#who cares if the thugs were running rampant

[sistertonin]

randy & cody

[jayne-hecate-writer]

Goth Dad and Vision Video Live in Bristol

With the global state of LGBTQ+ rights being rather shite at the moment, it is occasionally nice to come across something that affirms the right for rainbow people to simply exist and I found one of these things recently and was then rather taken with the character of Goth Dad.

Dusty Gannon created the character for Tictok and Instagram with the intent to share a message of kindness and support to young Goth kids and to be honest, us older Goth kids too. The words of kindness he shared were beautiful and I started to look for more of his kindness and wisdom in the short films and quickly discovered that Goth Dad was the singer of the American Goth band Vision Video.

For many years it has been easier to say to folks who meet me for the first time that I am a Goth, rather than trying to explain the intricacies of Heavy Metal culture. After all my first love is extreme metal, mainly in the form of Black Metal from bands such as Emperor, Enslaved and Akercocke. Already I can see that some of you want to discuss the differences between Black Metal Art, Viking Black Metal and Blackened Death Metal, but lets just make it easy and stick it all under the easily pigeonholed title of “Fokkin Goffic!” to quote the abusive thugs who enjoyed shouting at me as I wandered the dark streets of Plymouth in the late 1990s, before they swapped to “Fokkin Tranny!” Ahh, the vigorous repartee of the average urban 1990s thug, draped in his Burberry tracksuit while smoking Happy Shopper fags!

So back to my original point, I will identify as Gothic when asked, because I tend to wear a lot of black, often with funny make up and appear somehow Vampiric. The fact is though that I do enjoy the occasional Goth band, such as Siouxsie and the Banshees, Fields of the Nephilim, The Sisters of Mercy and The Cure. Pictures of You, by The Cure is one of the most beautiful songs ever written and everything ever sung by Siouxsie Sioux is pure magic. However Fields of the Nephilim have that dark post apocalyptic feel that makes me want to curl up and die in blissful soundscapes, with the track 'Trees come down' being my particular favourite. So when I found Vision Video, a fairly minor pop Goth band from America, I was happy to give them a listen. What I heard combined the wisdom of Goth Dad with the sadness of American societal despair at school shootings, huge economic inequality, almost constant war and a lack of health care into something beautiful. Despite the poppy sounding music, the themes have a serious message and strong heart, especially when the content of the song drops into the personal experiences of the singer's military service in Afghanistan.

I bought the first album, 'Inked in Red' almost instantly and played it nearly constantly. It reminded of the the very best parts of The Cure, mixed with the best parts of Siouxsie and with hints of Joy Division thrown in too. It remains a beautiful little record, with several high lights among the tracks. However the track Kandahar mixes beauty with a deep rage over the horror of the war in Afghanistan and the slaughter of those caught between the combatants. Let us not hide from the truth here, history will judge this era harshly, for the rampant capitalism that funded wars for oil in the Middle East, which then resulted in the deaths of many innocents. Meanwhile there was significant Governmental funding of groups such the Taliban who were set up and trained by the CIA in their early days, to fight against Soviet interests in the region. After twenty years of war, the West pulled out Afghanistan, leaving it to the clutches of the fundamentalist Islamic Government, who promptly took away the rights of women and girls before starting to complain that running a country was a lot harder and far more work than they had expected!

This leaves the world now as a fucked up mess and let us not hide from the main cause of this as the super rich companies still fight for the right to mine coal, while burning mega tonnes of what they already have dug up and filling the atmosphere with filth. Meanwhile, you are being chastised for not putting out your plastic and glass recycling in separate boxes (I read Environmental Science for my degree and it was heart breaking learning that with enough time the Earth will rebalance just fine, it's just unfortunate that our species probably won't make it!).

Vision Video as a band is not just about Goth Dad. Keyboard player Emily Fredock has a powerful voice as well as being a great musician and when she sings, you can hear her anger coming out too, despite the gentle pop sounds of the music. Combining with Dusty on vocals and guitar, Dan Geller on bass and Jason Fusco on drums, they make some truly joyous sounding music, but with those dark edges that Gothic music demands. None of it is offensive despite the sad imagery each song creates and it is fairly clear that these people will not be burning down any churches, murdering rival musicians in fights over who is the most evil or burying their stage clothes so they can feel the pull of the grave when they perform... All infamous tropes Black Metal has been guilty of in the past. The first. However, as a small Goth band in America, I never thought that I would get to see them... and then came the announcement, that they were to be support for the March Violets on a limited EU and UK tour.

I purchased my tickets that afternoon, despite knowing next to nothing about the March Violets, for the show on a ship in Bristol docks, The Thekla. Having seen some very good shows on the Thekla, I knew that that it would be intimate, with beautiful sound and a small crowd. I purchased two tickets, one for me and one for my friend Jan, my companion for the slightly more odd gigs, such as when we went to see the Kunts in Bristol, or when we went to see Richard Herring live in Wells, or when we went to see Richard Herring interview Kunt in London! I had played 'Inked in Red' to Jan and she quickly grew to love it. So she was quite excited to be going to see Vision Video.

A few days before the gig, we were told that Vision Video would be on early and it was advisable for us to get there in plenty of time for the show or risk missing them. However, the weekend before the show, Jan and I found ourselves broken down in Keynsham where we had gone to play with Lego on a steam train. The alternator in my car had failed and I had driven into the car park of Bitten Steam Railway with no power steering, nor any ABS brake assist, air conditioning, music or dashboard lights. It was thanks to a fairly new battery that we got there at all, but the journey back home again on the back of an RAC van, driven by Rob the kindest mechanic I have ever met. Luckily for me, my darling wifey Carol was on the case before I even got home and she quickly ordered replacement parts and also said that a new serpentine belt would be a good idea and promptly ordered one of those too. By Tuesday my car was back in good health and ready for our trip to Bristol on Wednesday evening. When we arrived at the venue, forty minutes before the doors (hatches?) on The Thekla opened, we sat in glorious sunshine listening to my favourite punk band, Alice Donut. As soon as the (as it turned out) roller shutters opened on the ship, we queued up and were inside within five minutes, only to come face to face with a poster of band times. Somewhere along the way, we had been viciously lied to! Vision Video were due on about twenty minutes later than we anticipated...

Jan and I headed inside the ship and quickly discovered that the floors were remarkably uneven. I had not noticed this before, but on this occasion I really struggled with the venue and found it difficult to keep a steady footing. I wobbled about like Bambi on ice and we eventually found our way down into the stage area (hold?) of the ship. Away from the heat of the day, it was deliciously cool and the DJ was playing some suitably gentle Goth themed music, some of which I recognised but most of which I did not. Like I say, I am mainly a metal head, I just look like a goth to the untrained eye. The first act on stage was electronic musician Kristeen Young and she reminded me of a mix of Diamanda Galas and Kate Bush, with powerful grinding rock backing and her voice that was capable of violent roars and shrill squeals. It was impressive, she was clearly hugely talented and very good at her art, but I did not gel with it and lamented that with her incredible vocal talents, she desperately needed to front a powerful Black Metal band, rather than playing a keyboard based rock music. However, I was probably alone in this thought because she had a lot of fans among the crowd who surged in to watch her perform.

I took the time to grab a t-shirt from the Vision Video merch stand and caused a laugh from the softly spoken American woman behind the desk when I asked for a size suitable for a fat bitch like me. Jan just shook her head knowing that I had said something objectionable, without actually hearing my words.

Finally Vision Video took to the stage and the four piece are just as beautiful on stage as they are on you tube or album. It was fairly clear that they were playing to a crowd who were on their side and I was not alone in singing along to some of the tracks from 'Inked in Red', although I did not hear much if any from the second album 'Haunted Hours'.

The songs were beautifully performed, both Dusty and Emily sang with their usual power, despite having spent several weeks on tour in both Europe and back home in America.

But all too quickly it came to the last two songs and that was when we got to see the heartfelt politics of the band as Dusty gave us a spoken word introduction that laid out all that is wrong in modern American society. He talked about wealth inequality, gun violence, health care provision, warfare and human rights and he did so with the undisguised disgust of someone who has seen the horrors of fighting a war. It was utterly heart breaking and yet also uplifting because surrounded by others of the same opinion, it gave all of us hope that by standing together we could change some of these awful things. With the speech over, they launched into 'Organised Murder' and it felt justified to be dancing to such angry and heartfelt words. With the final song done, they walked off stage to the whooping, yelling and applause of a very happy crowd, despite the sadly short play time. This is not to denigrate their performance time which was just over thirty five minutes. The truth was that I could have listened to them play each album twice and then the special new tracks from the as yet untitled new album. It was a very different experience for me, for a start the front of the stage did not turn into a violent maelstrom of a mosh pit. The dance floor was a remarkably gentle place, while still being energetic and fun.

With the band finished, Jan and I retreated to the seating area and then the toilets and had a chat. We had hoped to get to say hello to the band, which has happened a couple of times on the merch stand when I have seen bands on the Thekla, but sadly this was not to be. We chatted and I complained about the low lampshade that I had hit my head on when we had sat down earlier. The March Violets took to the stage and when I had recovered enough energy, Jan and I descended the stairs to check them out. The March Violets have been touring and producing albums for over forty years, but each song was new to me and to be honest it was not really my thing. It was very clearly being enjoyed by the crowd, but for me, it lacked the brutality of metal or the heart of Vision Video. It was perfectly good, electronic, new wave music from the eighties and I was a child for the eighties and did not turn eighteen until 1991. I had also not been exposed to a lot of music during my childhood, which looking back saddens me now because music is such a huge part of my life these days. However we did not have MP3 players with the sort of data compression needed to carry a whole album collection in my pocket when I was kid. Modern technology utterly spoils us these days, given how easy it is to access my music collection, take photos of bands and browse the internet from the small computer in my pocket that also allows me to call out for fried chicken whenever the whim takes me (thanks Ginny, for convincing me that smart phones were great. I never leave the house without it now!).

Feeling slightly sad that we had missed the chance to say hello to the band, while also feeling unsteady on my feet and remarkably energised at having seen the band, we decided to leave slightly early, meaning getting home at better time and not getting caught by the rush at the end. Slowly and unsteadily I climbed the stairs, with Jan behind me worried that I was going to fall and we reached the top, turned the corner and almost barged into Goth Dad himself, Dusty!

Dusty was everything you hope that a rock star will be. He was generous with his time, he was happy to sign albums and even pose for photos with fans. But the best of all, the politics and the heart are all real for him. The standing up for and caring about LGBTQ+ young people is real. The caring about the state of the world and his wisdom are all real. I wish that I could remember his exact words, sadly I was too star struck to take it all in, but it went something like this. “Those Motherfuckers in power are all old and they are fighting as they die out. Eventually they will be gone and the world will get better as the young people see them for what they were.” I could have cried. It was at that moment that Emily strode along the deck and said hello. We had obviously kidnapped Dusty and she had come to find him, the poor lad was probably on his way to the loo when we nearly crashed into him. But they both stood with us for photos, signed albums and Emily even talked to Jan about cats. These two people, gave me hope. Fuck, I feel old saying that. Now when Jan and I write about faerie warriors in our Winscombe books, it is just possible that we had unknowingly based one or two of them on Dusty and Emily.

I have said it before when I had the pleasure of spending some time teaching art to my friend's daughter, the insight of the youth is what is going to save our world and it will be safer in their hands than it ever was in ours. They will take the goodness from us and the vileness of our hate will fade away, acceptance and kindness will rise, maybe even the religion will fade away too? The world will be 'woke' and when you look at what woke means, a woke society will be a good society where minorities are protected, where institutional racism is dismantled and egalitarianism takes over. Fuck me, I am a fucking dreamer. At my darkest moments, all I can see is a foul dystopian end to humanity as global warming destroys the human safe climate and brings an end to the Anthropocene. As I think of this, I think of my nieces, of my friend's children, of my own children and grandchild and ache for a better world for them and for all young people. I want the youth of the future to feel safe to be true to themselves, to be accepted for being a rainbow person. I want the distinction of being LGBTQ+ to be minor to how we live our lives, just like eye colour is or how tall we are. Maybe, in his own small way, Goth Dad and the band Vision Video can add to that better future?

[ginanosakka]

The War Has Begun

Masterlist

Mind of a Monster | Next

Katsuki had been quiet as a mouse since the meeting, and even as he handled the investigation and information he was being relayed by those part of the mission, he looked more in thought than exploding with anger at his current situation. Usually, he would be patrolling the streets, taking down any petty thug or idiotic villain that dared to cause a scene in his area, but he found himself patrolling for as long as many other heroes he knew that preferred to take this profession slow. It didn’t even matter to him that he was seeing icy-hot on the news more than him now when he sat in the living room with his son.

His son.

Those words felt so right now despite the fact that children were at the bottom of his list of things to deal with. Seeing that blonde boy with the same blown out ashy blonde hair as his, sharing the same eyes with that damn sparkle of the girl he was forever intertwined with, he felt nothing but pure satisfaction and peace. The same satisfaction and peace he believed he could only have by being the number one hero, which was the reason why he spent so much overtime as a hero to try and surpass Deku, and to never be lumped into the same category as Todoroki. When he thought of being number one now, he couldn’t find that same passion for it.

“You should feel honored that the future number one hero lets you talk to him.” Katsuki boasted, grinning like a maniac while you sat across from him at the mall food court.

“Being number one is a sham, you know. My dad said that all those heroes at the top do it for money and fame, with the only exception being All Might. I prefer heroes like Gang Orca, he’s super cool and he actually cares about the people he’s saving.” You mentioned casually, picking up another fry from your tray of food and chewing on it.

Katsuki simmered down enough to take in what you said, and felt the slight shade you threw at his goal. “What’s that supposed to mean?! You think I’m a bad hero or something?!” He shouted, and you shrugged while ignoring the stares that you two were getting.

“That isn’t my dream to pick at, but it’s not hard to see that Endeavor doesn’t save lives because he cares about people. . You said the reason you want to be a hero was to make a lot of money and show off that you were better than everyone else. Do you really think you’re an All Might and not an Endeavor?”

He stood up with his hair casting a shadow over his eyes, and before you could even say another word, he walked away from you. You stared after him in shock at such a negative reaction from the truth, but you knew that he wouldn’t take that well. It was the truth that he’d been facing since starting UA that he wasn’t like his classmates who all shared his goal, but you knew he didn’t understand what you truly meant. The heaviness of your words weighed Katsuki down as he walked away from, his insecurities that he’d hide from you shining through in that moment. You were right in that moment; Katsuki didn’t understand what you meant, but he can’t pretend like it didn’t hurt.

“Real heroes don’t care about being number one as long as they’re helping someone. . what a dumbass.” Katsuki mumbled the moral of your words as they hit him like a train wreck.

‘She’s always been that damn wise, huh?’ He thought as he turned away from watching the television with his son to you.

You sat not too far away from them on his recliner, your legs crossed and eyes intently focused on your phone as you typed away. All morning you had been like that when you weren’t talking or doing something with Ryu. The two of you had not moved forward since his apology, but there were no longer small acts of aggression towards him when you spoke, and in your constant teasing of his short temper, there was no longer any comments about the past riddled in your humor. Though that didn’t ease his mind about the unspoken rivalry that had sprung from your reappearance.

He refused to lose you again, and damn sure not to shitty hair.

Without warning, Katsuki stood up and stalked towards you. His sudden movements took your attention away from your emails with your assistant and you looked up at him as he towered over you, and you’d never admit that the butterflies in your stomach weren’t from fear. In a simple tank top and shorts standing above you was a man that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but you’d much rather burn the image in the back of your mind and keep your hormones to yourself than embarrass yourself.

“We’re going out.” He said as if stating a fact, and in his mind, it very much was.

“. . . Who the fuck is we? Ryu, you didn’t hear me say that.” You blinked at Katsuki as if he had grown three heads, before looking to Ryu who’s attention had moved to the both of you when he heard the foul word fall from your mouth.

“When I burn stuff I’m bad, but you can say bad words,” you heard your five year old huff.

“I mean you and I,” Katsuki explained with slight irritation at you. “Pinky’s been bugging me anyway, so she can-“

You cut him off and turned your phone off, “there’s no need to call her. My assistant will watch him and I’ll babysit you.”

“Pain in my ass,” Katsuki mumbled just loud enough for you to hear as you stood up, and you smiled in return.

Being stuck in Katsuki’s house most of the time made you appreciate the outdoors more, and maybe a few weeks ago you’d complain about being in the park without Ryu, but it felt like a stilled moment in time now where you could pretend there was a sense of normalcy. You could pretend like you and Katsuki were just frenemies with complicated emotions, and he could take a breath from that world of constant ridicule and popularity contests. It was never spoken between you two, but it was clear that it wasn’t just you that was causing him to be stressed and consistently explosive; the hero community was wearing him down for a while now.

It only took finding out he had a child, rivaling the girl he lost, and having them both be targeted by her father, for him to realize being number one wasn’t that important.

“So, why did you want to take me to the park . without the child that loves the park?” You said with mild amusement, you two walking side by side in your hoodies and sweats to be at least slightly concealed in public.

Truthfully, in his moment of haste to get a leg up on his own friend, he hadn’t fully thought out an idea to get close to you. It wasn’t until he made it out of the apartment, after barely casting a glance at your assistant, Nanami, that you allowed into his home, that he realized this may not have been the smartest course of action. And he’d never admit that to you.

“You looked like you needed some time away, and I’m tired of looking at you working when you’re not even there.” He said gruffly, avoiding your face and doing his best to fight the small blush he could feel heat up his cheeks.

You chuckled lowly, “some things never change. . Speaking of that, how are things with Midoriya? I was surprised to hear that you didn’t full on murder him when he was announced the number one hero.” You said, giving him a sideways glance to gauge his reaction.

That was quite a blow to his ego. It took him a while to recover from losing to the boy he had looked down on his entire childhood, and then underestimated in his later years until he was forced to realize that Deku was his equal. What he lacked, Deku excelled, and there was nothing he could do about that other than to work harder. It took a long time for Katsuki to truly accept that there was something special about that nerd, and the world needed him.

“He’ll always be a loser to me. . but he’s a decent hero. I’d be a dumbass like the rest of you to kick his ass about it.” Katsuki said and looked you in the eyes, showing that he meant every word. “You know, I can’t tell if you hate me or care too damn much sometimes.”

You hummed with a smile creeping up on your face, “It’s a healthy balance of both. . I’m not ready

to overthink us right now when I can’t be completely open with you, or anyone else for that matter.” The smile that grew had withered near the end of your sentence, and you felt a flash of guilt in you for dragging him into a battle that had little to do with him. You dragged an entire army of heroes into this, and you couldn’t even guarantee they’d have their jobs. . without using them like pawns.

“I’m not letting you go through this alone. I don’t care how much you try to push me away, your shitty ass is stuck with me.” He said without missing a beat.

For a moment you smiled again, and Katsuki accepted the uncontrollable beating of his heart around you. Your bodies had inches closer during your walk, and though your hand never touched nor did your arms link, you felt close to another. It was possible that it was a toxic attachment neither of you should be so content within, neither of you wasted another breath to question it.

You both arrived back at the apartment a mere few hours later. Walking in public together in broad daylight wasn’t the safest idea at this time even in hoodies, so it wasn’t long before you both agreed to turn back. The sun was still shining outside when Katsuki opened the door, yet the eerie silence that welcomed him made a chill run down his spine and every alarm in his body went off at once.

His body reacted before his mind when he stalked towards the living room, then to the kitchen, and lastly to Ryu’s bedroom to find absolutely no one. There were things of Ryu’s missing — some clothes and toys that he took with him wherever he could. There were signs that a child had once been here still scattered around the house, but there wasn’t any sign that Nanami had ever been here.

Rage, fear, and sadness were running rampant in Bakugou’s mind as he frantically searched Ryu’s room for anything that would tell him where they went and that this was some misunderstanding. He was cursing himself for not taking a second look at that girl, and he cursed himself for leaving his only son with her when he knew nothing about her. Had he stopped and checked her out he might have been able to tell something was off — he might have been able to stop his son from going missing and be a good father like he should have.

His frantic thoughts stopped suddenly, along with his movements and time. He remembered who else was here and wasn’t making a sound while he tore the room apart. Who hadn’t made a single sound since leaving the park.

“Y/N.”

The way your name fell from his lips felt like venom being injected straight into your veins, but your face remained neural even as his manic eyes made contact with yours. You didn’t speak in fear that any response would cause him to spur completely out of control, and you knew that whatever response you gave him wouldn’t be good enough. This wasn’t a battle you’d win.

“Where. . Is he?” Katsuki asked slowly through gritted teeth.

“I think you need to-“ you attempted to reach out to him and de escalate this enough to explain, but he cut you off with more fury than a scorned man.

“Where is my son?!”

Before any answer could be given the front door was slammed opened with a deafening smack, sending you whirling around at the sudden action. Thundering footsteps came down the hall and before you could even let the anxiety consume you, men dressed in riot gear appeared in the doorway of the room with guns pointed in your direction. Your hands flew up automatically, and they wasted no time swarming you.

“Y/N L/N, you’re under arrest for conspiracy and premeditated murder.”

A/N: A missing mother, a missing son, and an arrest. What a wholesome story. Anyways, the angst never stops and the tables keep turning, LETS GET CRAZY!

Taglist (Closed) <3 : @fandomgirllover @cloudsgathering @that-bipolar-renegade-romantic @jazzylove @that-chick212 @bonbonthedragon @misssugarless @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @bakugous-bakahoe @pinkykookie17 @animexholic @arielting @samkysnks @simpforeveryone @damnirina @deneuves @tsumuuumiyaaaa @vintage-teddyxo @regalmigraine @samvmgh @iamagalaxy @officialtrashbusiness @xwackk @videogameboiwhowins @marajillana @ellasdilemma @plutoneu @saucey-kneecapzz42020 @thestarsanctuary @dewdropwifu @star-light-imagines @kritiiiii @bakugosbottombitch @the2ndl @candybabey @simply-not-the-same @sam-i-am-1025 @mes-bisous @eternallyvenus @peppytine @chaelysian @definitely-yours @oikawarc @suneaterofthebig3 @m0na-l0ver @nkb0048 @losertsukki @notyourfavorlte @caramelsquares @hikaru-mikazuki

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

The Dog Days Are Done - fic

Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Haley the dog, a quick bit of Barbara Gordon Summary: Dick is a good guy. He is. He knows that. Just like he knows that bribing your wayward, animal-loving, emotionally-traumatized brother to come see you with a puppy is exactly what all good guys do. That was a fact. A/N: How their post-Ric/everything reunion should go, but we all know it won’t. If Dick doesn’t bribe Damian at least once with that dog in canon then everything is a waste.

~~

Dick nervously stared at the phone on the counter. Bit his tongue and looked away. Sheepishly glanced back.

“I know you want to.” Barbara hummed in his ear. Softly, though. Gently. Knowingly. “I’m not going to do it for you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.” Dick mumbled, sighing as he pulled his mask from his face. He’d just gotten back from patrol, and it’d been a rough night. Been a rough night after a rough few months.

And Babs knew him way too well.

Because it’s not like he’d said anything. Not overly, anyway. Hints, here and there. Probably. Nothing more. But she knew. Of course she knew.

“I know.” She chuckled. “He’d probably hang up on me if I called anyway.”

Dick smiled. Yeah. Probably.

“…You’re the only one he’s wanted to talk to anyway.” Barbara whispered. A moment to let that sink in, then a lighthearted snort. “You picked a shitty time to be an amnesiac.”

Dick gave a little laugh too. “Yeah, yeah.”

“…I’ll give you an hour.” Barbara decided.

“Or what?”

“Or a certain wayward young hero will be getting a call about a neglected puppy in an abandoned Bludhaven apartment building.” She said cheerfully. Without any other warning, she cut the line to the communicator.

Dick could only roll his eyes.

But…she was also right. He needed to do this. He did.

So he got a water bottle, chugged it, changed his clothes, fed Haley, took her for a walk, gave her a little more food, gave her some treats, took her out for one more potty time, then found himself back at that counter. Staring at that phone.

He hit the button to light up the screen. It’d been fifty minutes since Barbara had hung up. He had ten minutes before she forced his hand. Because he knew she absolutely would – especially after she went through all that work to actually find the number.

He inhaled to steel himself, but before he could exhale, he heard Haley suddenly puke in the corner.

He looked over to the poor puppy, who looked at him sadly, and smirked.

Well, that’s as good a reason as any.

Dick turned back to the phone, picking it up without thinking about it, and finding the speed dial option that he still had programmed. That he never deleted. That Barbara had already put the new, recently-unknown number underneath.

He bit his lip as the line rang, anxieties running rampant through his brain. What if he didn’t answer? What if he didn’t want to? What if he couldn’t? What if he was dead?

The line rang three times. Four. Five. Six.

It was ring seven that the line finally clicked.

“…This is Damian.”

Dick’s shoulders dropped, his heart loosened.

“Kiddo?” Dick asked, but found his voice was hardly a whisper. He cleared his throat, tried to gather himself back up. “Hey, kiddo.”

Damian said nothing.

“This is Dick.” He said dumbly. “This, uh…did…did your dad tell you?”

“That you regained your memory? Yes.” Damian murmured. Dick felt himself wincing. Because…for once in his life, he couldn’t read him. He couldn’t read Damian. “I just…am…coming to terms with it.”

“…Oh.” Dick responded. “Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Damian said. Instantly, flatly. So like the little boy Dick had met so many years ago. There was a beat of silence, then. “Did you need something?”

“Uh…yes!” Hope bloomed in Dick’s chest. “Yes, actually, I, uh…you talk to Babs recently?”

“No. Why would Gordon and I be in correspondence?”

“Just wondering. I, um…” Dick smiled, tried to throw it into his voice. “I got a dog.”

There was a moment. “You what.”

“Well, I didn’t get her, I found her. Saved her from street assholes. And she’s not a dog, she’s a puppy. Special needs, too. Has three legs.”

“Congenital or traumatic amputation?”

“Uh…what?”

Damian sighed in frustration. “Was she born like that or is it due to injury?”

“Oh.” Dick turned. Haley was still staring sadly at her pile of vomit. “Born like that, it looks like.”

“I see.”

“Do you want to? See her, I mean. I can send you pictures of her. She’s super cute.” Dick rambled quickly. “But I mean, that’s why I called. I…I don’t know if I’m taking care of her right.”

“If she was born without the limb, she’s probably fine. But if you’re concerned, I’m sure there’s a vet in Bludhaven.”

“Well, yeah, sure. But like.” Dick laughed nervously. “You’re great with dogs. Look at Titus! Even Ace flourished with your attention. How do I get Haley to act like Titus and Ace?”

Damian hummed in thought.

“Also…” Dick scratched at his head. “She just puked, so I…I think I overfed her? I don’t know.” Another pause, and he looked back to the puppy. His puppy. “Damian, I don’t think I know how to take care of a dog.”

And I miss you. He didn’t say. I miss you and I’m hoping you don’t see right through me right now.

There was another few seconds of silence. Then Haley let out a happy bark, and Damian sighed in resignation. “What’s your address?”

~~

It was three days later that there was a quiet knock on the door. Haley growled from her bed, jumping up and stumbling slightly to the floor. Dick smiled at her as he all but raced across the floor. He grabbed the knob and took a deep inhale. He closed his eyes, held the breath, then pushed all the air out of his lungs with a harsh exhale. Then pulled the door open.

Damian stood there.

Dick looked him over, catalogued the changes since he’d last seen his kid brother. He was taller now, and way skinnier. But not in an unhealthy way, in a lanky, awkward, puberty-just-hit way. The baby fat was all but gone from his face, and he was looking more and more like Bruce by the second.

There were also bags under his eyes, ones that Dick didn’t remember being there before, even given their lifestyle. There was a bag in one of Damian’s hands, but the other was free, and his fingers were curled around each other, picking and tapping at the nails nervously.

Damian had never done anything nervously in his life.

Damian wasn’t looking when Dick opened the door, had his head turned back to the hallway, like he was looking for an escape route, or regretted coming and was already thinking about running.

Dick swallowed away that last thought with the lump in his throat. Because he wanted to hug Damian. Squeeze him so tight he couldn’t breathe. But Damian’s body language said not to, that he wasn’t comfortable, not here with Dick. And Dick had to admit, after all they’d been through – that stung a little.

“Hey.” He said instead, letting his smile widen when Damian looked up at him. “Thanks for coming.”

Damian nodded stiffly. “I had some time.”

Dick chuckled, pushing the door open wider. “Glad you could fit me into your schedule.”

“Hardly you.” Damian scoffed walking past him, making a beeline towards the puppy. “I’m here to make sure you aren’t torturing this animal you appear to have kidnapped.”

“I prefer the term rescued, thanks.” Dick closed the door behind them. “What do you think, Haley?”

Haley barked loudly, but happily, barely containing herself as Damian approached. Damian reciprocated her joy as he smiled and crouched in front of her, placing the bag off to the side. It was funny, seeing him with a puppy, with a dog actually his size. Titus always towered over him, even as a baby, and Ace had knocked the preteen over plenty of times, accidentally.

“…Have you actually taken her to a vet yet?” Damian hummed. “Like, just for a check-up?”

“Yeah, after I found her.” Dick sighed, coming up around Damian’s left side. He glanced into the bag as he pushed it out of the way with his foot. It was full of new dog toys, and various bags of puppy food and treats. This kid. “She was getting kicked around by some losers. So I found a place to get her checked out. Just to be sure.”

“And you arrested those thugs, I assume?”

Dick shrugged. “No…but I did beat the crap out of them.” Dick looked down at his fingers. The scars of Haley’s teeth were mere shadows already. “And she bit me for my trouble.”

“Good girl.” Damian whispered, leaning down and kissing her forehead. Haley became putty in his hands, closing her eyes as he scratched at her ears. “I’m very proud of you.”

Dick felt himself smiling, despite the dig at himself. He watched as Damian moved, noting more changes from last time he’d seen him. While Damian always had the ability to be gentle, especially around animals, he seemed even extra so here, with this puppy. Let his pets be feather soft, held up his hands as the puppy decided that his lap was where she wanted to be. Floated his fingers around her torso as she stumbled up the small incline. Cocooned her protectively with his arms when she settled and closed her eyes.

Dick let his smile falter. Because, while the motions were sweet, and on par with Damian’s normal characteristics, Dick knew him better than that. And Damian’s movements weren’t necessarily out of care, he could see that.

They were out of fear.

Damian was afraid to touch her.

What?

“…How you been, kiddo?” Dick whispered after a moment. Damian merely shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You can’t miss what you don’t remember.” Damian sniffed. “It’s scientifically impossible.”

“Come on, Damian. Don’t be like that.” Dick chastised, quietly. “I missed you when I got back. When the whole family got together to kick ass, and you weren’t there. When you never came home.”

“That’s not my home anymore.” Damian replied quickly. “You’ve talked with Father, I’m sure. He’d tell you as such.”

“He told me what happened. What you said before you ran off.” Dick swallowed the lump in his throat. His own fear. Because he knew Damian. And if he said the wrong thing, Damian would run. Damian would bolt, and disappear off the radar.

Potentially take Dick’s new puppy with him.

“Damian.” Dick sat up a little bit now, watched as Damian flinched at the seriousness of his tone. Put his hand on Haley’s back to ground him. To emotionally support him. And Haley was already good at this, she just nuzzled closer to his stomach. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Damian bowed his head. “Yes it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Dick pushed. “What happened to Alfred wasn’t your fault. What happened to me, I – you weren’t even there.”

“I should have been.” Damian whispered. “I would have seen the gunman. I would have pushed you out of the way.”

“Yeah, sure. Then the bullet would have hit you and you would have died.” Dick tried not to sound angry, but he wasn’t sure how good of a job he did. “Would that have really been the better option?”

It was a rhetorical question, but stubbornly, Damian answered it anyway. “Yes. It should always be me over you. Always.” Damian looked up, but not at Dick. Kept his gaze forward, out the nearby window. “The world needs Dick Grayson. It does not need me.”

“Don’t-” Dick was lashing out before he realized it, grabbing Damian’s elbow and squeezing. He felt Damian tense under his grip. “Don’t you dare say that again. Not ever.”

Damian looked over, eyes half-lidded and dull. “Why?” He countered, the royalness in his voice not mimicked by his tired features. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s not-”

“I killed Alfred, I do nothing but hurt and torture and agonize everyone around me so yes, it’s exactly as I would deserve.” Damian spit. “If saving you or anyone else happens in the process, than at least you simpletons can convince yourselves that I did not die in vain.”

“It’s not…you can’t…I can’t…”

I can’t lose you again.

Dick didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to think.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he did what he always did. He didn’t think – he acted.

He used the grip he had on Damian’s elbow to pull him into his chest, engulf him in his arms. Haley grumbled at the movement, but Dick ignored her, holding Damian’s head against his throat, burying his nose in Damian’s hair.

“Oh, Damian…” He lamented. Then quieter, to himself, to the universe, to the very air around them. “What happened while I was gone?”

“…Everything fell apart.” Damian breathed softly. Painfully. He didn’t return the embrace, kept his hands firmly on Haley’s flank, but he did slump into the hold, lean his head exhaustedly on Dick’s shoulder. “Everything…I…I don’t know who I am anymore. What I’m supposed to do. Who I’m supposed to be.”

“You’re supposed to be Damian. You’re supposed to be my little brother.” Dick whispered. “That’s it. That’s it.”

Damian shook his head. “It was through Father’s methods I got Alfred killed. He never acts, always reacts and that’s…that’s not working. That gets innocent people in the line of fire.” A small gasp. “But I can’t…I don’t want to…”

A whimper. A whimper from the great Damian Wayne.

“I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to kill anyone. Not…not anymore.” A watery exhale. “I don’t want to be what my mother wants me to be.”

“Neither do I.” Dick answered honestly. “But I don’t want you to be Bruce either. I don’t want you to be anyone but you.”

“But who is that?” Damian shifted to look up at him, so Dick reluctantly leaned back. He didn’t release his child, though. “What good am I if I can’t make at least one of my parents proud? If I can’t help anyone who needs it?” He shook his head, closed his eyes. “Grayson, I’m useless.”

“You’re not. You’re not useless, you’re not what your parents dream.” He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Damian’s. Damian opened his eyes and stared cautiously up at him. “You’re you, and I love that. I love you, just because you exist.”

Haley whined a little between them, and Dick felt her nosing at the arm he had tight around Damian’s back.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry no one helped you when you needed it. I’m sorry you felt so alone.” He whispered. “But I’m here now. I’m back, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you, no matter what.”

“I don’t think you get to decide when you get amnesia again.” Damian drawled bitterly.

Dick snorted a laugh. “Well then I’ll tell you right here and now, okay? If I’m ever unable to say it, for whatever reason. Know that I love you. I have always loved you and I will always love you. No matter what. Don’t ever forget it. Even if for some reason outside of my control I do.”

Damian didn’t respond, but he silently nodded. Leaned a little more weight into Dick.

“…You know, you avoided my question.” Dick sniffed his own tears back, gently running his fingers along Damian’s spine. The boy melted into his touch. “How have you been?”

“…Tired.” Damian admitted softly. “I’m so tired, Grayson.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have extra blankets, and a really big mattress.” Dick laughed. “Humour me, and stay a few days?”

“I…have places to go…” Damian tried. He even tried to pull back, out of Dick’s arms. Dick refused to let him. “A case I’m working…”

“A case more important than Haley’s health?” Dick asked. Damian sighed.

“I knew from the moment you called that it was a ruse to get me to show up here.” Damian hummed thoughtfully. Remorsefully. “Until I heard her bark, I assumed there wasn’t actually a dog here at all.”

“I mean, it was, but also not really. I want to give her the best life I can, and you’re the greatest expert on dog care I know.” Dick shrugged. “And…I’ve never had a special needs dog.”

Damian seemed to consider, then exhaled again. “The longer I’m here the more likely Father will find me. And I…” A hesitation. “I don’t…want to see him. Right now.”

“If you don’t want Bruce to find you, I won’t let him find you. Simple as that.” Dick promised. “Want to make a bet on it? Stay a week, and if he doesn’t find out you’re here, you have to stay another two months at least. If he does, I’ll go with you wherever you want to go, even if it’s back to where you mom is, and only marginally complain about it.”

Damian stared up at him. His eyes were still dull, still tired, but there was a spark there. Just a little one. Just a tiny bit of hope.

“…You’re ridiculous.” Damian chuckled. “And I’m starting to think this was more than just a plot to get me to show up.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Damian nodded, looking down at Haley. She didn’t open her eyes, but she did let her tail happily wag. “It’s feeling more and more like a kidnapping of me, and not necessarily of this sweet girl like I said earlier.”

“Well, what can I say?” Dick asked weakly, extending his legs until they surrounded Damian’s, and locking his ankles together. Now he had dog and child right where he wanted them – in his arms and under his protection. “I wasn’t lying. I really did miss you, kiddo. So damn much.”

Haley yawned, stretching her front leg out until it touched Dick’s knee. “…I missed you too, Grayson.”

Dick smiled, and leaned forward to plant a long kiss on Damian’s temple. “I love you, Damian.”

Damian smiled down at Haley, ran his hand over her head. “…I love you as well, Richard.”

“…Enough to stay for a few days?” Dick tried, leaning his chin on Damian’s shoulder. “Or, like, forever?”

Damian laughed – genuine, loud laugh – and flopped back against Dick’s chest. In exhaustion. In relief. Dick didn’t care. Just held his boy as tight as he could.

“I suppose I can consider it.”

[lockefanfic]

Business Trip: Part 38 - Senses

As you devour the smooth, soft skin of her neck Momo’s hands reach for your belt, working the latch with quick, experienced fingers, having done it a thousand times before. With the belt undone she hooks her thumbs into your waistband and pulls your pants down, taking your boxers along with them.

Almost as soon as your cock springs free her hand is on it, and you let a loud sigh escape your lips at the feel of her hands on your shaft again - a handjob wasn’t exactly hard to come by these days for you, but to have Momo’s hands on you again drove the pleasure to another level. The history, the past emotions - it heightened every little ounce of pleasure, every little touch and taste.

Your cock hardens quickly in her grasp, every pump of her soft, long fingers creating delicious little spikes of pleasure that shoot up your spine and directly into your brain. Momo gasps as you suck on the warm spots of her neck and jawline, her pace with your shaft quickening with each moan of pleasure that leaves her lips.

She eventually has enough, and she draws her neck away from your hungry lips to make eye contact with you. You see the same look in her eyes you’d seen so many times before - hazel pools filled with lust and need and want. She licks her lips, drops to her knees, and you feel the breath leaving your lungs involuntarily as she takes you into her mouth.

“I should’ve known you’d be here early.”

“There’s a lot to do,” Hirai Momo says, raising her head from the laptop only briefly to nod a greeting of good morning to you as you enter Red Velvet’s apartment, “I double and triple checked all the tech in here along with all the cameras we placed at the entrances and exits. I had to do it before the sun came up - you know Irene’s thugs could be casing this place as we speak.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” you answer as you step inside the bedroom where Momo had set up her recording equipment on the wooden desk. You take a seat on the bed, where Seulgi had had her way with you the day before.

It was the day of Seulgi’s scheduled meeting with Irene, and a few hours before noon, which was when Seulgi said Irene should show up. You’d arrived early to ensure everything was in place; the others weren’t due to arrive for another hour or so.

“I have to think of everything. This is a big op,” Momo states.

“I know. You’re really going all out.”

Momo stops whatever she was doing on the laptop. Her back is turned to you, but you still notice her head has dipped slightly, as though she weren’t looking forward to the conversation you were about to have. Her hair, done up in a high ponytail, leaves the creamy skin and graceful curve of her neck bare. Her shoulders slouch slightly.

“This needs to go well. I need to take Irene down. I need to prove that I can do this on my own. Without you.”

Her words sting you a little bit, and Momo seems to immediately regret her words, at least partially.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, “I don’t mean to say that you haven’t done your part in bringing Irene down. I guess... I just… when we worked together, when I was on your team, I always just followed your lead. You did all the work, made all the decisions. I guess that now that I’m on my own I need to prove I can do it myself.”

She’d started to say ‘I guess’ again.

“Momo, you don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”

“I need to prove it to myself,” she answers quickly. 

A few quiet moments pass in silence. Since her reappearance you’d wondered why Momo had been so cold and driven; now that you knew it was because of her desire to prove herself, it explained a lot of the way she acted and spoke to you.

“I’m sorry, Momo. I didn’t know that that was what you wanted.”

“It’s fine,” she answers, shaking her head softly, “I could have been a little more straightforward with you instead of being a bitch to you for no reason.”

“Either way, when we get Irene today this’ll be your win.”

“No, it’ll be ours,” she corrects, “it was your team that got all that incriminating intel right from under their noses. Without it we wouldn’t have anything to prove she did what she did.”

“But it was your team that will actually bag her. The intel is useless if she keeps getting away.”

Her back is turned, but you could sense a small smile appearing on the girl’s cheeks.

“I guess we can call it a team effort,” she admits, and you are happy to find a little levity in her tone. “A team win.”

“You do remember what we used to do after each of our wins back in the day...”

“Take a cab back to the hotel room and fuck like rabbits?” Momo quickly answers, with a snort and a giggle. She turns her head halfway toward you, and you are glad to see a nostalgic smile on her lips.

“Yeah. Sometimes we wouldn’t even wait for the hotel. Remember the supply closet in the convention centre when we were in Frankfurt?”

“Of course I do. Or the cab in Lima? The driver must’ve been wondering why the hell I had your jacket over your lap in the summer heat.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t the first handjob ever given in that backseat,” you say with a smile, “either way it was real awkward making it from the cab to the hotel room with a raging boner.”

Momo giggles, and the sound is soft, musical; it lifts your spirits to hear something so wonderful, because you wondered if you’d ever hear it again. Memories of days gone past run through your heads, and bittersweet smiles paint themselves on your lips. Things were so much simpler then. No danger or drama, hurt or betrayal - only the next business deal to make, the next plane to catch, and evenings of passion and lust with someone you were falling in love with.

“I want things to be that way again,” you say, softly, the words leaving your lips before you even knew you were saying them. 

“Me too,” Momo agrees, “but we can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

Momo turns her head back away from you, staring blankly at her laptop screen again.

“It was different back then. It was just me and you, without a care in the world. Before all these other girls entered your life. I don’t mind who you fuck - you know that - but these girls… They all want to be with you.”

“Momo, I-”

“Would they ever leave your life?” Momo asks, pointedly. “Sana is one of the most passionate people I know - and she’s crazy for you. She’d do anything for you, even if it meant risking her career or her friendships. That cop - Nayeon, was it? I know you have history together. Maybe you would still be together, if it weren’t for this job. How do you know she’s not the one? She came halfway around the world for the chance to start over with you. And Jeongyeon-”

Momo’s voice cuts out, a sudden rush of emotion keeping her from finishing her sentence. She raises a hand to her mouth, almost as if physically covering her mouth could keep her from saying something she would regret.

“...she loves you. I guess I always saw it in the way she looked at you, but I just ignored it. I thought it was just a schoolgirl crush. And she pissed me right the fuck off with how she told you about her feelings while she knew we were together… but she was right there with you in that alleyway, before we rescued you. That wasn’t a girl standing by her boss. That was a girl standing by someone she loves.”

Momo takes a few deep breaths to compose herself, and although only a few seconds pass, the time in silence felt like hours.

“And I… I love you too. I guess I’ve always loved you. I guess a part of me always will, no matter what happens today or who you choose to be with. But if we’re going to be together I want to know you’re mine, truly mine, and mine alone. I don’t care about where you stick your dick. I just care about who’s in your heart. That’s what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”

More quiet breaths, more thoughts and memories and emotions running rampant through the heads and hearts of two confused young people - more silence covering it all like an unwanted, uncomfortable threadbare blanket that provided little warmth.

“You’re such a lucky little douchebag,” Momo says with a chuckle and smile that had little humor. “All these stupid young girls, tripping over themselves to let you know how much they want you.”

The silence returns - but so does your answer.

“What about what I want?”

Momo doesn’t answer, perhaps unprepared for your question.

“All of you, you’ve all told me what you want, and why you’re each better than the others. Why I should pick you. But never once has anyone asked me what I want - what I was looking for. And not one of you has considered that maybe, just maybe, I have other things on my mind besides choosing a girlfriend.”

The words spilled from your lips before you could even know you were speaking them, because you knew they came not from your brain but from somewhere deeper inside you. Momo had brought up a good point; each of the girls had made their case clear to you over the past few days and weeks. Each had made clear their desire for you, how much they wanted to be with you. And you’d accepted their declarations and considered each in turn - but not until now had you considered what you wanted.

You decide that what you want at the moment is a little time alone. You stand from the bed and with steps that felt heavier than they should, you begin to make your way to the bedroom door. When you reach the door and begin to open it, Momo rises from her chair and places a hand on your wrist.

You move to step around her, but she steps in front of you as well, her head lowered, as though she were afraid of what she might see if she looked up at you. Behind her, she closes the door, the click of the handle sounding uncomfortably loud in the quiet room.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice low and quiet. “What we want doesn’t matter if you don’t want the same thing.”

“It’s fine, Momo,” you say, trying your best to control your frustration and the sudden rise of anger in your head, “it’s fine. It can wait until after we bag Irene and finally move on from this mess.”

You move to step around Momo, but once again she blocks you from leaving by stepping in front of you - but this time she moves her face closer to yours, your noses grazing softly.

It only takes a few seconds and a light graze of your faces - but almost immediately the passion that once existed between you reignites. She was once such a central figure in your life, someone you saw almost every day and spent almost every night with; but to have been away from her for so long, combined with the dangerous and intense circumstances you’d both found yourselves in when you finally reconnected - it had all built up, waiting to be released.

Her lips press lightly against yours, and the kiss starts off tamely, as though both of you are testing the waters - but it soon ignites into an ember and then a flame, your lips crashing against each other as you both give in to your desires.

Momo wraps her arms around your neck and you wrap yours around her slim, perfect torso, both of you relishing the feel of each others’ bodies once again. Her tongue swipes across your lips and you let her into your mouth, your tongues duelling the same way they had on so many days and nights. She tastes of peach lip gloss and sweet candy, a treat you’d gone too long without, one that reminded you of simpler, carefree days gone by.

You give her a deep kiss before releasing her lips, diving into her neck and the warm spots there that you knew she loved. She lets out a wordless gasp as your need to press yourself against her in turn presses her back against the closed door. The soft smell of her perfume fills your nostrils like an intoxicating drug, one you long thought you’d sworn off, but one you now greedily fill your hungry lungs with.

As you devour the smooth, soft skin of her neck Momo’s hands reach for your belt, working the latch with quick, experienced fingers, having done it a thousand times before. With the belt undone she hooks her thumbs into your waistband and pulls your pants down, taking your boxers along with them.

Almost as soon as your cock springs free her hand is on it, and you let a loud sigh escape your lips at the feel of her hands on your shaft again - a handjob wasn’t exactly hard to come by these days for you, but to have Momo’s hands on you again drove the pleasure to another level. The history, the past emotions - it heightened every little ounce of pleasure, every little touch and taste.

Your cock hardens quickly in her grasp, every pump of her soft, long fingers creating delicious little spikes of pleasure that shoot up your spine and directly into your brain. Momo gasps as you suck on the warm spots of her neck and jawline, her pace with your shaft quickening with each moan of pleasure that leaves her lips.

She eventually has enough, and she draws her neck away from your hungry lips to make eye contact with you. You see the same look in her eyes you’d seen so many times before - hazel pools filled with lust and need and want. She licks her lips, drops to her knees, and you feel the breath leaving your lungs involuntarily as she takes you into her mouth.

The other girls were no slouches when it came to oral sex, each of them pleasuring you in their own way. But none of them knew you like Momo did; and combined with the pent up tension and emotion that had pervaded your every interaction with her since she left your team, it made every entrance and exit of your cock into her wet, warm mouth that much more pleasurable. 

Her tongue swirls in circular patterns, focusing mostly on your head, swirling around the tip and beneath it, her right hand pumping at your base in time with each thrust into her mouth, the same way she had a hundred times before. And the reaction she creates in your body is the same; a quickly building pleasure that overtakes your senses from your head to your toes, the kind that removes the existence of anything else in the world aside from the beautiful young woman on her knees before you, and the wet, hot cavern of her mouth and tongue.

You brace yourself against the closed door with one hand, your other reaching down to cradle the side of her head as it bobs back and forth on your shaft. You let a sigh escape your lips - a needy, lusty sound - as you watch Momo work. When she looks up at you her eyes are just as wanton as yours, but there is more than just lust there; there is a look of affection, a look of a need fulfilled.

You want more - you needed more.

You draw your saliva-coated cock from the Japanese girl’s lips, and she moans in disappointment at your decision to stop her in the midst of her work. But when you reach down and grasp her by the shoulders and pull her up to her feet, her objections quickly flee from her mind.

You turn her around so she is facing the door, her hands reaching out to brace herself against it, leaving your hands free to explore her tight, perfect frame. She is wearing high-waisted black leggings that cling like a second skin to her small waist, full hips, and the round cheeks of her ass; and as great as the sight of the black spandex was, it looked even better once it was pulled down to her knees. Momo’s perfect, vanilla skin almost glows in the early morning light, creamy and soft, begging to be touched and held and squeezed.

You press yourself against the young woman’s now naked midsection, your slick cock pressing between the round cheeks of her ass and the small of her back. Momo gasps at the touch of your cock on her body, the gasp turning into a long, soft moan as you thrust softly between her cheeks, a prelude, a tease of what was to come.

She squirms against you, grinds her hips and ass against your crotch, her body moving like liquid as she struggles to find release for the need building within her. But you deny her for now - you had to feel more of her, had to indulge in more of the perfect body you’d gone for so long without.

You continue to thrust between her ass cheeks, but as you do so you bring your hands up her naked sides, enjoying the feel of her soft, creamy skin beneath your fingers and palms. When you reach the edge of the short blue crop top she is wearing you dive beneath it, finding that she is wearing a black sports bra beneath it. You dig your fingertips beneath it’s hem and pull upward, feeling her large, round breasts bounce free as you pull it above her full mounds.

Almost immediately your hands are on her breasts, indulging in the feel of her perfect tits in your hands, enjoying their weight and the soft creaminess of them. Your thumbs and index fingers find her nipples, delighting in the fact that they were already stiff with pleasure. You would’ve given anything to have them in your mouth, but you settle for teasing and pinching them with your fingers, twisting the stiff little buds until Momo’s gasps and whimpers turn into full on moans, filling the small bedroom with vocalizations of the physical pleasure coursing through her young body.

Momo’s butt grinds even stronger against your crotch until she is thrusting your cock between her ass cheeks all on her own. With a satisfied smile you release her right breast from your grasp, reaching down past sculpted abs and a flat stomach to the heat between her thighs, finding her almost dripping with need. Her own right hand joins yours at her crotch, her middle finger pressing your own against her drenched lips, pressing your finger down until it slips between the slippery lips of her pussy.

Momo moans - not a simple moan of sexual pleasure; a moan of need, of want, of pure lust. “Fuck me, please,” she gasps.

You decide she’d had enough teasing. Bringing your hands to her slim waist, you position yourself to take her. Momo’s hand at her crotch brings your tip to her wet, slick entrance, the head of your cock pressing between her needy lips.

You thrust into her with one long, smooth stroke - and you both feel the air rushing from your lungs in a loud, unhindered gasp of pleasure.

You both take a few seconds there as you fill her to the hilt; both of you getting that first hit of a drug after a long absence, that sinful depravity of an unexpected relapse.

But you both need more than just that first hit; more than just a promise of pleasure. And so you withdraw your shaft from her body, her pussy hugging it tightly as though unwilling to let it go. It glistens with her juices. She trembles with need. 

You thrust back into Momo, then a third time, then a forth - until you settle quickly into a rhythm, fucking the gasping, mewling Japanese girl against the door of the bedroom with quick, strong thrusts. Her body is rocked with each entry into her pussy, the round cheeks of her ass bouncing deliciously with each impact, her spine and back easing into a delightful curve as she settles into your rhythm.

Her gasps and whimpers and moans fill the room, unheeding of the presence of neighbors or teammates or anyone else that could possibly interrupt the pleasure you were building inside her body. You cannot help but join her, her tight, hot body and the wetness of her pussy turning the pleasure in your loins into wordless grunts and gasps.

“Oh, fuck, fuck me please,” she gasps, her words light and breathless, as though she were having more than just lust fulfilled - there is a happiness in her tone, a joy, almost, that something she’d lost had finally come back into her life.

“Fuck, Momo,” you say in return, not capable of coming up with the words to say any more. When you’d fucked in the past your words were dirty, vulgar; now they were filled with some other emotion. Was it joy? Happiness? Nostalgia, at the way things used to be? You didn’t have the time or mental capacity to interpret it, not when Momo’s perfect body was taking you in and out, the tight wet heat between her legs driving you insane with each thrust into her pussy.

You settle fully into your rhythm, fucking her for a few beautiful minutes, neither increasing nor decreasing your pace; both of you enjoying the moment, the pleasure rising within your bodies. You drink in every inch of Momo’s body as you pump in and out of her - the graceful curve of her back, the round softness of her bouncing ass, the glistening wetness of her pussy lips as they take you in and out, lathering your cock with her slick juices each time. Your hands wander - over her hips and back and ass and breasts, never once breaking contact, never once without creamy vanilla skin beneath your fingertips.

You reach up to the bun of hair at the back of her head and give it a light tug, pulling her head back, her throat opening up into a long, lustful moan.

Her hands search for something, anything on the wall to grasp as an outlet for her pleasure - but failing to find anything, she reaches for the desk next to her. The task is made impossible by each thrust into her body, causing her hand to bounce frantically around on the desk; her movement knocks a few notepads and pens to the floor, not that she minded, not that she gave a damn or could even process the mess she was making, not when every thrust of the stiff, long cock into her body was driving her insane with pleasure.

“I… I, oh god, I’m cum-”

You’d seen and felt Hirai Momo orgasm hundreds of times, but the orgasm that overtakes her now is perhaps the strongest you’d ever given her. Her perfect, sculpted body is reduced to a quivering, mewling mess as your next thrust drives her over the edge. She moans. She gasps. But mostly, she trembles and shakes as she cums, her gaping mouth frozen in a seemingly endless moan of pleasure.

Her pussy clenches and pulsates and tightens deliciously around your cock - and it takes every effort not to join her over the edge. For as wonderful as she was from behind you had to have her face to face, needed to see those perfect features while you filled her.

Momo seems to have the same idea, for when she eventually recovers from her orgasm she turns around, letting you regretfully slip out of her body. She almost tears her leggings from her body before turning to the desk and sweeping half of the stuff on it onto the ground. Locking eyes with you, she hops onto the desk and spreads her legs, allowing you between them.

Within seconds you are inside her again, fucking her face to face. 

She was a sight to behold from behind, but nothing quite beat watching her face as you filled her again and again with your slick, hard cock, those pretty features contorted in pleasure and lust and fulfilled need. Each thrust into her body gives her breasts a beautiful shock, her stiff nipples bouncing deliciously with each clap of your crotch against hers. The flex of her sculpted abs with each of her breaths, the soft creaminess of her thighs as she spreads them widely to take you inside her, the shaved mound above a glistening pussy and its splayed lips as your cock pumped in and out of her - it all became too much, all became too much to take in at once. It almost embarrassed you to admit you were closer to orgasm than you thought.

Momo lies back on the desk until she is resting on her elbows, giving you a perfect view of her body as you continue to fuck her. She captures both of her large breasts for a moment to pinch her own stiff nipples, before releasing them both so you could watch them bounce with each thrust into her body - just the way she knew you liked. Her eyes, locked on yours, are half-lidded and dripping with wanton desire.

For a few long, beautiful minutes you fuck the young woman on the desk, relishing the feel of every thrust, every entry and exit into her impossibly perfect body. But the feel of her wet, hot silk wrapped around your shaft, her needy and wanton cries of lust and moans of need - they all built up to an orgasm you were simultaneously craving and fearing, because you knew it would mean an end to this experience.

“Fuck, Momo, I-”

“Just cum for me, baby,” she replies, raising her torso from the desk to press her mouth against your ear as she wraps her arms and legs around you, “Please. Cum in me like you used to. Fill me again. Fill me with your cum.”

“Momo… Momo, I-”

“Cum inside me!”

When you finally cum it is like your world has ended; the pleasure overtakes every ounce of your being until you’re unsure whether you’re still alive. The pulsating of your shaft inside Momo’s hot, tight pussy, the feel of filling her body with thick, creamy semen, and the light, airy gasp of her moans are the only physical sensations you are aware of.

You almost forget to breathe - and when you finally regain consciousness, holding yourself up with weak hands on either side of Momo’s exhausted body, you have to remind yourself to do so, taking in large gulps of oxygen to feed tired lungs.

It’s Momo that raises your head with her hands until you are face to face with hers. Her eyes are heavy with fulfilled lust, but also genuine affection. She was someone you loved and someone you might still love - and you see, in those dark brown pools, that she perhaps still felt the same.

She kisses you, and it is a kiss that confirms the way she felt.

---

“This is a pretty big deal, huh?” Minatozaki Sana asks.

“Yes, yes it is,” Yoo Jeongyeon answers, although most of her attention is focused on the bank of laptops and screens in front of her.

Sana sighs to herself, seeing that Jeongyeon was too preoccupied with making last minute adjustments and preparations on her laptop to provide her with conversation. The two are sitting in the back of the van that belonged to Momo and her team, parked in an alleyway a block from Red Velvet’s apartment building. Jeongyeon was in charge of keeping an eye on all the cameras Momo and her team had planted the day before.

Sana fidgets with the backpack on her lap, playing with the zippers the same way an impatient child might while waiting for class to start. Jeongyeon turns her head from the monitors to give Sana a sharp look - and the Japanese girl gives her an apologetic bow of her head before ceasing her play with the zipper.

But soon she is tapping a beat on the backpack with her fingers.

“Sana,” Jeongyeon finally snaps.

“I’m sorry,” the Japanese girl replies, “I’m just… nervous.”

“We all are,” Jeongyeon replies, her tone relaxing somewhat, “but we’ll be okay. This time tomorrow we’ll be laughing about how we’ve finally bagged Irene.”

Sana seems comforted by the Korean girl’s confidence, and she offers her a smile.

There is a knock on the rear of the van, and the door opens to reveal a smiling Yeri.

“Ready to go, Sana-chan?” the young woman asks, her bright face beaming, showing no trace of nervousness given the gravity of the day’s upcoming events.

“Ready!” Sana answers, as brightly as she could. The Japanese girl gathers the backpack that is carrying her recording equipment and hops out of the van, giving Yeri a high five as she does so. Taking a deep breath to gather herself, she begins to walk away towards the cafe opposite the apartment building, where she was to set up her lookout point. Her role was to inform the rest of the team the second Irene arrived on the premises.

After watching Sana leave and giving Jeongyeon a reassuring smile, Yeri returns to her place in the passenger seat of the van. 

Chaeyoung, sitting in the driver’s seat, doesn’t even turn her head to welcome Yeri back into the cabin. Her eyes are locked on Sana’s swaying hips as the girl walks towards the cafe. “Damn, Japanese girls are hot,” she says under her breath.

“They sure are,” Yeri agrees as she retakes her seat. 

Had Chaeyoung been able to tear her gaze from Sana, she might have noticed something tucked into the back of Yeri’s pants.

---

“She’s here,” Momo says from her seat in front of the recording equipment, “Sana reports she’s alone. Jeongyeon says she’s at the main elevator.”

“Finally,” Jihyo says. She closes up the bulletproof vest she is wearing and draws her sidearm from the holster at her belt before racking the slide and chambering a round. On the other side of the bedroom Nayeon does the same, the thick dark blue vest looking almost out of place on her tiny frame.

The sight of Nayeon handling the weapon disturbed you somewhat; not that you felt she was incapable of handling herself - rather, you had trouble difficulty reconciling the image of the young, naive schoolgirl you once knew with the strong, confident woman who now stood in front of you. As Nayeon reholsters her pistol, some sort of compact Glock variant, she catches your eyes and gives you a sheepish smile. You are comforted, somewhat, in seeing a little bit of the girl you once knew in the woman’s soft, beautiful features.

You open the bedroom door to speak to Seulgi, who is waiting on the living room’s couch.

“She’s here.”

You wonder if there is anything else you could say, any small words of encouragement you could provide the former member of Red Velvet that might help her in some way. But when you see the determination and conviction in her eyes, you realize she didn’t need to be told anything further.

Closing the door, you step back into the bedroom, where the other three girls are standing by.

“Let’s recap. When Irene gets here, Seulgi has five minutes to confront her. Only after those minutes are up do you two go out there and arrest her.”

“I still don’t understand why she gets five minutes at all,” Jihyo states. “This is a criminal matter. We need to arrest her the second we’re able to. Every extra second she spends out there is a second she can use to get away.”

“I promised her five minutes,” you answer. “It’s the least we can do for the work she’s done to get Irene here. Without Seulgi, this doesn’t happen.”

“She deserves it,” Momo adds, giving you a reassuring nod.

“Fine. But the second those five minutes are up, Nayeon and I go in there and arrest her. Then we take her straight to the station for processing.”

“Understood,” you answer. 

Satisfied that the plan was in place and the four of you were on the same page, you take a seat next to Momo, accepting the pair of headphones she offers you that are connected to the listening and recording devices in the living room. On the screen of her monitor, you watch Seulgi pace nervously back and forth as she waits for the knock on her door.

--

“Seulgi, I-”

“No. You don’t get to speak. I ask the questions, you answer them. That’s how this goes.”

“I… I thought you were-”

“What did I just say?”

“Is Yeri-”

“She’s fine. Now stand there and shut the fuck up.”

Their first words are contentious and confrontational. You’d wondered how their first interaction would go; Seulgi, as she often did, set the tone.

Irene looked confused, almost unsure of herself - and it seemed out of place for her character, given your only other direct interaction with her. In her office at SM HQ all those months ago, Bae Irene was cold and calculating, with a ruthless streak that pervaded every aspect of her character. Now she seemed rattled, as though merely seeing Seulgi again had shaken her to the core. Understandable, given what happened the last time they saw each other.

“Do you know… what I had to go through… when you left us behind?” Seulgi asks. While she was obviously trying to remain as cold as she could, the small hints of weakness in her tone betrayed the strong front she was trying to put up.

“Seulgi… please. Let me-”

“Y’know, all those months we spent in YG’s dungeon… I thought about giving up. About letting it all go. But only one thing kept me going, Irene. Just one thing gave me the strength I needed to make it through the day. Only one thing gave me the drive to escape YG. Do you… do you know what that was?”

Irene is shaken as she listens to Seulgi’s words. She fidgets nervously with her jacket, her feet shuffling on the floor nervously. But her face - her expression - was what gave her away. She is  a broken woman, as though the very sight of Seulgi had torn down the cold ice queen persona she was so well known for.

She seems unable to even answer Seulgi’s question, and so she merely shakes her head.

“It was the possibility… the idea that I might see you again some day. That I might stand in front of you and ask you just one question. Just one word.”

Irene’s lip quivers, as though she were fighting a vain battle to hold back her tears.

“...why?”

Irene lets an exasperated gasp leave her mouth, as though it were something she were struggling to keep inside. She covers her lips with a hand, her eyes closing.

“Why?” Seulgi continues, “Why did you leave us behind? We cried and sweat and bled together, and when it came down to it - when we needed you most - you left us behind!”

Seulgi’s anger is at the fore now, and she does nothing to fight it, nothing to save her words. She is shaking, her hands balled into tight fists.

“Fucking tell me, Irene! Tell me why you left us behind!”

Through the camera feed, you witness Bae Irene do something you never in a million years thought you’d see - she cries. The tears fall from her cheeks in a glistening spill, down perfect, porcelain skin. She covers her face with her hands, as though her hands could somehow keep her from facing the accusations of her best friend and the dark memories that accompanied them.

“I’m so, so sorry, Seulgi. I-”

“No,” Seulgi demands, and while her back is turned to the camera you could tell from her tone that she too was crying. “No, you don’t get to apologize. You only get to answer the question. Now. Tell me. Tell me why.”

A few moments pass as Irene struggles to control her emotions. Your view of her is shaken; you long thought of her as a cold and calculating villain, heartless and cruel, especially as you navigated the many challenges and dangers she and her company threw your way. But that was all a far cry from the broken, teary girl on the screen of the laptop in front of you.

“I… I… Do you, do you remember… when I was first assigned to take down YG?” she asks, with uncertain words, wiping away tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She keeps her gaze locked on her hands as she struggles to compose herself, unwilling or unable to match Seulgi’s eyes.

“Yes. You got in close with the YG CEO.”

Irene smiles at the floor, despite her tears, as though she had just heard a joke.

“I lied to you, Seulgi. I lied to all of you. I told you I had the upper hand, had him wrapped around my finger. It was the opposite.”

There is silence for a few moments as Seulgi tries to comprehend what she was saying, and while Irene tries to compose her next words.

“I tried to overpower him, bend him to our needs, the way we always did with other men. But he was scarier than I thought. Instead, he turned it around on me. He used you four to get to me.”

“...what?”

“He suddenly had pictures of the four of you. He knew where we lived, where we worked, where we went out for dinner. He threatened to hurt you if I didn’t do what he said. And through us, he wanted to bring down SM as a whole. But even that wasn’t enough - he threatened my family too, and yours. He even had pictures of Wendy’s family in Canada. I didn’t tell you any of this. I got us into the mess, and I thought I could get us out of it.”

“But I thought… I thought you had him under your control? And that was how you found out about Blackpink, and how we needed to rescue them?”

Irene laughs again, a sad, ironic smile on her lips that carried little humor.

“That wasn’t a rescue mission, Seulgi. That was a kidnapping.” 

Seulgi doesn’t answer, seemingly shocked into silence.

“YG relied on Blackpink. They were YG’s corporate espionage division - not their R&D team, like I told you. Blackpink were the ones that stalked our families and got YG their information. Without them their company was going under, thanks to all those scandals they were involved in. Taking Blackpink down was a form of revenge on them - and I thought that it would keep him from threatening us ever again. Once he promised to leave us alone, I’d let the girls go. The less you four knew about it, the better off you were. But things went south during the mission...”

“Jesus, Irene…”

“...and I had to leave you behind. I thought… I thought I could exchange the Blackpink girls for you and Yeri. He insisted I release the girls first. I was desperate and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to make sure you two were okay - so I released them. But YG didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. They kept you two. And they used you against me, as revenge.”

“How?”

“They threatened to hurt you if I didn’t comply with them. They knew JYP was their next closest competitor, so they told me to do whatever it took to bring them down.”

“So all that backstabbing, hiring Chou Tzuyu and Minatozaki Sana to bring down JYP, hacking their servers - that was all on YG’s orders?”

“Yes,” Irene answers, the word a soft gasp that leaves her lips, as though she didn’t want to say it. 

When Seulgi speaks, it is only after long, agonizing minutes in silence.

“That… that’s not enough, Irene.”

“...what?”

“You… you still left us there.”

“I had the Blackpink girls. I thought I could-”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you left us behind. It doesn’t take away the pain-”

“Seulgi-”

“I would have never left you behind, Irene. I would have stood there and fought with you. I would have been captured with you. And I would have been right there with you while those YG fuckers-”

“Seulgi, please. YG-”

“No. No, Irene, No. I don’t give a shit about YG or SM or JYP or whoever the fuck else was involved. No. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not anymore.”

Tears have begun to fall down Irene’s cheeks again, although she makes no effort to wipe them away, facing Seulgi with as brave a face as she could possibly make. Perhaps she knew, somewhere deep down, that facing Seulgi’s accusations was a punishment she deserved.

“I loved you, Irene!” Seulgi says, her words desperate. “I loved you. I still love you. And when I saw you leave us behind it shattered my heart into a million pieces. That pain, and the pain we endured at YG - it was all because of you. You deserve to feel the same pain I did.”

In the bedroom, Jihyo rises to her feet.

“That’s it,” she says with a hushed whisper for fear of the two in the living room hearing, “that’s all we need. Her time is up, and she’s about to go ballistic. We go now.”

Before you can stop her or say otherwise, Jihyo is already opening the bedroom door, Nayeon close on her heels. 

“Seoul PD! Bae Irene, you are under arrest,” Jihyo announces, ignoring the confused protests of Seulgi, Momo and yourself. She begins to read out the list of Irene’s crimes as Nayeon steps behind her and handcuffs her.

The next few seconds are a whirlwind of confusion, an overload on the senses. Seulgi’s anguished cries of anger; Momo trying to reason in vain with Jihyo; Nayeon reading Irene her rights in both English and Korean; Irene’s cold, sad eyes, and the defeated look on her tear streaked face as her wrists are cuffed behind her. It all almost seemed to move in slow motion, the angry and sad and stern tones all blending into one long, incomprehensible blur.

Some time later, you’d look back at what would happen next and remember the utter chaos that erupted all in the space of a few seconds. You remember the way it felt - the sudden, unexpected rush of air pressure. The way you felt it in your skin and especially in your ears. The bright, wicked flashes of light that stole the attention of your eyes before temporarily blinding you with their unwanted brilliance.

And later you’d wonder how someone who’d seen and heard many thousands of gunshots on TV, movies and video games was still utterly unprepared for the sound of a gun firing twice, indoors, from only a few feet away. Gunshots, you realized that day, are greedy, possessive things - demanding every ounce of your attention, against your will, ignorant of your preparation or readiness for the sensations that accompanied them.

When the gunshots finally release your senses from their grasp, your eyes are the first to recover. They register two bodies on the floor lying in crumpled heaps. Your last glimpse of Seulgi is as she’s dragging Irene out of the door and into the hallway, a smoking pistol in her hand.

---

Author’s Note: :O

[arcticdementor]

Part III of my series about the changing face of L.A. Click for Parts I and II.

I ended Part II with a look at how L.A. County’s Hispanics are habitual nonvoters. Let’s pick up seamlessly from there, in Compton. Compton used to be so black (over 85%) that at my high school we had a litany of “Compton so black” jokes.

…

Today, the birthplace of “gangsta rap” be not black at all. At last count (prior to the 2020 census), it was 68% Hispanic and 27% black, and I’d bet my house that the new figures will show that the Hispanic number has risen beyond 70% and the black has dropped below 25%.

Compton so Mexican its city hall’s a Home Depot parking lot.

Now dig this: In a city that’s roughly one-quarter black and almost three-quarters Mexican, of the eight elected officials (mayor, city attorney, city clerk, treasurer, and four councilpeople), only one is Hispanic. All the rest are black. And it gets better. That one Hispanic councilman won his election by just one vote, and our Soros-backed DA is prosecuting the guy for fabricating the one vote that put him over the top. Turns out the bean only ran because a black guy who’d lost his primary made a deal with him to run in his stead in exchange for giving the failed black candidate a lucrative city commissioner position if he won, and together they faked the winning vote.

Can you wrap your brain around that? The city is 70% Hispanic, and the only Hispanic council member, who only ran because a black dude made him, won by just one vote, and that vote had to be faked.

Get my point now about Hispanics not voting?

I mean, imagine a city that’s 70% black, but only one out of eight city officials is black. And then the county DA tries to nullify the vote that got that one black elected. There’d be riots! Neighborhoods would be burned to ash. Don Lemon would be screaming about “equity,” and the Biden Justice Department would be investigating the DA.

But Mexicans don’t care. They’re fine with letting the black minority pretend to be da Emperor Jones. That’s how little participatory democracy matters to them. And Dems have no desire to “enfranchise” Compton Mexicans because blacks are their most reliable and manipulatable minions. Never trade a slave for an independent contractor. Plus, as I discussed last week, when Mexicans do vote, it’s all over the map. As Newsweek contributor Richard Hanania pointed out regarding polls that show California Hispanics divided 50/50 on the Newsom recall (blacks are 65/35 against it), “I feel like it’s fun living in a state with many Mexicans because you get a wildcard aspect to politics. Keeps things exciting.”

…

So what we know is that Mexi voting ambivalence is resilient. Would it be equally resilient to rightist coercion? Who knows; no rightists out here are testing the waters. The Hispanic rejection of affirmative action was due in large part to a general dislike of blacks. And in February when the black- and Jew-run L.A. school board defunded all campus police and redirected the $25 million LAUSD security budget to a program to fund the education of only black students, the discontent among L.A. Hispanics was palpable. Blacks make up barely 8% of LAUSD students (Hispanics comprise over 70%). Hispanic Twitter exploded with fury over the “black-only” payday coming at the expense of campus security, and the L.A. Times was forced to admit that Hispanic support for campus cops was massive, especially compared with support from non-Hispanic whites (a whopping 67% to 54%).

So did our local “Republicans” try to make hay out of that? Of course not, because to do so would risk offending blacks, and the GOP establishment has sworn a blood oath that it shall never allow itself any forward motion that might jeopardize its (zero) chance of “winning the black vote.”

There could literally be one black man left in L.A., and the GOP would sacrifice everything for his favor.

…

So, our Mexicans are untested, and our rapidly decreasing blacks, our gradually increasing Asians, and our moneyed and influential secular Jews are a lost cause. What about our non-Jewish non-Hispanic whites?

Ay yi yi, they’re the woist of all. The leftist ones represent the bottom of the barrel of self-hating “please genocide me before I enslave again,” “I hope my son goes tranny so that my foul DNA might dead-end with my progeny’s amputated penis” wastes of space. The mostly non-Jewish white upscale deep-blue city of Manhattan Beach, for example, is filled with self-flagellating WASPs who spend their time trying to make their safe city less safe by “giving land back” to blacks who were supposedly racisted out of town in the 1920s.

And now Manhattan Beach is regularly visited by black criminals, from serial rapists to boardwalk thieves to a home-invasion attempted murder just a week ago. I’m sure the guilt-ridden Robin DiAngelos of Manhattan Beach excuse these crimes as justified reparations owed to noble negroes.

…

Worse still, our “rightist” whites—those who choose to be activists—are just plain batshit crazy. Our MAGAs are violent, self-destructive, foolish, and dim-witted (I’ve covered this before, and I’ll be revisiting it next week in a column that’ll post on the eve of the gubernatorial recall).

…

In largely red Beverly Hills (and surrounding Westside areas), the Persian, Israeli, and Orthodox Jews, who are not suicidal, are holding the line against the violent crime and property crime that still disproportionately come from blacks (ironically, as the county’s black community shrinks, the thugs are forced to venture beyond their comfort zone in search of victims, rather like how bears become more bold as their natural habitat shrinks). But what of the areas that are largely Hispanic? Well, our Hispanics (as the Times pointed out) have a more positive view of police than our whites. That’s something often overlooked by those who claim to study criminality in racial or ethnic groups. It’s never just about criminality; it’s also about acceptance of policing. Whites who dismantle the criminal justice apparatus are as much to blame for rampant criminality as low-IQ thugs. Portland is an example of how poisonous such whites can be; violent crime in that city isn’t the result of a huge population of blacks but a huge population of self-hating anti-cop whites.

…

Our Hispanics occupy a middle ground: between black and white on the criminality scale (not as high as the former, not as low as the latter), but better than both groups on acceptance of policing. Half of L.A.’s cops and sheriff’s deputies are Hispanic, and our sheriff, Alex Villanueva—an unapologetic kick-ass crime fighter—survived the George Floyd purge last summer because his fellow Hispanics backed him against the blacks and whites who sought his ouster.

A county can weather criminality if it allows rigorous enforcement. L.A. had a lower murder rate than it does today back when there were more blacks but also more enforcement. Now that blacks, leftist whites, and secular Jews have decided that enforcement equals genocide, the last hope for the county lies with the Westside Persian/Israeli/Orthodox Jews and the Eastside beans.

There’s a logic to this, as those groups mingle more than you might think. Be it as nannies, gardeners, construction workers, warehouse personnel, or restaurant staff, the Westside is where many Mexicans go to work every day.

As one of those Westside Jews (though an outlier, as I’m “red” without being Persian, Israeli, or Orthodox), I would absolutely throw in with the beans as opposed to the leftist whites or the MAGA whites. Both groups, like blacks, have become suicidal. And suicidal people are dangerous.

Yes, Mexis have gangs, and you don’t want to walk down certain Eastside streets at night. Big shit; no one has reason to except those who live there. In the 1970s those areas were worse when they were black.

But Mexicans do the scut work around here, they don’t riot when one of their own is arrested (indeed they arrest their own), and they aren’t dangerously self-destructive.

I’ll take it.

Not that I have a choice; it’s the way it’s gonna be, demographically, whether I like it or not.

But it’s not the worst-case scenario, or even the second-to-worst. And these days that’s good enough.

[foradecision]

i.    “ the devil whispered in my ear,  ‘ you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm. ’  today i whispered in the devil’s ear,  ‘ i am the storm. ’ ”

OLD TOWN, DAY 33 ; 13:24:56.

     the apartment is picked mostly clean, the fruits of his labor yielding little more than some scrap electronics and an open box of band - aids. other things, things for trade: coffee, cosmetics, a couple of undamaged children’s books, things he doesn’t have use for but someone else will. there’s an eviscerated corpse slumped on the kitchen floor against the cabinets, at the end of a trail of blood. tenant, maybe — or maybe just some unlucky bastard who tried to find shelter and found their own grave instead. insects buzz and swarm, and the smell of decomp is strong. there’s not much left. crane covers the body with a bedsheet before he moves to check the bathroom.

     water leaks from underneath the locked door. once he gets it open, he sees why. 

     she was young. early twenties, if that. she’s half curled with bent knees in the overflowing tub, eyes open, skin bloodless and cold. drug paraphernalia litters the filthy tiled floor. accidental overdose or suicide; he’d put money on the latter, only because she’s not the first he’s seen. 

     there was a riverside shack in the slums, a mile or so behind the tower, where someone had tasted his handgun. left a note and a milk crate of canned food on his porch, telling whoever found it to take what they needed. there were those people on the rooftop of an apartment complex, the ones who’d gotten stranded and decided to cash out on their own terms. some of them died holding hands, family photos clutched close.

     a woman on a hotel bed surrounded by pill bottles. a man who’d hung himself in the basement of a restaurant.

     it doesn’t get easier. no matter how many, it doesn’t get easier.

     “i’m sorry nobody came for you,” crane murmurs, and gently closes the girl’s eyes. “... hope you found someplace better than this shithole.”

     he takes a moment, a five - count, then secures his findings, doubles back, and steps outside onto the terrace.

     a wooden latticework awning provides slatted shade from the afternoon sunlight. it dapples across skin slick with sweat and dust and dirt. blood, but not his. back - spatter, arterial spray. it’s everywhere but his face; missed his eyes and mouth, hit the visor of a scavenged police helmet he’d pulled off an infected near the quarantine wall.

     the slums are bad, but old town is a fucking war zone. virals run rampant through the streets and over the rooftops, acid - spitting toads linger near the waterfront and drainage culverts; massive demolishers pave paths of destruction wherever they can, hurling debris from empty lots, crushing anything that comes close, infected and human alike. rais’ thugs circle every drop point like vultures, armed to the teeth, and more than one desperate survivor has tried to jump crane for his supplies. 

     the worst are the screamers. the infected children. they were occupying one of the residential neighborhoods here in jarring numbers before he’d worked his way through and taken them out, quiet and reverent. 

     he dreams about them, sometimes. hears their anguished sobs and terrified wails in his sleep, waking drenched in flop sweat with his ears ringing and his heart in his throat. goddamn kids. one of the guys in his company used to rib him about that. fuckin’ soft touch, crane. that shit’ll get you killed.

     the narrow street below is clear, just a handful of shuffling biters that are easily dispersed. he’s bent over the open trunk of a car, ferreting through an old duffel bag, when he hears it. 

     a cry. a child’s cry.

     immediately, he’s standing straight. immediately he’s moving, trying to source the sound, gripping his machete tight. he’s thinking god, don’t let it be another one, until there are words instead of just noise and his pulse jumps hard.

     somewhere close by, a child is calling out for their father. calling for help. 

     shouting is dangerous, lethal, especially here, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. he moves down the street, looking into darkened storefronts, dumpsters, the backs of vans. he thinks he’s close, can’t be sure; cuts down an infected that ambles toward him from beside a busted atm and four more that follow, and calls back, “hey, i hear you! i hear you, i’m on my way, just — can you tell me where you are? kid — ?”

     there’s no verbal answer: only a scream, too much like too many he’s had to hear, but that’s plenty. crane breaks into a run and vaults through the smashed front window of a pizza place where a dozen biters are swarming the counter. stumbling, trying to climb over each other to get to whatever’s on the other side. he snaps the first one’s neck before the others notice him but makes swift work of the rest, too. barely stopping for breath, he steps over the bodies, searching, searching —

     “it’s safe, you can come out.”

     the response is muffled, like it’s blocked by something. “where’s my dad?”

     “i — i don’t know, but i can help you look for him, alright? i’m not gonna hurt you. they’re gone now, it’s okay. come on out.”

     scuffling, then a thud, and then a pair of big doe eyes are peering at him from next to the cash register. “are you one of the bad guys?”

     “what? no — no, i’m not, i promise. my name’s kyle. you wanna tell me your name?”

     “eren. the monsters —”

     “the monsters are gone, eren. did they get you?”

     more scuffling, and the boy finally emerges, wiping his nose with his sleeve. he looks five, maybe six, small and dark - haired, dirty but at a glance unharmed. he shakes his head. “i hid in the cubby. my dad went to find food.”

     crane stays where he is, wary of making any sudden moves. “and he left you here, all by yourself?”

     “the window wasn’t broken before.”

     “how long’s he been gone?”

     “since the bells.”

     “the bells — ?” it takes him a second, because it’s a sound unique to old town and he spends most of his time in the slums; then he understands. “oh, you — you mean the church bells? he’s been gone since this morning?”

     eren nods and wipes his nose again. crane opens his mouth to speak when the boy brightens suddenly, as suddenly as the sound of boots crunching glass from just behind him. 

     “dad!”

     he turns, and he’s staring down the business end of an automatic rifle.

     “show me your hands!”

     “ah, jesus — don’t — don’t shoot, i’m not here to hurt anyone, look —” slowly, carefully, crane raises his left hand with the palm facing outward and starts lowering himself into a crouch to set his machete down on the floor. his right hand follows his left and he eases back upright, all without once looking away from the man’s face. a man dressed in tactical gear, whose grip on the gun is steady. skilled. he has a couple weeks of beard growth that makes his age harder to determine. “my name’s kyle crane, i’m one of brecken’s guys. from the tower. your son was callin’ for help, i just came to make sure he was okay.”

     as he speaks, eren scampers past and tucks in close to his father. “dad, he killed the monsters. look!” 

     “he sure did, didn’t he.” the man levels crane with a piercing, long - calculating stare, and finally lowers the gun. “you’re not one of them?”

     “no. god, no. i just wanted to help.”

     a nod. he lays a gloved hand on his son’s head. “then i owe you a lot more gratitude. i swear this place was secure when i left, but — those things ...”

     “yeah,” crane says, blowing out a low breath. “i know, believe me. i’m glad i got here when i did.”

     “so am i.” a beat. “thank you.”

     “what the hell are you doin’ out here? you know they turned the university into a safe house, right?”

     the man nods again. “we came from there. somebody passing through said there was a ferry, in the slums. that’s where we were headed.”

     “i’m — sorry to be the one to tell you this, but — the ferry dock’s gone. there are no more boats. none of us are gettin’ out of here unless one of the higher - ups orders an evac by air, and in case you haven’t noticed, that doesn’t seem like their top priority.”

     “then it’s only a matter of time before the GRE decontaminates this entire zone. infamy bridge is already compromised.”

     crane blinks. the back and forth is familiar, the terminology well practiced. “uh — yeah. yeah, it’s startin’ to look that way. but — listen, you need to get to the tower. get to brecken’s people, tell him crane sent you. they’ll take care of you and your son. there’s plenty of food, supplies, there’s even a doctor on site. you’ll be safe there.”

     “and what about antizin?”

     “what? a—are you — were you bitten?”

     they share a look, and everything this man isn’t saying is written in every line of his face. eren twists from under his hand to peer up at him. “dad ... ?”

     “no,” the man says, but it’s for his son’s benefit, not crane’s. crane already knows it’s a lie. “don’t you worry, kiddo. i’m just fine. here,” he kneels down and sets his rifle aside, swinging a bag from his shoulder and opening it up to hand eren a bottle of water, a packet of halva, and a stuffed teddy bear. “look what i found. why don’t you go think of what to name him while you eat your food, okay? let me talk to the monster slayer for a minute.”

     “cool!” eren grabs his prizes and trots off to one of the booths near the counter, the one furthest from any dropped bodies.

     once he’s safely out of earshot, the man stands up and turns to crane again. “on the leg. happened after i left this morning. my eye was to the scope, i didn’t even see it coming.”

     there’s that familiarity again, but it’s overshadowed by an ache below his sternum. crane swallows, adam’s apple riding the motion, pulling off his helmet to run a hand through sweat - soaked hair. “— i got caught in a clusterfuck, about a month ago. bite on the arm. antizin isn’t easy to come by, but brecken’s people have it. i’ll make sure there’s enough, you’ve got my word.”

     keen eyes, still clear of any visible signs of infection, give crane a deeply searching look for a full thirty seconds. he seems like he wants to say more, but settles instead for offering a hand. crane shakes it firmly without hesitation. “ali. you’ve given me a lot to consider.”

     “just as long as you consider it, and do it fast. ‘n hey — one more thing.” crane’s hand drops and he pulls out the three children’s books he’d found, bringing them to eren. “hi, buddy. you think of a name yet?”

     “no, i — hey! where’d you get those?”

     “what, these?” he holds them up one at a time, pretending to act casual, then sets them each down on the table. “well, i found ‘em, but — to tell you the truth, they’re way too advanced for me. you look like you’re pretty smart — think you can find some use for ‘em?”

     “yeah!” eren grabs for all three, sweeps them into his tiny arms and grins up at crane. “i can read bedtime stories to my bear now, so she won’t have bad dreams.”

     “see? i knew you were smart.”

     from behind crane, ali prompts gently, “what do you say to mr. crane?”

     “thank you!”

     “my pleasure, buddy. be careful out here, okay? take good care of your dad for me. he’s gonna take you someplace safe, with lots more kids to play with. sound good?”

     eren nods emphatically. barely a moment later, he has the teddy bear propped in his lap and one of the books laid open, turning pages, talking softly in the stuffed toy’s ear. 

     crane watches for a minute. his features soften, but the whisper of a smile that curves his mouth is bittersweet. he’s already made the mental note to radio ahead — to tell the tower’s guards to be on the lookout for these two — and to check back in here before he returns to the slums himself. they aren’t the first he’s redirected. some people make it. some don’t. 

     on his backpedal from the booth, he pauses to pick up his machete and slip it into its holster, helmet under one arm. 

     “if you leave within the hour, you should get there before sunset,” he tells ali. “northeast sewers are the quickest — two klicks, pretty much a straight shot from there.”

     “i know where it is. thank you, again.”

     “hey, you can thank me once you’re both safe.”

     another nod. crane returns it, then starts toward the broken window. he’s almost there, almost stepping through to the street outside, when ali’s next words stop him in his tracks and make some of his breath woof out of him like a suckerpunch. 

     “semper fi, marine.”

[kenzieam]

Destroyed - Chapter One (Chris X OC)

Rating: M

Warnings: Violence, language, drama, angst

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What happens if Chris survived the bank robbery?

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Five Years Later

The sun beat heavy on his bare shoulders, the skin pulling slightly with the beginnings of a sunburn. Chris tightened the final bolt then straightened, ducking out from under the reach of the truck’s hood, stretching his spine with a groan as he dropped the wrench with a clatter in with its mates then pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands.

He let the sun warm his face for a moment, eyes closed and contemplated; should he get a start on figuring out what was making the Adler’s van run so rough, or go eat lunch?

That was his life now, and he was content with it.

He’d just made up his mind, lunch first, Adler’s van second, when a new sound pierced his thoughts. Dropping his head from the sun’s warmth, he turned to look over his shoulder.

A late seventies Toyota Land Cruiser wheezed towards him. Although old, it was in decent shape, either an older restoration or just plain well cared for, but right now, it needed help. Chris watched as it wound down, seemingly like a wind-up toy petering out, and gasped one last time before stalling a few dozen feet away. All clearance lights, already dimmed, died instantly and Chris, although not a betting man, not since gambling with his life five years ago, would have laid odds on what the Toyota’s problem was.

The driver’s door opened as Chris approached and he felt a sudden jolt of electricity. Not even Erin’s kiss in that bar as they’d learned their cover had affected him like this. A woman stepped out, no… scratch that, an angel appeared.

Long auburn hair, faint strands of blond catching the sun; thick and wavy and just perfect for Chris to card his hands through. Sunglasses of probably the same vintage as the Cruiser were pushed up into that glorious mane to reveal a set of cat-shaped eyes in the most unique and breath-taking shade of lilac-grey Chris had ever seen. Faint wrinkles of worry marred the smooth heart-shaped face and then she was looking right at him and Chris felt like he’d been kicked in the guts.

“Hey- , uh. Car trouble?” He stuttered, feeling his face start to flame.

The faintest of smiles. “Yeah.”

“Sounds like your alternator.” Chris scrambled for steady ground; known terrain when the earth was practically shaking beneath his feet.

“I thought so,” she murmured, sounding resigned. She met his eyes and Chris felt a fresh jolt. “Do you think it took my battery out with it?”

A lopsided grin, the majority of people he helped had no idea what an alternator even was, let alone knew how it worked.  

“I’ll check that, if you got it here fast enough, it should be okay.”

She bit her lip for a moment. “How long will it take? I have to get to work.”

“Not long, I can have it done by this afternoon if I’ve got the part laying around.”

The woman flinched slightly. “I work late, I won’t be able to come back until tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. You said you had to work? I can take you-“ Chris was babbling and he knew it, forced himself to shut up. “I mean, if you’d like.”

The faint smile again, a hint of pink in her cheeks. Maybe he wasn’t the only one being thrown off his axis right now. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Chris was inexplicably terrified of losing contact with this woman and if he’d had more time to think about it, it probably would have bothered him, this sudden attachment. “I’m just heading out to lunch; I can give you a ride. Where are you going?”

Her eyes met his, that strange lilac-grey seeming to pierce into his soul. After a heartbeat, something flickered in her gaze, something Chris would swear was fear. “No, thank you.” Her voice was firm now, insistent and Chris felt an unexpected and unexplained pang of disappointment. She reached into her purse and pulled out a flip phone.

Chris stood rooted to the spot, frozen, until the woman raised her head. “Would you like me to sign anything first?” Her voice was tentative again, as if she worried she’d angered him.

Chris swallowed hard, hating that she was slipping between his fingers and at the same time, absolutely stunned that it mattered so much to him already. What the fuck is wrong with you, King? “Yeah, follow me. I’ll make out a work order.” He turned and strode into the shop, heart hammering a frantic tattoo in his chest. Reaching the counter, he grabbed the necessary paperwork and a pen. “Uh, name?”

The woman had reached the other side of the counter and now shifted her weight, almost uneasily, as if she was leery even of giving Chris her name. “Raen.” She finally answered, pronouncing it like ‘Rain’. “R A E N Casteel.”

“And a number to reach you at?”

Another pause, as if weighing her options. Chris had studied body language and received more than enough training in the F.B.I. to read this woman’s behaviour. She had been hurt by someone in the past, badly, and was either running from it still or was just permanently marked, forever cautious around strangers, especially men. His heart ached with a sudden desire to pull her close and crush away all her bad memories, show her that not all love and all men meant pain; and track down the ratfuck that had made her this way to begin with. Finally, she offered a number, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Okay,” Chris scrawled the number, mind racing as he tried to organize his thoughts. He’d never been so thrown by someone in his life, not since her. In the space of only a few minutes, he’d gone from content and hungry, his biggest decision of the day being when and what to eat, to being absolutely swept up in a mysterious woman, ready to fight for her and kiss away her sorrow. But no.

He couldn’t.

He’d fallen hard for a woman before, and it had nearly killed him. He could not do that again.

“Alright.” He cleared his throat, forcing a casual tone. “I’ll look at it and give you a call and an estimate.”

“Thank you. If I don’t answer, please leave a message.”

“Sure.”

The woman gave him one last hesitant smile, then dropped the keys on the counter, turned and almost fled the shop, the door banging closed behind her. Chris watched her hurry away and disappear around the corner.

Jesus wept.

He wanted to help her, and not just by fixing her vehicle.

As soon as his doctors discharged him from the hospital, as soon as it wasn’t abject agony to move anymore (because Chris had gone cold-turkey on all hard drugs after), he’d left the F.B.I., taking all the compensation and bonuses offered to him for his service and sacrifice. Breaking the lease on his apartment, he’d loaded his truck (not the monster he’d driven as Undercover Chris, but his own) and pointed it east, intent on leaving L.A. and California and the west coast entirely, not stopping until the icy dread that ran rampant through his veins finally ebbed and he could draw a deep breath again.

Staying in L.A. meant memories, it meant driving past old haunts and neighborhoods, remembering his shitty past and even shittier career as a Special Agent; one that had started promisingly enough, especially for a delinquent kid who had more in common with the thugs he chased than the agents who hunted them, but had cratered hard when he’d accepted his last assignment.

Deep cover, a chance to advance and take out an asshole at the same time. Dangerous, but definitely worth it; and then he’d met her.

Erin Bell, his awakening and his ruin. His rise and his downfall. In her he’d found a partner, a fellow survivor of a hellish childhood and for a time, he’d been in love. Blinded by the light, as the song went.

He’d let himself believe he could have it all, that he and Erin could give the middle finger to Silas’ gang, to the F.B.I., Sheriff’s Office and the whole fucking world and just run off together with a shit-ton of stolen money.

How wrong he’d been. At the last moment, his conscience had finally intervened, and he remembered the fright and tears in that blonde teller’s eyes as Silas had screamed at her, the abject terror in her innocent face. As he’d watched Silas drop the duffels, spewing tell-tale purple clouds and storm back into the bank, the haze had lifted from his mind and even Erin’s horrified, pleading stare hadn’t been enough to bring it back.

No one gets a fuckin’ scratch. He’d vowed, but he’d been the naïve one then.

“F.B.I.!” His words hadn’t had the desired effect, Silas hadn’t fl0undered in shock or dropped to his knees in acquiescence; it was like he’d known and, looking back, he probably had, trading Arturo for Chris at the last moment, the psycho had at least suspected someone was a mole and Chris had been the one to break cover.

The memory of the burn from the bullets was something that still woke Chris up from a dead sleep, multiple points of agony in his torso, a line of fire on his scalp. That last bullet Silas gave him, aimed as the kill shot to his skull as he lay gasping and already dying on the grimy industrial carpet of the bank; had, depending on your viewpoint, either saved or doomed Chris, missing his brain and splitting a line on his scalp instead. Silas hadn’t noticed as he’d stalked out and Chris carried that scar to this day, visible at all times because although he hated thinking about his past, he’d kept the shorn head and facial hair.

If asked, he couldn’t explain why, but maybe it really was to remember, even though he hated to. Seeing Undercover Chris, with a buzz cut and goatee everyday in the mirror was his penance. He couldn’t, he didn’t deserve to go back to the neatly-groomed man he’d been before, hair longer and fluffy and worthy of a woman running their fingers through it; he wasn’t that man anymore, for better or worse.

He’d driven until his truck had made the choice for him, quitting in this mid-sized town in New York state, lasting long enough for him to limp it into this very mechanic’s shop. A chance comment from the owner, that he needed a new mechanic, had been the catalyst for Chris to stay, at least for awhile.

As a kid, knowing through bitter experience that his own mother was an unreliable source, Chris had kept himself alive with his hands. More specifically, using his hands to fix and tinker. A few hours working on the neighbor’s broken lawnmower earned him enough to eat for a week, the car he’d traded a day’s worth of small engine work for and spent two months of weekends working on before selling to the plumber down the street helped him make it when his mother finally OD’d and he’d needed to keep himself afloat, keep the nosy housewives on the block from calling CPS and reporting a child left alone. Not that they’d have been overly concerned for Chris’ wellbeing, his mother had supported her drug habit by spreading her legs for anyone with cash or drugs, and most if not all of these women’s husbands had partaken at one time or another, meaning Chris was practically guaranteed abandonment when the real object of their fury and indignation was gone, and only her son was left to blame.

That history had been his fuel for a time, spurring him to apply for the F.B.I., encouraging and driving his ambitions to make something of himself, to be more than the fatherless son of a crack-whore.

And, for a time, he had been. He’d been more. Chosen for the assignment, entrusted with the delicate task, but he’d fucked it up, as it was in his genes to do and it still burned sometimes to think about it.

And now, working at the shop had kept him busy, tired him out enough that sometimes he was even too exhausted for the nightmares. So, when the old man had announced his retirement two years later, Chris had offered to buy the place.

For almost three years now he’d been here, running his own business, continuing and building on the shop’s reputation in town, paying Karma back with steady and honest work.

But was Raen another Erin? Another flash fire that would only leave him staggering and burned, another paradigm shift in his already jagged and torn existence?

He’d worked so hard to rebuild his life, was he ready to risk it all again?

[onceaponamidnightdreary]

The Crimson Crusader

Ksk--ksk--testing-sks- ello- ske- esting one to three, testing one two three. Alright, we’re live. Greetings civilians. This, as you may not know, is the Crimson Crusader, your average vigilante that you don’t know and love to hate. Though, I ain’t your average vigilante. Why, I’ll get to that later. I’m perched on a rooftop, doing my daily patrol. It’s about ten at night and things are a little low, crime-wise. You may want to know why I’m broadcasting this recording, as people like us like to keep our identities hidden. It won’t matter, you won’t find me on any records, or government documents, those have been burned. Heck, I don’t know why I’m doing this myself, but I’ve gotten tired of all you conspiracy theorists. This is my story, where I came from.

See, I was born and raised in the town of Lindhold, of which you are probably familiar. You see it on the news all the time, all the crimes and the rich people up the hill. See, the town was divided into three parts, the Uppers, the Middle, and the Slums. Figure it out by yourself what they mean. O’course, I just happened to be born in the worst part of town. Down there, we didn’t call it Linkhold, nah, to us, it was known as Fester. Cuz everything was always rott’n and festering, the buildings, the food, the people. ‘Specially the people. I was born in a dead-end alley-way with one-eyed alleycat as my nursemaid. The first thing I saw, apparently, was the cat hissing as me. Funny enough, I’ve always loved the creatures after that.

My mother named me Angel Crimson Aldrich, though nobody called me Angel. You called me by my middle name, or you didn’t talk to me at all. Why my mother named me this, I didn’t know. I was as far from Angel as you could get. She said it’s cause I looked like one, with my sienna-pale skin, slate-grey eyes. And white-blond long hair. I cut it the next day, lopped off the sides and the back and it stayed that way ever since, wild in a devil-may-care way. Nothing to grab. One thing I couldn’t figure out was my last name. Aldrich. My mother's name was Evalin Savanna, so I figured it was my father. Never knew him, but I hated him all the same. It was ‘cause of him that my mom suffered. Never even paid a stupid child support check. I bet he didn’t even know I existed.

I lived with my mom in a rotting wooden flat, just the two of us. She died when I was five, pneumonia. Never had the money to afford the medicine.

The tenant evicted me and I spent the next two years as a street-urchin, pickpocket extraordinaire. Don’t feel bad for me, I was’n the only one. Hell, those streets were riddled with kids like me. Nobody batted an eye. It was just life in the town of Fester. I went to elementary school, I was smart for my age. The school was deplorable, a library the size of a cupboard, overcrowded classrooms, you name it. Dropped out at age six. From then on, my life moved on faster. At seven, I joined my first gang, held my first gun at nine, and killed my first man when I was eleven. Those streets make you grow up fast.

When I was thirteen I was lucky enough to run with a gang called the Crusaders.

Sound familiar?

I kept with them, moved up ranks. I was smart, I followed orders, I was ruthless, I fought like a demon. At fifteen I was the right hand girl to the leader, a chick called Smoky, cause of her eye-shadow. She was like an older sister to me, teaching me everything I knew. She was the toughest person I know, and it ain’t easy for a girl on the streets. You learn to survive, to not trust. She died in a gang fight, promoting me with her dying words. I was sixteen and I became leader to the second largest gang in Fester. Back then, gangs were everything. You paid homage to the right gang or you died trying. Turf wars were battles that decided life or death. We controlled five city blocks, and they were everything and we gave everything to defend them. But the Crusaders weren’t your average gang. I doubt any gang led by a woman is. See, we didn’t deal drugs, ammo, or counterfeit money. And I know you’re wonderin’ what we did do. See, ‘Crusaders’ means a person who fought in the Crusades, a medieval battle for Christianity or something. But today, it comes to mean someone who uses vigorous, aggressive movement for the defense or advancement of an idea or cause. That's what we did. Since the police were useless and usually bought off by a gang, crime raged rampant in Fester. If you walked down town at night, it was extremely likely that you would be mugged, shot, stabbed, or kidnapped.

Or all of the above.

So me and my gang, we dealt out justice, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth situation. But we had a very meticulous system. If you stole, the first question we would ask is why. If you stole to feed your family, we would let you go. If you stole because of greed, we would take double what you took. And thrice the second time. The third time, we cut off your hand. If you murdered for revenge, we understood that. If you killed for power, for gain, for absolutely no reason at all, well, then you died. If that made us bad people, we didn’t know. But it was the only type of justice we knew and we were good at it. We also stole from the Uppers, the rich, white folk in their god-awful fancy McMansions. They never walked in our lower part of town, didn’t bat an eye at the crime and the poverty, didn’t know an’ didn’t care that one peice of furniture in their house could feed an entire family for a year. Man, we hated them, them in their fancy cars and clean clothes. Worst of all, they did nothin’ to deserve it. They were all born into money, like their parents before them. And their parents before them. So we stole from them, hacked into their bank accounts, emptying ‘em little by little.

Wait- sks there's something,- sks- I’ll be back- sks-(Gunshots and yelling in background. Thumps and bodies hitting the wall.)

Sks- ksk- krshhh-sks-kay I’m back. There was some idiot who thought he was at the top of the food chain ‘cause he had a gun. Now he’s got a major concussion and the entire police station in his face.

Idiot.

So I should probably tell you about some people that were in my crew. Every gang has a crew, the inner circle basically, then a few runners, people that send messages and help with other stuff but aren’t there fulltime and lastly, your hoard, which were people that were under your protection that other gangs couldn’t touch but only ran favours for you now and then. My crew and I were real tight, we had to be, watching each other's backs and all.

My right hand man was a guy called Leon, smart as a whip and tough as a shark, and man he could get things done. He used to run with the Sidestreet Shavers, I think, before they kicked him out ‘cause he saved a little girl's life. I heard, took him in, and he’s been loyal ever since.

My tech guys, the hackers, was a girl, ex-heroin addict nick-named Half Print, and her sweetheart, a thin, skinny blond guy called Stevie. And damn, were they good at their job. I had no doubt they could hack the Pentagon if they wanted. They had an extensive blackmail file on everyone. You know, just cause.

My muscle, two brothers, only two years apart, named Cork and Neal, just your average for-hire thug, buzz-cut, 6 foot 2, tattooed knuckles, that kind of thing. But they had good hearts, you know, real softies when you got to know them. They lived on the streets before they busted a dog-fighting ring and I gave them my protection. Genuinely good people are hard to come by.

I also had a spy/assassin, a mute girl named Stiletto, cause of her preferred weapon, and her girlfriend who was my scout, Hatchet, an african-american girl who ran away at age ten thanks to her abusive and homophobic father. She also had the largest library of curse words known to mankind, including some in different languages.

We all suffered. We all dreamed. And that's what made us different from other gangs, you know? Nobody in the god-forsaken town of Fester had ever dreamed. The place just sucked the hope right outta you. We were a group of hopeless dreamers, wishing for something more than this hellhole. We wanted to go to college, to travel, to help others like us. But we can’t. Can’t afford any of it.

Which brings me to the next part of my story.

It was dangerous, living in a gang. You run the risk of getting beat up and shot.

Which was exactly what happened to Stevie.

Now we weren’t as close as Me and Leon but we were still great friends. And looking at his broken and bleeding figure I wasn't thinking clearly. He was the most fragile out of my crew, and I thought he was dead. So we did the worst thing possible.

We called 911.

We were gang members with a bleeding dying figure on our hands. But we were hysterical and young enough that they didn’t arrest any of us. They let Half Print ride in the ambulance and the rest of us ran. Straight on ran the six blocks to the hospital.

The news was grim.

He was alive but in a coma. Busted rib cage, punctured lungs, ruptured organs, several broken bones. They needed to do surgery or else he wasn’t gonna live. We agreed, saying that we would pay them back.

The price came to $530,000.

We didn’t have that type of money.

Hell, we didn’t even know how to get that type of money.

But Hatchet heard about a government program that needed willing human volunteers to experiment on. They were offering $600,000.

We argued about who should go, everyone offering themselves. I told them it was my duty, as leader and left without a word. I appointed Leon as the head until I returned. No one mentioned what we were all thinking, that they might never see me again.  

From then on, everything becomes a little blurry.

The scientists didn’t bother using anesthesia, so I remembered pain. Lots of pain. They took my right eye, too. Replaced it with a mechanical one. After the experiments, I trained, and everything became a haze. I learned weapons use and types of fighting styles, my drugged up mind not even questioning it. They made me stronger, faster, with inhuman reflexes. There were 20 volunteers of people desperate enough to need the money.

After a year, there were only three left, including me. I still don't remember what happened but apparently I killed them. Then I burned down the government building. The head scientist escaped, a man called Dr. Armada.

Then I went back to my gang.

They pressured me to tell them what happened, how I was stronger then normal, stronger than human.

I didn’t have a lot of answers to give them. They were excited for my powers, as they called it. They wanted to use it to stop crime, to do the things we strived to do.

I told them no. I didn’t want to be like the superheros in New York. Nothing good came out of that, look what happened to Tony Stark. Dead after saving the world. I wanted to lay low after all that had happened.

We had a fight, … and… I left. One of the greatest regrets of my life. As I was heading out, I heard a girl crying out for help, with my inhuman hearing. I got there without thinking and stopped the guy attacking her. It was laughably easy. I realized that they were right and I headed back to apologize.

And I will never forget this, as I headed back, the warehouse doors were wide open and the moonlight illuminated red stains on the floor.

Blood.

I rushed in but it was too late. Wide, glassy eyes, bodies cold and stiff. And I heard a gasp to my right. It was Stiletto, the girl who never spoke in her damn life. She looked at me and… I-I’ll never forget this. She said “Remember Crimson, doing what is right is not always easy. But doing’ what is easy is not always right.”

And then she was dead.

I swore then and there that I would become what they wanted to be. The dreams they never had, the fight they always wanted.

I became, in honour of them, the Crimson Crusader.

That is me, Angel Crimson Aldrich, signing off, for now.

[hunter-the-sad-skeleton]

Spoilers

Oh! You Get A Fun Section!(Under Read More Because L O N G )

Nightstorm stood still as a statue, observing the night streets of Gotham. It seemed quiet. Of course; the one time she decided to visit her family, the streets were practically dead silent. She was about to call it a night when she was jolted to attention by a clattering sound. Pulling out her grappling hook, she aimed and shot at a lightpost nearby the sound, investigating.

“Keep it down, wouldja?! We don’t need that Batfreak and his birdy accomplice to catch us!!” One thug hissed. Nightstorm narrowed her eyes.

“Sorry, it’s stacked weirdly…!” The other retaliated.

“Let’s just get moving, don’t wanna hold the boss up…!” The first chuffed.

“Right.” The second nodded. Now or never, Nightstorm. Nightstorm jumped from where she was situated, rolling out into the open.

“Going somewhere?” Nightstorm asked.

“Yeah, back to the hideout. Talon, take care of ‘em, I’ll get these out of the way.” The first ordered.

“Gotcha, Reed.” Talon acknowledged.

“Wow, name’s Talon? Where’d ya come from? Goons ‘r’ us?” Nightstorm taunted, grappling away to a high up area.

“Hey! Get back here!” Talon snapped.

“If you insist.” Nightstorm shrugged, grappling onto a lamppost and swinging around Talon, effectively tying him up and immobilizing him.

“Hey!!! Reed!! I need some backup here!!” Talon called.

Nightstorm grappled away onto a rooftop, waiting for Reed to return. “I’m on it, Talon.” Reed grunted. As Reed got into position, Nightstorm grappled onto the lamppost again, swinging to perform the same maneuver, but stopping dead in her tracks as her leg was grabbed, almost twisting to a painful degree.

“Hey! That wasn’t part of the plan!” Nightstorm objected, trying to pull her leg away.

“Nope, you ain’t gettin’ away to tell your batty little friend.” Reed grunted.

“She doesn’t need to.” A voice echoed. Nightstorm smiled slightly, feeling a small bubble of hope start to build up in her stomach.

“Batman!!” Reed gasped.

“Right as always, Reed.” Batman scowled. Nightstorm managed to pull her leg away while he was distracted, managing to finish the maneuver from earlier, landing on her left leg and almost crumpling over.

“I gotcha, bud!” Robin said, hurrying over to help her stand up.

“Thanks….Robin, right?” Nightstorm asked, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

“Yeah, are you okay?” Robin asked. Nightstorm winced as she set weight on her leg again.

“Yeah, just a little sore is all..!” Nightstorm reassured. Batman crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow despite it being invisible under the mask.

“Really? I’m sure if you were just ‘sore’, you wouldn’t have almost collapsed as you set weight on your leg.” Batman explained.

Nightstorm went to explain, but her sight was caught by a piece of paper left by some boxes where the lackeys used to be, but had long since escaped. Intrigued, Nightstorm hobbled over, picking up the piece of paper, reading the wording thoroughly.

“I can bring tears to your eyes and a smile to your face. I form in an instant and last for a lifetime, but I can be forgotten. What am I?” The piece of paper read.

“What’s it say?” Robin asked, reading over her shoulder.

“Memories.” Nightstorm said flatly.

“What?” Robin asked, confused.

“It’s a riddle. No doubt the Riddler’s behind the whole thing.” Batman explained.

“But what would he want a load worth of junk metal for?” Robin asked.

Nightstorm flipped the piece of paper over, finding more writing on the back. “I bring you comfort, a soft, smooth delight. I too keep you warm, on a cold winter’s night. What am I?”

“These riddles of his keep getting weirder and weirder…” Robin said, scratching his head.

“A blanket...But why a blanket…?” Nightstorm hummed.

“Let’s get back. It’s getting late.” Batman said.

“Right!” Robin nodded.

“Want some help with that leg?” Batman asked.

“Oh! Only if you really wanna help! I don’t wanna inconvenience anybody!” Nightstorm said.

“Right, come on, we can at least set it until you can get in to the doctor’s for a cast.” Batman said. Nightstorm got up, hobbling to follow, eventually getting help from Robin to walk.

(Later)

Nightstorm sat in the back of the batmobile, reading over the riddles over and over, trying to figure out why he picked those specific ones.

“Still reading those things? They’re probably just there to confuse you.” Robin said.

Nightstorm shook her head. “No, he always has reasoning for his riddles.”

“Right. But now that we’re out of danger, who are you? I’ve never seen you around here before.” Batman said.

“Oh, I uh...Came up to visit some family of mine.” Nightstorm explained.

“Where from?” Batman asked.

“New york, sir.” Nightstorm said.

“New york?!” Robin gasped.

“Yeah, it’s uh…….Extremely distant family.” Nightstorm said, chuckling awkwardly.

“New York is like...a day’s FLIGHT away!” Robin gawked.

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen this family in ages, so uh, I’m paying them a surprise visit…!” Nightstorm said.

The batmobile stopped in the batcave and Robin helped Nightstorm to somewhere that they could make a temporary brace for her leg.

“Thanks again for the help, guys…!” Nightstorm thanked.

“No problem. Us crime fighters need to stick together and help one another.” Batman nodded.

“Will you be alright from here?” Robin asked.

Nightstorm nodded, pulling out her phone. “Yeah, I can call my sis-er, brother to come pick me up when I get somewhere they can pick me up!” Nightstorm smiled slightly.

“Gotcha.” Batman nodded. Nightstorm got up, walking outside to somewhere safe and calling her brother up to come pick her up.

“Yello? Yeah, Hunter? This is Gianna, couldja come pick me up?” Gianna said. “Yeah, I’m here, I’m-I’m visiting ya guys, bud! I’m at the corner of wesley and yellowstone!” Gianna said. “Fifteen? Great! See ya then!” Nightstorm said. “Love ya too, bro! Bye!” Gianna said, hanging up.

Gianna went into a nearby phone booth, changing into a hoodie and sweatpants, waiting by a bus stop for her brother to come by.

A purple car soon arrived, Hunter speeding out and hugging Gianna tightly. “Sis, ya didn’t have to come all the way out here!” Hunter smiled.

“Oh, come on bro! You’re worth the day’s length flight!” Gianna teasingly jabbed.

“I coulda come out to visit you!” Hunter said.

“Yeah, but that woulda ruined the surprise!” Gianna grinned.

“Let’s get home! Mae’s missed you a lot!” Hunter said, gesturing to his car.

“Oh gosh, I forgot about Mae!” Gianna laughed, following Hunter and sitting in the shotgun seat.

(Later)

“Right here!” Hunter said, parking in the driveway of a fairly big house.

“Whoa.” Gianna gasped.

“Come on! Mae’s gonna be stoked!” Hunter grinned.

Gianna got up, almost collapsing as she put her weight on her leg. Hunter hurried over to help her up.

“Dude, are you okay?” Hunter asked, concerned.

“ ‘M fine, bro, just a small sprain is all…!” Gianna said, smiling through the pain.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Let’s get inside.” Hunter said.

Hunter unlocked the door, hitting the light and setting Gianna down on the couch.

“So, sis, hit me; what happened?” Hunter asked, looking at Gianna’s leg.

“Nothing, just a simple trip!” Gianna lied. She couldn’t tell him what really happened. It could get him involved.

Mae hopped in, tugging on Hunter’s hoodie sleeve. “Bro! Bro! The news is on and-” Mae started.

“I’m a little busy, Mae.” Hunter said.

“There’s a new hero in town, bro!” Mae exclaimed. Hunter’s eyes shrank.

“What?! Show me!” Hunter said, following Mae to the T.V set not too far from the couch.

“*This evening, protectors of Gotham, Batman and Robin, were spotted fending off two goons by the docks with a new hero.*” The reporter said. “*The two went on to say that “We don’t know her personally, but we know that she could give us a helping hand if we ever get outnumbered while she’s here.”*” The reporter continued.

Gianna shifted nervously. “*When asked if they apprehended the criminals, they only stated that they did for a moment before they helped the new hero out, which is the time when the criminals managed to escape.*” It continued. Gianna felt guilt bubbling in her stomach.

“What’s her name?” Hunter asked skeptically.

“We’ll hear in a second, shush!” Mae hushed.

“*When asked about the new hero’s name, they responded with the following; fellow Gothamites, please welcome Nightstorm to the city.*” The reporter announced. Gianna gulped hard, hoping nobody heard.

“Nightstorm, huh?” Hunter hummed. “I like it. Mysterious, unknown, new, vague!” Hunter smirked.

Gianna sighed silently in relief. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool….!” Gianna smiled tiredly.

“Wait, Nightstorm injured her left leg…” Hunter hummed, looking back at Gianna.

Gianna started sweating nervously. Crap. “Poor gal!” Gianna said.

Hunter nodded. “Indeed...I hope they catch those criminals soon. Can’t have them running rampant, right?” Hunter asked. Gianna nodded.

“Right!” Gianna agreed.

“We can catch up tomorrow, you,” Hunter said booping Gianna’s nose. “Need to get some rest! You were on a plane for a day or two STRAIGHT! You deserve some sleep!” Hunter finished. Gianna nodded.

[greenhanded-redthumbed]

Just A Small Town Boy

Clark grew up with his parents telling him how he fell from the sky. He wouldn’t believe them if it hadn’t been for the other things: that he’s strong enough to lift a tractor, that he can start a fire a hundred metres away with just his eyes, that he can fly. They tell him that he’s a miracle child: a gift. And that everything he can do just makes him more perfect, even if they have to hide them away for now. 

Not yet, they insist, they’re not ready for you yet. 

He accepts it, practicing to control his powers at night in the field next to their house. He wades through the wheat stalks that rise to his shoulders and is careful not to face anything important (he’d accidentally demolished far too many walls growing up, and even though his parents were more than happy to keep up with the continuous renovations, he still tries his best to keep everything in one piece). He learns to avoid certain bright lights that bring about a burning in the back of his eyes, to keep headphones with him for when his hearing runs rampant picking up anything said for miles and to always have an elastic around his wrist to keep him present and remind him to use human strength rather than super strength. (The Kents have an entire draw devoted to the elastics and other such trinkets ready for them to give way).

Clark’s gotten better at controlling his powers over the years, with the reports of alien sightings around Smallville dropping as he gets older. But he can’t stay forever.

He loves his parents dearly - loves the farm too, it’s the only home he’s ever known. And as much as he’d love to stay here, he can’t. He can do things no one else can, he can help people no one else can. But there’s not that many people in Smallville, and not much to save them from.

So he leaves, heads to the big city to pursue a career in journalism (because how else is he going to know who’s in trouble). Clark considers working with the police, but a quick read of the papers tells him of the high levels of corruption - all of them probably aren’t bad, but Clark has never been good at reading people and thinks he’s better safe than sorry.

His spotless record, good grades and glowing letters from his high school teachers is enough to land him an internship at one of the bigger newspapers in the city. The Daily Planet.

Clark turns up for his first day bright eyed, watching the chattering reporters move around the cubicles on the office floor - some darting forward with bundles of papers in their arms as they reach a breakthrough while others meander slowly and chatter greetings to their coworkers.

He doesn’t know what he expected - certainly not his own office and free reign, but maybe something more than cramped square metre cubicle with a desk crammed in (the walls of the cubicle barely reach his ears so the full-time, seasoned journalists can see if there’s someone to make coffee for them). 

Occasionally, someone drops off a list of some kind for him to grab files on:

“I need the profit margins of these companies on my desk by six”

“Can you get the M.P.D crime stats to me by this afternoon?”

“I want you to pull up all our previous stories on the mayor and check what our bias is.”

It’s not exactly saving anyone, but it’s a foothold as a journalist. He’ll get there. 

And he does - after a few months or so of perfecting his coffee-making skills and navigating the achingly slow computer he’s been given, a file is dropped unceremoniously into his cubicle. Clark pulls the headphones from his ears, letting the office chatter settle around him and turns to see one of the reporters looking down at him. The dark-skinned man would be shorter than him if he was standing, bulky and dressed in a neat, navy suit - Clark recognises him instantly as one of the more senior reporters.

“What do you need Mr. White?” Clark asks, one hand moving to fiddle nervously at the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s the latest manifestation of his fiddling - he doesn’t have his parents stockpile of rubber bands and always seems to lose them in the mess of his tiny desk. 

Mr. White, Perry as Clark recalls, “I want you to write this report. Twelve lines. Puff piece: local orphanage.” 

“Write a- write a report?” Clark stutters, surprised it’s not just another files request.

“Yes, Kent,” Perry White says slowly and Clark jumps at his own name, “You do want to be a reporter, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, of course,” Clark stammers, pulling the paper-thin file closer, “I’ll get on this right away, sir.”

“I’m not ‘sir’, Kent. Not yet anyway,” Perry says turning away. He calls back, “On my desk, tomorrow at five.” Clark’s too nervous to remember he doesn’t know which desk is Perry’s. He supposes he’ll just have to work it out when he comes to it.

As he goes to open the file, he notices a face watching him over the cubicle divider. A fellow intern, with long black hair and pale blue eyes that make her features seem sharper. Colder. Like she could open her mouth and freeze him to the core.

“Um, hi?” he starts, “We haven’t met, I’m Clark-”

She cuts him off. “A newbie.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s not wrong or particularly rude. Just matter-of-fact in a way his southern hospitality hadn’t prepared him for. 

“Yes, a newbie-” He replies with a grin. She cuts him off again by picking up the file from Perry and flipping it open. 

“What are you doing?” Clark questions, hoping he’s not going to end up in a fist fight with a fellow intern for this story. 

“Just checking this out, don’t worry,” she mumbles preoccupied scanning through the loose sheets, “I’m making sure the big dogs aren’t screwing me over.”

She looks up at him and her face briefly contorts into a smile - not a warm one, a happy one. A cold, practiced greeting to show no harm done, a I don’t mean to be a weirdo going through your files I’m actually a rational and normal person kind of smile. “But Perry’s right, this is a bludge.”

“Okay?” Clark replies, honestly confused by the whole interaction more than anything, “Well, it was nice meeting you Ms…”

“Lane,” she answers him, “Lois Lane, the top intern. That’s not an official term, but it’s the truth.”

He offers her a smile and a nod before turning his attention back to the file that has once again been dropped on his desk. It’s only two loose sheets, almost no info and a basic piece. But at least it’s him who’ll be writing it. One step at a time.

(When it’s printed in the lower corner of page twelve two days later, he cuts it out and sends it back home to Kansas. Ma and Pa are deliriously proud and request copies of all future articles. He doesn’t find out until Christmas that they’ve turned one of their walls into a display for his published pieces.)

Three weeks after his first article, a new intern moves into the cubicle next to him. (Ms Lane’s now one of the people bringing bludge stories and requests to his desk. She must have been right about being top intern). The new intern, Ms Lang, is a city girl. Born and raised in Metropolis. But she has a warmth that reminds him of home. Warm brown skin and wavy brown hair and warm brown eyes that seem to shine when she smiles.

He’s more than a bit enraptured. 

She leans over half way through her first day to talk to him. “So, how long have you been an intern here?”

He grins back and the office fluorescents suddenly shift to the warm summer sun reflected off the wheat fields. “Almost five months now.” 

“Huh, good to know,” she replies and he notices her nails are painted the same shade of pink as her dress. 

“Why’s that?” he asks before she can disappear back into her cubicle.

“Because on my tour round here I heard you were the new top intern. And I want to get there faster than you.” Then she’s gone, back to becoming the hardest working journalist of Metropolis.

It took Clark a moment to let her words sink in. He knew the Daily Planet requires journalists to show their replacements around. He cranes his head over the wall of his cubicle and catches sight of Ms Lane on the other side of the floor. She’s arguing with a colleague over something or other and doesn’t so much as glance at him. It’s kind of surprising that she thinks so highly of him. It’s also kind of the best.

It’s around this time he makes his first appearance as superman. He puts on the suit his father left him (the one Pa and Ma kept for him until he turned sixteen) and sets out to help people. It’s strange, giving in to the sounds and sights and smells he’s been blocking out all his life. He can hear the whole city buzzing beneath him as he floats above it, tuning in and out of conversations like a radio.

He decides to start small - he picks cats out of trees, clears trees off of roads and flies the dying to the hospital at super speed. An alien in primary colours zipping around the city catches the attention of the Daily Planet pretty quickly. He reads the article one of the reporters, Mr John Corben, writes on him and is happy to see it’s mostly good (wary, but still praising his actions).

Clark steps up his attempts at heroism - he now shows up to confront active shooters and floats above witnesses for particularly nasty cases. Praise starts getting thrown his way, with t-shirts and fan-blogs. They treat him like a celebrity.

Then his first supervillain arrives. He calls himself the Ultra-humanite and the papers obligingly print it in their headlands ‘Superman vs Ultra-humanite: Shocking Defeat for the Man of Steel’. The Ultra-humanite - Clark doesn’t even know his real name - isn’t like the regular street thugs and gun-wielding cowards. He can’t match Clark physically, so he does it mentally. He outsmarts Clark at every turn with automations and traps and a thousand other misdirections. 

The Ultra-humanite also introduces Clark to a new weakness: a small, almost fluorescent green rock he calls Kryptonite. It leaves him weak and dizzy. All the hyperawareness sinking away as the world dulls and blurs. He can safely say he doesn’t like it.

It dawns on him that he’ll need help. So he turns to the person he thinks he can trust. 

“Right,” Lana says slowly as he hovers in front of her, work shirt unbuttoned to show his famous emblem, “So you’re the superman with the superpowers who wants help taking down a supervillain. Super.” 

“You don’t have to be apart of the fighting or anything,” he assures her, “I just need a plan or something to get the upper hand on him.”

They’re on the roof of the Daily Planet. It’s the only place he could think of that wouldn’t have security cameras or be too suspicious to visit. Enough people still smoke to make it an acceptable break spot.

“You want me to outsmart a supervillain. Outsmart a supersmart evil genius supervillain.”

“Or help, just offer any insight,” Clark says, bringing himself back to the floor and doing up his shirt. That seems to calm Lana down, and she tilts her head slightly, gazing dazedly out at the horizon

It takes her a minute, but when she looks at him again he knows he made the right decision to come to her. “So he’s found ways to outsmart all your super powers.” Lana starts slowly, “Because he studied Superman.”

“I guess so,” Clark says.

“So,” Lana continues, “Use your abilities as Clark Kent. The ones he doesn’t know about. Track him down in his lair like a reporter - with paper trails and good old investigation.”

He does, tracks down all the stores that sell the fancy equipment the Ultra-humanite - a man, Clark learns through his investigation, who is called by the far-less threatening name of Gerard Shugel - and traces the sales back to accounts and addresses. 

He finds Shugel’s lair, crashing in dressed in full Superman regalia to see that very man tinkering on his next trap. It’s easy for Clark to apprehend him on his own turf. Just carrying him to the police station and leaving his address for them to search through. Clark was raised to believe that everything gets easier with practice, so he knows he’ll be ready for the next supervillain to threaten his city. And he knows he has someone to turn to when he gets out of his depth. 

 After a year of intern work, Clark finally gets a position as a full-blooded journalist. (Investigative, which is the same department as Ms. Lane. There are some whispers going around that two newbies handling a department is risky business, but those are shut down by an icy blue glare.)

They work side by side in matching offices, with Clark dibsing the police corruption case. (Which Ms. Lane thinks is undignified but lets him have it so she can keep working on her inquiring into the company practices of one of Metropolis’ largest businesses. Something called Lexcorp.)

Lana inherits the role of top intern, a placement which Clark confidently informs his replacement of. He knows it’s not long until she’s on the detective side of the office and looks forward to it.

He knows that the people are ready for him now. And more importantly, he’s ready for them.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

All Eyes on You

Maybe it could have been a regular weekend for me, but there’s no way for me to tell if I was the one who screwed everything up. I was a bit hungover from the night before, so my head weighed a ton and every source of bright light made me cringe in pain—whether it was the fluorescent neon tubes overhead or the daylight streaming in through the store’s front windows.

Every single beep of the cashier running items over the scanner at checkout was like a tiny knife being stuck into my skull, over and over and over again, even though I was fairly far away from it, browsing the unnecessary amount of different brands of laundry detergent.

I grabbed some random one that had nice soft colors and chucked it into my shopping cart. It caused the whole thing to shake and rattle and a person pushing past me gave me a dirty look.

Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have wasted any thought on this, but today was different. Now, everything was different. Now, as I looked up, and past that guy shooting me the disparaging glance, I realized that everybody in the store was looking at me.

“Feeling watched” would have been the understatement of the century.

It was so weird and jarring that I forgot about the effects of my hangover for the next few minutes. In part because my heart was racing, in part because my mind was going wild with conspiracy theories and rampant paranoia.

Although I pretended to not care or not notice, I could tell that everybody in the store was looking at me at one point or the other. Normally, I would have chalked this up to something silly, like one of my friends having written something on my forehead with a magic marker while I was passed out.

But with what had happened the night before, I knew better. I knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

It didn’t help that some of these people would pretend to not be looking at me, either—furtive glances, eyes quickly darting down to study a shopping list on their phone, or to act like they were looking over grocery items on the shelves. Anything to avoid eye contact with me.

I know what you’re thinking. Just allow me to dial back and explain before you make up your mind.

The night before, I was feeling pretty depressed. I was still pretty new in this town and knew nobody around there. Just some backwater town in the middle of nowhere. The rent on the apartment I had found there was cheap, and the commute to my workplace only an hour which was a vast improvement over my last home.

So I grabbed some beers, drove up to a lonesome little picnic area on the forest’s edge that I had seen on the first day I had visited town when I went to go scout out the apartment a few months ago, and decided to chill out there and watch the sunset after a tedious Friday at work.

The whole day had dragged on at a snail’s pace and I just wanted to unwind and not stare at any screens for a few hours.

I sat there, nursing my first beer, sitting on top of the backrest of the bench like a rebel, when I spotted a mansion near the forest’s edge. I mean, I had seen it before when I first took a drive through this town, but it was only now that I noticed a few funny details about it. And when I say “funny,” I don’t mean the amusing sort.

It had a large red brick wall encircling the entire yard—and that place was as big as a football field. The large mansion matched that appearance, also featuring red bricks and sandstone and wood in its construction, and a lot of unusual details like a tower built into the corner of it. Everything was overgrown with lush green ivy, and there were some nice-looking trees on the property.

So far, so idyllic.

The weird part were the men in green camo clothing, carrying what I think were assault rifles. They patrolled around the inside of the walls, so it was no wonder I hadn’t seen them when I drove through town earlier that year, but being up on the hill at the forest’s edge gave me some elevation and allowed me to see over the walls somewhat.

They were all pretty big-looking dudes. I pegged them for soldiers or something like that—though my imagination wandered to this being a mafioso’s estate and these guys being some well-armed thugs.

It would make sense for some gangster boss to be living well out on the countryside where everything’s nice and quiet, right?

I downed two whole beers and while I had been trying to distract myself with unpacking everything that had happened over the course of the week—both at work and in my personal life—my curiosity got the best of me.

I had to know what the hell this mansion was.

With a simple plan in mind, I packed up everything, and drove back down from the picnic site, now taking a detour so I could casually roll past the mansion. A large steel gate obscured any way of seeing into the mansion’s premises, which was frustrating. In my mind’s eye, I had expected one of those metal fence gates that you can see through, but this one was just a solid surface instead.

Tossing out my original plan, I parked my car across the road by the grass, got out, and walked over. You may be thinking that I was crazy, and I can assure you I am. I was always a bit of a tomboy growing up, and I possessed a fearlessness that got me into trouble every now and then—and because I always got away with playing dumb or innocent, I always got away with my shenanigans and I never learned. Not until this day.

I pressed a button by the gate that I figured to be a buzzer and waited.

Within seconds, a small metal slot opened on the gate, from which a man wearing sunglasses peered through, and it was so sudden and swift in response to my pressing that button that I nearly choked in surprise.

“Yes?” asked the man behind the gate.

“Uh, I was, uh, I was,” I started stammering until my wit finally kicked in. “I was up at the picnic site up here to relax and I had no reception on my phone whatsoever, but I need to make an important call. I figured I could ask here if I could use your land line, or something?”

I slung out my phone and waved it around like a magic wand while flashing this man a dumb smile and shrugging. He looked over his shoulder as if he was responding to someone behind him, but he didn’t say a word. I think he looked up at the picnic site and I could feel the blood draining from my face. Because he turned, though, I saw a weird tattoo on his neck: just a single eye.

Not like I know anything about ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, but if I had to describe it, that’s what it reminded me of. No fancy elaborate details, just a simple eye. Wide open.

His head turned back with a painful slowness. I could sense the gears churning behind his forehead.

“My phone’s got reception just fine,” said the man. “Here, you can borrow mine.”

I guessed my charm had worked its magic. He held out his phone through the small slot, offering it to me.

Realizing way too late that all of this was a terrible idea, I glanced at my phone and flicked its display on, then chuckled—way too nervously, I presume, “Hey, look at that! I got a bar back. Maybe it was just up at the woods that was not working out for me. Thanks, though.”

The guard slowly withdrew his phone and even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I could have sworn he was glaring at me. I smiled back at him, hoping to disarm any ill will, and started getting really scared about this being some sort of gangster hideout.

“Have a nice day,” he said. But it sounded more like a threat.

He shut the slot with lightning speed and I turned to leave, holding up my phone and pretending to make a call. I yapped away into the void of the non-existent phone call, cringing at my pathetic attempt at emulating a one-sided conversation and the resulting blandness, until I had gotten into my car and slammed the door shut behind me.

My palms were sweaty and cold when they clasped the steering wheel and stick, and I drove away. I was pretty rattled for the rest of the evening although I got back home without any further incident. On the whole ride home, I kept looking into my rear-view mirror to see if I was being followed. And in my paranoia, I thought that some people on sidewalks were shooting me looks, but I dismissed it at the time.

Back at home, I drank the rest of my beers and distracted myself with lousy TV shows until fell asleep.

Then I woke up the next morning, sporting the splitting headache, and decided that things couldn’t be so bad. Because, hey, when it feels like gremlins are pounding the inside of your skull with a jackhammer and your brain’s a funny soup, a lot of worries stop existing. With that state of mind, I went to do my grocery shopping for the week.

And now—this. Everybody watching me. In the confines of my own head, I was calling myself names and cursing myself out for being such a paranoid idiot. There was no reason to be afraid.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing. Even outside, as I put my groceries in the trunk, I knew that even the people driving in and out of the small parking lot were looking at me.

Watching me.

Worse: I saw that tattoo again. On someone’s forearm. Some lady returning an empty shopping cart to the storefront. She never looked at me directly, but with my back turned to her, I had felt a burning gaze transfixed upon me.

What the hell was this? As an avid reader of strange fiction and horror movie enthusiast, I immediately thought they had to be some sort of cult. What if this entire town was run by a cult? Stranger things have happened.

This was all so surreal. I felt very small and like I was just a passenger in my own body. Everything tingled. My fingers felt numb.

I drove home and shut myself in for the rest of the weekend. I tried to distract myself with TV and video games and even talking to a friend who lived halfway across the country, but nothing helped. I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking that this entire town was crazy and that I was being watched now. I even started getting paranoid if they could tap into my phone or hack my computer, so I avoided telling my friend about anything I had witnessed here.

Just shot the breeze about how life had been for her lately, and put up a good show in pretending that everything was normal on my end.

Come Monday morning, I snuck out of my home and got into my car. Paranoia got the better of me again, so I started checking my ride quite thoroughly, not caring if I would be late for work that day. I had watched too many stupid shows to not think that someone might have tampered with my car. I checked to see if the brakes were working, if there were any bugs, pawing underneath my seats for foreign objects, you name it.

I’m not any sort of professional and if anything was there, I probably missed it. But hey—I tried. Still, I found nothing.

After wasting half an hour on this exercise in futility, I drove off. I never felt so exhilarated to go to work as that day. Because work, for the first time, felt like an escape from something worse. It also felt like an escape from my own head, because I was questioning my own sanity. Surely, the whole town couldn’t be in a cult, right?

I cranked up the music on my radio and sang along to a song I normally hated. And I felt good. For a short while, at least.

It stopped when I drove down the road I usually take to leave town to go to work. A nice narrow road meandering through the wooded area, just like the ones you see in horror flicks.

There was a roadblock in the way once I rounded a curve, with a small jam of cars lined up in front of it. Two police cars obstructed the path and there were some officers standing beside them, one of them talking to the driver in the car at the front of the line. My heart sank, plummeting right into my gut region. I could feel my belly pulsing with my accelerated, anxious heartbeat.

I wonder—does everybody get as nervous as I do whenever I see cops nearby? It’s not like I’d ever done anything wrong, but it had always made me nervous. Even under normal circumstances. Even before this weekend.

But today was different. The events of this weekend had multiplied my paranoia—they had mutated it. If this whole town was run by some weird cult, what if the cops were in on it? What if they were looking for me?

Right when one of the cars was let past the roadblock and drove off, I panicked. I steered out of line and made a U-turn, swerving back onto the road with screeching tires and driving off. It took me a few moments to realize in retrospect that this made me grind my teeth and may have been a stupid move, but I started speeding up and driving away.

The trembling started when I saw a cop car show up behind me, half a minute later. They let the siren wail at me for a split second to grab my attention, and used their blinker to signal me to pull over.

With growing dread, I planned to play along, but step on the gas if things went south.

Even with all the adrenaline rushing through my body, and my attempts to stop my trembling by gripping the steering wheel way harder than natural, I gently steered the car as best I could, driving it onto the roadside and letting it roll to a stop. But I kept the engine running.

A police officer emerged from the car behind me and approached. His hand was resting on the gun at his hip and I wondered if my running motor had anything to do with that.

Or because of this damned cult. Or whatever the hell was going on here.

I rolled down my window once he had arrived there and he looked me up and down. My resolve crumpled and I cut the engine as a token of good will.

“License and registration, please?” asked the police officer in a gravelly voice.

His whole posture was rigid, like a statue—his body language tense. So was I.

Remembering what can go wrong in such an encounter, I carefully leaned over to retrieve the documents from my purse and hand them over. I could feel him watching me all the while, and for the first time in days, I felt like someone watching me was the appropriate action, given the circumstances.

I handed the cop my license and papers and he looked them over, his hand now finally away from the gun, and taking off some of the edge. He studied my face after inspecting my ID.

Then he handed back everything.

“Pardon the interruption, ma'am. Have a nice day,” he told me, and swiveled.

Right when he was walking away was when I saw the tattoo on his neck. The eye—staring at me. Almost as if the damned tattoo itself was watching me.

I never believed in the supernatural or UFOs or any such bunk. But my paranoia was really taking me for a ride now, and I questioned everything I believed in.

When I revved up my engine again and drove off, I still felt the officer’s eyes on me.

Anyway, now you know. That’s how—and why—one day, I bounced from that awful little town, leaving all my belongings behind. How I drove halfway across the states, and started a new life after changing my name.

I’d tell you the town’s name so you can avoid it, but I keep seeing that tattoo in my nightmares. In some of them, it’s like people have an extra eye on their body where there shouldn’t be one, in place of that tattoo. Like the skin breaks open and some bloodshot, weird eye stares at me. Always the same eye.

I still feel watched out in public sometimes. Hell, sometimes I even feel like someone’s watching me at home. I know I should talk to a therapist about this, but I’m afraid they won’t believe me. Or worse.

I got an anonymous call from someone telling me not to talk about what I had seen, but I had to get this off my chest, and maybe nothing bad will happen if I don’t tell you where this was.

—Submitted by Wratts

[filmjrnl365]

#144  Joker (2019)

Director: Tod Philips

United States

There’s nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.  

Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix) has problems. It’s a short list, but his issues are substantial: he’s been picked on and brutalized, he’s out of a job, he’s on a ton of meds, he lives at home with his mom, but then again, his mom may not be his mom.  That’s the core of his issues, but it’s the relentless nature of these problems that’s really getting to Arthur Fleck. Most people can and do endure similar problems, but they are able to overcome them, or the problems are relieved by change, and they are able to move on. But for Arthur, they remain a constant recurrence, and on each return the anger, pain and resentment builds, until it is impossible to handle it anymore. This puts Arthur Fleck in a dangerous position, the ominous unfortunate intersection where nihilism, opportunism, and a complete lack of concern for consequences merge. Arthur has lost the ability to care, and it’s been demonstrated to him that no one else cares either, so mad acts in a world gone mad seem justified, even necessary. And this is where the mental math of Arthur Fleck’s destructive actions begin to make sense in this story’s chaotic world

Director / writer Tod Phillips has Joker take a 122 minute nosedive into mental illness. This provides the itinerary for the lunacy, anguish and pandemonium that Arthur Fleck will unleash on himself and society. It will be ruthless, and seemingly arbitrary, but to the delusional Arthur Fleck- it will be justified. The film lingers over the dismal personal life that plagues Arthur Fleck. While I found this somewhat tedious at first, by the end of the film –time spent laying this character’s emotional groundwork paid off. A visceral scene that underscores the extent of Fleck’s derangement shows him alone in his kitchen, scraping its meager contents onto the floor, and then crawls inside of it himself. This scene perfectly encapsulates the extent of the inner conflicts in Arthur Fleck; conflicts that will facilitate the emergence of Joker. For his whole life, Fleck has run from pain and emotional confrontation. Working as a clown for hire, he has up to this point in his life, put on a happy face, and done his best to withdraw from the confrontations with life and its hard truths. But no matter how many pills he takes ,or counselors he visits, it’s a doomed strategy and it will no longer serve.

From this point forward in the film, I began to appreciate Phillip’s handling of the Joker’s narrative. What’s been discarded is the character’s over stylized outfits, any quirky hero gadgetry, and the unrealistic superhero tropes that heroes and villains seems to magically accumulate when they decide to get to work. Instead, Joker is an opportunist, he makes do with what is available to him. What others have forced upon him he accepts, what luck seems to accidentally drop in his path he utilizes, nothing is off limits in what he can employ to achieve his deserved retaliation. Gone is the need to hide behind an elaborate persona. No more elaborate costumes, simply use the leftover gear from your day job as a clown. Get a gun from a co-worker. Need to contact your suspected father? Easy, stalk him into the men’s restroom, or show up at his house and lure his child to the gate. You don’t need some fantastic criminal lair, or an arsenal of mesmerizing weaponry to get results, you only need the wounded mind of a revengeful terrorist and a pair of scissors. To my mind, Arthur’s practical opportunism was the scariest part of the character. Since Dr. Frankenstein, Hollywood and comics have groomed villains that are equipped with scientific intelligence and clever strategies for global domination. They were narcissists that were unlucky in love and therefore expended huge effort in remaining vindictive, secretive, and in not getting caught – in short, they had something to lose.

When Arthur Fleck, takes his anemic body, and clownish nihilism onto the talk show stage of Murray Franklin (Robert DeNiro), a few critical events transpire: 1. Arthur, now Joker, has the opportunity for a large public audience to finally get shit off his chest. 2. Being a guest on the talk show confirms his own delusions. Segments of the film depict Murray Franklin as a kind of infantile fantasy that Fleck could maintain. But the object of his fantasy has turned out to be just another jerk in a long line of abusers. Murray will eventually become the victim in this encounter. Shooting Franklin in the face is justified by Arthur Fleck / Joker, because Franklin had it coming – he was not the compassionate father figure willing to help an innocent soul, instead he was no different than the corporate thugs that abused their way into becoming Fleck’s first victims. In classic anti –hero fashion, the film sets up moral dilemmas for audience and character. In Arthur Fleck,we see a man actually trying to instill good in the world, we empathize and understand his emotional schism, but the world just won’t cooperate. As a result, the opportunity to retaliate through terrorism presents itself, and the offer is taken.

Joker has bought the trajectory of the cinematic monster / villain to a full conclusion. 1950’s sci –fi visualized the classic Hollywood monster as a creature outside of us, attacking the helpless citizenry. By the end of the twentieth century, the monster was within us. It dwelled deep within our secretive psychology and manifested in the form of madness, fear and hatred. By the time we reach Joker, the monster is now everywhere. It lurks inside us, and it runs rampant throughout a morally bankrupt society. It has infiltrated every institution, and never lets up, metastasizing at an accelerated rate. The world is out of control, and from this context of helplessness Joker seizes the opportunity to unleash his nihilism onto those who have ever wronged him. Now, the victim will become the oppressor, the bloodbath will ensue, and there is nothing to lose in finishing what is already well underway. The whole Joker narrative is a sober reminder of what we see in operation throughout the world today, and there are a number of political and moral situations in the movie that could be dissected through contemporary cultural analysis. The problems are many, and occupy every existential strata, from the singular to the systemic.

At some point, perhaps from the first five minutes, Joker stopped being a super-hero franchise film. It has subverted fantasy and costumes, for a particularly abrasive nod to realism. The scariest part of this film, is not the clown make up –that’s creepy for sure – it’s the idea that this is an entirely plausible scenario in today’s world. It’s a movie of a comic villain, so it’s off, but it’s not that far off. We look in the mirror and convince ourselves we’re not really sure how it all got to this point, but we do know, and it did.  We can try to hide from the horror and crawl inside the fridge, or medicate ourselves, but these devolve into a form of denial. Inevitably, some will decide to lash out, to grab what’s available and take their justified revenge on others, and they’ll commit any atrocity with a straight face, comforted by the delusion of self-righteousness.

There’s no such thing as innocence anymore, ask Arthur Fleck. It’s time to put on a smile, step out into the world, and make the fuckers pay. After all, what is there to lose?

 https://filmjrnl365.tumblr.com

[wildfire317s-oc-box]

Name: Takara

Species: Wish Demon

Hair color: platinum blonde with aqua tips (originally just blonde)

Hair style: long, loose and wavy

Eye color: gold (originally a soft aqua blue)

Skin color: pale blue

Age: 19 1/2

How long she's been a demon: almost 100 years by the end of season one

Nickname:

Fashion sense: she likes blue's, gold's and pearlescent's, she prefers short, flowy and tight fitting clothing.

Sexuality: pansexual

Height: 5'4 excluding her horns

Strength: she is about average strength for demons with magical abilities.

Her Story:

Despite being from a very well off family a lot of her human life was spent hiding in the background and quietly and secretly doing what she could to make others in her town happy or help them make their own happiness; she would just quietly place herself around the town and read while listening in on other peoples conversations and then use her families vast wealth to make the less fortunate happy but she never let anyone know it was her directly so people wouldn't think they owe her anything. Her favorite spot to sit and listen in was next to her towns well as that was where most people her age came to meet up and talk. She would feed the animals that happened across her path and befriend them. The only problem was that she wasn't exactly what her family considered pretty, if anything she was rather plain the most beautiful thing about her being her rare hair color and her voice. She was the best at swimming and matchmaking in her town. There were rumors floating around that her father had another couple of children somewhere but she doesn't know much more about them even after she confirmed the rumors were true but she always wanted to meet her older half-brother and younger half-sister. Despite being raised with having everything she could ever want at her request she doesn't act like it at all and greatly appreciates anything she can get. She doesn't remember much of how she was turned into a demon, all she remembers is that one night while heading home from dropping off something to help out a less fortunate family and then feeling something hard hit her head before blacking out. It turns out that her father was doing deals with a local gang to get some of his dirtier work done while keeping his hands clean meanwhile a rival gang who was getting heavily affected by his deals had enough and decided to rough her up a bit as a warning.

Unfortunately for the group of thugs the commotion interrupted a certain demon lords hunt which left him rather annoyed, and after dealing with the group of thugs he spotted her and decided to "save" her when he saw how heavily she was bleeding from where she got hit and explained her new life to her when she regained consciousness. After this she becomes afraid of people coming up behind her so whenever she is out running around she looks over her shoulder quite often. As a demon she decides to take initiative and get rid of the gangs that seem to be running rampant in her town and nearby so that nobody else is afraid to live their lives and granting wishes as she goes causing her appearance to change. Not long after taking up residence in the town well she started digging a network of underground rivers for her to travel around with so she can see if she can find her half-siblings and over time she find out about a lot about how demons live their lives and a lot about the twelve kizuki that she probably wouldn't know if she hadn't. She brought most of her treasures from her human life down into the well with her and they make up a lot of the furniture and decorations for her above water cave. Whenever she comes across any kids who are particularly unfortunate she will provide them with anything and everything they need and try to get them into a better situation. She doesn't really care about physical appearances and prefers to see a persons inner beauty, if you are nice to her she will treat you well wether you are pretty or not. While its true she could have had any material object she desired whenever she asked for it she never wanted anything more than a friend or at-least for someone to interact with her for longer than a couple of short minutes because her mother disliked her because she wasn't pretty and she her fathers daughter but tolerated her existence, her father was constantly busy and couldn't be bothered to pay her any attention, she had no siblings other than the half siblings she never got a chance to meet and the other kids in her town were afraid to interact with her because of her father so she decided at a young age to put this to some good use and try to find happiness in secretly making others happy and watching from afar.

She has developed bioluminescent freckles that are scattered all across her body which help her and others see more clearly in the dark underground rivers. She has heard of the other members of the twelve kizuki but has really only interacted with two of them; Akaza and Gyyoko, but she has been on the look out for Daki and Gyutaro because she has a sneaking suspicion as to who they are to her. She has developed a huge crush on Akaza but she is to shy to actually say anything to him about it so instead she will just find him and leave him trinkets and occasionally snacks. She and Gyyoko are more like acquaintances with a few things in common and they will occasionally trade things with each-other mostly tolerating each-others presence in order to establish trading, a pretty shell for a small clay statue for example, he figures she would probably get along with Enmu and Douma if she ever met them or at the very least she would tolerate their existence's. The twelve starfish in her hair are her pets and she has named them after the twelve star signs, to keep them safe when shes out of the water she uses her air bubble blood demon art in reverse. One of her favorite treasures to receive and later share with her friends are four leaf clovers. Often times while she is swimming at night any humans that happen to be out near the water mistake her for a fish spirit or something similar.

Her Inner World: unless you can hold your breath for a really long time or have gills, investigating her inner world would essentially be impossible, as it is a never ending world of water with no surface/air pockets, but it essentially looks like a tropical coral reef with sea animals swimming around, lots of plants and of course shipwrecks scattered around. Her soul core is hiding in one of the treasure chests of one of the shipwrecks.

Her Abilities:

Wish be my command: this ability functions sort of like a genie but with more rules and restrictions and some partially replacing others; for example if someone wished for someone or something they cared about to come back from the dead they would come back but as a ghost. She can create things out of other things or even out of thin air depending on what it is and how much of it is wanted.

Desire Decipher: this ability allows her to read the desire/wish off of whatever coin or valuable item is dropped into her well so she may grant it. (she will also except shells, pretty rocks and other pretty but not necessarily valuable trinkets)

Siren Song: this allows her to hypnotize people and lure them to her with her voice for whatever reason she wants. However this frequently triggers on accident. (Tends to work better on guys)

Sailor's Terror: this allows her to mostly mimic the water breathing techniques, thus making it harder for those who use said techniques to fight her. But instead of a sword she uses her tail.

Air bubble: this is only used for friends and neutrals, but it allows her to make an air bubble around the heads of people who don't have gills. Theres also Air bubble inverted which makes a bubble of water instead.

Wish Rules:

1. To make a wish you must offer something to trade (coin, trinket, valuable, shell or pretty stone may change depending on wish) with the exception of the Clown Nose rule which makes your wish come true without payment but in the funniest and least expected way possible.

3. You cannot wish for the death of anyone under the age of 18 (or a demon because demon vs demon wont work)

4. You may wish to bring back the dead but they will return to the grave after 12 hours at the latest

5. Wishes to gain immense power, immortality or similar can not be granted and anything offered for it will be returned

6. Some wishes may take time, they will be granted in 2 minutes at the earliest and two days at the latest

7. Some wishers may only be provided with the means to make their wish come true depending on wish (ex. Cannot make someone fall in love with you but will provide you with things to get them to like you)

8. Be specific with your wish and make sure to think things through, some wishes can not be reversed.

[newstfionline]

Brazil Election Plunged Into Chaos by Attack on Far-Right Frontrunner

Reuters, Sept. 7, 2018

JUIZ DE FORA, Brazil--The run-up to a presidential election in Brazil plunged into chaos on Friday after a knife attack on far-right candidate Jair Bolsonaro put the frontrunner in intensive care just a month before the vote.

Congressman Bolsonaro, who has enraged many Brazilians for years with controversial comments but has a devout following among conservative voters, could take two months to fully recover and will spend at least a week in hospital, said Dr. Luiz Henrique Borsato, who operated on the candidate.

“His internal wounds were grave and put the patient’s life at risk,” Borsato said. The challenge now is preventing infection that could result from the perforation of Bolsonaro’s intestines, he said.

The attack on Bolsonaro, 63, is a twist in what was already Brazil’s most unpredictable election since the country’s return to democracy three decades ago. Corruption investigations have jailed scores of businessmen and politicians in recent years, and alienated voters.

There was fear of violence flaring across Brazil on Friday, as the nation celebrates Independence Day with political groups likely to march in hundreds of cities. Bolsonaro’s rival candidates called off campaign activities for Friday.

Under Brazil’s campaign laws, Bolsonaro’s tiny coalition has almost no campaign time on government-regulated candidate ad blocs on TV and radio. That means Bolsonaro relies on social media and rallies around the country to drum up support. As such, not being able to go out in the streets could impact his campaign.

But Flavio Bolsonaro, the candidate’s son, said early Friday outside the hospital where his father was treated that he was conscious and the attack was a political boost.

“I just want to send a message to the thugs who tried to ruin the life of a family man, a guy who is the hope for millions of Brazilians: You just elected him president. He will win in the first round,” said Flavio Bolsonaro.

The retired Army captain is running as the law-and-order candidate and has positioned himself as the anti-politician, though he has spent nearly three decades in Congress.

He has long espoused taking a radical stance on public security in Brazil, which United Nations statistics showed has more homicides than any other country.

Bolsonaro, whose trademark pose at rallies is a “guns up” gesture with both hands to make them resemble pistols, has said he would encourage police to kill suspected drug gang members and other armed criminals with abandon.

He has openly praised Brazil’s military dictatorship and in the past said it should have killed more people.

His stabbing is the latest instance of political violence, which is particularly rampant at local level.

For instance, in the months before 2016 city council elections in Baixada Fluminense, a hardscrabble region the size of Denmark surrounding Rio de Janeiro, at least 13 politicians or candidates were murdered before ballots were cast.

Earlier this year, Marielle Franco, a Rio city councilwoman who was an outspoken critic of police violence against slum residents, was assassinated.

But violence is rare against national political figures, even in the extremely heated political climate that has engulfed Brazil in recent years.

The Federal Police in a statement said its officers were escorting Bolsonaro at the time of the knife attack and that the “aggressor” was caught in the act. It said circumstances were being investigated.

Local police in Juiz de Fora told Reuters the suspect, Adelio Bispo de Oliveira, 40, was in custody and appeared to be mentally disturbed.

[dwestfieldblog]

THERE IS NO SAFE WORD

ATEH MALKUTH, VE-GEBURAH, VE-GEDULLAH, LE-OLAHM...

Anybody who understands my music will never be unhappy again. Beethoven. That sounds like a cue for a song...and here it is...

Well, now we know the actual defined amount of stubborn dumb stupidity for sure in America. Over 70 million morons. Loved seeing Trump jr call on his dad to wage ‘Total war’ (A phrase Goebbels used in Berlin 1943 when the allies were approaching... and we know how that ended, go on Big Don, do the honourable thing for the first time in your foul life.) Junior also said ‘It’s time to clean up this mess and stop looking like a banana republic’. Why yes son, it is, so off you all pop. Daddy is busy implanting his loyalists in the Pentagon and already thinking of running in 2024 but by then he should either be in prison or in exile on a tiny freezing Scottish island with a one hole golf course where he can still cheat. Seems likely he, family and their backers are planning to make good use of their through the looking glass rabies crazed sheep and continue to destabilize America for the Kremlin. Loved that the orange psychopath tweeted early ‘I WON THIS ELECTION, BY A LOT!’ and watched as he demanded all votes be counted...and the more they were, the more he lost by. HILARIOUS.

And his call to arms to ‘Stand back and stand by’ to The Proud Boys, who are not far right Nazi thugs at all no sir. To misuse Hunter S Thompson’s genius for the hundredth time, I hope that this is where the wave (of populist filth Trump has been riding) finally breaks and rolls back. But over 70 million morons say different. The 80 million who voted for the other guy must be happy there are so many who can clean the streets and fill the shelves at food shops. Education needs to be improved in America and Britain next year, a ‘LOT’.

January 20th 2021...Celebrate with joy the end of a despotic douche bag...allow the world to feel lighter. Republicans, you should feel ashamed. America, this bastard has been undoing your Constitution like a prom queen’s girdle for a button mushroom quickie rape for four years and couldn’t have cared less about Covid and how many of you died...as he said ‘It is what it is’. So SAD!!!! Arf. Donald, you are and were nothing more than a spoiled five year old brat with as much empathy for humanity as a lizard. A banishing ritual will need to be performed in around the White House...call up the Native Indians, the witches and South Park and cleanse the area of astral poison. The swamp will be drained when the deranged incubus’s entire family of scheming wannabe aristocrats vacates for good.And don’t let him sit at a little table to pardon them and himself.Lowlifes...speaking of whom...

It has taken a lot to make me smile this year (what, you too huh?) but seeing Rudy Giuliani giving a press conference between a porn book store and a funeral parlour in a parking lot did it. The T family, Jared, Rudy, Pompeo, Paula White (the Unchristian millionaire), the slurring ‘star witness’ Melissa Carone, spokeswoman Kayleigh with her cute little cross and all the rest of those despicable liars must all be flushed down the drains, no second chances, repentance or absolution.And as for Dr Scott Atlas telling the American public to ‘rise up’ against the safety measures called for by the state against Covid...A doctor telling you to ignore the rule against large indoor gatherings etc. A doctor.RISE UP? 12 million cases in the US as of mid November...254 thousand dead. That number is rising fast. Good luck from keeping the world falling on you Atlas, Wonder what the orange one offered him to blab such stinking dung. Another doctor with a hypocritical oath.

The smug toad Steve Bannon on yet another shitestirring podcast,spoke about beheading virologist Dr Fauci and the Director of the FBI Christopher Wray...‘I’d put the heads on pikes, right. I’d put them at the two corners of the White House as a warning to federal bureaucrats, you either get with the programme or you are gone.’Twitter banned him outright (and how long did that take?) but the ever wonderful facebook didn’t think that advocating murder online like any other good fundamentalist was reason enough. They believe in the first amendment, hurrah for the robot Zuckerberg.Like? Dislike? Delete, good luck.

And meanwhile the EU budget, involving 673 billion pounds for Covid connected concerns has been blocked by the continuing charming behaviour of Hungary and Poland. And why would they do that at this time of dire need? Why, because the release of the funds is dependent upon the rule of actual law in each of the countries to which the money is allocated. They have some very naughty politicians there who are upset about this and the darlings have taken it personally. These men could well be directly responsible for hundreds of unnecessary deaths. Hungary’s PM Orban said the clause would ‘jeopardise trust’ between member states. Well pal, they already don’t trust you due to your actions in the last ten years over freedom of speech, assembly, judges etc etc.

The Polish ‘Justice’ minister said the clause was ‘...really an institutional political enslavement, a radical limitation of sovereignty’. Sounds like Nigel Farage.(btw, Love that he lost 10 thousand pounds betting on his golden mate to win the US Presidential election. Oh well, you can pick that up fast enough from taking the Euros you rail against eh? Got to relish the classic two faced double English standards he stoops so low to wave so high) Anyway, I digress, if it seems unfair to Poland and Hungary that they act more like actual democracies rather than extremist populist swine, perhaps they should also leave the EU and team up with Mother Russia and Uncle China.Again, Vladimir must be well pleased with how Europe and America are collapsing.

Belarus...the ‘police’ are beating up women, using stun grenades on unarmed pensioners and teens. These are not police and have nothing to do with any law other than that of the jungle. Lukashenko is their Trump, a man who always swore his country would be independent of Russia and then accepts 1.5 billion dollars in loans. Good luck with paying back the interest with your soul Alex, needs must when the Devil drives eh? Loved how those loyal to the dictator described the protestors as truants and transsexuals’. 150,000 of them? Seems a lot. But never mind, hired thugs and sadists are always easy to come by, whatever the country and whatever the year. Easy work and fun if you enjoy it, conscience free. Sure they are just trying to feed their families.

China wants a global QR Covid code, making tracking humans even easier via their brilliant technology. Let’s see who falls for that one, would you want yet more personal data known by those who created the virus and shot their own children? (For the record, I do not think Covid was taken over there and released by enemy agents and I certainly don’t think it was created by accident any more than the updated version will be.) Making a fortune out of others’ misfortune seems quite like disaster capitalism for communists.  Drug companies will be hoping the 19 virus will ‘mutate’ to 21 and 22 in order that we will all need annual vaccines.

Prague, on the anniversary of the Czechoslovakian Velvet Revolution on November 17th, 250,000 march against their PM, (an ex informer to the communists) who has been Premier for too many years...another rich businessman deep in corruption scandals, I loved his comment after witnessing the thousands that he didn’t ‘understand’ why they were doing it. That said, there were many protesting against the use of...face masks. Ok, by all means choose not to wear them. Then stay the hell away from everyone else until you are vaccinated and don’t you dare go to hospital when you fall ill. Deal?

Englerland...The manic baldhead liar Cummings has at last been kicked out of Downing Street and a fine and noble advisor he was to the PM eh? Herd immunity my arse. Seems possible he might work for Farrage and continue destroying the system from within. Fnord. God help us all, the ‘UK’ is hosting the United Nations Climate Change conference in November 2021 and taking the presidency of the G7 in January...with Boris at the helm? Nobody takes this blustering useless lying cretin seriously unless their jobs depend on him. Tory supporters, what does it take for you to see reason, how much evidence of unending failure? At very least replace the Chumocracy rampant in the government or Doom, damnation, despair, death and more doom will repeat.Nice to see we get the vaccine tested on us first...guinea pigs are safer for the rest of the world on an island...

Fascinated to see that 20m pounds were not available for poor children’s free school meals but 21 million in taxpayers’ money for a go between businessman to get PPE (piss poor excuse/personal protection equipment) for NHS staff, was. How much did the go between pocket? 55 thousand dead in UK, fifth in the world,so proud of the levels of national intelligence and Govermental planning. Brexit and Covid in a double whammy with the most incompetent and corrupt government in my lifetime. As John Lydon used to rant on a perfect loop;’ This is what you want, this is what you get’. Possibly I am abusing his actual meaning, sorry Johnny. No future for the UK...None for me anyway...

Was the UK and America’s snowflake nonsense, seeded with the birth of instagram, tik tok et al/ forums with young folk seeking approval from their peers and feeling important when they were ‘Liked’? A few years later in the (ha ha) real world, they are easily insulted by others who do not find them having much depth or value. Kids’, being ‘liked’ is not the same as being respected, or loved. Pretend alpha males, being feared is not respect either.

‘Since words contain both denotations (referents in the sensory-existential world) and connotations (emotional tones or rhetorical hooks) humans can be moved to action, even by words which have no real meaning or reference in actuality. This is the mechanism of demagoguery, advertising and much of organised religion’ RAW. It also explains why, in tandem with tones, symbols and an altered brain speed,directed Will can cause change in ‘realities’. The litany of ritual, the mantras of magick and images focused to fire with the Tantric arrow. Oops, missed again. Anyway...back to the negativity☺‘

...as population increases, wages fall but later prices increase....and the relation between them –is to be considered the index of revolutionary potential...and can be predicted as precisely as eclipses in astronomy’. Robert Anton Wilson, The Widow’s Son (Hilaritas Press) 1985.

Thanks to Covid, hundreds of thousands of businesses have collapsed; the jobless or part timers are unable to pay rent or feed their families...and receive little or no support from governments who have either pocketed their taxes or just given rewards and contracts to their friends. The overload stress levels and knock on effect on those who had the virus and still suffer -or those who could not get into hospital for treatment will be massive. Every populist knows there has never been a better time to manipulate the fear and anger of the masses. Demonstrations, riots and harsher laws will spread each creating their own chain reaction.Watch out for Nationalists pointing fingers, don’t buy their snake oil. Avoid giving groups like QAnon any of your energy, paranoia is a creepy way to live and a sleazy way to die.

Ten months of reading emails which come across like distress signals or suicide notes from friends or that scene in Interstellar when the son knows his father could be dead by the time the message gets through. BUT...‘Help may arrive invisibly and unexpectedly from unknown sources’. Be open to this. Be sensitive and attuned to quantum parallels, there is a reaction going on to all the uff and crud, sidestep, step to the side... Allwhere and all now. You don’t need to ‘believe’ this, just be aware, sense it.

TANA, ORPHEUS, ARADIA, LUCIFER (or Robin, Marian, Orfee, Bride, all ye gentry come from Side)...Protection and guides, projected archetypes created by our minds and evolved by themselves...

We, as a species, exist in a world in which exists a myriad of data points. Upon these matrices of points we superimpose a structure and the world makes sense to us. The pattern of the structure originates within our biological and sociological properties.Persinge and Lafreniere.1977.

The intelligence should direct the will. Aquinas. The light of the body is the eye; if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body will be full of light. Matt6:22.

Have tied the last five years together and I have a feeling my time in this country is coming to an end, give it seven months perhaps. Thank you for reading, hope some was entertaining...Withe much Love from Donkey Oti, and Onan the Barbarian, stay healthy, wishing you the best Christmas and 2021 possible, Ba-ra-ka, Et in Arcadia Ego . Love, always.