result of years of poker table training. "Movin' rooms," he said calmly. If he was staying in this house, he could not stay in the same room as Tino. It was far too distracting. "There's one empty upstairs. I'm takin' it."

Denmark took a step closer until his face was mere inches from Berwald's. "No, you're not."

"Yes. I am."

The room thrummed with the tension of those watching. Greenland reached for a handful of Faeroe's popcorn. Tino stood watching in the kitchen doorway; Iceland leant on the wall next to him, filing his nails. Even Norway, sitting at the front table, looked up occasionally from his Dostoevsky novel. No one said a word.

"That room is not empty," said Denmark coolly. "It is the twister room." Berwald had to give him credit. Most men had trouble meeting his eyes this close, but Denmark did not flinch.

"Ye haven't used it since I moved in. Have ye?"

"No, but that's not the point. The point is..." Denmark paused. His eyes flashed as he seemed to search for a point. "The point is, you can't have it."

Berwald smiled ever so slightly, and slowly held up his trump card. A printed copy of Denmark's rules. Denmark gasped when he noticed what it was.

"Where did you get that?"

Berwald gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Study."

Denmark blinked his shock away. "Well it doesn't matter anyway because there is nothing in there about..."

Berwald easily caught his bluff. "Rule number th'rty-two." He had been quite surprised by the actual length and detail of Denmark's list of rules. He was not sure what the insane Dane was studying at university, but he now had the slightly disturbing feeling it might be law.

Denmark snatched the list from him, perused it, and began reading aloud. "Rule thirty-two. If a bedroom is vacant for any period of time exceeding one week, any member of the household may lay claim to it if..." His words slowed as he reached the end of the sentence.

"If no one objects," Berwald finished. Denmark stared at the paper, opened and closed his mouth a few times, then looked up furiously. Berwald's expression remained unchanged as he asked, "Well... any objections?"

"No," said Greenland quickly, followed by Faeroe saying "None here," through a mouthful of popcorn.

"No," said Tino. "I mean, if this is what you want, Berwald."

"No," said Iceland. "Keep going, though, this is really hot."

Denmark turned to Norway pleadingly. "Norge!"

"Oh Denmark, honestly," snapped Norway. "The only time you use that twister mat is when you are completely trashed and want an excuse to touch someone up."

"Like that time you groped Fin's ass and Norway wouldn't speak to you for a week," said Iceland.

Denmark, Norway and Tino replied at once. "That never happened."

"Yeah, but it totally did, and Norge got so jealous..."

"Denmark," barked Norway loudly. "Let Sweden have the blasted Twister room."

Denmark took a deep, shaking breath, clutching his chest as though wounded. "I can not believe you would all betray me like this. Not that it matters in the end. You will note, Sweden, that rule thirty-two quite clearly states, 'If no one objects.'" Denmark raised his chin, smiling grimly. "I'm sorry Sweden, but I object to the terms of the agreement."

Berwald had expected that. He allowed himself to smirk as he played his last card. "Rule f'rty-three."

Denmark quickly looked down at the list. "Rule forty-three. In all decisions, disregarding those expressly and explicitly stating otherwise, the majority choice rules." Denmark's smile fell, his fists clenched, and he nodded bitterly. "Well played, Sweden, well played." He crumpled the paper in his hand. "Goddamned Scandinavian democracy. I knew I should have made this a dictatorship."

.

Berwald was still not sure what to make of this street. He had encountered most of its student population the other day at that ridiculous car dragging race, which apparently was not such an odd occurrence here after all. The inhabitants of this street would turn out in droves for any reason at all. The place was like a twenty-four hour street carnival.

Denmark divided the students into groups based on their nationalities and the houses they lived in. He had taken the time to explain it to Berwald one evening, accosting him into taking a seat at the dining room table and standing over him as though delivering a lecture, all while Tino mouthed apologies and the others looked on indifferently. According to Denmark their immediate neighbours consisted of The USSR, the Italo-German Alliance of Across-The-Street, and Those Guys Next Door.

The 'Russians', Berwald had decided, weren't really all that bad. Tino was friends with most of them, and Berwald could not figure out what they were doing living with Ivan.

Those Guys Next Door were worse. Berwald had nearly been assaulted three times by the French guy simply walking to the mailbox. The British guy got incredibly drunk every second night and either ended up bashing on their windows asking if they had any booze or passing out on someone's front lawn until the American rescued him. At least he wasn't usually naked, though, unlike both Feliciano from across the road and the crazy French guy.

Berwald spent the majority of his free time working on the garden. It was the one thing he could control in the insane erratic existence of this house, where day after day things seemed to stay the same and yet be completely unpredictable at the same time. Berwald had yet to see the guys on the couch actually move from it. He had answered the phone three times only to be asked breathily what he was 'into'. He'd had to climb onto the roof one afternoon, in front of a crowd of cheering onlookers, in a bold rescue attempt after Denmark consumed a bottle of tequila mixed with Tabasco sauce and came to the very firm conviction that he was a Mexican gargoyle. And he was still awoken every night by Denmark and Norway's deafening nocturnal activities, even though the next day Norway would swear up, down and sideways that he wouldn't touch the Dane with a sterilised bargepole.

But every morning when Berwald walked into the kitchen, Tino would be waiting, a cup of coffee already made. Every day when he came home Tino would be either sitting at the table in the living room, or at the kitchen bench, or would bump into him in the hallway, every day with those wide, violet eyes and that way he bit his lip and that small, perfect smile. Berwald was convinced he could put up with anything - with Denmark's insanity and Iceland's phone calls and Norway's nightly screaming fits - with absolutely anything, if he could just see that smile every day.

True, Tino was not immune from the insanity of the place. He was, in fact, rather strange, which really only made him more endearing. It was not uncommon to find him staring blankly out the window lost in thought, searching for his sunglasses when they were on his head, or attempting to make any number of strange dessert concoctions containing coffee, rhubarbs, salmiakki, or on one disastrous occasion all three ingredients at once. Berwald had already had to point out twice that Tino was leaving the house with two different shoes on.

But more than anything, Berwald loved early mornings. The household was asleep, the street was quiet for a change, and he could work peacefully in the garden without distractions like that French guy peeking over the fence or random empty cans flying into the yard or that really weird time Denmark had watched from the window all afternoon giving running commentary like he was a presenter on ESPN. Berwald was in the middle of planting a row of Lily of the Valley – the national flower of Finland – when he heard the phone ring. He ignored it - it was probably for Iceland. After the fourteenth ring, he realised no one was going to answer. He tore off his gloves, stomped through the back door, and picked up the kitchen phone. "H'llo?"

"Oh, hi," said a pleasant sounding male voice. "Could I speak to Ice, please?"

"He's not here."

"I'm sorry?"

Berwald sighed. "Not here," he repeated loudly.

"Oh, okay. Look, maybe you can help me out. Ice usually does it but I'm sure you can do it just as well."

Berwald's eyes widened and he nearly dropped the phone. "Um… no… can't help with that sort'f thing," he said, alarmed.

"It won't take long, I'm happy to wait while you get sorted, and of course I'll pay for your time."

Berwald started to panic. "Look, I'm sorry, you've got th'wrong…"

The voice sighed. "Come on buddy, it'll take you like two minutes to fire up the laptop or grab the paper at least - Ice gets it delivered every morning. I just need to know the baseball results."

Berwald's thoughts clicked into place. "Ohh…"

He grabbed that days paper from the bench, read the guy his baseball scores five times until he understood, then finally hung up the phone exhausted. He turned around to find Tino standing in the doorway. Berwald pointed awkwardly at the phone. "He, uh... wanted th'baseball scores."

"There's a guy who calls every day at 6 a.m. for the daily horoscope. Ice just makes it up."

Now Berwald was really confused. "What sort'f phone service does he run?"

"That's kind of hard to say. People call him for anything from sports scores and horoscopes to hacking information to..." Tino blushed and coughed. "Well, um, you know. As long as they deposit the money into his PayPal account, Ice will talk about anything. Which is kind of ironic really because normally he hardly talks at all."

"Thought he was... Ye know. A pr'stit'te." Berwald mumbled.

Tino was usually better than most at understanding Berwald, but this time he looked confused. "I'm sorry?"

"Prostit'te," Berwald repeated, his face burning.

Tino's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, God, no! I mean, he's pretty good at getting stuff out of guys and he'll say some… uh… risqué sort of stuff on certain phone calls. But he's pretty much all talk. Literally." Tino slowly walked forward, spreading his hands thoughtfully on the counter. "It's funny. On the phone, Ice will talk to anyone about anything. He can be someone completely different, and he can also be totally himself. But in reality… he maintains this façade, you know? He doesn't let anyone in. Well, expect for one guy, but we all know how that ended and oh wow, it's really none of my business to be talking about that, did you want a coffee?"

"Thanks," said Berwald as Tino went to turn on the jug. "I guess I just… assumed. Sorry."

"Well, we all make that mistake sometimes, don't we?" Tino smiled kindly. "And I understand that you'd be a bit confused."

"It just seems a bit, er… really odd, though."

Tino laughed softly. "In case you haven't figured it out yet, everyone here is a little odd. But that's because everyone kind of has to be, you know? It's easier to be odd or crazy or insane than to hurt all the time."

That was something Berwald was quickly learning about Tino. He could be talking about something completely random and nonsensical one moment, then say something the next that made perfect sense.

"Did yer parents really kick y'out 'cause ye kissed yer best friend?" Berwald wasn't sure where that question came from. He just knew that he really needed to know.

Tino stared at the coffee mugs as he placed them on the bench. "I… wanted to see what they would do. I guess I wanted to know straight up how they would react. They kicked me out, and I got my answer."

Berwald nodded. "That makes more sense."

His face flushed, Tino focused on preparing the coffee. "I told you we were all a little odd."

Berwald could not imagine Tino without all the weird, wonderful, charming things that made him a 'little odd.' "That's not a bad thing."

Tino blushed deeper. "So, uh, what will you be doing today?" he asked quickly.

"Workin' in th'garden."

"You don't have to worry about escaping Denmark. On Sundays he doesn't get up until evening."

Berwald shrugged. "I like bein' in th'garden."

Tino paused, spoon hovering over the coffee jar. Then he looked up slowly, eyes bright and a tiny, warm smile on his lips. "You're sort of sweet, really, aren't you?"

Berwald's body flooded with warmth. Tino, however, dropped the spoon and took a step backwards, expression turning quickly dismayed.

"Um, I mean, oh gosh, I really didn't… I'm sorry."

"Why?" asked Berwald. That just made Tino more flustered.

"I have to…" Tino paused. Berwald waited. "… go." Then he rushed from the room.

Berwald's heart sunk as he watched him go. Just when he thought Tino was getting used to him. He sighed to himself and finished making the coffee. Tino would probably never get used to him – no one ever did.

.

The next afternoon things came to a crisis. As Berwald went to place his money in the rent jar, the same as he had done last Monday in accordance with House Rule Number One, he found that the jar was nowhere to be seen. Just as he was checking in the cupboards to see if someone had put it away somewhere, a knock came at the door. Berwald went and answered it warily.

"Good afternoon!" The man at the door stood at an equal height to Berwald and had a fake smile plastered on his broad face. His huge arms bulged against the fabric of a cheap black suit and his stare was an obvious attempt at intimidation. Berwald recognised the threatening stance: a debt collector. "Is there a Mr Køhler I can speak to?"

"A Mr… oh." Berwald remembered the name as the one shouted in the cafeteria the other day. He stared back evenly and invoked rule number fourteen. "He's out'f th'country."

"I see." The collector's smile dropped and he flexed his biceps. Berwald tried not to roll his eyes. "Perhaps, then, you could give this to him when he returns?" The man held out an envelope and Berwald took it. "Final notice. I hope I will not have to visit again. Next time, things shall not go quite so…" He paused in what he probably thought was a dramatic manner. "…pleasantly."

"Sure, yeah." Berwald slammed the door before the man turned away. The collector had chosen the wrong guy if he was looking for someone to intimidate. Berwald tore open the letter, read it quickly, and clenched his hand into a fist.

"Problem?" asked Greenland from behind him.

"Where is Denmark?" Berwald asked the question quietly, trying not to let a hot wave of rage overwhelm him.

"Bedroom," replied Greenland quickly. "Get the popcorn, Faeroe, this oughta be good."

"It was only a matter of time," said Faeroe. "'Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.'"

Berwald stormed up the stairs, slammed open Denmark's bedroom door, and turned on the light. Denmark squeaked and fell off the bed; Norway immediately disappeared under the covers. Berwald held up the crumpled letter. "Someone care t'explain this t'me?"

"Who? Huh? How… What's going on? Are we under attack?"

"What's goin' on is I've just received an eviction notice from a debt collector."

"What?"

"I paid ye three weeks in advance!" Berwald couldn't keep his voice down now. "That was th'only money I had! What th'hell did ye do with it?"

Denmark pulled himself to his feet, brushed himself down, and turned to face Berwald with an attempt at looking dignified. With his Danish flag boxers, flattened hair, and sheet around his ankles, he did not manage to pull it off. "Sweden. You sound as though you have some concerns. Would you like to schedule a house meeting?"

"Yes," Berwald growled. "Now."

.

Denmark sat at the head of the table, the eviction notice in front of him, looking for all the world like a supreme court judge who had been called in to a crucial case after an all night bender. He even had a gavel, which he was currently utilising to its full potential. "House meeting!" he shouted. "Come to order! House…"

"Yes, Denmark, for fuck's sake, you've shouted that six times already," growled Norway, leaning on the table with a copy of Kafka's 'The Trial' in his hand. "We're all here. Get on with it."

Berwald, Tino and Iceland all sat around the table, varying degrees of apprehension on their faces. Even Greenland and Faeroe's couch had been turned to face the table, though Berwald had the feeling they would not be contributing much to the conversation.

"So," began Denmark gravely. "We are all quite aware of the problem with the rent."

Berwald was not aware. "Problem?"

"I can't understand you, Sweden. That's why we roped someone in to try and help us get our costs back up."

"Roped? Costs? What are ye talkin' about?"

"Seriously, Sweden, speak up, I can't understand a word you're saying. Now we all know everything has been going well, we've been paying back our debt slowly..."

"Your debt," said Iceland.

Denmark waved a hand. "Let's not quibble about the particulars. Now, due to unseen circumstances, we lost our last weeks rent. Three weeks. Well, you know, about a months worth."

"And by unforeseen circumstances he means he bet it all on a German tied to a car," said Norway.

"We've what? Can someone 'xplain?"

"Sweden, I swear, you really need to see someone about this speech impediment of yours. Now the big problem here being, of course, that we already owe about three months on top of that. You know, from the last time we lost it."

"You lost it," Iceland interrupted.

"LAST time?" Berwald was baffled.

"Look, things happen, wheels set in motion, you know how these things go, and apparently we had a visit this afternoon from our friendly neighbourhood debt collector to inform us that we now have to pay our de..."

"Your de..."

"DEBT, Iceland, in one transaction. Soon. Immediately. Well, in a week. Or we'll be, you know. Evicted."

A resounding silence fell. No one responded. Eventually Norway stood, walked over to Denmark, and slapped him over the back of the head.

Tino put his head in his hands. "Den. How much do we owe?"

"Well," said Denmark, rubbing his head, "Erm, by now it would be... ten grand."

Tino gasped. "Ten grand? Ten thousand dollars? How is that even possible?"

"Ye couldn't've told us 'bout this before?" Berwald was beyond angry. This was beyond a joke. If it were not for Tino he would be desperate to move out; but now the thought of being evicted almost terrified him. He did not know where Tino might end up moving to, but the thought he might go somewhere Berwald would not see him every day was like a punch in the gut.

"Look, I've got us out of trouble like this before, I can do it again," said Denmark.

Norway scoffed loudly. "You're joking, right?"

"Shush. Now first things first." Denmark steepled his hands, looked up thoughtfully, and leant forward. "Does anybody have any money?"

Norway glared. "Well I have twelve dollars fifty in my bank account, how about the rest of you?"

"I don't have much," said Tino quietly. "I should probably get a part time job. Or I could maybe try to explain to my parents that I need more money for school. I mean, they don't pay me all that much." When Berwald looked at him quizzically, Tino explained, "They give me a weekly allowance, as long as I never attempt to contact them. Which probably means I can't ask for more money after all…"

Denmark slammed a hand on the table. "Parents are bullshit," he spat vehemently. The violence of his tone almost startled Berwald. "Don't you dare ask those assholes for a single thing, Tino."

"He shouldn't have to. Ye lost the money. Ye should get it back." Berwald didn't want to make a scene, but Denmark was really starting to piss him off. It was getting to a point where he was simply not going to take it anymore. Denmark turned to him furiously, but Iceland quickly interjected.

"Well, to be fair..." Iceland trailed off.

"T'be fair?" Berwald prompted.

"To be fair," continued Tino, "We kind of all had something to do with losing the first lot of money. Not yours of course," he added quickly. "That was all Denmark."

"Huh? What d'ye do? How d'ye lose it?"

A long silence, before Tino finally whispered a single word. "Poker."

Berwald felt like the room had turned upside down. They could not be serious. Must it always comeback to this? "Poker?"

"Russia has a poker game every month," explained Denmark. "No big deal."

"No big deal?!" Now Berwald was astounded. "You played 'gainst Ivan? Are ye completely stupid?!"

Another very long silence before Norway spoke. "Sweden, this is Denmark. Have you met?"

"I was due for a win!" moaned Denmark.

Berwald had to stop to think. This was so much more than he expected, and frankly, it was a little terrifying. "No one wins 'gainst Ivan." Especially not an amateur like you, he added silently.

"And how, exactly, do you know this?" Norway's face was as blank as ever, but his tone was uncannily perceptive.

Berwald tried to answer carefully. Denmark might be an idiot, but Norway certainly wasn't. "I've played 'gainst him, too. I lost. He's th'best on th'circuit. He plays against players far more... experienced than you. And he always wins."

Norway leant forward and fixed Berwald with a piercing, suspicious stare. "You almost punched him the other day."

"It's nothin'." Berwald spoke firmly. "Like I said, I play poker. So does he. I'm good. He's better. That's it."

Norway's eyes narrowed. "These poker games. They are more than just... games, aren't they? I mean, they are more than the pathetic little diversions Denmark involves himself with."

Berwald did not know how to answer that. "Well..."

"Ivan called you a criminal the other day. What did he mean by that, Berwald?" Norway had heard that? What the hell else had he heard? Berwald shifted uncomfortably as every set of eyes in the room stared at him.

"t'was nothin'. He just wants t'make trouble."

"He's playing with you." Iceland's voice was both bitter and surprisingly understanding. "I don't know what the deal is with you and Ivan, Sweden. But as far as I'm concerned any enemy of Ivan is a friend of ours."

There was a thoughtful silence before Denmark spoke. "Yes, Russia's a bastard, I think we're all aware of that by now. Unless anyone has extortion plans, which by the way I would totally be in favour of, I hardly think he is relevant to this conversation."

For possibly the first time Berwald found himself in agreement with Denmark. "'kay. Let me get this straight. Ye lost three months rent playin' poker."

Denmark nodded. "Yes."

"Now ye've lost another months rent on some stupid car pullin' contest."

"How the hell did that kraut lose?" moaned Denmark.

"And now we've got a week to pay ten grand."

"Sweden, your powers of observation are outstanding," said Norway flatly.

"Don't be such a bitch, Norway," said Tino.

Berwald was rather impressed. "Seems to me," he said finally, "We need t'find a way t'make ten grand."

"Norway could strip," suggested Denmark. Norway flipped him off. "Hey, baby, it was a compliment, I'd pay to see that…"

"You couldn't afford that," Norway shot back.

"Denmark could rob a bank," offered Iceland.

"No one's asking you Icelander, we all know how good your kind is with financial problems."

"Fuck you, Denmark!"

"We could kill the landlord." Everyone stared at Norway.

Denmark nodded, raising a hand thoughtfully. "So far that's actually the best idea."

"We don't even know who the landlord is," said Tino, frustrated.

"There's always prostitution."

"No one's gonna pay for you, Denmark," said Iceland.

"It's only a few more steps from what you're doing, Ice. We could kick Sweden out of the twister room and set up some sort of pay by the hour boudoir…"

"I hate you so much sometimes."

"But only sometimes, right?"

"Just stop it!" cried Tino. "Don't you understand? If we lose this place, I have nowhere to go. You have nowhere to go. We need to be serious and figure out what we are going to do!"

"Weeell," said Denmark slowly. "At a time like this, there's really only one thing you can do." Berwald braced himself for whatever Denmark would come out with now. Denmark surveyed the table with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Party?"

Norway tapped his chin thoughtfully then slightly inclined his head. "Party."

Iceland closed his eyes and threw up a hand. "Party!"

Berwald knitted his brows in confusion, Tino put his head in his hands, and Denmark stood, stretched, and grinned manically. "Doll yourselves up, boys, and bust out the fake IDs. We're hitting the town, and we are hitting it hard."

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[statusquoergo]

Part II

Deposition, take two.

Harvey and Mike run into each other on their way into the conference room and Harvey informs Mike that this case is never going to make it in front of a jury, thanks to their decision to waive a jury trial. Mike is aghast but refuses Harvey’s suggestion to terminate the deposition, because “while a jury might never hear it, [he’s] gonna make that motherfucker answer for what he’s doing.”

Here’s the thing about that: As long as he does it in a timely fashion, the plaintiff has the right to demand a jury trial. So Mike can goad Haskins (the CEO of Brick Street Athletics, I guess) into saying whatever he wants in the deposition, but none of this finitely precludes the case from appearing before a jury.

During questioning, Mike lays out the working conditions at the factory—2000 people working “twice what they’re supposed to” (however this is supposed to be quantified), employee salaries of less than twenty cents per hour compared to Haskins’ salary of $20,000,000 per year, “building an empire on the backs of women and children” (Haskins denies that they employ children and Mike challenges that “it’s just women, then”)—and Haskins repeats the defense that they’re not breaking any local or international laws. Mike argues that conditions are so bad that two people have killed themselves in as many years, and Haskins bursts out with the key phrase: “God dammit, I don’t care how many people have killed themselves! This has nothing to do with my company!”

Real friendly. Appearing quite weary of this whole charade, Harvey asks if Mike is done, “Because [Mike] can get emotional, and [Haskins] can get emotional, but [Mike] still [has] no jury, and no case.” Not to mention “this testimony isn’t to be revealed outside this room.”

Actually I can think of at least one instance in which the deposition testimony would be admissible at trial, or in front of a judge: If Haskins testifies to anything contrary to what he said in deposition, Mike could introduce it to contradict or impeach the testimony given by the deponent as a witness, i.e., prove he lied.

But who cares about the law, this is Suits.

Louis and Sheila go to Lipschitz for therapy, and it’s nice that they’re trying to work out their problems, and the dialogue feels honest, and Sheila never wanted kids but now that she’s pregnant she’s embracing the idea of becoming a mother, and Louis supports her 1000%, and she loves him, and it’s no wonder Lipschitz is always so busy if this is how quickly he’s able to fix his clients’ problems.

Alex fills Katrina in on Faye’s request that he oversee Mike and Harvey, and Katrina tells him not to tell them about it because “Have you ever seen either one of them react well to an authority figure telling them not to do something?” It’s a pretty inconsequential scene, but I like the reminder that Mike and Harvey used to be, like. Marvey.

Harvey swings by Mike’s place to make sure they’re still on good terms after Mike got his ass kicked at the deposition, but Mike drops the bomb that Jeremy had a televised interview that day and wore a t-shirt to said interview printed with the quote: “I don’t care how many people kill themselves, we abide by the law,” attributed to Haskins. Harvey angrily charges that “Dammit, Mike, that deposition was under seal,” and Mike retorts, “So sue me.”

Excuse me, gentlemen, I just want to point something out here:

“Anything that could get us disbarred or put in prison is off limits.”

You know what two of the several qualifiers for disbarment are in New York State? Crimes and misdemeanors featuring interference with the administration of justice, and misappropriation.

Mike, that was your fucking ground rule.

Mike then argues that if Harvey does sue him, “it won’t be a countersuit anymore” (it’s not a countersuit now), “which means there will be a jury” (he can still demand a jury trial). Harvey threatens to have him sanctioned, and Mike says that’s fine since the video is already going viral; Brick Street’s best option is to give in to Jeremy’s demands and let him out of his contract with full pay so, wait for it, he can start his own competing and much more ethical apparel company, using the contract salary as seed money and the suit as free publicity.

This is bullshit. This is total bullshit.

Forget the part where it’s legal nonsense, let’s just focus on what an underhanded move this was for Mike. Harvey, for some ungodly reason, seems proud of him for pulling this off, guessing that Mike “helped [Jeremy] plan this thing from the beginning”; Mike says it was easy to pull off, since he knew Harvey would try to play the man, “but the thing is, the version of [Mike who Harvey] thought [he] was playing, he doesn’t exist anymore. The new Mike cares more about results than he does about playing the violin.”

Great. That’s great. But what the fuck does Korsh think he’s doing? Why send Mike off to Seattle to take on class action suits against Fortune 500s, why highly publicize Mike’s return, why bring him back at all to turn him into some unrecognizable version of himself who’s not even doing the work he supposedly left New York, the firm, and Harvey to follow his heart for in the first place? If anything, this episode is a tragedy, a stab directly into Harvey’s already fragile heart; Mike, his protégé, his best friend, his comrade in arms, abandoned him to fight for the greater good and has made a triumphant return to once again do battle, to show how much he’s learned from Harvey, how much he’s grown since they parted ways, but instead of playing on an even field, or joining forces to accomplish something actually meaningful, Mike uses the fact that Harvey’s usual tactics of skirting the law are hampered by Faye’s oversight in order to give himself a huge (and illegal) advantage which he started this case by promising not to use.

So I guess that when it comes right down to it, all Mike has really learned by setting out on his own is how to walk past the bodies he piles up in his wake. The ends justify the means, and that’s all there is to that.

God dammit.

Oh, but we’re not even out of the woods yet, because after some cute but logically unsound banter (“Are you actually taking credit for my win when you lost? Let’s be very clear about something here, Harvey, right now you are the governor of Loserville, and I am the mayor of Winnertown.” “You know mayor’s below governor, right?” “Not in Winnertown, he isn’t.”) Harvey invites Mike for drinks, which after this catastrophe of an episode would’ve been a nice Moment for the two of them, except that he goes on to invite Donna along for absolutely no reason whatsoever except to keep repainting every hint of Marvey that this show has ever had with a big old brush of Darvey.

Before drinks happen, though, Katrina stops by to inform Donna that she’s taken her advice to focus more on herself, signing up for a ballet class to follow up on an interest she had when she was younger and piggybacking on Alex’s interest in tap by showcasing Amanda Schull’s history as a professional ballet dancer. And one more thing: Brian called her back and left a message, but she “deleted it without even listening,” which Donna cites as “amazing,” for…some reason. Seems kind of rude to me, but alright, sure, whatever. Donna then invites her over for drinks with Mike and Harvey (not that this was supposed to be an intimate personal affair or anything), which she refuses because “Tonight’s the first night of class,” so, good for her.

Samantha, unsurprisingly, has become aware of Mike’s little stunt with Jeremy’s interview attire and declares to Harvey that she’s not going to let him get away with it. Harvey bleakly submits that “he beat us fair and square” (no, he didn’t) but Samantha says that’s bullshit, that he planned this in advance and it’s a clear violation of Jeremy’s contract. (Is it? I wouldn’t know, the specific contract details have been kept very under-the-table. Plausible deniability, I suppose.) Harvey doesn’t want to fight this because “knowing Mike, [they’ll] never prove it”; Samantha accuses him of being proud of Mike (why), and Harvey asks so what if he is (why), and Samantha says that if they can’t find proof, she’ll make it. Shockingly, Harvey orders her not to do that (what, because it’s illegal? Or because it reminds him too much of Cameron Dennis?), and she storms out.

Remember when Louis asked Benjamin for help with the whole donation thing? Benjamin’s finally getting his just reward for all the shit he pulls for these people as Louis promotes him to Vice President (the benefits of such a thing being utterly unclear, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts) and gives him a thirty percent raise. So, uh. That’s nice.

Now about those drinks. At Harvey’s place, Donna prepares a cheese plate, and Harvey tries to greet Mike with a somewhat excessively enthusiastic “Hey! You want some cheese?” Mike, however, is not interested in any cheese, because it seems Samantha went ahead and fabricated that evidence after all; Mike accuses Harvey of bribing Charles Hu to say Mike contacted him eighteen months ago with the scheme to get Jeremy out of his contract, which he can’t dispute because “[he’s] on the record saying the guy’s a saint.” (What record, what is he talking about?) Harvey says he had nothing to do with it, Mike calls bullshit, and Donna steps in to say, in a slightly creepy tone of voice, that “It’s not bullshit, Mike. He’s telling the truth.” For some stupid fucking reason, Mike didn’t believe Harvey but he does believe Donna, so he determines it must have been Samantha who lied about him, and asks Harvey what he intends to do about it. Harvey says there’s nothing he can do about it, and when Mike points out that he can say she fabricated evidence, Harvey pulls his loyalty card at the worst possible time:

“Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what would happen to her?” “I don’t care! She is cheating my client out of a company that could change people’s lives!” “And I’m not gonna sell her out! Just like I’d do for you if you were still here.” “I don’t believe this. You’re pissed that I left!” “No, Mike, I’m glad that you left, and you could have come back to visit any fucking time, but you came back to pick a fight with me that you rigged six months ago.” “Oh, so it’s not that I left. It’s just that I beat you.”

Oh boy.

First of all, we get out of the way the hint that Mike really was taking this case on to make a difference in the world, but I dunno, man, feels to me like this is too little, too late.

Then, finally, after a full season and a half of no resolution, we finally get Harvey’s admission that he’s upset Mike left. Yeah, no shit; their goodbye, as I’ve lamented to the point of tear-inducing monotony, was terrible and inconclusive, and Harvey’s behavior afterwards has not been that of a man who’s at peace with the change in his life (s08e01-04, 13). And finally, he acknowledges out loud that he’s angry (yes, angry) that Mike hasn’t come back to visit, and now that he has, it’s just to pick a fight with Harvey that he secretly rigged far in advance. That doesn’t seem to me like a fight Mike should be particularly proud to tout as a win; the odds were artificially weighted in his favor, and he went out of his way to tip them even further by making them both promise not to do anything illegal and then breaking that promise himself when he knew Harvey would be in no position to follow suit.

That is a dick move.

But we’re not done yet:

“No, you almost did. I was gonna let you get away with it, but she didn’t. And I might want to kill her, but I’m not gonna betray her.” “I don’t care about her! I care about you. You gave me your word, and the Harvey I know wouldn’t break his word and screw over a bunch of innocent people in the process. You lost yourself, Harvey. And you know it.”

Fuck.

Not only should Mike not be proud of this win he achieved illegally, but it was only his to take because Harvey made the conscious decision not to turn him in for those illegal activities.

You know what’s the real gut punch here?

“I care about you.”

You sure about that, Mike? Because you could stand to fucking act like it.

He goes on to as much as admit that Samantha’s involvement—not her fabrication of evidence, just the fact that she was there, was the thing that ruined this for him, because “the Harvey [he knows]” would have acted predictably, and he would have been able to manipulate him. “I always have time for an old friend”? He always has time to use an old friend for his own advantage, maybe. I agree that Harvey hasn’t been acting like himself of late, but my rationale for that has always been that Mike’s rapid departure broke him and he’s been unable to recover, and if this is what Mike’s return means, well, maybe Harvey’s better off.

(Harvey would be better off leaving the firm and going into intensive therapy, but I’m trying to keep my goals achievable for the time being.)

Harvey then returns to the firm to confront Samantha and yell at her for lying to him, and she says she didn’t lie, she just changed her mind, so that’s mature. She asks if he’s really mad at her crossing a line or because she beat “[his] little adopted son” (did you catch that? "Adopted son," i.e., "definitely not a love interest thank you very much"), and Harvey tells her that he defended her to Mike, but that’s over now because he doesn’t trust her anymore, and I guess he’s taking his ball and going home and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Spoiler alert, Faye happened to observe this whole exchange, and now has some mulling to do.

This whole episode has been one giant offense to the memory of Mike and Harvey’s relationship, but this part might just take the cake: Louis arrives at Mike’s apartment while Mike is packing to go to the airport, because Donna sent him, and she would’ve come herself but “she’s with Harvey now” and “she didn’t want [Mike] to hold it against her.” Mike says he’s not holding anything against her, and Louis asks him not to hold anything against Harvey, either. Bringing up the story he told Mike back in “Blood in the Water” (s02e12) about himself and Harvey being Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog, he says that he and Harvey “were rivals at work. But no matter how much [they] fought, at the end of the day, [they] didn’t let it get in the way of [their] friendship.” Kindly permitting Mike to be furious at Harvey for defending Samantha’s actions, Louis asks that he nevertheless not let this be the end of him and Harvey. Rather than comment on the request, or their relationship, Mike says that he has a plane to catch.

As Louis bids his farewell, Mike calls him back to give him the last of the “You Just Got Spitt Up” onesies that he had made up in Season 8, which Rachel apparently took to save for him. Louis tells Mike to thank Rachel for him, he agrees to do so, and Mike and Louis, of all people, get the heavily emotional hug I was hoping Mike and Harvey would get when I saw that bullshit reunion in the teaser.

Then Faye goes into Samantha’s office and finagles her into tacitly admitting that she’s the one who fabricated the evidence, not Harvey, and Faye fires her, so at least some good came out of all this.

Part IV

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

"😓A misunderstood character is ostracized, perhaps even threatened, for their peculiar habits, interests, or studies" - this is gonna be v specific but like.... Drabble where vetinari and downey giggle about people gossiping about vetinari being a vampire? Perhaps? Pls?

Thank you so much for the ask! i’m not sure if this is quite what you were hoping for, but I hope you enjoy. 

--

Midnight and Downey hears clicking so he’s half-awake, then fully awake and thinking there’s someone in the room with him. He can’t see them but knows a presence when it is felt, only: he can’t move. The clicking increases, an insect-noise, as something prowls near his head and he does not wish to look over but does, because he can’t help it, and there sits a monstrous creature poised with stinger above his face and the weight on his chest holding him down reminds him of that one poor man accused of witchcraft, or was it being vampire?, all those hundreds of years ago who was pressed to death in the main square. The rocks they put on his chest were later used to build the base of the Brass Bridge. When you walk over them you walk over his ghost. 

And now Downey is awake. Awake and sitting upright, which means he can move, but he’s still seeing the insect so there remains whispers of the dream. It is a dream, he reminds himself, because he has had such before and, more importantly, he knows all the insects on the Disc and the one he imagined next to him is not one of them. If he is going to go and discover a new species it won’t be whilst half-asleep in the middle of the city. 

He rubs eyes, looks to pillow beside him and finds it empty.

Sinking back into bed he pulls the eiderdown up around his head and burrows in an attempt to reclaim even a shred of disturbed sleep. 

But it’s gone. His mind is already going fast-fast-fast there are so many things he must do as Term moves into exam season and holiday festivities must be planned and budgeted for and rooms prepped for new students joining them for Winter term after Hogswatch. Then there’s City Council matters and Guild matters and three jobs lined up, hasn’t he already decided he’s too busy, tired and old for this?, and then there’s the never ending social calendar. Which he enjoys. But, it can be a bit much. 

Bedroom silence is as maddening as his racing mind. He’s staring at the thin pool of moonlight on the floor. It’s autumn, so skies are a perpetual grey with only a weak sun to splash watery gold and pink across horizon at morning and evening. The grey continues into the night obscuring stars. So everything is a shadow of its summertime self. 

He is restless. His nerves are up. He has spooked himself and remains half-convinced there’s someone in the room with him. The presence, he repeats to himself, was the dream and the dream was made of stress.

He rolls around for a bit. Then, out of a sense of paranoia, he retrieves a blade from between mattress and headboard, and prowls about his room but finds nothing and neither do Alsace nor Harold. He ought to be content if not pleased.

Fear is an anathema to him. One of the first rules of performing assassin is knowing that you are the most dangerous thing that walks the streets. And if you don’t know it in yourself, for certain, then at least exude it to others. Smoke and mirrors &tc. 

One autumn, as a boy of seven, he developed a deep fear of vampires. They can turn into mist, slide into bedrooms through keyholes and hide under the bed or in the closet. They drink your blood and make you one of them whether you wish it or not. 

The fear left him as he grew up. At first, because he learned how to kill them. Then, later, he met a few, became friends or an approximation of friends, with a few. Olivia Hunter, one example, said, it’s being damned for a sin you’ve no part in. People look and say ‘We know your kind’ when they know nothing of anything. What is my kind? Genuan? Black? Woman? Secretary? Vampire? Omnian? 

And that’s a sentiment he understands, was raised to understand, for his grandmother would talk about the bad old days in Brindisi when she was a girl and they had to leave, which happens sometimes, because people decide they know your kind and whatever it is, it’s unwanted. 

He dresses. Alsace and Harold become very excited at this sudden change in events. As always, he takes a circuitous route through the city to the palace. He weaves through alleys, up and down stairs and closes, trots this way and that across streets. For a time, he loiters on the Brass Bridge and peers at different stones. The foundation stone’s date has worn away with time so when you trace fingers over it there is only the merest indentation. Was this the stone that finally killed that man all those years ago? He’s never seen a witch stoning and has no desire to. There are some violences and brutalities that go too far. 

The palace is shades of moth-wing grey. Downey slips in between shadows and up to the patrician’s bedroom where, as expected, Vetinari is up. The man is seated at his desk half-dressed with robe wrapped around him and a blanket over shoulders. 

‘Have you considered a brazier?’ Downey asks upon entrance. Vetinari flicks a look at him. ‘It would help with your consistent lack of heating.’ 

‘I am quite content, Downey. If the temperature was comfortable people might wish to stay.’ 

Downey feigns offence. He drapes himself across the bed and stares up at canopy. Alsace and Harold make themselves at home by the meager fire next to Mr. Fusspot who remains unphased by the sudden presence of dogs easily three times his size. He snores on in peaceful slumber. 

‘May I be of assistance?’ Vetinari’s voice drifts over coupled with the ruffle of paper. 

‘Oh no, you’re fine.’ 

‘Is there a reason you’re here?’ 

‘Must there always be a motive for my coming? I had a desire to be mildly chilled and to stare up at your canopy.’ 

Vetinari makes a noise, a scoff or snort. Downey smiles at the fabric above him. 

‘We didn’t have plans,’ Vetinari says, quietly, to himself and his desk. Downey does not respond. Vetinari’s penchant for exact order crops up time to time. They are both men with strong affinity for order, but applied in very different areas of their lives. 

Downey orders butterflies and beetles and natural and manmade poisons. He also orders accounts, aligns the debit-credit column of the guild, his wardrobe, his drinks cabinet. He does not order his personal life. He doesn’t need to, Vetinari orders it for him. 

‘You know,’ Downey drawls as a thought occurs. ‘Your desire to have cold rooms and no creature comforts is probably why people think you’re a vampire.’ 

A cough from the direction of the window. 

Downey props himself up and looks over. ‘Tolerant of extreme temperatures? Lack of expected, human reactions to circumstances? Patience of a rock? Never seen sleeping?’ 

‘You have seen me sleep.’ A lofty, disinterested expression, ‘and you can attest to my ability to react appropriately in certain, ah, circumstances.’ 

It’s a lascivious grin on Downey’s face. Vetinari tells him that he is being lewd. Downey replies that he is not being lewd at all. Vetinari says, ‘very well, your face is making lewd insinuations.’ Downey begs his pardon with great animation, delighting in the other man’s long suffering sigh. He delights in most things Vetinari does, including his more obsessive ticks. It’s a pleasure to know there’s someone who won’t judge you for talking to your plants and will understand the extreme stress of holding one’s tongue when someone is wrong about biology in public. Which happens with great regularity. 

A huff, Vetinari decants from his desk to the bed where Downey, who has pried boots off and deposited cloak, scarf, hat, gloves, frock, and so on, on the floor, happily scoots beneath covers. 

‘And you have very cold hands,’ Downey continues. 

Vetinari snorts, ‘the people of this great city really have nothing better to do than speculate upon my supposed inhumanity?’ 

‘I think it’s an improvement over their wildly inaccurate speculations about your manhood.’ 

Vetinari’s face is a portrait. Downey kisses it. 

He continues, ‘I would correct them, of course. But that would cause more grief than it’s worth. Now, you as a vampire on the other hand, I can see their reasoning.’ 

‘I’ve eaten food in public. I drink…wine.’ 

Downey snorts, ‘Mr. Warrender at the Cloak and Dagger believes it all to be an elaborate ruse.’ 

‘I see,’

‘He was going on about this the other night,’ Downey begins plucking at Vetinari’s robe which he considers an affront as it is another layer of clothing to take off. ‘I think he managed to make a few converts to his cause. He says that he’s never seen you handle coin before therefore you’re avoiding silver. You don’t attend religious ceremonies because of holy ground. Your robe is annoying me deeply. And you rarely go out, uncovered, in daylight due to discomfort in the sun.’ 

‘I’m not sure Mr. Warrender would have any opinion on my robe. Downey, I’m quite busy tonight.’ 

‘Yes, I’m here now. Your metaphorical dance card is full for the remainder of the evening.’ 

Vetinari stares. Downey stares back. Vetinari opens his mouth to reply, apparently reconsiders it, and sighs. Downey kisses him again as it seems the right course of action. 

Downey rolls Vetinari over to his back, snaking a hand beneath robe, down, pulling up nightshift beneath. Vetinari liftst hips to allow the clothes to be hitched up, ‘why are you here, Downey?’ 

Downey raises an eyebrow. Looks down at their bodies then back up.

‘That’s not why you’re here. This is a symptom, not the cause.’ 

‘I dislike that. Being associated with disease isn’t something I enjoy, but I’ll save my annoyance for tomorrow. I was awake and restless.’ 

‘Right.’ A beat. ‘My apologies.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Downey hums. He cannot think how to explain: I had a dream and spooked myself. So he chooses not to. He continues with vague answers and determined exploration of Vetinari’s body, a boney, you’re-a-bit-of-a-shut-in sort of experience. Being opposites in most regards, Vetinari has nothing spare, all strung together with skin and only the amount of muscle needed to operate a body compared to Downey’s more, as he puts it to himself, comfortable, frame.  

As teenagers, therefore posturing with great energy and determination, Vetinari once said: I’m an aesthete. Downey hadn’t been entirely sure what an aesthete was so made some general scag-dog-botherer related insult and went off to ask Ludo what it meant. Ludo explained asceticism with a wry expression. Downey then spent the remainder of the day mocking Vetinari for being a nerdy prat. 

Downey thinks that to be fair to sixteen-year-old Vetinari the young man hadn’t been wrong. He was, and is, very much an aesthete. But, Downey adds on, he was also a nerdy prat. 

Not that he, himself, was a joy and pleasure to be around at that age. Eleven to five-and-twenty, he thinks, those are terrible years where no one is at their best.  

Vetinari scoops an arm around Downey’s neck and leans up, pressing their mouths together. ‘Would you still be here if I was a vampire?’ 

‘Yes. Though, there’d be very strict boundaries.’ 

‘Naturally.’ 

‘’I’ve no desire for immortality. The one thing I wonder is,’ Downey settles on his side. ‘Would you still be you if you were one? It’s a rude question so I haven’t asked anyone I know.’ 

Vetinari shrugs. How does never dying change a person? How does not tasting, not needing sleep, not bodily changing, shape an individual? Would that change be any different from the normal changes all people go through as life forms them forever into something new? 

Neither choose to answer the questions. Downey figures they were rhetorical more than anything. But even if they weren’t, he has no answer. He likes his humanity. He’s content with being merely mortal. There is a thrill to life that he thinks wouldn’t be there if you knew you weren’t going to die. Pleasures would lose their meaning. He likes luscious fox fur, richly patterned cambric, heavy brocades because he knows they are his but for a limited time. When he dies they’ll be of no use save to cover the body until it’s cremated. But doesn’t that limitation of enjoyment make it all the sweeter? There will be a finite end to champagne and oysters and music and dancing and gold and silver. 

But as a vampire, at least with regards to the clothing and objects, you would have it forever. One fades, buy another. 

Perhaps they find meaning in other things less worldly than clothes and beautiful things. 

What a terrible concept. 

‘You had a mistress who was one, didn’t you?’ Downey asks. 

‘Mistress,’ Vetinari’s bemused by the word. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ 

‘What was her view?’ 

‘On how she was before? She didn’t speak of it much, but I think she takes the long view of things. So time is both fast and slow. She said that because relations with humans are so fleeting she found them more precious.’ 

Downey pulls a face. See, finding meaning in less worldly things. Vetinari flashes a smile, returns to his usual impassive self. 

‘I don’t think it’s life that would suit you, Downey.’ 

‘I’d have to become philosophical, which is a horror. I would be required to place value in things other than material wealth. Absolutely terrible.’ 

Vetinari props himself up on an elbow and takes to considering Downey’s face with great intent. Downey looks away. He frets that Vetinari is going to say something about him being more than what he intends himself to be. Which Vetinari tends to do because he enjoys telling Downey home-truths. 

Life delivers. Vetinari says, ‘I think you hold things beyond material wealth as important. A limited amount,’ he amends. ‘Perhaps a very limited amount. But nonetheless, they exist.’ 

This is too much, Downey can feel a flush crawling up his chest and neck so leans up, gives a messy kiss, then rolls over in search of his clothes. He says he should go back to the Guild. It’s late, he has much to do in the morning. Vetinari sits up and watches him dress. Downey swans about, makes it a bit of a theatrical moment, then the final flourish, he places his hat on. 

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Downey says. 

‘You will. Or today, as the case may be. We are well into the small hours.’ 

At the door Downey pauses. Behind him is the sound of Vetinari dressing. The shift of linens, bare feet on soft, wooden floors. 

‘I don’t think it would be a life that suits you either,’ Downey says to the doorframe. His palm rests flat against it, a profile to Vetinari’s line of sight. 

‘Immortality, or vampirism in particular?’ 

‘Both.’ Or maybe, Downey doesn’t think, he wishes to believe that for his own sake. He doesn’t like to think of Vetinari going on, existing as some lonesome, grey rock in the midst of human life for any longer than he already has. 

‘Possibly. Quite possibly you’re very right.’ 

Downey sucks in a breath through teeth then, because he enjoys hurdling head first off cliffs from time to time, ‘I’m glad things are working out, you know. Between us. Despite the fact that you’re a nerdy prat, Dog-botherer.’ 

He’s gone before Vetinari can reply though he imagines he heard a soft exhale of a laugh. One of those dry ones Vetinari gives when amused but feeling many things at the same time. It’s a ghost of a sound and follows Downey through streets homeward. He wishes to remember it forever.

[scarfanon]

Etiquette for calling a customer service line

Let’s face it, there are a lot of products out there that don’t always work the way they’re supposed to.  So what do you do when this happens?  If you have two neurons to rub together to form a synapse, you read the labels and/or the use and care manual until you find a customer service number.  Now, it has become increasingly clear to me that many, many, MANY people out there don’t understand that there are rules and protocols that customer service reps are required to follow, so here’s a few handy tips to keep in mind:

1. Make sure you are actually standing beside the product that you need help with when you call.  We only know what you tell us, so we need you to be our eyes, ears, and most importantly, our hands when addressing the issue with the product in question.  If you’re running an errand and think for one second that we can do anything at all to help you when the product is at home, you’re going to have a really unpleasant time.  Don’t call us while you’re driving, unless it’s to ask how late we’re open, and please for the love of all that is decent, DON’T TRY TO RETURN THE PRODUCT WITHOUT CALLING US FIRST OR YOU WILL VOID YOUR WARRANTY.  Also, make sure you actually have time to stay on the phone and address the issue.

2. Do not just start rambling at the person you are speaking to.  There is always an order of operations that must be followed if they are to help you and more often than not, the person who picks up the phone is either not trained or not authorized to directly address the problem that you’re having, unless they tell you otherwise.  In most cases, the first person you speak to is only supposed to do two things: register a file in their computer system for the product in question (or otherwise access an existing file) and then transfer you to someone who can actually help you with the problem that you are having.  In addition, extraneous information can slow down the process, waste time for both parties, and cause additional problems, so listen carefully to the person that you speak to and they will tell you what information they need.  Once the unit is registered, the agent may then place you on hold and transfer you to the department that is trained to address the specific product you have and the specific problem that you are having with said product.  This is why you need to make sure you have time to actually stay on the phone, because they can only help you if you’re going to be available long enough for them to get the information they need.  If you require a representative who speaks a language other than English (usually Spanish, but the center where I work does also employ at least one French-speaking agent), please request to speak with a representative who speaks that language, as the agent may be able to immediately transfer you to someone who can communicate with you more easily.

3. Answer all of the questions that you are asked, and only those that you are asked, in the order that you are asked them.  yes, I briefly addressed this above, but it still bears repeating.  The data entry systems have variations from one company to the next, but more often than not, when the agent answers the phone, the only thing they have on the screen before them is a single textbox that will only accept one specific piece of information.  In addition, the systems are usually designed to access data from the top down, meaning that you MUST provide the information specifically requested before it will allow the agent to access anything else.  If they don’t ask you for a piece of information (such as the date of manufacture or who installed the unit), it’s more likely that the information is unnecessary than it is that they forgot to ask for it.  And if they ask you what room an appliance is installed in, it’s usually because certain models are only designed to be installed in certain locations, so please be specific.  And for pete’s sake, A HALLWAY IS NOT A ROOM; IF YOU MEAN CLOSET, JUST SAY CLOSET.

4. Read all information directly from the label on the product itself.  In many cases, the only place you will be able to find the information is on the product itself, and the agent with whom you are speaking will be able to direct you to its location.  This is why you must remain near the product for the duration of the call.  DO NOT WRITE IT DOWN OR READ FROM THE COPY THAT YOU HAVE WRITTEN.  100% of the time, one or more digits are omitted or miswritten and you will be asked to go back and check again, and the system will not accept the information unless every single digit is entered correctly.  This is not something that you can ballpark.  Every single specific individual digit of each number requested must be included, correct, and presented in full and in the right order.  This isn’t just limited to Serial and Model numbers.  Learn to distinguish between Q, O, 0, 8, B, U, 4, and A, the difference between G, 6, and 9, the difference between 5 and S, the difference between 1, 7, T, 2, and Z, and the difference between a dash/hyphen (-), an underscore (_), and a space ( ).  Yes, I have seen every single one of these digits mistaken for every single one of the others and getting even one digit wrong can mean the difference between getting the help that you need and wasting time.  And when providing these numbers PLEASE ONLY SAY ONE DIGIT AT A TIME.  You may see it as 217, but when we hear it, it comes across as 2 7 teen, and then we have to go back and correct it, which gets especially annoying when the text box that we’re entering it into has a character limit and has to be manually highlighted in order to correct the error, which causes us to fall further behind.  And don’t say “oh” when you mean “zero”, it doesn’t save any time.  Also bear in mind, if you have more than one unit, each unit must be registered under its own file so that they may be addressed individually; remember that the information for the product is saved under the serial number, NOT the owner’s name.  Also, if you need glasses to read small print, WEAR THEM.  I cannot begin to describe how many times I’ve asked a customer for their serial number and then had to wait several minutes for them to put their glasses on so that they can read it.  And when we ask you for your serial number, please don’t ask “are you ready?”  We were ready the moment we asked for it.

5. Yes, you do need to provide your personal information.  but usually only the first time you call.  It’s the only way they can link the product in question to the customer that owns it, and in most cases, the warranty will only pertain to the original registered owner of the unit.  In some instances, the database will be designed to allow for multiple contacts to be attached to the same file, but there will always be one primary homeowner that takes priority over the others, and so all information must be correct, especially with regards to sending parts or repair personnel under the warranty coverage.  In addition, when accessing an existing file, asking what name the file is registered under is the easiest way for the agent in question to determine that they have entered the serial number correctly, which means that telling them to write “john doe” will just make it impossible for them to find your information should you need to call back.  In addition, you must also provide the information requested of you in full.  This means that when you are asked for the owner’s name, you must provide both the FIRST AND LAST name.  When you are asked for a preferred phone number, YOU MUST PROVIDE THE AREA CODE FIRST, and when you are asked for the address, YOU MUST INCLUDE THE HOUSE NUMBER, STREET NAME, APARTMENT/TRAILER/LOT/SUITE NUMBER (if applicable), CITY, STATE, AND ZIP CODE (or province and postal code if you are calling from Canada), as the system will usually have a feature that it uses to validate the address for the purpose of sending parts or technicians to the correct location under the warranty, and if it does not recognize the address or the address is incomplete, it will not accept it.  In addition, for larger appliances, the warranty will only apply if they remain installed in their original installation location, so we need to know where that location is in order to cover the appliance.  And if they ask if your phone number is a home, work, or mobile, it’s usually because they’re selecting from a drop-down menu and can only select one option, so if you say “all of the above,” they will want to reach through the phone and swat you, and just because they ask this question doesn’t mean they are looking for a specific number (hence the use of the term “preferred phone number”).  “But I don’t want my information where some stranger can access it!” I hear you cry.  Tell me, How are you calling us right now?  and how did you obtain the means to do so in the first place?  How did you pay for it?  Chances are, the answers to all of these questions required you to offer your personal information to some party or other in the past, so I’m sorry to break it to you, but if you’ve ever used a cell phone, or the internet, or a credit card, or have a driver’s license, or any form of legal ID whatsoever, your information is already irretrievably out there and you have nothing to lose by providing it to the people who actually need it in order to help you.  You’ll be happy to know that in most cases where appliances are concerned, providing your email is optional, but if you don’t wish to provide your email or otherwise don’t have one, don’t be an ass about it, just say “no email”.  And if you do provide your email, here’s a couple of pet peeves I would like to address.  I have been on this earth for about as long as email has existed, and never in my entire life have I encountered an email program where the email address was case sensitive, nor have I encountered an email address that has spaces.  YOU DO NOT NEED TO TELL ME THAT IT IS ALL LOWER CASE AND YOU CERTAINLY DO NOT NEED TO TELL ME THAT THERE ARE NO SPACES OR THAT IT IS ALL ONE WORD, because it is my job to copy every single digit that you provide exactly as you provide it and I will read it back to you digit by digit to make sure I have it written correctly.

6. You must stay on the phone until we have finished all of our procedures.  Once the first agent has registered your unit, or confirmed that they’ve opened the correct file, they will likely transfer you to another department that has the training and authorization to directly address the problem that you are having.  DO NOT GET UPSET THAT YOU ARE BEING PUT ON HOLD.  This is a necessary evil, as the agent is required to wrap up the conversation in a hurry and move onto the next customer, and you need to speak to someone who can actually use the information that has been gathered to help you.  once put on hold, they will tell the system to transfer you to a particular line within the call center, at which point you will be added to the end of a queue.  If the agent says something to the degree of “Please stand by”, that is an indication that they need a minute or so to finish entering the information that you have provided, that they are waiting for the next page to load on their screen, or that they are about to send you to someone who can help, and are requesting that you patiently wait for them to request the next piece of information.  NOT AN INVITATION TO START TALKING OR YELLING AT THEM.  There will be times when the automated hold system will tell you that there are a number of callers ahead of you, or that you will have to wait a certain amount of time before an agent will be available to answer.  Whatever you do, DO NOT HANG UP THE PHONE AND CALL BACK HOPING TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE SOONER.  All that will accomplish is getting ahold of another registration agent, who will ask you for your serial number again, and will then transfer you back to the same queue, where you will now have to wait even longer because you gave up your place in line.

7. When providing information, SPEAK SLOWLY AND ENUNCIATE YOUR WORDS.  This is a huge pet peeve of mine.  If English is not your first language, then it’s understandable (also you speak my language MUCH better than I speak yours), but if you’re a native English speaker, you have no excuse.  Half the mistakes that are made are due to poor or miscommunication.  When I ask you a question, I expect to hear words, NOT A STRING OF GROANING NOISES.  If I can’t understand what you’re saying, I’m going to write the information wrong and then we’re going to have to waste even more time correcting the errors.  In addition, make sure you speak at an audible volume.  You don’t have to shout, but if you’re mumbling or speaking in a low tone, we will not be able to hear what you are saying.  And PLEASE keep your fingers away from the buttons and/or screen while you are on the phone; it’s going to make it that much more difficult if I keep hearing buttons being pressed every two seconds.  And for Pete’s sake, CHANGE THE BATTERIES IN YOUR SMOKE DETECTOR.  I swear, every third call I hear that infernal beeping in the background.

8. Yes, you must troubleshoot the product.  Regardless of your preconceived notions of how a particular product works, or what the problem is, or what you want done to resolve the issue, we still need to know the exact nature of the situation before we can take any actions to resolve it; the most fundamental of which is to walk the customer through a step-by-step diagnostic and troubleshooting procedure over the phone.  The purpose of troubleshooting the unit is to determine the nature, source, and severity of the problem through process of elimination by observing the symptoms that it exhibits under different circumstances.  You may think you know what’s wrong and what needs to be done, but there will ALWAYS be something that you missed or otherwise didn’t think to look for.  Plus, as mentioned above, we cannot see what is happening on the other side of the phone, so we need you to be our eyes, ears, and hands and follow our instructions, many of which are time sensitive once we begin.  Always listen to the precise wording of each instruction you are given and each question that we ask, as if a step is performed incorrectly, it can give inaccurate information or force us to start over.  It may seem intimidating if you’ve never done it yourself before, but it’s necessary for you to help us help you resolve your problem.  And no, we will not ask you to do anything that will endanger your health or safety; for any problem where that would be an issue, you will likely be instructed to hire a professional to do the work for you (assuming that one isn’t already being requested under your labor coverage, if applicable).  In most cases, the steps are simple enough, and the agent’s instructions easy enough to follow, that even a child could accomplish them.  “But I just have a simple question!” I hear you cry.  No, no you don’t.  It’s never simple and it’s never just one question.

9. Sometimes you just have to wait.  It is inevitable that a problem will sometimes require that a part be replaced or that a licensed professional be sent to diagnose, repair, or replace the appliance in question.  But understand that we will never be able to get them to you the same day that you call.  In the case of the parts, the reason for this should be obvious, but in the case of the technicians, there is some explanation required.  You see, while there may be some companies out there that have their own field technicians on their payroll that can be sent out at a moments notice, said companies are increasingly few and far between, and most of the time they prefer to cut corners in the interest of spending less money, and the easiest way to do that is to outsource to independent businesses.  Typically the situation is as follows: The parent company manufactures the product, which is then sold to an independent vendor, who then sells the product to the customer at locations of the vendor’s choosing, with little to no input from the manufacturer.  The manufacturer themselves will then sign on various independent contractors and business owners to take warranty jobs in the contractors’ own service radius if a customer should need a technician to help them with their unit under their labor coverage.  Because the units are sold to the customer by the vendor, whose distribution is not controlled by the manufacturer, there is usually little to no correlation between where the products are sold and whether there are technicians under contract with the manufacturer within the same area, so even though a product is sold in a particular location, the manufacturer may not be able to send a technician, simply due to not having anybody under contract that services that zip code, or otherwise not being able to reach or send the ones that do, due to various circumstances (eg outside their normal service radius, too many customers on their plate at the time, or just plain not answering their phone).  In most cases when something like that happens, the company will offer the customer the means to hire their own technician and then submit for reimbursement for the service fee.  From what I’ve gathered, most companies that have a need for field technicians function this way, for better or for worse, simply because it’s cheaper and easier for the company to contract independent businesses than it is to employ personnel for a division that only sees occasional use.  Why am I telling you this?  Because I’m tired of customers acting like it’s our fault that the technician never showed up, or that there wasn’t one available for us to send in the first place.  Our influence only extends so far, and while they may be under contract with us, we don’t own them, and so have zero influence on when or where they are available.  Yes you should call us back if there is a problem with the technician, but also understand that simply sending a technician in the first place means that there are now three separate parties involved in the situation, two of whom are separate businesses.  And this should be a no-brainer, but when the technician does show up, please please PLEASE have the technician call the manufacturer while they are in front of the machine so that we can walk them through our troubleshooting steps and ask them what they find.  Telling us “they already left and they said xyz” is not at all helpful to us, because how do we know you didn’t cancel the technician and just make that up on the fly to get a quick fix?  How do we know the technician actually said that?  How did they come to that conclusion in the first place?  What did they do?  What did they see?  This of course is to prevent people from just calling and asking for free parts or replacing the device for something as simple as not understanding how it functions.  Our job is not to give you what you want.  Our job is to solve the problem with the unit.

10. All of our calls are recorded.  This is something that a lot of customers seem to not realize, even though the recorded message that they hear while on hold explicitly tells them as much (it also explicitly tells them to have their serial number ready, WHICH THEY NEVER DO).  So if you say something off-color that makes the agent uncomfortable, or if you threaten the customer, their employer, or the parent company in any way, THAT SHIT GETS RECORDED AND CAN BE PRESENTED IN A COURT OF LAW.  It also means that you can’t say one thing and then deny it later in the call, because guess what?  We have a recording of you saying the thing that you said, which means you can’t take it back or say that you were lying earlier and that your new story is the truth, because how can we trust that you’re telling the truth now if you didn’t tell us the truth to begin with?  This is a major pet peeve of mine.  I’ll get a customer who says their unit is having a problem whose nature or circumstances are not covered by the warranty, and then when I tell them as much, they’ll suddenly change their story, thinking they can talk us into giving them what they want.  Sorry, but that ain’t happening.  We already have you on record as saying A, so if you think you can talk us into believing B, you’re wasting your breath.  This is also why it’s important that you give us the CORRECT information the first time we ask for it, because if you feed us false information and then call back later and say that it’s actually something different, we will call you out on that shit.

11. Nobody manually answers phones anymore.  Every time someone complains to me about how long it took me to pick up the phone, I want to reach through the line and slap them.  All call centers have an automated system that directs the call to the first available agent’s computer.  That computer will then answer the call automatically and let the agent know through their headset that the call is coming in and which queue it is coming from, usually about two seconds before the line connects.  The agents have zero influence over how quickly your call is answered, because that part of the process is entirely automated.  If it does take a long time for your call to reach an agent, it’s usually due to one of two things: they are either experiencing a higher call volume than normal, which means there are more customers ahead of you in the queue, or they are understaffed, meaning that there are fewer people available to take the calls in the first place.  Either way, as soon as one call ends, another usually connects, and rarely does it take longer than a few seconds for an agent to receive their next call.

Here’s a short glossary of terms to keep in mind when calling:

Unit: the individual product that you are addressing

Model: the type of product under which the unit is categorized

Part: a specific component of the unit which may be replaceable.

Serial Number: a sequence of digits (often both numbers and letters) that identify the specific individual unit that you are working with.  Every unit of every product ever manufactured has a unique serial number that is not shared with any other unit of that product, and so this is the number that the call center agent uses to identify which file to open, and the first thing they ask for when creating a new file.  ALL OTHER INFORMATION IS SAVED UNDER THE SERIAL NUMBER.  Just because you have provided all of your information during a previous call does not mean they will instantaneously have your information in front of them the next time you call; the registration personnel alone receive a bare minimum of about 84 calls per day, rarely from the same person twice, and do not know you from a hole in the wall, so you must provide the serial number again in order for them to access the file for your unit.  And please please PLEASE make sure the serial number you provide pertains to the unit that you actually need help with, because as mentioned above, each individual unit must be registered under its own separate file, and the serial number for a replacement unit will not allow us to access the information for the previous unit, regardless of whether they have the same owner’s info attached to them.

Model Number: a sequence of digits (again usually consisting of both numbers and letters) that identify the type of product that you are working with.  Unlike the serial number, which is unique to the individual, the model number is shared among all units in a specific production line.  More often than not, the model number will tell the agent various other pieces of information about the unit as well, so that they do not need to ask you for as many details about the product (such as the warranty, size, capacity, etc), which means fewer questions for them to ask.  The model number will usually only be requested the first time you are calling about a particular unit, and only after the serial number has been provided.  Usually the model number pops up on their screen automatically with the touch of a button, but the agent will ask you to read the number anyway in order to confirm that it matches the one that is attached to the serial number that you have provided.  If it doesn’t match, you will be asked to provide the Serial number again, ad nauseum, until it does match.  WE CANNOT USE THE MODEL NUMBER TO PULL UP YOUR FILE BECAUSE MORE THAN ONE UNIT HAS THAT MODEL NUMBER.

Part Number: a sequence of digits (again, usually consisting of both letters and numbers that identify to a specific part of the product that you are working with.  Similar to a model number, a part number is shared among all individual units of that specific part, but does not say much about the unit as a whole, as multiple models may utilize the same parts.  Many appliances are designed to be repaired on the spot, hence the need for part numbers, but if you think we’ll be able to tell which unit you have just from the part number, you are sorely mistaken.  More often than not, agents higher up the chain will be able to access a list of all part numbers pertaining to your unit once they have access to your file, so this number is almost never necessary to provide.  NO, WE CANNOT JUST SEND YOU A PART BECAUSE YOU HAVE A PART NUMBER WITH YOU.  First off, it may not even be the correct part for that unit, and second we still need to know what the actual problem is before we can determine if you even need that part in the first place.

SKU Number: a sequence of digits (usually just numbers, but may occasionally include letters) that the vendor (read: the store where you bought the damn thing) uses to identify the individual product in their database.  This number is completely useless to the call center agent and will never be requested over the phone.

Troubleshooting/warranty department: usually used interchangeably, as the person troubleshooting the unit over the phone is required to recognize what is covered under the warranty and what is not.  Either way, they are the ones you want to speak to after the unit has been registered, and if they aren’t, they can usually direct you to the ones that are.

Parts department: this department process part orders, both in and out of warranty, but will only speak to a customer directly if the customer wishes to purchase a part out of warranty.  If the customer wishes for the part to be sent under their warranty coverage, they need to speak to the person troubleshooting the unit.

Contractors department: This is the department you want to speak to if there is a problem involving a field technician, whether it’s having trouble finding one in the first place, or having problems with one that has been dispatched to the location of the appliance.

Billing department: this is the department responsible for processing your reimbursements.  if a reimbursement is necessary, the customer will usually be given specific instructions on what information to send and where to send it.  most such info is sent electronically these days, so you will likely not be able to send it via physical mail.  Also bear in mind, WE ARE NOT STUPID.  If you think you can send us a hastily written MS Office document or handwritten “invoice” and that we’ll give you free money, you will instead receive a templated email and/or letter explaining that your document is invalid and cannot be used.  I worked in my company’s voucher department for a time and nothing would bring me more joy than going into miniscule detail in my reply to a fraudulent customer’s email about why their documentation was invalid.

Claims department: This department handles any cases where the customer is seeking reparation for damages caused by the product in question, but you usually won’t get to speak to them until after the unit has been registered and diagnosed.  In addition, any cases where a claim has to be filed will require that the appliance remain in its installation location pending further investigation.

Supervisor/Manager: Most of the lower departments are required to strictly adhere to the rules that they have been instructed to follow, else they get in trouble and are required to correct their indiscretion, usually by calling the customer back and explaining that whatever we promised is not actually going to happen and that we need to go through all the steps properly before we can provide anything (this is referred to as a rework).  Only the supervisor or manager has the leverage to bend the rules and give you something that we otherwise would not, though they are also required to work within certain limitations.  Bear in mind however that they can only help you if you’ve already tried to cooperate with the lower departments and if you think you can just bypass the process by immediately asking to speak to a supervisor and demanding things from them, you will learn very quickly that they have the authority tell you where you can stick it.

I think that about sums it up.  Just try to be polite and cooperative to the person you’re talking to and they’ll do their best to help you out.

[waveridden]

FIC: and you breathe (one breath at a time)

Lovelace goes somewhere warm, and quiet, where nobody has any idea who she is. Nobody, except for somebody who died in space six years ago.

Wolf 359, post-canon. 7.7k. Gen, Lovelace-centric, some implied/background ships. content warnings for some discussion of death/grief and PTSD.

With all my love to @travismcelrcy, who helped shape the ideas.

Read on Ao3 || title lyric

#

Sydney is bright in the summer, a constant barrage of sunlight that slams into Isabel full-force the second she steps out of the airport. It was raining when she left Shanghai. Or maybe she’s still not used to sunlight - not blue light or red light or artificial Hephaestus lighting. Honest-to-god sunlight.

Isabel slips a voice recorder out of her pocket and switches it on. “Note to self,” she murmurs, “double-check which vitamins sunlight is supposed to give you. Just in case that matters.” She doesn’t need to record captain’s logs anymore, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s the fastest way to keep track of things. Grocery lists and memories from the old crew and whatever else is worth hanging onto these days.

She left her suitcase back in Brussels, so it’s easy to wander the streets with nothing but a backpack and a vague recollection of places she should visit. She’s never been to Australia before. She’d only left the country once, before the Hephaestus, and that was to go to Niagara Falls for the weekend with some friends in high school.

(Sam had laughed when she told him, and she’d raised her eyebrows, said “You telling me you traveled a lot, Oklahoma boy?” like it was a challenge. It always was a challenge, and maybe she’d feel bad about it if he’d ever stopped rising to the challenge. If he hadn’t met her every step of the way, until-)

There’s a list of names tucked away in her backpack. She’s been trying to visit people who deserve to know what happened. Kuan’s sisters, who grieved by screaming. Victoire’s mother, who’d cried as Isabel told her in halting French what happened to her daughter. Sam’s family, who barely reacted at all. Like they already knew he was dead.

They probably did know, she supposes. It’s not like it was hard to guess.

Sydney’s beautiful. She tries to imagine Mace in the city as she walks through it, slowly. He’s not from Sydney, of course, he’s from some smaller town. He used to talk about it, but she can’t remember the name of it, and of course his files with Goddard don’t exist anymore. There’s next to no proof that he was ever there.

But he was here. She imagines him squinting in the sunlight, trying to read a street sign. She imagines him pointing at some local business and saying that there, Captain, that’s his best friend’s uncle’s ice cream shop. She imagines him painted bright in the sun, laughing with his boyfriend, pushing a stroller.

Isabel blinks. That one felt less imaginary.

He’s gone by the time she looks back, of course. She’s been seeing ghosts for the last month. All of Kuan’s sisters had his smile. Every tall man with a suit and a carefully disarming smile is Cutter. Hell, she even sees shades of Minkowski and Eiffel sometimes, even though she knows both of them are safe and sound back stateside. She’s used to it by now. She should be used to it by now.

She still goes straight to her hotel room. Bolts the door once it’s closed. Moves a chair in front of the door just for good measure. Good things never happen when the dead start showing up again. She knows that better than anyone.

 #

 Getting back to Earth goes like this:

Goddard debriefs them. It takes weeks, plural, because nobody’s sure what to do with their story. Two of the most important people in the company are currently space debris, and the third doesn’t even remember her own name. And all the rest of them are officially dead.

It’s Jacobi, actually, who’s most helpful in moving things forward. Lovelace gets the impression that it’s because he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, but she has to admit, it’s nice having someone who knows people. Kepler’s name pulls weight, and by extension so does Jacobi’s. It gets things in motion, even with the gaps in the power structure.

The process is also kept completely secret from the public, which they probably weren’t supposed to figure out. Jacobi guesses as much on the second day, snorts and says “it’d look bad for them to be caught in a lie this big,” and that’s supposed to be that. It’s hard to bring people back to life, in terms of paperwork. Probably a nightmare.

But they’re debriefed. They see doctors, who don’t know what to do with Lovelace, human and also decidedly not. They see therapists, who kind of wave Lovelace off because there’s absolutely nothing in their repertoire that could help them deal with aliens. They sit in corporate meeting after corporate meeting where Lovelace tries to focus on getting out and not how badly she wants to rip this company to shreds.

Goddard lets them go on a Tuesday morning. They reach Minkowski’s husband that night, living just outside of Boston, and all of them pile into a house that seems far too empty for one man. Lovelace gets a bedroom to herself. They figure out how to install Hera in the house, because Doug refuses to let her live in a box. She’s up and running by Wednesday morning.

Jacobi’s gone by Wednesday afternoon without so much as a goodbye. It stings, maybe more than it should, but Lovelace has faith that he’ll come back one day. If only because he’s bored.

By the early hours on Thursday she has a list of cities. Shawnee, Brussels, Shanghai, Sydney. She writes and crosses out Moscow a dozen times - even if Selberg was hers he also decidedly wasn’t, and she doesn’t owe that man any more of her sympathy - and does the same for New York City. Who says you can’t go home? Probably other people whose entire families think they died in space years ago.

She makes a second list for good measure. Victoire used to wax rhapsodic about the summer she spent in Iceland, and Kuan had endless stories about visiting cousins in Hawaii. Sam traveled constantly, which she wouldn’t expect from someone from Oklahoma, but he wanted to see the world. Or, no, he felt like it’d be a shame if he didn’t. A shame? An embarrassment? It’s hard to remember his exact words.

It’s hard to remember his exact voice.

Lovelace lifts her voice recorder, brand new, purchased from a RadioShack with a shiny Goddard-issued credit card. “Get back in touch with Canaveral, see if they have any of Lambert’s old logs somewhere. Shake them down if you have to.”

Isabel Lovelace has a valid passport Thursday night. She says her goodbyes on Friday morning, promises to call and hugs Eiffel a little tighter than she should and leaves. She has more ghosts than the rest of them. It’s time to put them to rest.

 #

 The problem, which she learns in Oklahoma, is that as much as she wants to get this over with, she can’t start with the families. She tells Sam’s mother what happened one day, his father the next, and then if she stays in Oklahoma for one more goddamn second she thinks she’s going to suffocate, so she’s in Brussels the day after that.

(“That could just be an effect of Oklahoma,” Minkowski - no, Renee says, when Isabel calls her, now in Brussels and still not quite breathing right. “I mean, I’ve never really been there, but it sounds… like Oklahoma.”

“Maybe,” Isabel allows. “But if I’m going to be here, I should start with the tourist thing, right? Instead of just jumping in with the… bad news.”

“The tourist thing,” Renee echoes, in that voice that means she’s not laughing at Isabel, per se, but she’s definitely laughing and it just so happens that Isabel said something funny. “You mean relaxing?”

“I guess I do.”

“You’ve earned it.”

She has. She’s earned it and re-earned it and the universe probably owes her a full year of not dealing with other people’s problems at this point. “Then maybe I’ll stay in Belgium for a while.”

“Just make sure you call,” Renee says, soft and careful. She never says goodbye, only asks for Isabel to call again. And she always does.)

It takes two weeks in Brussels before she has the stomach to find Victoire’s family. After that she stops over in Moscow for all of two days, just to see the sights, and then it’s three weeks in Shanghai. And of course, by the end of that she’s ready to snap in half, so she takes a week for herself in Thailand to recover.

Sydney is warm, not as warm as Thailand but also sunnier. It’s not quiet, but it’s just her and her ghosts there. And it’s going to take a little more work to track down Fisher’s boyfriend - she knows his name’s Corey, he’s a history teacher, and he lives somewhere reasonably close to Sydney - so she might as well take another break.

She ends up on a beach, one of the quieter ones. It’s a weekday morning so it’s not terribly crowded, just a few families that Isabel makes a point of staying away from, carving out her own quiet corner in the sand. She sets up with a towel and an umbrella and a stack of books that she got from airports and-

-and her phone starts ringing.

Isabel sighs. It’d be easy, it’d be so easy to just ignore it, but the fact is not a lot of people call her. This number isn’t in enough databases to get calls, and it would be… inconsiderate if she didn’t take full advantage of Goddard generously footing all her bills for a little while. Including the bill for international calls.

She smoothly reaches into her backpack, resting a carefully-calculated arm’s length away from her on the sand, and swipes to answer. “You’ve reached the phone of Isabel Lovelace. I’m currently unavailable because I finally got to a real beach where I can relax for a while, so leave a message if-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Hera asks, not sounding sorry at all.

Isabel rests back on her towel. “No, Hera, it’s not. Unless there’s an emergency, because I am halfway around the world right now and can’t help.”

“No emergencies. Thank god.”

She smiles, relaxing a little as she does. “And you’re bored?”

“Horribly.”

“What do you do now that nothing’s constantly going wrong?”

“Not much,” Hera admits. “I’ve been teaching myself new languages.”

“Programming language or human language?”

“A bit of both?”

“Of course,” Isabel says. She thinks idly that maybe she would’ve been sarcastic about that, once upon a time, but now it comes out fond. Indulgent. Hera complained about being in a house and how it was so much smaller than the Hephaestus, but now she has the Internet. There’s only so much complaining she can do with the entirety of human knowledge at her fingertips. “How’s everyone?”

Hera hums. “Minko- uh, Renee- shoot. Is it weird that I’m still having trouble with that?”

“It’s only been two months, Hera.”

“But I talk to her every day.”

“And how many days did you call her Minkowski?”

“More than sixty,” Hera admits. “Okay. Uh, Renee’s looking for jobs, although nobody’s really sure what kind of thing she should look for. Doug’s a waiter now, all the customers love him.”

“And everyone’s in one piece?”

“In one piece.” She says it so proudly that Isabel can’t help but smile. “And Renee’s been helping me practice my French.”

“Do you need to practice?”

“Of course I need to practice, just because I know the whole language doesn’t mean I know how to speak it right.”

“One of these days, you should learn a made-up language. Or make your own.”

“I’ve already looked into making up my own, but it’s not as easy as you might think. It’s kind of a fun side project, it’d be nice to talk to a linguist or something sometime. Figure out how-”

“Lovelace?” says someone, about three feet to her right.

She drops her phone. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming towards her, and these days there’s no way to tell if it’s someone hostile or not. From the other end of the phone Hera says something but Isabel’s hand is already halfway into her bag, where she has a knife waiting for her, and she looks up to see who it is and squints against the sunlight and-

“Lovelace,” says Mace Fisher, like he thinks she’s going to disappear.

Slowly, Isabel pulls her hand away from her backpack and lifts her sunglasses, just as Fisher - it can’t be, it has to be - drops to a crouch, then his knees. His hair’s longer now, curling in loose spirals around his cheeks. He has the same scar down one side of his nose. He’s wearing the most horrific swim trunks that she’s seen in her entire life, and he’s staring, and he’s here.

“Fisher,” she says, and he gulps, and suddenly her eyes are stinging. He sits back on his heels, looking winded, and Isabel remembers her phone. She snatches it up and takes a deep breath. “Hera.”

“Ca- Isabel, what’s going on, is everything okay?”

Is everything okay. Of course, everything’s fine. Just Lovelace and her ghosts again. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I don’t know yet, Hera.” She’s still watching him, of course she is. He looks somewhere off over Isabel’s shoulder, mouths something that she doesn’t bother to try and understand. He must not be here alone. “It’s… complicated.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

“Call us back,” Hera says, voice small. “Just- just to be on the safe side.”

“Of course,” Isabel says, and hangs up. Fisher is still there, so that’s a good sign, probably. If this isn’t real then at least her brain is collapsing all at once. Hell, they have no idea what the sun’s radiation is going to do to her weird alien brain. Maybe long-term exposure induces hallucinations. Maybe this is the last thing she sees before her internal organs turn to soup. It could be worse, she figures.

Fisher’s still staring at her.

“So,” she says carefully. “This… is new.”

“You died in space,” Fisher says. “I don’t know if you heard.”

“No, I’ve been told.” She looks him up and down. She listened to him die, during that meteor storm. They all did. “You… also died in space.”

He snorts. “Apparently not.”

They never found a body. Of course they didn’t, it was deep space, but they never had anything to remember him by, other than what he left behind. “Apparently not,” she agrees, and her voice is a little thicker than she expected. “How about that?”

Fisher swallows. “The others-”

Isabel’s breath catches. None of the others had been home, when she visited. “They- Mace-”

“Oh,” Fisher breathes, and lunges forward. Isabel lets him, reaches out, pulls him in. And he feels real, not like a hallucination, not a ghost. He’s as real as she is and he’s squeezing her like he’s trying to make sure of it, one hand pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Captain-”

“Oh, god, don’t call me captain,” she laughs, and he huffs out something like a sob, warm against the back of her neck. “I’m nobody’s captain anymore, got it?”

“Aye-aye,” Fisher says, and fans one of his hands out on her back. Isabel laughs again and her eyes are still stinging but she’s not crying, she can’t cry until she understands. “What are you doing here, anyways?”

Isabel sits back on her heels, keeping one hand pressed against Fisher’s shoulder. Just in case he disappears. He pulls away too, a little reluctantly, but one of his hands drops to her knee. “I was, uh. Trying to say goodbyes, you could call it.”

“Ah,” Fisher says. “I take it you haven’t been back long, then.”

“A couple months.” She shrugs. “Goddard… wasn’t interested in letting us go.”

Fisher raises his eyebrows. “Us.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Isabel rubs a hand across her eyes, probably scrubbing salt and sand into them, which has to be why the stinging doesn’t go away. “What… how long have you been back?”

Fisher shrugs. “Five years, give or take.”

“So you got back after the first mission.”

“First mission,” Fisher repeats, something like dread creeping into his voice. “Captain-”

“Isabel.”

“If you’re Isabel then I’m Mace.”

Isabel nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s… a really long story. It’s one I can tell you, but-”

“Daddy!” a child’s voice shouts, from somewhere behind Isabel. Mace is on his feet in a flash, so fast that she barely has time to mourn the loss of contact before he’s off and running. It’s just enough to make her panic, so she whips around, climbing to her feet in the process. Her sunglasses tilt dangerously to one side, threatening to fall off, and she manages to settle them back on her face just as she spots Mace again.

He’s crouching low, looking seriously between two kids. Twins, if Isabel had to guess, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. They don’t look anything like Mace, but one of them has the same stubborn mouth, and one has the same honest eyes. His kids, if ever she’s seen them.

Cautiously, she takes a couple of steps closer. Mace doesn’t notice, talking in a low, serious voice to the twins. “Five minutes, alright? Five more minutes on the sand and then we can go back in the water, how does that sound?”

“But Kuan said he’s gonna squish my sand castle,” says the one with Mace’s mouth, and Isabel nearly takes a step back. “And I don’t want him to!”

Mace looks seriously at the twin with his eyes. “Kuan.”

“I’m not gonna squish it,” Kuan mutters. “But Sam said his was better than mine, and that’s not nice. ”

Mace turns back to the other twin, looking exasperated. “Sam-”

“Mine’s better,” Sam protests, but he falters instantly and turns to his brother. “I’m sorry, Kuan. You’re right, it wasn’t nice.”

“I’m sorry I said I was gonna squish yours,” Kuan says seriously. “That wasn’t nice either.”

“Good job, boys,” Mace says, and both of the twins brighten up instantly. It figures that Mace would have the most well-adjusted kids Isabel has ever seen. “Daddy just needs three more minutes to talk to his friend, and-”

“Friend?” Sam demands, and both twins turn to her immediately, with that uncanny perceptive stare that children always have.

Isabel’s hands are shaking. She notices it sort of absently, the same way she notices there’s a man with a sleeping baby lying on his chest watching them intently, the same way she notices that the only clouds in the sky are wispy and light and dreamlike. Like it doesn’t affect her that she’s having trouble breathing.

She glances at Mace, over the tops of her sunglasses, and he nods slightly, so she takes a couple steps forward and drops into a crouch next to him. “Hi, guys.”

“You’re friends with Daddy?” asks Kuan.

Isabel nods. “I am. I used to work with him, a long time ago.”

“In space?”

“Yes, in space.”

“Whoa,” Kuan whispers. “Was he cool?”

“The coolest.”

Mace snorts and nudges her with his shoulder, still as solid and real as anything. “Second after you, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely,” Isabel says, with an exaggerated nod, and both of the twins giggle. “But, you know, it’s hard to measure up to me.”

“Daddy’s cool!” Sam bounces up and down. “This one time, this one time he was making pancakes, and he flipped them in the air!”

“In the air?” Isabel repeats, trying to sound like it’s the coolest thing she’s ever heard. “You know, that might just be cooler than me.”

“Never, Captain,” Mace mumbles, and Isabel rolls her eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t teach kids to roll their eyes, but if they’re living with Mace, they’re probably going to be supernaturally patient. Someone has to teach them. “Boys, we can go in the water as soon as I’m done talking to Miss Isabel, alright?”

“Miss Isabel?” Kuan turns so he’s looking at her and leans in, putting his face very, very close to hers. It takes all her self control not to pull back. Children can smell fear, or something. “Like baby Izzy?”

“Baby Izzy,” Isabel repeats. “Is that… a TV show, or something?”

Kuan giggles. “No, silly, it’s our sister!”

“Sister,” Isabel echoes, feeling like a broken record. They have a sister named Isabel. That can’t be right. She turns, carefully, to look at Mace, who is staring intently at the sand by her feet. “Mace.”

“Middle name’s Victoire,” he mumbles, and meets her eyes, looking sheepish. “There’s not a lot else you can do to remember people, these days.”

She understands. When the world has already mourned and moved on, when Isabel’s mission to say her goodbyes was met only with acceptance and grief that’s still heavy on her skin, there’s not much else to do, other than remembering. He had to grieve already, without her.

“Mace,” she says again, her throat so thick that it hurts to say. She swallows a couple times, until she feels like she can breathe again, and says, “We can talk later.”

“Yeah?” Mace says, and she wonders if he expected her to want to talk to him. He looks so… hopeful.

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “I can… you know, I brought books. I have a cell phone that I mostly understand how to use. I can kill time.”

Mace laughs. “Yeah, those have changed a lot. You want to come in the water with us?”

Isabel has gone swimming once, in the last two months. It was in a Goddard facility, for some kind of fitness check-up. It’d been nice at first, cool and refreshing. Chlorine is one of those things that she’d forgotten, not unlike the exact flavor of potato chips and how to talk to children, and she’d even appreciated the sting in her eyes.

It’d taken eight minutes and forty-one seconds, as per her official Goddard chart, before the panic set in. Before the water stopped feeling like water, and all she knew was that she was floating, and if she was floating she must’ve been back in space, back on the Hephaestus, and if she was on the station then she wasn’t safe, and-

Nine minutes. A new record, said the Goddard tech who was observing her. Most former astronauts don’t even make it to five.

“Maybe later,” Isabel says. As long as her feet are on the ground, she should be fine.

“She can sit with me,” someone says, off to one side. It’s the man with the sleeping baby, still watching them. He has one hand resting on the baby’s back, and he looks relaxed, but his eyes are as sharp as anything she’s ever seen. “If you want.”

Isabel nods slowly. “I think I’d like that.”

Mace reaches out and brushes some sand off one of Isabel’s knees, leaving his hand to rest on her thigh. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Isabel repeats, and looks back at the twins. “Sam. Kuan.” She has to take a deep breath, because fuck, even that is hard to say, isn’t it? How does Mace do it every day? “It was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Kuan says, very seriously. Just like any kid trying to pretend to be a grown-up. It reminds her of Hui, of her Kuan.

“Are you gonna still be Daddy’s friend?” Sam asks. “Because you look like a good friend.”

A good friend. A good captain who lost her crew and barely scraped out with her second crew. A good person trying to say her goodbyes.

“I will be his friend,” she says. It’s too awkward and stilted for a kid but it’s all she can manage. Friends are hard to come by these days.

Mace squeezes her leg and gets to his feet. “Who’s ready to go in the ocean!”

The twins both scream in excitement, and Isabel glances back at the man who is most certainly Corey. “You mind if I bring my things over?”

“Course not,” Corey says, amiable as anything. “Although I hope you don’t mind that I’m going to be asking you a few questions.”

Isabel smiles faintly. None of them talked about Their People Back Home too often, at least not in the first few hundred days, but she still remembers Mace talking about his boyfriend. He used to say Corey was smart. And suspicious. She can see that already.

As soon as she settles in next to him, Corey points out towards the water. “I had to come to Sydney for a work conference. It was Mace’s idea to make a trip out of it and bring the kids, and he’s been wrangling all three of them by himself for most of the week.”

Isabel follows where he’s pointing. Mace is in the shallows of the ocean, each twin holding his hand. Every time a wave comes in, no matter how small, they all try to jump over it. She can hear the twins shrieking and laughing, and Mace laughing with them. “How old are they?”

“They turned four last month.” Corey smiles faintly. “He was self-conscious about the name thing. Originally it was going to be Samuel Kuan, and then we found out we’d be adopting twins.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Of course. My boyfriend comes back from space, from the actual dead, and says he wants to name the kids after the people he lost? What kind of a person would say no?”

Isabel nods, and looks at the baby still asleep on Corey’s chest. “She’s quiet.”

Corey snorts and strokes the baby’s - Izzy’s back, smiling down at her. “Tired herself out screaming earlier.”

“I hear that babies do that.”

“You have no idea.”

“How did he come back?”

“We’re still not sure,” Corey admits, and looks back out towards Mace and the twins. “He says the last thing he remembers is getting knocked off the station by a meteor, and then next thing he knows he’s back on the station two years later with nobody but that doctor of yours there.”

Something cold creeps up Isabel’s spine. “And what did the good doctor do?”

“Lied to everyone who came to rescue them.”

“Lied?”

“Said that there was some kind of misunderstanding, that Mace had been with them the whole time in a coma.” Corey shakes his head. “They made it back to Earth and Selburg disappeared. Mace looks for him sometimes.”

“That’s good of him,” Isabel says, because it is. Even if Hilbert doesn’t deserve a damn good thing anymore. Even if he infected Mace with Decima for the sake of research, for some greater good that turned out to be no good at all. Maybe it was his penance, bringing Mace back to Earth. After all, he knew the theta scenario. He probably knew there was no point in running experiments on an alien.

“You don’t sound like you mean it.” Corey looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Do you know how he came back?”

Isabel exhales. “I do.”

Corey takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to ask you to explain, but Mace will.”

“I know.”

“And be careful, when you do. Whatever it is, he already has questions.”

“What kind of questions?

“Doctors have been saying he’s in peak condition for the last five years. They also keep saying that he breaks some of their equipment.”

Psi waves, Isabel thinks. Psi waves, or alien biology, or one of those other things that Pryce and Cutter went on and on about.

Because he’s like her.

“I’ll be careful,” she says, and turns away from Corey’s eyes, back towards the shoreline. One of the twins jumps too high and crashes to his knees in the water. Mace lets go of his hand, just long enough to scoop him up and balance him on his hip. “I’ll tell him the truth, if he asks, but I’m not going to scare him away or anything.”

“Good,” Corey says quietly. “And I know we’ve never met before, but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Isabel quirks a smile. “Thanks. I’m glad he came back to you.”

“Me too,” Corey murmurs. Mace picks up the other twin now, holding them both carefully, like it’s nothing. Like he was made to hold them. “Me too.”

 #

 Mace and Corey have to leave first, because when you have three kids you need to feed them lunch. They leave Isabel with Mace’s phone number, Corey’s number in case Mace’s phone dies, and a small collection of seashells that Kuan picked out for her.

(“I didn’t get her anything,” Sam whispers, looking absolutely horrified, and then proceeds to dump a child-size fistful of sand on each of Isabel’s thighs. “Is mud good for your skin?”

Mace, who’s reapplying sunscreen on Kuan, takes one look at Isabel’s face and laughs so hard that he has to sit down.)

And then they’re gone, and it’s Isabel, by herself on a beach. Just like she wanted.

The breeze keeps blowing. The air still tastes like salt. The waves keep crashing on the sand. There are still families around, but a few have filtered out, probably to go to lunch or school or whatever else families in Sydney have to do. Maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe they’re just passing through. Maybe she’s just passing through, although she’s not sure where exactly she’ll go after this. She still has that list: Reykjavik for Victoire, Honolulu for Kuan, Sao Paulo and Quebec and Copenhagen and San Francisco for Sam. Disneyland. New York. Boston.

She doesn’t remember getting to her feet, but the next thing she knows she’s standing in the shallows. The water’s around her ankles, lapping against her calves, gritty with sand and salt. It feels good. It’s grounding.

She’s holding her cell phone. Slowly, she punches in the numbers and holds her breath.

Renee picks up on the second ring. “Hey! I was just about to call you, I got a package from Goddard today. Apparently they archived all of your crew’s old logs on analog recorders. Less of a chance of a hacker accidentally finding some of Goddard’s dirty laundry. Hera and Dom are going to try and convert them to digital for you, although you can always come pick them up in person.”

Isabel swallows. The world seems too bright, suddenly. She’s not used to the sunlight, she might never be used to the sunlight again, she spent seven years in deep space and she was dead for three of those. Or maybe she was only alive for two of them.

She remembers Lambert’s voice. Or maybe she just remembers a ghost of it. It’d be another thing, another thing entirely, to have his logs. Or to have him in front of her. The way Mace was.

“Isabel?” Renee says cautiously. “Are you there?”

“There’s a baby here named after me,” Isabel says abruptly. It seems like the easiest entry point.

Renee goes quiet. Isabel takes the opportunity to lower herself so she’s sitting in the water. She’d forgotten what sand felt like, but it’s the kind of muddy sand that’s easy to bury your toes in. She has one foot halfway covered in mud when Renee finally says, cautiously, “We’ve only been back for two months.”

“I know.”

“That’s not enough time for that to happen.”

“She was adopted.”

“Who adopted her?”

“Mace Fisher, from my old crew.”

Another silence. This one only lasts long enough for Isabel to get the toes of her other foot into the sand, before: “Is there some kind of an explanation for this?”

“I think it’s another theta scenario.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m sure of it, because the only other option is that I just vividly hallucinated a two-hour encounter with five people, only one of whom I’d ever met before.”

“Who were the other four?”

“His partner and kids.”

“You never met them?”

“Never had the chance. Kids are all under the age of four anyways. For all I know-” Isabel swallows, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that her voice cracked. For all she knows it was just wishful thinking.

Renee sighs noisily. “Did you look them up on Facebook?”

“What?”

“Facebook. Finding a profile page to see if you were imagining them.”

Isabel blinks. “No.”

“Alrighty then,” Renee says briskly. It’s kind of a comfort: all business, no question of what it means if Isabel is seeing things, just another fact-finding mission. Isabel can hear her tap a few buttons, and then: “Hera, you busy?”

“No,” Hera says immediately. “No, I’m- Isabel! You hung up so fast earlier, was everything okay?”

“I ran into one of my old crew members,” Isabel says, as no-nonsense as she possibly can. Renee’s certainly not fooled, but Hera just might be, if she plays her cards right. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“We’re looking for a Facebook page,” Renee explains. “Or some other kind of social media.”

“Ooooh, finally, something interesting!”

Isabel grins. She can’t see Renee, all the way in Massachusetts, but she can still imagine Renee grinning back at her. “I don’t have a lot for you to go on,” she warns. “His name is Mason Fisher, and his partner’s name is Corey.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Occupation?”

“Corey’s a history teacher, or at least he was seven years ago. Mace was in the military.”

“Anything else?”

“They have three kids, Sam, Kuan, and Izzy.”

“And they live in Australia?”

“Yes. Although I’m not sure where.”

Hera hums to herself. “You sure like to give a girl a challenge, I’ll tell you that. And my first Facebook search isn’t picking up anything.”

Isabel’s heart hiccups in her throat. “Nothing?”

“Not yet, but I started with all the parameters in place and I’m broadening the search as we go.”

“Try the other sites too,” Renee suggests. “Twitter, or Instagram, or whatever people are using these days.”

“I’m already running those too,” Hera says. Isabel knows that tone of voice. It’s the “I don’t want to tell you my systems are failing, but they are” voice. “I’m still not seeing anything. And I’m running Corey with an E-Y, Cory with just a Y, I’m putting K’s in there-”

“Have you tried LinkedIn?” a new voice says. “If they’re trying to fly under the radar, which they very well might be, they won’t be on Facebook, but most professionals are on there these days.”

“Oooh,” Renee says softly. “Good one, Dom.”

“Thank you. Hi, Isabel.”

“Hi, Dominik.”

“Are you still in Thailand?” Dominik asks, sounding completely unbothered by the fact that his wife’s best friend is searching for evidence of someone who might not exist. Isabel likes that about him. He takes everything in stride.

“Australia, actually.”

“Staying in the warm half of the world, I see.”

Isabel snorts. “Yeah, it’s great, it’s always sunny in Sydney.”

“Oh, god,” Renee mutters. “You know, it’s crazy to say this, but I’m still not used to the sun. Like, the actual sun, you know what I mean? Heat that isn’t from a vent, light that isn’t from a bulb…”

“Or a star outside the window,” Isabel adds. “And isn’t blue.”

“Isn’t blue!” Renee snaps her fingers. “I keep expecting everything to be blue!”

“And way colder.”

“God, way colder. And I keep forgetting about gravity.”

Isabel laughs, a little more wetly than she intends, but she can’t help it. “Earlier today I was lying on the beach, reading a book, and I went to put the book down-”

“Oh, no,” Renee laughs, like she’s already figured out the punchline to the joke. Or already lived it out a dozen times over.

“Except, of course, I just let go of it, and it fell-” Isabel smacks her knee with one hand. “Right into my solar plexus.”

Dom chuckles. “Hopefully it wasn’t too heavy.”

“Eh, just an airport paperback. Heaviest thing about it was the main character’s tragic backstory.” She sighs. “Worst part was that I cursed loudly on a public beach and almost woke up a sleeping baby, but-”

“Check your phone,” Hera says suddenly. “Is this him?”

Isabel pulls her phone away from her ear and looks at it. The message from Hera opens on its own, as messages from Hera are wont to do. It’s a professional headshot, much cleaner and more put-together than he’d been on the beach.

“Yeah,” Isabel says, a little winded. “That’s Corey.”

“Awesome,” Hera says, clearly relieved. “Corey Rapp, that’s C-O-R-E-Y, has a LinkedIn profile, thank you, Dominik. He’s still a history teacher at a secondary school north of Sydney. Government records show he adopted twins about four years ago and a daughter last year, like you said. No evidence of a spouse or partner, at least not on the record, but knowing what Goddard’s like, that doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t look like Corey has a Facebook or anything under his own name.”

“Neither do I,” Renee points out. “If anything that makes them smart. Means they’re watching out.”

“Good choice,” Dominik murmurs. Isabel agrees, would say as much if she could remember how to breathe.

Mace is here. He’s alive, more than six years after he died, and he’s also definitely an alien. She’s going to have to tell him. Maybe Corey, too, depending on how Mace takes it. She’s not the only one in the world, and somehow, that’s worse than if she were alone. At least if it were just her she wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

“Lovelace,” Renee says quietly.

Isabel blinks. Her skin is hot. Right. Sunlight. Beach. She’s here. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Hera and Dom left,” Renee says cautiously. “You kinda went dark for a minute there. Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not really.”

“How about things you don’t want to talk about?”

“Oh, there are way more of those, don’t worry.”

“I’d be more worried if there weren’t,” Renee admits. “So. You found your alien crewmate who survived the most unlikely series of events that any human has experienced.”

“You really think that’s more unlikely than what we went through?”

“Eh.” Isabel can picture the accompanying shrug, almost jokingly nonchalant. “It’s gotta be on the list, right? Anything involving aliens is… up there.”

“Oh, up there,” Isabel mutters, and Renee makes a soft noise that somehow sounds like a smile. “How’s Doug?”

“Definitely the most well-adjusted out of all of us.”

“Hera said he got a job?”

“He works the night shift at Olive Garden. Customers love him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Renee says, and then goes quiet, and Isabel feels… bad, for a few seconds. She’d been with Renee and Doug for a while, but what they’d had, the casual trust and the years of determination to survive, was irreplaceable. Doug-and-Renee is never going to be the same as Eiffel-and-Minkowski.

“How about you?” Isabel asks, and then kind of wants to kick herself. That’s not necessarily a better talking point.

Renee hums. “Better than I’ve been. Dom and I decided I can’t go back to the military, what with being legally dead, so I’ve been trying to put together the case against Goddard.”

“By yourself?”

“With Hera, sometimes.”

“So by yourself.”

“Mostly,” Renee admits. “I was going to wait for you to come back, but…”

But this trip was supposed to take two weeks, tops, and Isabel hasn’t come back yet. But she has a second list of places to visit. But now she found somewhere else that she could stay for a while. But you can’t plan on someone who might not come back, don’t you know that by now, Captain?

“I’ll help once I’m back,” Isabel says, which she figures is the most honest thing she can say. When she’s ready she’s going to burn Goddard to the ground. Which reminds her: “Have you heard anything from Jacobi?”

“Not yet.”

“And you haven’t tracked him down?”

“Isabel,” Renee chides. “He’s an adult, he’s not my responsibility, and if his way of handling it is leaving, then I’m not here to judge him for it.”

“So that’s a no,” Isabel says, and grins when Renee groans. “He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I know. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Fisher’s alive,” Renee says, like Isabel could have possibly forgotten. “You’re not the only theta scenario. You’re in another new country by yourself. Take your pick. I have a couple reasons to be worried here.”

And Isabel thinks about it, actually thinks about it. It’d be easy to lie, sure, but Renee would know, and she figures if they’re in this whole space trauma business together she might as well be honest.

She pulls one of her feet out of the sand, sticking it into the water. “I'm coping,” she says slowly. “It’s early yet in the process. I think I might be going through the opposite of the five stages of grief.”

“Is that going through the stages in backwards order or experiencing the opposite of each stage?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thinking you were hallucinating could be a form of denial,” Renee says, far too thoughtful. “Or the opposite of acceptance? Is that how it works?”

“I don’t know, shrinks gave up on me, remember?” Isabel’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she glances at the screen. “Mace is calling me.”

“Then answer!”

“Okay,” Isabel says, and then, “Thank you.”

Renee doesn’t ask what she’s thanking her for. She’s smart like that. “Any time. Time zones don’t matter, just call.”

“I will,” Isabel says. It’s not quite a lie. “Talk to you soon, Renee.”

“Talk to you soon, Isabel.”

Isabel swipes over to answer. “Mace.”

“Isabel,” Mace says brightly. She almost doesn’t catch the note of surprise. “I realized I forgot to ask how long you’re in Sydney.”

“Until I leave.”

“No dates?”

“Well, you know, international travel gets a lot easier when a multibillion dollar company is footing the bill.”

“Huh,” Mace says. “Well, if you’re not busy tonight-”

“Isabel,” Renee says, sounding far too amused, and Isabel almost jumps out of her skin in surprise. “You didn’t hang up on me.”

Isabel frowns. “Apparently not. Did I make it a conference call?”

“You’re still not used to the new phone,” Renee says smugly, which is completely unfair. Phones have changed a lot in seven years, and Isabel is entitled to a few moments of staggering confusion. “That’s okay, you know.”

“Took me a while to get used to it too,” Mace says, in what’s probably supposed to be a sympathy move. “Touch screens and all.”

“You must be Mace Fisher,” Renee says, and Isabel’s breath catches. It’s so outrageously her, making a point of acknowledging that she can hear the person on the other end of the phone. “I’m Renee Minkowski. Former commander of the final mission to the USS Hephaestus Station, which is currently space dust.”

“Can’t say I’m sad to hear about that,” Mace admits. “And Captain, you owe me… so many explanations for all of that.”

“Many, many explanations,” Isabel agrees. “I can pay for drinks too.”

“I’ll leave you two to make plans now.” Renee pauses, and Isabel can feel the smugness from thousands of miles away. It’s strangely comforting. “Isabel, don’t worry, I can hang up on my own.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Isabel says as dryly as possible. “I’ll call you soon, Renee.”

“You’d better,” Renee says, and then there’s a soft beep.

Isabel exhales. “So. Drinks?”

“I probably shouldn’t leave my hotel, if Corey’s alone with the kids, but-”

“Hotel bar?”

“Hotel bar. I’ll send you the address.”

“Let me know when it’s a good time to come.”

“I will.” Mace pauses. “So, we can talk about this later, but…”

“But?”

“Renee, hm?”

Isabel groans. “Mace.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Come on.”

“No, I’m just saying, you sounded happy to talk to her.”

“That’s because I was.”

“Good,” Mace says, sounding pleased. “I have to run now, I just wanted to call and check.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’ll see you tonight, Mace.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he echoes, and then there’s that soft beep again, and Isabel’s alone on the beach.

One of her feet is still buried in the sand. Carefully, she wiggles her toes. The mud squishes between them. It almost tickles, and she can feel some of the sand dissolving in the water. The shallows are still lapping around her, against her hips, her thighs, one hand that she plants in the sand while she cradles her phone in the other.

There was a point where she thought she’d never make it back to a beach. She hadn’t been to many beaches before space, and definitely not many with actual oceans. The Air Force isn’t exactly interested in destination resorts, after all. But here she is. Sitting on a beach in Sydney.

Isabel swirls her hand through the water, letting the sand cloud around her. She never thought she would feel sand again. Or sun. Or the sheer gratitude of knowing that someone else made it out alive. She has another list, one that’s been getting longer: things she’s getting to experience again. Maybe for the first time, depending how you look at it.

Sydney is bright in the summer. There are people waiting for her in Boston, and a list of cities she has to visit. There’s a stack of books on the beach, next to her backpack, underneath an umbrella. She should go back to those and make some kind of progress, or at the very least make sure nobody takes her book before she can finish it.

She stays in the ocean, just a little longer. It’s not every day that she gets the chance.

[tipsycad147]

Tarot myths debunked! Nine "rules" of Tarot you can (mostly) ignore

by Michelle Gruben

As soon as you delve into the world of Tarot, you encounter a bunch of do-this, don't-do-that warnings and prescriptions about how to use the cards. (Why, it's almost as if we were dealing with something magical, not just 78 pictures on cardstock!) Some of these superstitions undoubtedly have a grain of truth in them, while others are just baloney dipped in snake oil. Now, for your amusement and your edification, Madame Michelle will feed each “should” and “shouldn’t” into the Truth-O-Matic Machine (i.e., her brain!) and declare a verdict.

You shouldn't read Tarot for yourself.

Mary Greer put a stake in this old truism with her groundbreaking 1984 book, defiantly titled Tarot for Your Self. Her Tarot method is based on the premise that Tarot is a mirror of the human psyche, and that relying on a reader to interpret your cards makes no more sense than asking someone else to explain your dreams.

These days, Tarot has become as mainstream as the Mississippi—we have weekend workshops, decks to suit every persuasion, and shelves of tarot books that owe more to 1970s self-help literature than to the Western esoteric tradition.   The more accessible Tarot becomes, the fewer people believe that reading the cards is the provenance of a gifted few. And even professional cartomancers have to learn somewhere—usually, by reading for themselves.

That’s not to say that it’s easy to do Tarot divination for yourself. The potential for self-deception is high. Accurate readings call for a clear head and an impartial attitude—easier said than done when it’s your burning question on the table. But with some practice, you can cultivate the necessary detachment to be your own best Tarot reader. Learn to distinguish the whining voice of worry and desire from the subtle whisper of intuition. And be ready to get a second opinion when your well-calibrated bullshit detector starts beeping.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Yeah, but…no.

Using Tarot cards is dangerous.

Well, it depends on what your definition of danger is, doesn’t it? If you believe that opening a deck of Tarot cards is going to unleash a frenzied horde of demons that will drag you kicking and screaming into the dark world of the occult, then you need a reality check. If, however, you're worried that diving into Tarot will change your perceptions, scramble your priorities, and launch you into a lifelong obsession, then your fears are entirely justified.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Maybe.

Don't let anyone else touch your cards.

This warning is based on the assumption that a Tarot deck collects and stores the psychic energy of the reader. When another person handles the deck, according to this idea, their energy scrambles, contaminates, or wipes away this accumulation of energy, making the deck less attuned to its owner.

Most readers I know do have a “professional” deck which many clients will handle, and another deck(s) reserved for their personal use. But their concerns are usually mundane—germy, grimy, or clumsy hands fondling a treasured deck, or cards going missing during a long evening of giving readings in low light. Bad vibes are really a non-issue. A Tarot reader who is skilled enough to detect psychic imprints left on their deck will easily be able to give it a good cleansing before the next use.

Not only that, but readers who allow the querent to handle their cards give better readings than people who bogart the deck. Passing the cards back and forth facilitates the exchange of energy that allows information to flow more freely during the reading. Not only that, allowing the querent to shuffle, cut, and/or draw cards is a great way to keep the person actively involved in the reading. We've all experienced the client who wants to sit passively on their side of the table while the all-knowing Tarot reader tells them exactly what fate has in store for them. Blech. Letting the querent choose their own cards from the deck gives them a greater sense of control over their destiny, and perhaps encourages them to take positive steps after the reading is over. Also, many people are nervous about having their cards read, and keeping their hands busy helps allay those jitters.

On a side note, my permissive attitude about Tarot-sharing doesn't go for other magical tools. I'll let any curious person thumb through my Tarot cards, but I'm choosy about who, if anyone, gets to see my scrying crystal or athame. To make an analogy, I'll happily lend a sweater or scarf to a friend, but not my lucky undies. (And shame on you for even asking, Mark.)

Truth-O-Matic reading: Nah.

Don’t buy a used Tarot deck.

A corollary to the above, this caveat is also based on worries about psychic contamination. There’s nothing wrong with buying a pre-loved deck (as long as you make sure all the cards are there). Just cleanse the used deck according to a method you trust, dedicate it to your purposes, and have fun reading it. Shunning used cards makes trees sad!

Incidentally, I’ve found that plenty of readers actually prefer vintage decks. They’re usually easier to shuffle, and may have acquired a patina of incense smoke and hand crud that newly-minted cards just can’t match. (And, if you’re seeking a rare or out-of-print deck, you may have no choice but to acquire it secondhand.) Of course, if you favor a crisp deck that’s never been read by anyone else, that’s fine too.  

Truth-O-Matic reading: Whatever floats your boat.

You should “reset” the deck by putting the cards back in order after each use.

This myth must be perpetuated by those folks who mistake their OCD for some kind of special magical sensitivity. I’m pretty sure the only people who follow this rule are Tarot dilettantes who read the cards once a year on their birthday. A pro would never undertake the Sisyphean task of “resetting” the deck after every spread. Sorting the cards and placing them back in their proper sequence can be a relaxing, meditative activity—but it's by no means necessary. A good shuffle or two to mix in the cards from the last reading is all the maintenance a Tarot deck requires.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Oh hell no.

You can't purchase your first Tarot deck—it has to be received as a gift.

Try as I might, I haven't been able to track down the origin of the idea that it’s somehow improper or inauspicious to buy your own Tarot deck. An acquaintance of mine who comes from a Romani (Gypsy) family tells me that this is one of their customs. To wait to be given a deck for card-reading exemplifies patience, humility, and a true calling—while buying one for yourself signifies vanity.

The prohibition against buying your own deck may also be a legacy of the 19th-century occult societies. Before the publication of the Rider-Waite deck made the Tarot images widely available, knowledge of the Tarot would have been mainly conveyed from initiate to aspirant. In the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, for instance, the Tarot Trumps and their “true” meanings were treated as a powerful secret. Members built on their knowledge of the Tarot in stages, as they progressed from grade to grade. Each initiate was expected to make his or her own Tarot deck from a master copy (probably painted by Moina Mathers) upon achieving the grade of Adeptus Minor.

These days, of course, there are few secrets left in the occult world, and self-initiation is the norm. So, go ahead and buy your own Tarot deck—I’m sure the powers that be have better things to do than to hang out at Barnes and Noble punishing Tarot interlopers. Besides, if you’re a Tarot beginner waiting for someone to guess that you want a Tarot deck and to buy it for you, you might be waiting for a long time. Just choose a deck that appeals to you, as long as it’s Rider-Waite (Kidding! Sort of.), and dive right in.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Piffle.

Beware the Death card!

We can thank Hollywood for this one. It’s a B-movie cliché that any character who gets this card won’t live until the credits roll.

As every single beginning Tarot book points out, drawing Death does not necessarily portend someone’s impending demise. It signifies change—often positive change. But let’s not be tempted to de-fang (de-scythe?) this card completely. The change it speaks of can still be dramatic, scary, and presently unwelcome. When drawn, it’s a wake-up call to embrace the flux within and around us, and to face the inevitable. In recent years, with the trend toward Tarot for self-development, the pendulum has arguably swung too far the other way. Now, instead of “Death” we get “Transformation,” “Renewal,” “End of Cycle,” and other polysyllabic affirmation-speak. O Death, where is thy sting? Why dost thou blatherest on so?

Truth-O-Matic reading: Don't fear the reaper (but don't ignore him, either).

Don’t ask the same question twice.

“Does this shirt look okay on me?”

“Mmmph.”

“No, really, how does this shirt look?”

“It's a little tight—”

“Aw, c'mon, don't you like my new shirt? I got it on sale.”

“It looks fine.”

And then, because you asked the same question too many times, you leave the house looking like a stack of donuts wrapped in Spandex.

The danger is not that the Tarot will punish you for your impudence—that's superstition. No, the danger is in finally hearing what you want to hear, rather than what you need to hear, and making poorer decisions because of it. It's hard enough to keep your hopes and biases out of a reading without giving yourself multiple spreads to choose from. Didn't get a clear answer the first time? Some readers will keep the spread in place and draw additional cards for clarification, but even that practice has its pitfalls. (Do you really not understand the answer, or are you just angling for cards you like better?)

You may have also noticed that the cards are, for lack of a better term, impatient with persistent needling on one question. Ever try for a re-do and get the same answer phrased a different way? Or even the same exact cards? That's the Tarot gods trying to clue you in—the answer you've received is the right one, so take it or leave it. Persist in fishing, and the tone sometimes turns a little nasty.

Of course, there are times when you may want to do a follow-up reading on a question that has been asked in the past. But that's recommended only after some time has elapsed, and only then if the situation is actively evolving.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Mostly true.

Sleeping with your Tarot deck under your pillow will enhance your bond with the cards.

Now isn't this just like one of these lazy-ass New Age fluffy-bunny ideas: “To become a Tarot master, all you have to do is take lots of naps!” No, sorry. I’ve tried the osmosis method, and it doesn’t work. The only way to become familiar with the Tarot images is too look at them, read them, read about them, and read them some more—preferably at regular intervals, and across several decades. If exploring the cards in dreams is your objective, you’ll probably have more luck if you to choose an image to meditate on before bed. However, if you happen to like the corner of a cardboard box poking you in the cheeks all night, then be my guest.

If it’s a bond with the physical deck that you crave, the best way to connect with your cards is to handle them—handle them a lot, until your cards smell like your hands and your hands smell like cards.

Bend ‘em and scuff ‘em up until the edges are all soft and you can shuffle with your eyes closed. Mentally acquaint yourself with the texture and dimensions, so that picking up your deck feels as comfortable as sliding into your favorite T-shirt.

Will taking your deck to bed imprint it with your personal energy? Yeah, I guess so, a little. But folks who practice psychometry (the art of reading vibes from objects) generally agree that paper is a poor conductor of psychic energy, compared to non-organic materials like metal or stone. So the energy clinging to a Tarot deck may not feel as potent or last as long as with other tools. Still, if you want to infuse your cards with your personal energy, you can do that with a ritual or visualization. I recommend charging them purposefully and consciously, rather than soaking them in the psychic equivalent of pillowcase drool.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Hmmph.

This article is excerpted from the book Tarot Tangents, or Little Essays Toward Thoth.

https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/77236103-tarot-myths-debunked-nine-rules-of-tarot-you-can-mostly-ignore

[anotherblackharrie]

Dissonance and Consonance- November (Thanksgiving)

Hey, kids! So I wrote a zarry fic 38,000 years ago, and I remembered there’s a Thanksgiving scene. I decided to edit it a little and post it here. I haven’t posted anything in so long, oh wow. Enjoy? 

**The gif is not mine, and consider this as me giving credit to whoever it belongs to!

They keep it casual. No official names. No titles. They’re two beings simply together, only testing their limits, seeing where this goes, whatever this is. But Zayn realizes that’s the dangerous thing about Harry Styles. He’s so unattainable, always just out of reach, like rushing water through fingers, but Zayn’s got him. Zayn of all people got Harry. It’s laughable, but now that he’s gotten a taste, he doesn’t know if he can let Harry go. He’s like a bad habit to an addict, fresh air to the senses.

But it took no time before Zayn’s I became their we. Zayn and Harry. Harry and Zayn. Their mornings, noons, and nights, their everyday, were all wrapped up in each other. He can hardly believe it.

-

Zayn sits on a stool at the counter in Harry’s kitchen, his feet swinging back and worth as he watches him.

Harry’s been busy and moving around the large space since Zayn arrived. He mixes and measures, pours and stirs. He’s hardly spoken a word to Zayn, and Zayn can’t help but to smile at the fact that this is the most dressed down he’s ever seen Harry. His hair is in a careless bun, white t-shirt and sweatpants on. Somehow, it makes him look more real, like he’s actually only human after all. He’s covered in flour, a newly placed streak going across his cheek as he rolls out the piecrust from scratch.

And Zayn continues to observe as Harry goes through the motions. He takes his crust and carefully lines the tin sitting near the stove. He swears under his breath, just narrowly saving the bowl of filling from sliding off of the counter. Harry takes great pride in that filling, Zayn could tell from the way he bragged about making it from scratch too. With a spatula, he scrapes the contents out of the bowl onto the piecrust. He’s concentrated, brows furrowed, and focus drawn solely to perfecting the task at hand. He looks beautifully domestic. And Zayn’s dream begins to shift. No longer does he wonder what it would be like to kiss and hold Harry, but looking at him as he is now, he wonders what it would be like to come home to this. It’s premature, Zayn knows it, but Harry looks so natural. And Zayn is helpless.

“Have you always had a knack for baking?” Zayn asks, despite himself.

Harry glances up at him, his features relaxing before looking back down again. He smooths out the pie filling with steady hands now that it’s all in the tin. “I used to be a baker back in Holmes Chapel,” He says. “Or I worked at a bakery, I should say. I use the term baker very loosely.” Harry smiles as he picks up the uncooked pie and turns towards the preheated oven, placing it carefully on the middle rack.

“Well, as fun as it was watching you make a pie, it would have been more interesting if you were wearing an apron.” Zayn says. “Only an apron.”

Harry laughs, genuine and surprisingly high. He dries his hands on a nearby towel before sliding his rings back on into their rightful place. “Yeah?” He steps around the counter towards Zayn.

“Yeah.” He turns to face Harry with a wide smile, who’s now standing between his legs.

“Take a shower with me, then? Hopefully I can make it up to you.” Harry gives that crooked grin that trapped Zayn four long years ago before Harry even knew he existed, the grin Zayn knew, without a doubt, was Harry’s get of jail free card. And the way Harry leans in, pressing a kiss to Zayn’s lips, as if he somehow knows there’s no way Zayn’ll refuse him.

Zayn hums a chuckle against his lips. “No, we’re going to be late,” He mutters between kisses.

“No one’s going to miss us,” Harry disputes, attempting to kiss Zayn deeper.

Zayn pushes him away playfully before he finds himself in a situation he knows he’ll be unable to refuse. “Harry. I don’t want to be late to my first, real Thanksgiving dinner,” He swats Harry’s hands away, which are creeping dangerously up his thighs. He points adamantly towards the stairs. “Go.”

“Fine.” He presses one last kiss and turns away. “Don’t go anywhere,” Harry calls behind him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Zayn says, and he means it.

-

They’re late regardless.

Zayn climbs out of Harry’s car, careful not to drop the pie as he closes the door with his foot. Hinsdale, Illinois, is about forty-five minutes away from Northwestern University, where Danielle’s family lives and so graciously invited a bunch of British boys to celebrate an American tradition.

Harry walks up beside him, holding out his hand for Zayn to take it. He immediately tenses up, his breath catching in his throat.

This is what it meant to be with someone, boy or otherwise. But Zayn’s not out, despite what happened at the Halloween party. His family had no clue about Harry. The only people who knew about them were their closest friends, per Zayn’s request, and here they are. They’re about to enter into Danielle’s parents’ house, complete strangers, as whatever Harry and Zayn are.

It clicks. “I’m sorry, it’s just a habit,” Harry awkwardly drops his hand to his side.

“Don’t be sorry,” Zayn grins at him reassuringly. “Got to keep both hands on this pie you worked so hard on.” He adds lamely.

They walk up to the two-story brick house quietly. With the hand that contains a bottle of red wine, Harry rings the doorbell. Just on the other side, Zayn can hear laughing and talking, merriment carrying on without them.

The door swings open, revealing a smiling woman, who embodies the same girlish charm as Danielle. She’s mid laugh, entertaining a joke that neither Harry nor Zayn had heard.

“You two must be Harry and Zayn,” She gives an amused sigh.

“Yes, ma’am, we are,” Harry gives a dazzling smile, and Zayn just looks over at him with entertained disbelief. He’d charm his way out of speeding ticket if he could.

“None of that ma’am stuff, call me Georganne,” She says, waving her finger at him. “Come on inside.”

When they step in, the aroma of what Zayn assumes is Thanksgiving hits him, and god, does it smell good. Something about the atmosphere puts him at gentle ease. It reminds him of family, the one thing he’s gone so long without. And though he can’t immediately see them as he follows Georganne and Harry deeper into the house, he hears people laughing and talking. There’s an American football game on somewhere, and Zayn knows it’s only a matter of time before he loses Harry.

But for now, Zayn and Harry round the corner behind Danielle’s mum to see the whole gang is there. Louis is talking to Niall, both of them with a beer in their hands. Danielle is standing next to Louis with his arm looped around her shoulder. They’re undoubtedly talking shit about each other’s sports teams, their respective friend groups blending seamlessly. Liam is talking to Sophia, who Zayn was honestly surprised to see. Last thing Zayn knew, their on again, off again relationship was currently off.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Niall’s the first to comment on their arrival. “We were beginning to starve here.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Zayn says as he sits the pie on the kitchen counter.

“What held you guys up, anyway?” Louis takes a swig from his beer.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Harry says, winking at him and handing over the bottle of wine to Georganne.

“Nothing happened,” Zayn interjects quickly and shoots Harry a look, not sure if Danielle’s mum heard or what she might’ve thought. “The pie just took a little longer to finish baking. That’s all.”

“Watch yourself, Styles. You’re new around here,” Louis points at Harry with the neck of the beer bottle, glaring at him jokingly.

-

They’re passing around dishes, scooping this and that onto their plates. There are the assumed basics: turkey and veggies. But there are definitely things that Zayn doesn’t recognize. There are sweet potatoes, it appears, with marshmallow on top. There’s another thing  that looks a lot like cornbread, but he isn’t sure what it actually is. He thinks he hears someone call it stuffing or maybe dressing. He has no clue what to do with the glob of cranberry sauce sitting on a platter.

“Don’t worry,” Harry leans next to him and whispers. “It’s all good, I promise. Except the sweet potatoes, they’re a bit weird.”

“Thank you,” He whispers back, forever grateful Harry isn’t going to let him drown on his own.

“So, what are we all thankful for?” Georganne asks. “Danielle, you start.”

One by one they make their way around the table, each person giving a little speech. Some more serious than others. Some a little more heartfelt, others done with little thought. And after each and every person, Zayn gets more and more nervous. He hates this. He hates this. He hates this. He thinks of things to say, crosses them out mentally and tries again, until he think he finds something worth sharing, but it too eventually gets chopped.

“Well first and foremost, I am thankful that the Packers are having a good season. Go Packs go,” Harry starts. This prompts laughs and boos from Mr. Campbell and Danielle’s younger brother. “But seriously, I’m thankful for the people I’ve met this year. I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some amazing people since I’ve been at Northwestern, but nothing quite like the people I’m sharing this meal with.”

Harry gets a round of applause and a few taunts from Louis. It’s a sweet moment.

And then it’s Zayn’s turn. He swallows hard.

“Uh, I’m like grateful for interruptions.” Zayn says. It’s the first thing to come to mind, and he immediately wishes he could take it back. The people in the room look at him, confused and trying to politely make sense of it while they smile at him uncertainly. His heart picks up speed, his lungs feeling tighter. He clears his throat, ignoring just how dry his mouth has gone. “What I mean is like...I don’t often stray from like my own lane. I’m not a person to go out and risk something, anything really, because even if the outcome is good, there’s still the chance that it will go very, very wrong. But then you meet a person who just kind of like interrupts you, quite literally. They stop you in your tracks. Change your course.  They make you see things that you never would’ve seen, and they make you experience things you never could’ve dreamed of.” Zayn dares to look over at Harry with a shy smile, purposeful and pointed. “And that’s what I’m thankful for.”

Danielle has her hand over her heart, clutching at her chest. Liam, Sophia, and Louis are all smiling at Zayn, because they know. Georganne starts a slow applause that slowly builds with everyone joining in. Zayn ducks his head, smiling sheepishly. Harry grabs his hand underneath the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s enough.

“I don’t think I can follow after that,” Niall says to their right, and everyone laughs.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

To Be or not to Be

It’s the weirdest thing when you meet your former best friend, and you have nothing in common any more.

Bonnie was at the shopping mall to grab a new book. She loved spending her weekends curled up in a blanket, reading a good story while drinking a hot tea, only stopping for the occasional food, bathroom, or vinyl break.

Her professor had left early today because she had been having a migraine attack, which left the afternoon of most English Literature students at the university, including Bonnie, wide open.

Her mind occupied with what book to buy and what ice cream to complement it with, Bonnie didn’t even see the young man who had stepped in her way until she almost ran into him.

“Got any change?” he asked.

Without looking at him, Bonnie replied, “Not really. I prefer spending the little money I have via credit card. It seems counterintuitive, but it somehow works for me. I spend less when I’m not sure how much I have left.”

“He didn’t ask for spending tips, he just asked for a little change.”

The voice seemed strangely familiar.

“Well, I don’t have any, okay?”

The face looked familiar, too. So much so that Bonnie said, “Belinda, is that you? I didn’t recognise you with that green hair and your, ahem, new look.”

“Belinda? Who calls you Belinda these days? This is Bindy. And she’s a proud fuck up, just like we all are,” the man in Bonnie’s way howled.

“Don’t scare her like that, Buck. Bonnie is a delicate soul.”

“Bonnie. Another potential B for our exclusive club. Wanna join the ‘Five B’s’, make it the ‘Six B’s’ instead? Bindy has been lonely lately, and you’re kinda her type. For some reason, she likes bookworms.”

“Shut up, Buck. Don’t listen to him, Bonnie. He’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. Besides, I’m not even looking for someone new. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

Belinda paused for a moment before she smiled and added, “But Buck is right about one thing. This will be a pretty lonesome weekend for me. Alone in the woods with two couples. We’re going on a little trip, you know. A weekend getaway in the hinterland. Billy knows the owner of what he calls an oasis in the mountain woods. Don’t try to explain to him that an oasis is always situated in a desert. He’s hell-bent on using the phrase.”

“It sounds cool,” said a small guy with a half shaved head. He was sitting next to a lanky man with long bleached hair who said, “It fucking does, babe.”

They were both wearing skinny jeans with holes at the knees and a The Clash T-shirt. That generally seemed to be the uniform look of the group.

Bonnie looked at the ground as she said, “An oasis in the forest is indeed an oxymoron. Unless, of course, he’s referring to the secondary meaning of the word ‘oasis’ as a refuge. Then it’s perfectly fitting. Either way, I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“Of course not. You never wanted to hurt anybody’s feelings. So I’m sure you won’t hurt mine when I ask you now if you’d join us on our little trip?” asked Belinda with a slightly shy yet beaming smile.

Bonnie looked back down at the floor as she answered, “I already have plans for the weekend.”

“Do they involve other people, or will you be alone in your apartment watching sad movies all day long?” said the young man called Buck, who was still standing much too close for Bonnie’s comfort.

“Not sad movies but a good book will be my companion this weekend,” she replied, looking up defiantly. “Plus, I have a paper to finish. I’d rather stay in.”

“Oh, come on, Bonnie, live a little,” said Belinda. “How often have you stayed in a mansion? And the two of us will have a lot of time to catch up while these four keep each other company.”

“Keep each other company? We’ll fuck each other’s brains out. At least Billy and I will. I don’t know about these two prudes,” said the tall guy with the bleached hair while pressing his boyfriend’s hand.

“Who are you calling a prude?” The girl with the pink short hair grabbed the buttocks of Buck, who grunted with what seemed delight.

“Stop your squabbling,” said Belinda, “you’re scaring my friend off. Please, come with us, Bonnie. I promise you they’ll behave. It’ll just be like old times, when we were the Two B’s, just that it’s now the Six B’s.”

Bonnie smiled while her thoughts were racing. It would indeed be nice to spend some time with Belinda, Bonnie had missed her quite a lot over the years. And her story-filled mind craved an actual adventure in real life. But she also really needed a quiet weekend alone, it had been a stressful week.

Plus, her feelings were a little hurt. Back in the day, the Two B’s had only been the two of them, Belinda and Bonnie, nobody else was allowed in the club. That had been the rule.

Apparently, that wasn’t true any more.

Bonnie felt hurt on a deep, personal level. It even went so far, that it ruined the treasured memory of something she had never shared with anyone, not even Belinda.

Because Bonnie had always thought of the Two B’s as the “To Be's”, a reference to Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be”. Every time they had called themselves by their club’s nickname, Bonnie couldn’t help but think of that famous line: to be, or not to be, that is the question.

She cynically thought that in terms of their friendship being unique, the answer had to be a “not to be” after all. That realisation made Bonnie pretty sad and stung quite a bit, but then, to her surprise, her thoughts turned somewhat angry.

Billy, Bobby, and Becky weren’t even names that started with a B, there were just nicknames that started with a B. Those certainly weren’t their birth names. Unlike Belinda and Bonnie, those were proper B-names. And Buck, what kind of name was that? Was that even his given name or just some random word he called himself?

Bonnie didn’t care to find out. The more she thought about it, the more she was looking forward to her time on the sofa with a good book in one hand a an ice cream cone in the other.

* * *

Three hours later, Bonnie got out of the one car they had all shared, thinking that she really needed to work on her ability to say “no”. She had been cooped up in the middle seat in the back of the car with Belinda to her right and Buck and Becky to her left.

Those two had been sharing a seat and had been furiously making out for the whole drive. Sitting next to them had been uncomfortable to say the least.

After everyone had stepped out of the car, the others walked over to the lawn. It was lined with a row of greyish white stones of all different shapes and sizes. The five youths lifted various of the little rocks and put them down again, getting more and more frustrated with every stone.

“Are you sure that’s our way in, jackass?” said Bobby.

“Yeah, blockhead. It has to be under one of these stones. The stone’s fist-sized, that’s all I know, ahem, I mean, remember,” replied Buck with a sideways glance at Bonnie.

“Good thing you brought me with you then because I just found it.” Becky put down a small rock and handed the key over to Buck.

“Everything’s better with you around, baby. Who would I screw if you weren’t here?”

“Yourself,” interjected Bobby, which made everybody laugh. Even Bonnie couldn’t stifle a chuckle.

Bonnie entered the house last. Its big, impressive entrance hall had a marble floor, and two wide hallways branched off to either side. But what really caught Bonnie’s eye was a long polished wooden display table with beautiful stone sculptures on top. All three of them were about the size of a wine bottle and depicted dancing fairies. The car keys were hanging from the forearm of the middle one, and it almost looked like the keys were a part of the sculpture’s attire. Behind the table, a broad, polished wooden flight of stairs went up to the upper floor.

Becky and Buck were already stumbling up the stairs. They were half tripping, half making out, as they moved towards what was probably the bedrooms, scattering the house key and several items of clothing all over the steps.

From her left, Bonnie heard Bobby howl, “Jackpot. There’s a lot of expensive-looking booze in the liquor cabinet.”

“Then let’s get shit-faced. There’s not even any reception out here, so we’ve got nothing better to do anyway,” was Billy’s answer. It was coming from the same direction.

Bonnie went the other way, down the hall to the right. There was a door not far down the corridor labelled “Guest Bathroom”. From there, the hallway continued around a corner to the left. Bonnie turned the corner and suddenly stood in a wide kitchen.

It had a country-style wooden look, and a long row of windows straight ahead directed the view to a huge and well-kept garden.

There was also a row of smaller windows to Bonnie’s right, where the stove and sink were located right next to the fridge. The refrigerator was currently open and half of Belinda’s body seemed to be lost in the vast space it opened up into. Bonnie had never seen a fridge this huge in all her life.

Belinda had a disappointed look on her face when she closed the large silver door.

“It’s turned off. There’s nothing in there.”

“Well, there’s always the cupboards,” said Bonnie with a smile.

Half an hour later, the house was filled with the lovely smell of a hearty home-cooked meal that mostly consisted of canned food. Bonnie and Belinda had both always had a knack for cooking and used to cook together quite often, so they managed to create a rather delicious meal even though they had no fresh ingredients at hand.

Becky put the first two plates of noodles with “tomato sauce à la surprise” on the long wooden table. It had eight chairs to go with it and was clearly meant to host rather big and fancy dinners, which made it perfect for their party of six.

Buck and Becky entered the room and joined Billy and Bobby on the white sofa that was standing not far from the kitchen counter, which served as a room divider.

Buck sneered at Bonnie as he said, “We wanna eat our lunch over here, sweet Miss Proper.”

“If you make breaking conventions a rule, it becomes just another convention. But have it your way, Mister Rule Breaker,” said Belinda while bringing two plates over to the group situated around the coffee table.

Bonnie followed Belinda’s example and took the two plates she had just put down on the big table with her when she joined the others. There was hardly any room for the plates since there were already a half-empty bottle of expensive vodka and six shot glasses on the coffee table, but they managed to make it work somehow.

They sat around the small glass table, most of them sitting on the floor and putting their food and drink on the couch, ground, or their laps.

The lovely alcove by the windows looked like a mess after they had finished their meal. Becky had managed to spill tomato sauce on the delicate white fabric of the sofa, but no one seemed to care. Buck just flipped the cushion over, and that was that.

Bonnie was piling all the plates and cutlery into a tower of dirty dishes and was about to carry them to the kitchen, when Buck insisted on everyone sharing a toast. He was smoking a cigarette, using a gorgeous small ceramic bowl that had been sitting on the windowsill behind him as an improvised ashtray.

“But I don’t drink. I’ll just wash the dishes while you guys go ahead,” said Bonnie.

“What’s one drink, dear Miss Proper? I’m sure you can handle that much,” roared Buck.

“It’s not that I can’t handle it. I just don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

“Just one shot. It’s over quickly, and then you can wash it down with a tea or whatever it is that you do enjoy the taste of.”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you a chicken or what? One shot won’t even make you drunk. And I will be offended if you say no and that goes for the others too.”

They all seemed to agree, judging by the chorus of voices that followed. Bonnie was fed up with being treated like a child by most of these people, most of all Buck. So she took the shot glass he handed her and emptied it in one big gulp. She didn’t cough and didn’t even bat en eye as she put the glass back down on the table.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wash the dishes. I don’t like living in my own filth.”

“Damn, woman. Maybe you have a backbone after all,” said Buck as Bonnie was already walking over to the sink, balancing the tower of dishes in her hands.

After Bonnie had put the dirty dishes in the sink, she noticed Belinda behind her, bringing over the shot glasses and the defiled ceramic bowl. In the background, the others were climbing out the window behind the sofa they had just sat on, trampling all over the couch while making their way to the lovely garden, completely ignoring the big slide door only a few paces away from them.

“They’re nice people once they warm up to you. It just takes them a while to let someone new in,” said Belinda while putting the glasses and bowl into the kitchen sink.

While Bonnie was still thinking about how to respond, Becky shouted from the garden, “Are you coming, Bindy? You can bring your friend.”

“Scratch that. Let little Miss Proper wash the dishes. She can join us once she’s done,” added Buck.

“Real nice people. I’m sure you’re right about that,” said Bonnie. “But I actually agree with Buck here. I prefer doing the work before play. So you guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You sure? Thanks. Honestly, I’ve been dying to explore the garden. There’s this ominous slope and I want to see where it leads.”

“You go have fun, Belinda. But be careful.”

Belinda rolled her eyes and smiled as she squeezed Bonnie’s hand. Then she walked over to the sofa and climbed out the window.

Bonnie could see the others through the kitchen window while she was washing the dishes. They were standing over by the drop, looking down towards the unknown. Buck put his hands on Billy’s shoulders, pushing him forward as if he was trying to shove him over the edge, but then pulling him back. This earned him a not so soft punch in the stomach by Bobby, whose long blonde hair was blowing in the wind.

Bonnie focused on the dishes again and was a little startled when there was a soft knock on the window in front of her. Belinda smiled at her through the glass and beckoned Bonnie to follow her as she passed through to the right, following the others to a covered veranda. Bonnie couldn’t see what was over to that side because there was a waist-high wooden fence obstructing her view.

She could only see rays of golden late-afternoon light passing through the narrow slits in the fence and shadows dancing in those beams as the others moved behind it.

Being done with the dishes anyway, Bonnie decided that it was time for the fun part to begin, so she went over to the sofa, sighed at the bootprints on it and climbed out the window, too. She walked over to the wooden veranda through an open door in the fence, joining Belinda who was standing in front of a metal cage.

Belinda was staring intently at whatever was in there while grabbing Bonnie’s hand. Bonnie squeezed her friend’s hand as well and turned to see what was in the cage.

At first, she thought it was a big dog that seemed to be hiding in the shadow of the fence. But as her eyes adjusted to the darker environment of the cage, she saw that it wasn’t. The creature was much more humanoid and seemed to be squatting while its hands touched the ground. It looked completely dishevelled and seemed to be wearing scraps. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more Bonnie realised that “it” was the wrong pronoun to use. This was a woman, hiding in the shadow of the calf-covered cage. The scraps she was wearing barely covered the most delicate parts of her body.

Her face seemed to be scarred, like someone had cut her mouth open towards her ears and left a thick brownish-pink scar.

“Is that …? Is she …? Where are the others?”

Instead of saying anything, Belinda pointed her free hand at a little shack in the big cage. There were muffled noises coming form that direction, but Bonnie had almost no time to notice them because the dirt-covered woman started crawling towards them. She was moving in a strange way that didn’t seem human and was weirdly choppy.

“Are you okay, Miss? Do you need help?”

Belinda squeezed Bonnie’s hand and shushed her. The woman in the cage was still moving slowly towards them, demanding all their attention with her strange not-quite-human looks and movements, when the others suddenly burst out of the shack and came running towards the cage’s door, which had been ajar the whole time, unbeknownst to Bonnie. The terror in their eyes sent shivers down Bonnie’s spine, who took a step back, ready to run. But Belinda was still clutching Bonnie’s hand, and as Bonnie tried to pull her back and away from the cage, Belinda was frozen in place, staring at the woman crawling in the cage.

Bonnie’s gaze followed that of Belinda, and she froze as well. As the woman slowly opened her mouth for an unnatural hiss, not only her lips parted but the scar tissue also gave way to reveal an unusually long row of pointy teeth.

Bonnie stood there mesmerised, and she barely noticed how Belinda let go of her hand, screamed, and stared running, calling for Bonnie to follow.

The others had reached the cell’s door and pushed it open, so that it slammed against the metal frame of the cage, startling Bonnie into action.

She ran off the veranda and onto the lawn, perceiving that the others had already gained a lot of ground and were running towards the slope that was the natural border of the property.

“The drop is too steep,” screamed Belinda while considerably slowing down her pace.

“I’d rather take my chances crossing the river down in the valley than staying here with the family’s freaky pets,” shouted Bobby.

“Me too, babe,” were Billy’s words as he ran over the edge and disappeared quickly.

Becky fell onto the lawn and gave a little scream, which made Buck turn around and help her up before he dragged her behind him towards the edge. They had almost left Bonnie’s field of vision, holding hands, running as fast as they could, when two shadows showed up behind them, seemingly out of nowhere, and threw them to the ground.

Two monsters looking similar to the woman with the scarred cheeks except that they were apparently male, loomed over the two lovers on the ground and howled in a way that made Bonnie’s blood freeze. She had come to a standstill next to Belinda, staring helplessly at the scene.

As the two monsters lowered their huge mouths towards their victims and ran their claws into the lover’s backs, another shadow ran past them and down the slope in fast pursuit of the two young men.

Bonnie, suddenly aware of her situation, tore her gaze from the ghastly scene in front of her, and pulled Belinda towards the window of the villa.

“Come on, Belinda, we’ve gotta get to the mansion and barricade ourselves in there. It’s our only chance. We can call the police in there. There must be a land-line phone somewhere.”

Her words actually reached Belinda despite her frozen state, but they had the opposite effect of what Bonnie had intended.

Belinda suddenly turned on her heel, violently broke free of Bonnie’s grip, and started running towards the slope, following the others to what could only be seen as certain doom. With her friend out of reach, Bonnie screamed at the top of her lungs, “Belinda, what the fuck! It’s this way!”

As if shocked by Bonnie’s sudden out-of-character profanity, Belinda actually turned around and started to move towards the villa instead.

Bonnie had already reached the window and was climbing in when the unnatural hiss from before came from the veranda. She turned her head just in time to catch a glimpse of the woman who had mesmerised both her and Belinda, before Bonnie slipped through the open window and into the parlour.

Standing on the sofa, Bonnie was holding the window open, ready to slam it shut as soon as Belinda joined her.

Bonnie watched her childhood friend run towards her, with the two dead bodies lying on the ground behind her. The monsters that had been feasting on them had finally let off and were now heading for the slope instead, joining the chase of the boys whose screams were echoing in the vale.

Belinda was getting closer to the window, and Bonnie felt a wild, almost fiery hope growing in her chest. But then she noticed the two lovers in the background getting up from the ground.

Those two looked at each other with animal-like eyes, and their faces moved in towards each other as if they were about to kiss. But instead, they sank their teeth in each others flesh, biting the others neck with animalistic delight and ripping out pieces of muscle with long, pointy teeth. As they slowly ate each other with pleasure, their mouths tore open all the way to their ears, showing an unnaturally long row of teeth ready to devour each other as well as anyone else.

Bonnie screamed a very high-pitched, long cry as she saw that carnal display of consuming love, which drew the attention of everyone around. Belinda turned her head mid-run, which made her lose her balance and stumble, and the monsters that had been Becky and Buck only mere moments ago looked up from their bloody embrace.

They looked at Bonnie for a moment and then focused their attention on Belinda. Their desire for prey must have beaten their lust for each other because they both stood up in almost perfect synchronisation, moving in a strangely choppy way.

Belinda, who had fallen onto the ground, shrieked at the sight of them and then started crawling towards Bonnie and the safety of the mansion. As their eyes met again, both young women saw a terror in the other’s gaze that was beyond anything they had ever seen before.

Bonnie waved her left hand in a frantic motion and yelled, “They’re gaining on you, Belinda! You won’t make it in time crawling. Get up and run!”

Stumbling to her feet, Belinda accelerated her run while the monsters got closer to her as well as the window, making Bonnie’s heart pound faster and faster with every step they drew nearer.

With their inhuman speed, the two monsters had almost reached her when Belinda made it to the window. Bonnie wrapped her right hand tightly around Belinda’s forearm, ready to pull her in when the look on her friend’s face suddenly made her stop.

Belinda’s eyes went from alight with hope and adrenaline to black with despair and pain in an instant. She looked down at her own belly and tears ran down her cheeks while she tried to suppress a groan.

Bonnie’s eyes followed those of Belinda and arrived at her belly, where she saw a thin red line form from Belinda’s chest to her navel. It erupted into a gaping hole, spilling blood and little bits onto the windowsill and all over the white couch. Little droplets got sprayed all over Bonnie’s blouse, face, neck, and forearms, making her feel strangely wet and warm.

Looking into her friend’s terrified eyes, Bonnie saw the monsters bloody faces coming ever closer and their clawed hands gripping Belinda’s torso.

Without a conscious thought, the hand that had been ready to pull her friend to safety now pushed her away instead when Bonnie drove Belinda into the two monsters while she slammed the window shut with her other hand.

The expression in Belinda’s eyes went from sheer terror to utter disbelief as she realised what had just happened. Bonnie had slammed the window shut before the three outside hit the ground, and she was already on her way to the kitchen when the two monsters started feasting on her childhood friend.

When Bonnie arrived at the entrance hall, she could hear claws scratching against the front door. Panicked, she looked around and saw the key still lying on the stairs. She grabbed it as fast as she could and ran to the door, practically throwing herself against it as the doorknob started turning.

The sudden impact must have startled the monster, giving Bonnie enough time to shove the key into the hole and lock the door. She silently cursed the fact that she couldn’t just walk out the front door and drive off back to civilisation to get away from this nightmare and maybe even get help for the others. Perhaps there was a way to reverse this transformation. With science and medicine being as advanced as they were nowadays, there was still some hope, wasn’t there?

The scratching at the door started again and was followed by loud banging noises. Horrified, Becky ran over to the display table and took the car keys from the arm of the dancing fairy. Then she walked past the sculptures and took a running start, so that she ascended the stairs two steps at a time.

While running upstairs, Bonnie couldn’t help but notice that whenever someone went upstairs in a horror story, they usually ended up being the next victim. But she obviously had no other choice. Bonnie suddenly knew what it was like to be the character the reader or movie-goer cursed at for doing the stupid thing.

At the top of the stairs was a big open space filled with many beautiful works of art: more sculptures, several old as well as modern paintings, and even the furniture clearly consisted of artisan pieces. There were several doors, and on instinct, Bonnie opened the one that was straight ahead.

She entered the master bedroom. Sweeping the room with her gaze for a way out, she couldn’t completely ignore its beauty. The wide open space of the gabled bedroom held a gorgeous light-coloured wooden desk and chair, and a big closet to go with it.

There was a canopy bed with untidy bedclothes – this was most likely courtesy of Becky and Buck – and behind it, the room opened up to a balcony that went along the whole length of the room, overlooking the garden. Bonnie recognised the balcony as a possible way out, but then again, the garden wasn’t at all where she wanted to be.

A little door to the left caught Bonnie’s eye when she was scanning the room. She went over there and opened it, which was how she found herself in the master bathroom. She hardly noticed the bathtub, toilet, and towel racks, but instead focussed her attention to the dormer window next to the washbasin.

Following her instincts once more, Bonnie climbed out the window and onto the roof. The sun was slowly setting behind the gable as she started her ascend. The tiles were easier to navigate than she thought, so that she reached and straddled the house’s topmost point in no time.

Now, all Bonnie had to do was to climb down the other side of the roof and find a way down the facade of the building on the other side to get to the car. She figured that that shouldn’t be too hard because from up here, she could overlook nearly everything.

Scanning the area, Bonnie’s heart sank, and her newfound enthusiasm went as quickly as it had come. Even though they hadn’t spotted her yet, she could see the monsters everywhere. There were several in the garden, two of which looked like Bobby and Billy, who must have been caught down the slope and came back up to join the others.

Other monsters, some of the original cage dwellers by the looks of it, were circling the premises. Even up on the roof, Bonnie could still hear someone banging against the entrance door, making it infinitely harder to reach the car.

Yet that was still her best bet. If she could divert their attention somehow – maybe by throwing a roof tile to lure them away from the door and the car – she might be able to escape. Feeling hope’s spark kindled once again in her chest, Bonnie made her way down the other side of the roof.

She had only swung her leg off the gable to begin her descend when she heard a scratching noise behind her. She froze mid-motion and then slowly turned her head towards the noise. Even in her despair, Bonnie had to smile. It was always the harmless-looking ones.

The woman from the cage lifted herself up the edge of the roof as if it was no feat at all, and then pulled up Belinda in one smooth, sweeping motion. Both of them stared at Bonnie with eyes filled with hunger.

Slowly but surely, and with her gaze fixed on the approaching monsters with their long rows of teeth glistening in the setting sun, Bonnie started climbing down the roof towards the car and towards freedom.

To be, or not to be, that is the question that would be answered for Bonnie shortly.

—Submitted by Lone-Eyed