#who the fuck even likes living in the desert? its devoid of most life for a reason

[twilightstoned]

.

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 4

din/reader

i put our favourite idiots through the absolute wringer in this one and i refuse to apologise. it’s nECESSARY i swear.

MASTERLIST

word count: 3.4k

warnings: swears, graphic violence and injury, some naughty thoughts from our favourite buckethead so for that reason 18+ no babies thanks

The distant, rhythmic clanging echoes off of the stone staircase as he descends into the tunnels. 

They’re empty, devoid of the usual flurrying activity, save for the guards that stand tall either side of the entryway. He doesn’t ask where everyone is, he doesn’t need to, the noise is enough to know where he’s going. Winding tunnel after winding tunnel, Din comes to a sharp stop after rounding a corner.

Armoured bodies spill out of the entrance to the forge, kids in and out of helmets clamouring to watch the action in the gaps between their buirs’ legs. He remembers being that small, trying desperately to see what was going on during gatherings. But he’d never seen anything quite like this.

Din shoulders his way through the crowd, watching out for the little ones under his feet, towards where Paz stands a head above everybody else. A pale, willowy man sits hunched over on his knees in the centre of the forge beside a set of armour carefully laid out on a bench. Is he a thief? The Armourer stands tall above him, ceremonial furs wrapped around her shoulders in place of the shorter, more practical ones. There’s so much sound, so many angry bodies packed into the small space, he can’t decipher exactly what it is they’re all doing there. 

“What is this?” He nudges Paz, unable to take his eyes off of the man on the ground. 

“He has dishonoured the creed.”

Din offers nothing in return, hoping his confused silence is mistaken for acceptance. A thousand possibilities run through his mind at breakneck speed. There are so many rules, so many afterthoughts and double meanings, he knows the newly-sworn kids struggle to remember everything from time to time. But this is a grown man, an adult who sits so shamefully in the centre of their most sacred setting. Did he kill a vod? Did he intentionally harm the ade? Did he question the Armourer? Paz, unsurprisingly, senses the question that hangs in the air between them.

“He removed his helmet, vod.”

No. 

No.

But how would- how would anybody know? How would something like that ever get back to the covert? Din doesn’t ask. He only nods, and returns his gaze to the man in the circle, while he silently prays to every deity he can think of. 

The crowd around him gets louder, hurling insults and clanging their arms together in anger. Din understands the gravity of what this man has done, what he has done, but there has to be a reason. Surely, there’s an explanation. A loophole, somewhere. Their secrecy is their survival and their survival is their strength, but at what cost? The cost of your touch, of you? The cost of knowing and being known so intimately isn’t something he’d known he’d be so unwilling to pay back when he swore the creed. Din Djarin would be a lesser man had he not shed his helmet and armour for you, he is as sure of that as his creed. The creed he has broken, more than once. What would become of him, if anybody here found out? 

The Armourer moves, worn metal of her tools colliding like a thunderclap, and the covert falls silent.

“Cork Gyll, you have been charged with the gravest of crimes against the creed: the removal of your helmet.”

Din can’t help but flinch as Cork does when the crowd roars again, anger and betrayal cracking in the air. He doesn’t know Cork, but his spiraling thoughts are way ahead of the game. Filling his mind with images of himself in Cork’s place, stripped of his armour and everything he knows himself to be. The taunting of his covert, of his family, echoing in his ears as though it’s meant for him. Din feels sick.

Memories of every time he’s shed his helmet for you. Every time he’s pressed his lips to yours, to every inch of you he could find purchase on. Is that why it always felt so good? An almost religious experience, the permission you give him to touch you is one he holds in the highest regard. Nothing comes close. But is that why? The thrill of breaking the code he’s lived by for a lifetime? No, he knows that’s not it. He knows it’s you that makes him feel that way, more than any rule breaking. He hates the warmth that spreads through him at the phantom taste of you on his tongue. 

“Do you deny?” The Armourer speaks again, and the noise ceases.

“No, Alor.” Cork does not raise his eyes from the dust in front of him. 

Anger replaces Din’s fear. At himself, at his creed, at the galaxy for being so cruel as to hold you just out of reach and deny him the only real, tangible connection he’s had since he was taken in by these people. He craves you, and everything you are, but you’re not allowed. Part of him feels like a petulant child, one of the ade denied a sweet before dinnertime. How could he be so stupid? So reckless? He should be caught. He should be exiled. He deserves it, he deserves nothing but loneliness. 

“Is there reason that you should not be stripped of your armour and exiled?”

“No, Alor.”

“You will be Dar’manda. This is the way.”

“This is the way.” The words echo in chorus around the forge, as they always do. It doesn’t escape Din’s notice that Cork remains silent in the centre, head hanging low.

The clanging from before begins again, in unison this time. The younger warriors follow the elders’ lead, rhythmically hitting their vambraces together until the sound reverberates through the ground. It’s loud enough that nobody notices that Din’s own wrists barely make contact. The Armourer lifts the tray of shed armour over the forge in front of Cork, the sparks of the flames reflect harshly in the gold of her helmet. The condemned man still does not raise his eyes from the dirt.

Paz and another heavy infantry soldier step out of the crowd to haul Cork to his feet, and people start to dissipate. The show’s over, now all that remains is to serve his sentence. A life in exile. Dar’manda. Din doesn’t stick around long enough to find out what they do with him next.

He goes straight to his room, unaware of the path he treads. He can’t remember in all his time as a Mando seeing somebody actually get exiled, actually be stripped of the creed and sent away. He was half sure it was just a story told to get the ade to take the creed seriously. The guilt only digs it’s cold claws into his heart once he’s alone. 

Door secure, Din all but rips the helmet off of his head. Breathe, in and out. Just like you taught him. Oh, you. Your face swimming in his memory only makes his guilt grip tighter, twisting itself in his guts until he can’t remember what he feels like without it. You’re a traitor, Djarin. He can’t tell if the grotesque voice in his head is talking about the creed or the way he’s treated you. He’s not sure it matters. Because even after all this, after everything he’s just seen, he thinks about where you might be. Whatever you’re up to, he only hopes you’re safe.

“Oh, fuck.”

Shara’s too far into the armoury to hear you call out when the guards descend. 

Only a handful of them, faces all concealed by crude looking helmets, but they waste no time in splitting up to take you on. Three of them against you, they’re not the best odds you’ve ever faced. Then again, they’re definitely not the worst. You take a moment, let them try to predict your first move, until one of them gets impatient. He swings for your legs with the long barrel of his blaster, which you evade with so much ease you’re almost embarrassed for the guy. It’s less of a fight and more of a standoff. You’re cornered at the end of this dark hallway, nowhere to go. The sounds of Shara struggling against her own adversaries echo off the metal walls, and you strike. 

You hit the middle guard square in the chest, splintering the weak armour, and you take the momentary panic from the others to make a break for it over his body. You don’t get far. Shara’s pained cry from the armoury stills your heart in your chest at the same moment that a stun bolt digs in between your shoulders, voltage way too high for something as delicate as human flesh. You’re out before you even hit the floor.

Your legs aren’t working like they should, muscles still jerking as the electricity works its way out of your system. A pair of guards unshackle you from the post and you hit the floor before they can catch you. Of all the ways they’ve hurt you, it’s the boss’s cackle at your weakness that makes you cringe. You’d held out for so long, stayed quiet for what feels like days, until they pulled out whatever it was that turned your blood to lightning. You’re dragged up out of the dust and back down the narrow hallway to the cell. It’s too dark in there to even see an inch in front of your face. But at least you can hear Shara through the wall.

“We’re getting out, I know it.” She’s optimistic, you’ll give her that. But you know that if you do ever make it out, it’ll be on your own. The Rebellion just doesn’t have the numbers to spare on a rescue mission for a couple of pilots who got a little too big for their boots.

“Well I’m not dying until I beat your track time, so we better.”

Shara laughs from the cell beside yours, loud and familiar, if maybe a little forced. It’s easier to join in her amusement when you don’t focus on the blood dripping down under your collar.

It’s a suspiciously easy bounty, something he’d normally pass up on. But there’d been an odd tug in his chest at the low-level puck and Din had negotiated it into his assignments from the Guild before he even really knew what he’d done. Some wannabe crime lord on a planet he didn’t care to learn the name of had set a bounty on an ex-guard, wanted him hand delivered. A deserter, he’d called him. Din pretended like that didn’t tug at his chest too. 

He finds the man, oddly enough, digging up vegetables in a garden. Presumably it’s the quarry’s family home, nestled between the trees on a riverbank, and something about the way the man regards him feels extremely final. He doesn’t run, he doesn’t plead or try to fight, he simply places the bundle of freshly harvested vegetables on the doorstep and walks slowly back up the path. The bounty doesn’t say a word as his wrists are bound, nor as they start the trek through the wood towards the gang’s base. 

A helmeted guard meets them at the doorway, gesturing into the dark hall, and Din only hesitates for a moment before nudging the quarry ahead of him. They barely make it into the main meeting room when a blaster shot hits the bounty right between the eyes. He crumples where he stands, Din has enough control not to flinch in surprise, and the man holding the smoking blaster splits a slimey grin. The boss, then. He points at the body, talking pointedly to his guards about loyalty and vows. It’s enough to leave a bad taste in Din’s mouth. He catches the pouch of credits thrown his way, and is ready to leave this whole mess behind him when the boss turns his attention onto the hunter.

“You have to stay for the show, Mando.”

“Show?” Was that not enough of a show?

“We found a couple of rats digging around in our armoury a few days ago, thought we’d have a little fun before they meet the same fate as our dear deserter.”

He leads Din to a small room with staggered seating above a lit area like a crude stage, clearly made for a larger audience than the six of them. There’s a single post in the middle with a woman in a dirty orange flight suit cuffed to it, blood on her face. An interrogation droid, he suppresses a shudder, is zapping her every few seconds to keep her from blacking out.

“We had the bantha-prod on the other one yesterday. Oh, the screaming.” 

Unable to take his eyes off of the woman, he can’t stop himself seeing you in her place. He doesn’t even think before he’s unloaded a plasma cartridge into the boss and the four remaining guards. Din swings his pulse rifle around his body, aiming carefully, and disintegrates the droid before it can shock the woman again.

“Get your friend and get gone.” Din huffs out as he swipes the keys off of the boss and jumps down into the pit to unshackle the pilot. Her legs give out underneath her, dropping like dead weight, and for a second he’s not sure she’ll get back up. But she does, gritting her teeth the whole way. 

“You think we were planning on sticking around?” She’s shaky, a little out of it for a moment before she steels herself and looks him in the eyes. Right in the eyes. It’s the same determination and strength Din always sees in you, and he knows she’ll be okay. 

He leaves before the little voice in his head, the one that sounds like you, makes him do something stupid. Like stay and help the pilots, offer to take them back to their base, get sucked into a war he doesn’t have the cause to care about. Aside from one, glaringly obvious, you-shaped reason.

Shara wastes no time in ducking down the hall to the cells and getting to you. Her fingers shake when she flips through the chain to find the right chip, but the tension leaves her a little once the door slides back to reveal you curled in a dank corner. The light is harsh, after who knows how many hours sitting in complete darkness, and you’re only vaguely aware of her telling you somebody killed your captors. 

“-Swooped in like a fucking knight in shining armour,” Shara laughs as she fumbles with the key to your binders, “It was crazy.”

She’s pulling you out of the cell and down the hall before you can really get your feet under you, knocking elbows and knees against the walls of the narrow space. But the logic of a pilot, a scrapper pilot, kicks in once you’ve adjusted to the movement.

“Dead guys don’t need guns, right? Might as well get what we came for.”

It takes Shara a moment to realise what you’re saying, but then she’s dragging you after her along the dim corridor. The wrong way. You have to tug on her hand to get her to slow, to point her in what you know is the right way to the armoury. You’re not sure exactly how you can be so certain, just that you know. You’ve always had a better sense of direction than her so she, at least, takes you at your word and barely stumbles in her haste. 

There’s no welcoming party waiting on the landing pad for you, only a very tired looking command officer and a couple of medics, and the floodlights threaten to blind you as you and Shara lean on each other down the loading ramp. Tired, you’re both so tired.

“They’re in the cargo hold.” You manage between breaths, nodding your head towards the netting keeping the liberated armoury in place. The officer releases you to the medics at the same moment Shara loses consciousness and falls dead weight against your shoulder. The adrenaline starts to wear off as they catch her before she can hit the ground, you don’t argue when they sit you on the trolley beside her. 

“What did they hit you with, Lieutenant?” A doctor you don’t recognise is in your face before you even register that you’re in the medbay. 

“Forgive me if I was a little too preoccupied to ask.” 

It hurts. The torn material of your flight suit is matted into your wounds, and you feel every little pull right down to your bones when she moves to lead you up and off of the trolley towards an empty bed. Even the lightest touch of her fingers around the singed edges threatens a wave of nausea. You bite it back with a grimace. If standing is this agonising, you really don’t want to find out what heaving feels like. 

“Bantha-prod, looks like. Nasty burns.”

Another pair of hands guides you to lean forwards and brace your arms on the bed, and you try to remember to keep breathing while the doctor begins peeling your charred flight suit out of the half-healed burns on your back. More scars. Spots dance in your vision, blurring the world around you, and you lock your jaw up so tight to keep from screaming that you swear you crack a tooth. Even through this, this pain that seems to lick at every inch of your body, your only thought is that you want him. There’s a sharp scratch on your neck and a low groan that you think might have come from you, before the pain finally pulls you under. 

Din finds no solace in the dusty tunnels of the covert, not the way he normally does. The image of Cork kneeling in the forge, enduring insults and anger and the loss of his creed without so much as a whimper. The quarry, walking from his family’s home to his death with no complaint. He’s not sure he could be that strong, that unaffected, if his treachery ever comes to light. He wonders what you would look like in the orange flight suit of rebel pilots. Maybe you knew the ones he freed, maybe he’d unknowingly saved a friend of yours. It might be the only honourable action he’s taken for years. 

His lingering thought, as he finds his way to his quarters and collapses on the bed in a pile of armour and exhaustion, is how much more comfortable he is when you’re tucked into his side. Where you should be, he’s sure of it. 

You plague his dreams that night, just like every night. Din sees nothing but your eyes, hears nothing but your laugh, feels nothing but your smile against his skin. He dreams about being somewhere far away with you, the way he wishes he could be. No rebels or creeds or empires, just you and him lying somewhere in soft grass watching clouds roll by. You’re wearing that old red sweater he took off of you the first night he touched you, and his armour is nowhere to be seen. He likes it that way. He can feel the warmth of you beside him like this.

But the pink-streaked sky morphs and suddenly he’s encompassed in darkness, the feeling of you surrounding him. He’s not afraid, not like when other dreams fade to black before he wakes. He knows you in this darkness, he knows himself. The sounds you make when you’re together in the dark, the heat of your mouth on him, sliding his cock past your lips. He wants this, you, for as long as you’ll let him have it. Everything you are, the smiles, the jokes, the sex, the exhaustion. The fire you get in your eyes stokes the one in his, he’s not sure who he would be without it. He could love you, one day, if that’s what you wanted. If he’s what you want. But nothing lasts, the Armourer’s voice breaks through your heady moans to condemn him as Dar’manda and you’re gone. Just like that. 

Din wakes with a start. Hard in his flight suit and an even worse ache in his back. He can never see you again, a decision that leaves a pain so deep in his bones far worse than a wet dream or falling asleep in his armour ever could.

The comm buzzes late one night, weeks later. 

“I’ve got a job on Akiva, if you’re anywhere near there.” 

He leaves it unanswered.

TAGLIST (lmk if you want on or off the list):

@brothersdrxke​ @remmysbounty​ @aq-vetina​ @1800-fight-me​ @mandos-co​ @kesskirata​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @firstofficerwiggles​ @keeper0fthestars​ @wille-zarr​ @rebloogggs​ @plants-are-better-than-humans @schreibsuchtis (tag machine broke again)

[moonknightly]

Now I’m Hungry For Blood Again : Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader 

Word Count: 2.7k

Excerpt: “...you could find sweet religion in his eyes and build a church in the palm of his hand, but those eyes, that tongue — you would sin, and sin, and sin as he brought you to your knees. He was your confessional, his name your most desperate prayer, your moans an erotic hymn.”

Warnings: Blood, bad words you shouldn’t repeat in front of a 5 year old, sexual references but no smut. 

I totally 100% recommend listening to “Run” and “Blood Red” by The Maine oKAY

You love him.

Present tense.

You love the way your name drips from his tongue like honey, and the way his fingers tangle in your hair, and how they pull, sending pinpricks across your scalp and shivers down your spine. You love how he seems to know exactly what’s bothering you before you even have a chance to say it, and how his eyes scan your face as if he’s committing it to memory every single time he looks at you, as if he could never possibly get enough of you.

You love him, and his stupid messy curls, and the way his brown eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and the taste of his lips.

And those lips of his, they taste so fucking sweet, because you know he loves you just as much. There’s no doubt in your mind that he loves you with every ounce of his being, with every fractured piece of his soul, set on fire with a single touch.

He had managed to climb his way inside of you, settle between your bones and make a home inside of your chest, but you had managed to do the same. You could feel his devotion for you in the way his gentle hands gripped your hips between rough sheets, and in the way his eyelashes fluttered across the skin of your cheek as he breathed you in.

You love him.

And Poe Dameron loves you.

Even if he was no longer whispering your name in the dead of night and stealing the breath right from your lungs with a single touch of his lips to yours, he still loves you.

A love like that can’t just die.

Living things die. Plants, animals, people. Parts of people.

But not love. Not your love. It was infinite, and knew no bounds. It couldn’t just cease to exist, it didn’t make any sense. You refused to let it make sense.

It couldn’t have just disappeared, dissolving into the night sky like a cloud of gray smoke. Poe Dameron could disappear, but his love couldn’t.

Or maybe, it could. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe he really was gone. Maybe you were holding onto some sense of false hope and false promises of forever. Maybe you were stuck in the first stage of grief — denial.

You were okay, staying there. Remaining in the first stage. You didn’t want to be angry, or bargain, or fall into a depression you doubted you would be able to pull yourself out of, and you definitely didn’t want to accept the fact that his heart no longer belonged to you, and that it was over.

You didn’t know it was possible to grieve the loss of someone who was still alive, still breathing.

Maybe you weren’t grieving. Maybe you were just feeling.

Feelings. Emotions. You were so out of touch with them. The numbness, the nothingness, it was all you knew now. You couldn’t remember the last time you had actually let yourself feel something.

Actually, you could. It was that last night — your last night with him, now over a year ago, where you spent hours memorizing the feeling of his tongue sliding across sweat soaked skin and how his lips crafted a sinful poem between your thighs.

You had felt everything then. Every electric touch, every fluttering beat of your heart. Sex with Poe Dameron was nothing short of spiritual; you could find sweet religion in his eyes and build a church in the palm of his hand, but those eyes, that tongue — you would sin, and sin, and sin as he brought you to your knees. He was your confessional, his name your most desperate prayer, your moans an erotic hymn.

You missed feeling.

You missed him.

And Gods, you were determined to find him.

He was there, somewhere. Somewhere amongst the burning village, between the blood and the carnage lining desecrated streets. You could sense it. You’re with a person long enough, your bodies start to react like magnets.

You wanted to believe that maybe, he was looking for you too, that his soul still felt that pull to yours. Because it didn’t take you long at all to cross his path, nearly running into him as you both bolted around the corner in a deserted alley, and when your eyes met, for the first time in so long, he didn’t seem at all surprised.

You certainly were.

Surprised was probably an understatement.

Because seeing him, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, in a black uniform that you hated to admit fit perfectly in all the right places, with the curls you so loved tamed, cut short and graying — it made it real. Made the fact that he left real, that he gave up sleeping next to you at night for a cause he had once sworn to destroy by your side.

Another thing you had been in denial over: you didn’t want to believe that the rumors, or rather, facts, were true. That he had joined the First Order, that he was now flying a TIE instead of his precious black X-Wing. That he had traded peace for power.

You could only stare at him, still trying so desperately to cling to that denial, but then he smiled at you. He smiled at you, but his eyes — you had never seen the warm brown so cold. So devoid of emotion. So lifeless.

Poe Dameron, your Poe Dameron, was anything but.

This wasn’t Poe.

The hope you had been holding onto immediately vanished, and you were finally slipping into that second stage of grief, because Maker, were you pissed. Pissed at yourself for refusing to believe what everyone else had told you, furious that you had been too blind to see it. Angry that his promises to you had meant nothing. Angry that he left the Resistance, left you for this.

The anger was quickly replaced by another response. You watched in something akin to horror as his smile turned to a smirk, and the feeling that creeped its way into your chest — it wasn’t relief. It wasn’t relief or happiness or contentment. It was nowhere near any positive emotion you could think of.

You didn’t even know what to call it.

All you knew is that you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk clear off his face.

“Fancy seein’ you here, darling,” he said, and you cringed. His voice sounded exactly the same, his tone as soft as when he was still yours, contradicting everything else about him.

“You actually fucking did it,” you scoffed, surprising yourself by how steady yet full of venom your own voice was. You had nearly expected it to crack. Infact, you hadn’t planned on saying anything at all for that exact reason. It just slipped.

“I see you’ve still got that mouth on you.”

“You used to like my mouth.”

“Oh darling,” he chuckled, though the sound held no humor, his smirk turning even more wicked than before. “If I remember correctly, you used to love mine. Had you begging for it.”

He was right.

Used to.

Past tense.

“Still cocky as ever. Nice to know some things never change.”

“Everything changes,” he shrugged, slowly strolling closer to you, those brown eyes holding you to your spot.

“Not everything.”

Poe began to circle you, his gaze trailing over your body in a way that sent a shiver down your spine, but you worked so hard to ignore it, tried so hard to push it away. Tried to remind yourself that he wasn’t Poe anymore, he was just another member of the First Order. Your enemy.

Your hand twitched, knowing it should fly to your blaster, rip it from the holster. You knew you should spin around, and at least keep it pointed at him as you made your escape. You knew you would never be able to actually use it on him.

He had to have seen your fingers reach for it, or maybe he still knew you well enough to be just one step ahead, or maybe he was remembering his own training, because he was suddenly pulling the weapon from its spot on your hip and before you could even register his sudden movement, you felt the cold metal of the barrel press into your lower back.

“You’re not going to use that on me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re not going to kill me, Dameron.”

You felt the pressure let up, and even though it was only for a second, it gave you another ounce of courage to speak out against him, to let him know just how truly pissed off you were.

“You don’t have the balls.”

And he growled. He growled, and you huffed as your back collided with cool brick, the air catching in your lungs. You were so focused on trying to remember how to breathe properly, you almost didn’t notice when the tip of your blaster was suddenly jammed into the underside of your jaw.

Almost.

“Try me.”

His voice was threatening, eyes cold, calculated. He was watching your every movement, and for  a moment you thought that you might’ve been wrong. Maybe he was going to kill you. Maybe Poe Dameron would end your life with your own fucking blaster.

But there. There was just a flicker of something else in those cold and calculated eyes as he watched you gulp, visibly showing for the first time that you were scared. Something not entirely warm, but it was still something. A memory, an old, nearly forgotten feeling. And that was enough for you.

“You’re not a killer Poe.”

He laughed, the sound downright caustic, dripping with poison. “You have no idea just how fucking wrong that sentence is, sweetheart.”

He removed his hand from your hip that you hadn’t even realized was holding you to the wall, and once it moved into your line of vision, you noticed that he quite literally had blood on his hands, crimson running down his fingertips, still fresh, probably still warm.

Poe of course noticed you blatantly staring, almost entranced, and his eyes narrowed, gaze flickering between his fingers and your face. You didn’t notice.

“Open.”

That caught your attention.

“Excuse me?”

“Open your fucking mouth, Y/N.”

You gaped. He couldn’t be serious, could he?

“Fuck yo-”

He took the opportunity, and before you could finish your sentence, his blood soaked fingers were moving past your lips, sliding across your tongue and down your throat as far as he could get them. You gagged.

“Suck.”

You had half the mind to bite him.

“Come on, my fingers aren’t the first thing of mine you’ve had shoved down your throat.”

Yeah, you bit him.

He hissed as your teeth sank into his skin, but he didn’t move, didn’t yank his hand back like you had expected him to. Fuck, you had been anticipating a hard smack across the face. None of it came. If anything, a hint of arousal found its way into his eyes.

“You always knew just how to tighten my pants.”

Your eyes widened, and you hated the fact that his words traveled straight to your core, made you whimper around his fingers.

He smirked again, devilish and sinful and fuck, why didn’t you hate this?

“Now suck.”

Why did you fucking oblige him?

You slowly, just a little hesitantly, swirled your tongue around his fingers, the tangy metallic taste familiar, and you still didn’t hate it.

“That’s it,” he cooed, brown eyes nearly black, blown with lust and desire more so than you had ever seen. It drove you crazy.

He pulled his fingers out of your mouth just a few seconds later, letting them drag along your tongue again, making you gag a second time.

And Poe laughed, raising his other hand, still covered in that sweet, heavy blood, to his own lips, his eyes fluttering shut as the taste hit his tongue.

Your stomach flipped, but you couldn’t look away.

Gods, he was crazy, but you were crazier for letting his actions shock your system and send electric jolts through your veins.

“Almost as sweet as your pussy.”

Maybe you weren’t that crazy.

You had enough of your sense left to punch him, swift and hard, your knuckles landing square on his jaw.

And he only laughed again.

Poe really had lost his mind.

“What the hell happened to you?” you nearly gasped, your voice barely above a whisper, the weakness you had expected before finally finding its way into your tone.

He only shrugged. He didn’t need to verbally answer, you knew. He had always liked control, and power, and he had finally given into the primal side of himself that always hid below the surface — a side of himself he only talked about at 5 in the morning, and only ever to you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, finally averting your gaze. He laughed a third time, and you suddenly felt a familiar weight in the palm of your hand.

You looked down, your fingers automatically curling around the blaster that you were now holding. You couldn’t help but furrow your eyebrows. Every single action during this short exchange had you so utterly and entirely confused.

Looking up, you met his stare once again, lips pursed. You didn’t ask, not verbally, but your expression must have been enough of a question.

Poe tilted his head to the side, studying you carefully for just a moment, though his eyes weren’t any less intense, any less crazed.

“You wouldn’t be able to use that thing on me even if you really wanted to, sweetheart.”

“I’m not weak.”

He scoffed, and this time, he was the first to avert his gaze, staring down the alley, appearing almost lost in thought for just a single moment, that flicker in his eye returning, though it vanished as quickly as it came.

“No, you’re not. You never were. But you love me.”

Present tense.

He was right again.

You still didn’t hate him, couldn’t bring yourself too. Didn’t know if you ever could. And of course he knew that, but he wasn’t dangling it above your head, teasing you with it. No, he stated it as a fact, as if he had read it off a file from his datapad.

You weren’t weak, but you weren’t immune, either.

And he knew it. He knew it, and while he wasn’t exactly ignoring it, he wasn’t abusing it, either.

You didn’t understand.

And apparently Poe wasn’t going to explain, not that you expected him to. He was done talking, his hands moving behind his back once again as he started down the narrow alleyway once again. You were still frozen, and all you could do was watch him go, not knowing what else to do, but knowing that the blaster in your hand was useless. Why did he always have to be right?

But then he stopped, turned his face to the side just enough to look at you through his peripheral, and even from ten feet away, you could see that his jaw was clenched, and his eyebrows were furrowed.

“Next time,” he started, his voice quiet, though it dripped with acid, sending a chill down your spine and goosebumps across your skin. “I won’t hesitate.”

Still frozen, you wished that he had gone ahead and pulled the trigger.

Because even with a threat looming over your head, a threat that your instinct told you to not ignore, you just couldn’t bring yourself to believe him.

Still couldn’t bring yourself to hate him.

You still love him.

Present tense.

And he was gone once again, like a cloud of gray smoke.

[arinmelnikov]

WE SURVIVE, BUT IT NEVER ENDS

     When Arin came home that night, the apartment was empty – dark, save the hallway light and one of the lamps in the living room. He slid his finger along the dimmer switch when he passed it, brightening the quiet room a little before he passed through, headed to the bathroom to rinse off the day. He threw his clothes in the washer as he undressed, setting the program to dry them when they were done. There had been something of Queenie’s lying in there, too, but he didn’t check what it was, smacking the door shut and tapping the start button on the screen on the panel before stepping into the shower.

     The night crept on, dragging its small hours along by the teeth, and still the door didn’t open. Restlessness and impatience drowned out the fatigue he was feeling – accompanied by a stab of unease, setting him on edge. Finally, grabbing his phone, he called Queenie’s number, absentmindedly pacing in front of the large frosted windows while he waited for her to pick up.      “Queenie’s phone.” A masculine voice answered him. It wasn’t Julian, nor Jasper, nor anyone else it was likely for her to be around, and yet… there was something familiar about it.    “Who the fuck are you?” Arin demanded, pausing his pacing.      “Who the fuck are you?” The voice shot back, clearly amused. Arin grew irritated.    “I’m who’s gonna turn you inside out if you don’t quit fucking around and tell me where the fuck she is.”      “Don’t worry, Arin, she’s perfectly fine.” He froze. His left hand rose on its own to the side of his neck, rubbing over needle marks and a splotchy bruise that were no longer there. “I’ve got her right here.” Rowan’s pitiful sobbing echoed in his memory, a miserable undertone to the very same voice he was currently hearing over the phone. Nobody’s coming for you. They don’t care. They expect you to give your life for them, but what have they done to deserve it? Listen to me, Rowan; you don’t owe them your allegiance. I know you don’t approve of the horrible things they do. I know you didn’t want to be a part of it – just like I don’t want you to be suffering this pain. All you have to do to make it stop is tell me…

     “It’s Ulrich Falke. Got arrested after–” Queenie’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, a mix of relief and dread washing over him as she let out a huff of laughter. She was alive, but she was with Ulrich fucking Falke, and his hand tightened into a fist when it dropped back to his side, his knuckles turning white. “I lost a fight. Since something tells me he’ll wanna make sure that part is well established. He думаю, что он собирается–” The line went dead quiet. Arin listened closer, his brows furrowing, but there was nothing.    “Я тебя не слышу,” he said, but still there was nothing. Lowering his phone, he glanced at the screen – the call was still connected.      About a minute passed before the call returned, and it wasn’t Queenie speaking anymore.      “Sorry about that. We forgot to practice our script.” Arin felt his blood boil, anger seeping into his voice when he answered.    “What the fuck. Do you want.”      “You have something that belongs to me,” Ulrich explained, as if Arin had stolen his fucking wallet or something equally trivial but ultimately inconvenient. “Bring her here, and I will let Queenie go.”    “Bullshit.” His voice was harsh, a snarl twisting his lips when he spoke. The scenario was clear: as soon as Arin arrived, Rowan in tow, Agent Falke would clap all three of them in irons and haul them off to be executed… or worse. Even if he thought the Government fuck at the other end of the line would prove true to his word, there was no way in hell he’d do it. He wouldn’t drag Rowan into even deeper shit, and he certainly wouldn’t negotiate with a tyrannical bag of dicks for Queenie’s freedom. No. He’d get her back, and he’d make Ulrich Falke regret ever being born. Enough. Enough. Fucking enough. No. Fucking. More. The whole thing was going to end in blood, and it wasn’t going to be his, or hers, or Rowan’s.      “Maybe.” Ulrich was moving around; Arin heard a door opening and closing. “But there’s only one way for you to find out. Are you willing to gamble with her life?”    “You’re never gonna fucking see Rowan again.” She was never even going to find out about this; not from him – her head was fucked enough as it was.      “So you do have her.” More sounds in the background. A car door?    “Yes, you shriveled cunt.” Arin lied, gritting his teeth. Thinking of Garrett and his little fucking house in the desert way out west of absolutely fucking nothing. “Who the fuck else?”      “Well. You have until sunrise. You know where we are?” Arin had Queenie’s location on his phone. All it would take was a couple of taps. He said nothing. “Good. Don’t be late. Queenie and I will wait for you until six – and then we’ll go somewhere you can’t follow.” Into Government custody? He could still hear her voice, the Russian sentence Ulrich had interrupted when he’d muted the call: I think he’s gonna… What? “Do svidaniya, Arin.” Asshole.    “Я собираюсь убить тебя, мать твою.” A growl, a promise, and then – with an infuriating fucking chuckle – Agent Falke hung up, leaving him in the silence of the apartment, emptier now than it had been five minutes ago.

     There was no time to waste. Arin forced his pulse down as he went into the bedroom to change his clothes, dropping his phone on the bed before he headed towards the closet, tugging his t-shirt and sweatpants off along the way and discarding them on the floor. The bag with the Government gear he’d taken from the fake smugglers’ den with that annoying ex-Killjoy asshole was still lying at the bottom, open and half emptied, devoid of the shit they’d come to need for some purpose or other since he’d brought it back. There were clothes in there, he knew, feeling around until his hands touched fabric and he pulled out a black pair of military pants that he put on before returning to the bathroom for the belt he’d been wearing earlier.      Back in the closet, he found an armored, long-sleeved shirt, just as black as the pants, and pulled that on, too, glancing down at his torso when it was covered, turning an arm over in the light. Bulletproof, he wondered, or just padded to lessen a blow? He hadn’t tested it – nor was he planning to get shot tonight, but he supposed if it came down to it, he’d find out, and whatever it was, it was better than nothing.      By the time he was finished dressing, working quickly as he forbade his mind to focus on anything other than what he needed, Arin would’ve set off a metal detector from across a room. He had knives in his boots, strapped to his forearm underneath his sleeve, a bundle of throwable ones in one of the pockets on the pants, flash grenades in another. There was a pistol on the outside of his right thigh, an extra magazine and a silencer fastened to its holster – and a sub, one of the twin pair Queenie had given him, in another holster on his left side, at his ribs. For that, he had two extras. There was no way to know whether she and Ulrich were the only people in whatever building he’d taken her to, or if there’d be a whole fucking squadron waiting for him there; the only thing he was absolutely certain about was that it’d be some kind of trap. He left the bedroom, cracking his neck once on either side as he walked, only stopping in the hallway to pull his boots on – lacing them up tightly – and to grab his keys.

     He drove fast, engine muted, headlights off, down the empty roads that stretched between the industrial buildings that crowded the Electrical District. Most in use, some decommissioned, bought up by a different company, put back in use and then left again to be bought up by somebody else, a pointless cycle of faceless shell corporations that probably were mainly Government-owned, anyway. A chunk were fully abandoned, but even that was untrustworthy, as they had a tendency to end up occupied by people or groups who needed someplace to do whatever the fuck it was they wanted to do that the Government wasn’t supposed to see. The location of Queenie’s phone was displayed on the screen on his dashboard, his route plotted out for him, though he didn’t really need it, and the only reason he’d pulled it up in the first place was so that he wouldn’t have to double-check the building on his phone when he arrived.

     When it came into view, he parked down the street, then made a careful approach, staying hidden as much as the buildings and the shadows that flocked around the illuminated pools the streetlights made on the pavement would allow. Arin circled the structure once, seeing no sign of anyone, no cars outside, nothing – but he still wasn’t about to walk in through the main entrance. His eyes scanned the spacious back area he found himself in after his perimeter search: the loading dock, the metal doors, the padlocked gates… no way to get in quietly, and no way to get up. He went around the side of the building, coming to a narrow passage where it pressed close against the annex that stood beside it, also locked up and sealed tight, but it had a roof access ladder clinging to the wall of its second floor, retracted and locked in place behind a cylindrical cage. There was no way for a random passerby to reach it from the ground, but fortunately for Arin, he was nothing of the sort.      A stack of wooden pallets stood by the door of the annex, their combined height reaching his chin. They looked a little rotted, but he was sure they’d hold his weight, and they did, not budging or making a sound when he hauled himself up to stand on them. One step was all he had room for to give himself some impetus, but one step was all he needed. He jumped, straight across the narrow alley, his boots hitting the wall of the main building where he pushed off again, a powerful kick to propel himself even higher, his body twisting around in midair as he reached for the cage of the access ladder on the annex… then his fingers closed around cold metal and did not let go. Tightening his core and forcing his legs backwards, he lessened the swing his momentum demanded from his limbs, then heaved himself up using his hands, one rung at a time until he was high enough to get a foothold. He scaled the outside of the round cage, not bothering with the ladder, moving to the side of it when he arrived at the top and pushing himself onto the roof. Back on his feet, he retreated a few steps, then ran to the edge again and leapt across to the main building, landing safely on the other side. There was a door up there, padlocked, like the gates on the loading dock below, but the latch that held the mechanism in place was rusted brown, peeling and crumbling. Arin freed his gun from the holster at his thigh and held it by the barrel, raising it over his shoulder and bringing it down hard, clubbing the latch with the grip. The thing broke in half, and he pulled the door open, slipping through.

     Inside was a dark stairwell, the simultaneously heavy and faint scent of dust hanging in the stagnant air. He slipped his pistol back into place as he descended the steps, swapping it for the SMG. At the bottom, marking the end of a short hall, was another door where he stopped for a moment, listening for movement, voices, anything. There was nothing. Everywhere, more fucking nothing. He stepped out, weapon aimed in front of him, into an open space that didn’t look like anyone had set foot in it in years. Every piece of equipment and machinery was draped in cloudy plastic sheeting, and the table he could see through a window into the meeting room had its chairs upended on it, seats resting against the grimy surface, metal legs jutting into the air like bird spikes on the edge of a roof.      To his left, a hallway led to more offices, but – Arin glanced at his phone – Queenie’s was supposed to be somewhere in the center of the building, and his surroundings were empty, so he went off in search of the stairs instead, heading to the ground floor.      Still nothing. The first floor was as desolate as the second, if a little less dusty. There was a light on by the entrance, illuminating the murk and reflecting off the mottled windows beside it, the only sign so far that someone had been here. After a quick and fruitless sweep of the area, he returned to the stairwell, taking the last set of steps down to the basement.

     He was ready to shoot when he stepped into the large, square opening that mouthed into the room, smaller than both floors upstairs – but just like them, it was fucking empty. Unlike them, he knew immediately that this was where they’d been. There was a chair placed against one of the pillars in the center, and a bunch of random shit littered a table that stood near it, most notable of which was a phone leaned up against a yellow can, facing the stairs. Squashing the rage that flared up in him, he entered, lowering the sub as he approached.      Stopping in front of the table, he reached out for the phone, slipping it into his palm and waking the screen. Queenie’s. Fuck. Fuck. Fu– A metallic pop froze him, his gaze searching the table until it landed on a tiny lens – staring unblinkingly back at him from the tab on the opened can – a millisecond before a sharp, prolonged hiss sounded from somewhere underneath the table. Fucking gas. He’d been holding his breath since the first unexpected sound, the tempo of his pulse increasing as he backed away towards the stairs, flipping off Ulrich Falke and his fucking camera. And fuck him for apparently packing Queenie out of there as soon as he’d hung up the phone. Arin fired at the can, drenching the stupid surveillance device in energy drink, then took the stairs two at a time, only drawing in breath when he was at the top. There was no one waiting to ambush him there, but still he kept an alert vigilance as he made his way back the way he’d come, up to the roof.

     The eastern sky was brightening, black fading into blue into orange. After kicking the heavy door shut behind him, he turned his back on it, retrieving Queenie’s phone from his pocket and tapping in the six digit code that unlocked the device. It opened on the camera application, and his attention was drawn immediately to the preview of the last picture taken. He clicked it, and there she was, in the same fucking chair he’d been looking at a minute ago – and there it was, the same indomitable fury he’d felt when he’d heard Ulrich’s voice over the phone. When he’d come down to the basement and found it empty. And this wasn’t the fucking Bentons; this was his fucking Lost Boy fucking shit, and Arin thought that if he could go back in time to that day he’d bumped into Rowan in the city, knowing what he knew now, he’d have plugged her right between the fucking eyes.      Un-fucking-productive. He redirected his attention. Ulrich wanted Rowan. His simplest way to her, in his mind, was Arin – so the gas hadn’t been meant to kill him, which meant the agent was coming back. Him, or others of his ilk, subservient, mindless fucking goons sent to collect him and bring him wherever. He needed to find a place to wait. It couldn’t be long until someone showed.

     But it was. Two and a half fucking hours passed before a car finally pulled up to the building, parking in front of the main entrance. Arin was on the roof of a different building, smoking his fourth cigarette and freezing his ass off in the frigid morning air because he’d forced himself to sit still, knowing that if he moved he’d get restless, get angry, and probably do something rash. If it were just about him, he might have. Fuck waiting, fuck being cautious, and fuck the fucking Government… but Queenie’s life was at stake, and Ulrich, damn him, had been right – he wouldn’t gamble with it.      Like his own, the car that had arrived was black, had no plates, windows tinted into dark mirrors that reflected the sharp rays of sun that were just breaking the horizon, bathing the tops of the buildings in a pale golden haze, even as most of the streets below remained steeped in blue shadow. Arin squinted down at it as the driver’s side door opened and the scumbag of the hour himself stepped out, casting a perfunctory glance over his surroundings before heading for the door. Slipping out from behind the chimney he’d hidden on the far side of when the agent raised his gaze, Arin returned to the northern edge of the roof and descended the metal stairs that zigzagged up the outside wall, getting into the Mustang and soundlessly starting the engine. His right hand curled around the steering wheel, tightening as the muscles in his jaw did, and he plotted his route over, saw himself pressed against the wall next to the door as Ulrich came out, heard the crack of gun against skull, felt the scrape of knife against skin. Smelled the metallic blood pulsing in warm rivulets from an opened throat. He plotted his route… and remained in his seat, drawing slow, controlled breaths while he waited for the agent to reappear.      He wasn’t in there long. Soon, the door opened again; Arin’s eyes trailed him as he returned to his car, started the engine and drove off. He left it a beat before he pulled away from the curb and followed.

     Battery City was waking up. Curfew was lifted, and people and cars were trickling into the streets, slowly filling them with the noise of everyday life. Arin let three in between him and Ulrich, then another at an intersection as he followed him west, towards Downtown. Traffic flooded in, amassing on the three-lane road, and he cursed as he overtook a sedan and some asshole in a white convertible, weaving back into the stream of vehicles in front of them, Agent Asshole in sight once more. They crossed into Zone One, the heart of Government territory – an area he hadn’t set foot in since he’d been arrested and put on death row, a lifetime ago. He felt his skin crawl the closer they got to the Capitol Building, the hairs at the back of his neck rising as if there were eyes on him, even though he knew he was hidden behind his car’s windows. Then, suddenly, Ulrich’s car switched lanes. Arin’s eyes flashed to the sign he was passing.    “Fuck.” Another curse under his breath, because he knew, he knew, where the agent was going, and it wasn’t anywhere he could fucking follow. He stomped on the gas pedal and veered into the far left lane, just catching in his peripheral vision the other black car disappearing onto one of the exits that led towards the Government buildings as he tore past the flow of traffic on his right, heading for the closest zone crossing.

     He didn’t slow down until he was out, digging his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it, his attention split between the road and the screen as he scrolled through his contact list until he found the number he was looking for and dialed it. It rang, once, twice – you better fucking pick up, you fraternizing fucking bastard – thrice.      “Hello?”    “I’m sending you an address. Meet me there. Now.”      “Uh– yeah, okay. I can do that.” Arin hung up and tossed his phone into the passenger seat, fighting the urge to turn around and go back towards Capitol Square as he searched his surroundings for somewhere anonymous to stop.

     Somewhere anonymous was a closed convenience shop sitting behind an empty lot, boarded up and dusty. It was small, but big enough that it hid his car when he parked behind it. The door in front was chained shut, but upon closer inspection he found that there was nothing holding the chain in place – it was just looped around the door handle and the farthest right of the bars on the window next to it a bunch of times, the ends hanging loose. He sent off a text containing his location, then pulled the chain free and dropped it on the cracked asphalt before heading inside and closing the door behind him. He lit a cigarette, hauling himself up to sit on the counter to keep himself from pacing. Writing Julian a text message to keep himself from complete inactivity. Falke has Q. Check cameras 3-4 am find out where they went. He attached the address of the building with the basement and sent it.      It wasn’t long before he heard movement outside – a car parking in the back, then footsteps around the front – and even though he was expecting company, he soundlessly slid his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the entrance as whoever it was came closer. The door opened, and the man coming in was silhouetted in the doorway for a moment by the morning sun behind him, obscuring his features. Arin recognized him all the same, lowering his weapon and putting it away as Agent Matthew Hagen pushed the door shut and approached, concern etched across his sharp features.      “What’s going on?” He asked, green eyes searching Arin’s face.    “Tell me everything you know about Ulrich fucking Falke.”      “If you want relevant information, Arin, I’m gonna need a little more to go off of.” Matt’s brow was furrowed, still, and he tilted his chin up half an inch, his gaze glued to Arin’s as he waited for an answer.    “He has Q. He’s trying to use her to fucking blackmail me into giving up somebody else he fucking wants.” Arin leaned the heels of his palms against the edge of the counter, tattooed fingers curling around the edge.      “Agent Greane…” Matt muttered thoughtfully – more to himself, it seemed – then held up a hand in apology when he saw the flash of anger in Arin’s eyes. “I take it she isn’t really on placement at Red Rock.”      There was a moment of silence in which Arin waited for the dark-haired agent to fucking get on with it, but he was apparently waiting for a response as well; confirmation, or some equally unimportant bullshit.    “You think?” He snapped finally, irate and impatient.      “Well.” Matt grew pensive again. “Agent Falke is not a… patriot, by most people’s standards. Certainly not by the Government’s; but he’s efficient. Extremely dangerous. Not an ounce of morals in him, and from what I know, he has no scruples about what he does for his job. The thing about him that sets him apart from the zealots in his division is that he doesn’t truly serve Avalon.” He watched Arin somberly. “He serves himself.” Arin watched him back, waiting for him to continue – and he did, finishing with a firm set to his lips. “He’s an egotistical megalomaniac on a power trip. Unpredictable.”      That final word. Unpredictable. It was the last fucking thing he needed.    “You know where he lives?”      “Penthouse apartment somewhere in Zone One,” Matt shook his head. Shit. Arin went quiet, thinking for a moment before he spoke up again.    “All you fucks have chips, right?”      “That’s… correct,” Matt responded with a slow nod, probably a little miffed that he’d been included in you fucks, but realizing that now was not the time to bitch about it.    “Can you see where he’s been?”      “No.”      Arin sighed. “Can you fucking find out?”      “No,” Matt repeated. “Only directors have that level of clearance.”    “So?”      “Arin, I can’t. I’m sorry.” He looked it, but being sorry did fuck all for bringing Queenie back.    “Then find out if she’s in fucking lockup.”      “I will. And if there’s anything else of use I can access, you’ll know about it.”    “And Falke – he’s corrupt?”      “To the core. He’s out for his own gain; not whatever the Government thinks is best for the territory.”      Arin hopped off the counter and headed for the exit. If corruption was involved, he knew somebody who’d pay just about any price to lay his hands on her.      “Where are you going?” Matt turned around, calling after him.    “The woods.” The door smacked shut in his wake, drowning out the agent’s reply – if there was any.

* * *

     No more than a few weeks had passed since the last time he’d been there (with her), and yet the landscape was drastically altered, almost unrecognizable. The trees had shed their crowns, leaves that had been yellow, orange, red, now a rotting brown carpet on the forest floor, so deep in places that it reached his ankles, rustling around his strides and crunching under under his boots as he waded through. He didn’t care if anyone heard him, if anyone found him – it’d be a quicker way to the answers he needed if they did, and at least he’d get to fucking shoot somebody.

     In twenty-five minutes, he’d arrived at the first location – a building that was marked RESEARCH STATION on the satellite image. It was fenced in, and he could see cameras mounted along the walls, moving slowly from side to side. Going in would be a fucking hassle, and he didn’t have the time, and the trees weren’t close enough – not to the fence, and definitely not to the building itself. But he had to be sure. So instead of wasting his energy trying to see inside, he’d draw whoever was there out. Or… find out if there was anyone there at all. Arin plucked one of the flash grenades from his pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it over the fence, watching it hurtle towards the building in a graceful arc before he ducked behind an old tree, his back pressed against the trunk.      There was the sharp, flatly echoing crack of the grenade going off, and he held the SMG ready, unmoving as a statue, listening. A slow minute ticked by, the lukewarm Avalon fall breeze filling the silence with the quiet patter of the dead leaves it sent skittering along the ground, and with the toneless whisper of the bare branches it soughed through, stirring them towards the colorless sky. Two minutes. The beginnings of a headache throbbed faintly against his temples. Three minutes. A twig snapped somewhere ahead of him. Four minutes. Five minutes. No one came. Arin marked the building in red and moved on. Six to go.

     The sun was at its zenith when Arin’s phone rang. He was sat on a gnarled root, smoking a cigarette and scrolling over the map on his phone, plotting a route to the next building. The display read MH.    “Yeah?”      “She’s not in Government custody. Officially or unofficially.”    “Kingston there?” He forced himself to use the name, assuming Matt wouldn’t know who he was referring to if he asked after an ass-licking shitbag.      “At work?” The agent paused. “Yeah.”    “And the old cunt?” Arin felt his phone buzz.      “I don’t know. You think they have her?”    “Anything else?” His phone buzzed again. And once more.      “Nothing yet. I’ll be in touch.” Arin hung up, looking at his screen, and the three texts he’d received during the call.

     [ Julian Colden / 12:09 PM ] No cameras      [ Julian Colden / 12:10 PM ] I got this tho

     The third text contained a link that led him to a video: a shot of a cage, bathed in light and placed on a stage that was surrounded by a crowd. It didn’t even take him a second to recognize Queenie – and he already knew who the man hidden behind a mask in front of her was, tension creeping through him as he watched them fight. His pulse had picked up, its pace almost doubled, hatred roaring to life in his chest when Ulrich raised a cuffed Q to her feet and ripped his mask off with a smug grin. Battery City… Arin turned the volume up, fanning the blaze of his bloodthirsty contempt. Nobody has to die here tonight. He was too angry to fully register the remainder of the agent’s speech, and then, suddenly, he was leading her away and the video ended. After crushing his cigarette out on the root next to him, Arin wrote Julian a response: Find Noriko. He stood up and put his phone away.

     Four to go.

* * * 

     Sunset came and went unacknowledged. He walked and walked, crossed a building off his list, then walked further still and crossed off another. Matt called to let him know that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on among the ranks of the Government, that there was no mention of Q, that Ulrich Falke had gone home after work and nowhere else, and that he was keeping an eye on the building. There’d been no word from Julian yet.

     Arin was approaching the final building – the only remaining one with a blue tag on the map, marked with three question marks – when he noticed with a start that it was dark. The whole day gone and he’d found fuck all. There was light coming from the windows of the last place. From the windows, from outside lamps evenly spaced on the walls, and… it was a fucking house. He squinted in disbelief and exasperation at the bits of living room he could see from his spot in the murk between the trees, turning away and leaving when he spotted a figure moving around inside. There was nowhere else to go; there were too many buildings tagged in yellow for him to start going through them without planning, and the dark blue sky was turning black, taking visibility down to practically nothing.      Halfway back to his car, he got a text.

     [ Julian Colden / 8:38 PM ] Got her. Gonna find out if anyone saw them leaving

     There was a map pin attached. He quickened his pace, ignoring the tired protest of his muscles as he demanded more from them than he already had. He hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, and his stomach was complaining, too, sending hollow stabs of pain through his abdomen.      In the Mustang, he emptied a bottle of water he found in the center console, then ate the candy bar that had been lying in there beside it, trying not to think about the fact that it was Queenie who’d left it there. He missed her, and that feeling was worse than all the current mundane afflictions of his body combined and fucking tripled. He was getting her back. There was no other way he’d allow this to end.

* * *

     Julian’s pin was at another one of Noriko’s establishments – a small gambling den nestled in the first floor of an apartment building, past a hidden door in the stairwell. Arin saw a security guard through the windows near the entrance, hanging around and pretending not to be a security guard. He didn’t want to risk them warning her about his arrival, but he also didn’t think there was another way in. What he did have, though, were more flash bangs. Might as fucking well. He yanked the pin out of one and pitched it down the street as hard as he could, then slipped around the corner nearest to the entrance, out of sight.      Come on, you dumb fuck, impatience set his nerves alight in the wake of the harmless explosion. Come on, come on, come–      The door opened. He waited ten seconds, hearing the guard’s footfalls moving away from him before he peeked out, seeing the other man’s back as he went to investigate the commotion. He left his cover and entered the fluorescent-lit stairwell; the secret door opened with a pull on the fire alarm next to it, and he was inside, keeping his head down and sticking close to the wall as he headed for the back, and the office he knew she’d be sitting in, never one for mingling with her guests. There was more security inside, but he managed to evade their attention, passing behind them when they had their backs turned, or pausing on the other side of groups of drunk people when they looked his way.      When he reached the office, Arin slid the sub from its holster at his rib and switched off the safety, raising it as he went in. It found its target almost immediately, and finally, finally, something was going the way it was supposed to, and he had somewhere tangible to direct his fury.

     “Arin!” Noriko’s voice was tinged with poorly disguised astonishment, and a little more adeptly disguised fear. Clearly, him showing up without warning hadn’t been part of her plan. He reached behind him with his free hand and felt around until he found the lock, turning it. Her hand inched towards one of the drawers on her desk. Adjusting his aim, he squeezed the trigger, and the SMG fired a rapid burst of three, splinters flying from the surface of the desk right above whatever she’d been reaching for. Noriko snatched her hand back, pressing it against her torso.    “Back up.” Arin advanced, returning his aim to the center of her chest. “Don’t get outta the fucking chair.” She obeyed, giving herself a small push so she rolled away from the desk, still facing him. Arin grabbed a different chair and dragged it over to the door, glancing away from her for a moment as he propped it underneath the handle.      “I can explain–”    “Shut up. You let him in. How much did he fucking pay you?”      “He didn’t. He didn’t!” She raised both hands when he took a sudden step closer. “I didn’t know who he was.”    “Uh-huh. And you let any piece of shit just fucking walk in off the street, right? Wearing a fucking mask?”      “No.” Noriko closed her eyes for a moment, dark blue eyeshadow glittering on her lids. “A contact of mine vouched for him. He hasn’t let me down before. I thought the mask was… fun.”      Arin fought the urge to spit. “And where’s your fucking contact?”      “I can’t get ahold of him.” The reluctance in her tone told him she knew what that meant as well as he did.    “I fucking wonder why.” There were shouts outside, seconds before someone started pounding at the door. Arin ignored them. “It doesn’t matter,” he went on, “you let him walk outta there with her.”      “He was threatening to bomb the entire club!” The fear returned to Noriko’s voice.    “I don’t give a shit!”      “Arin, be reasonabl–”    “Shut up. You could’ve had him turned into a lead fucking weight, and instead you were pissing yourself in your fucking office and letting Q take the hit for your fucking stupidity.”      “Listen,” she started bargaining, her eyes boring into his, “I know people. If she’s still alive, I can help you find her.”    “It’s too late for that.”      “No–”      Arin squeezed the trigger again. Noriko slumped in her chair, eyes and mouth wide open, three holes in her chest and a red stain spreading rapidly as it soaked the fabric of her sheer, white blouse.      He’d been wrong about there not being another way in – there was another door on the right side of her office. Pushing through it, he emerged into what looked like a janitor’s closet, continuing without slowing down towards the exit on the opposite wall. It spat him back out into the stairwell, just as the hidden door by the stairs opened. Without checking to see who was there, he raised the sub and held down the trigger, peppering the wall and the door and maybe whoever the fuck was coming after him with bullets as he made his way towards the street. The secret entrance closed, and Arin, his boots hitting blacktop, broke off at a sprint and didn’t stop until he was at his car, getting in and tearing away from the area without looking back.

* * *

     A shower. A change of clothes. He didn’t want to be home, because without her it was just some soulless fucking apartment, but he had to plan what was next; figure out which of the yellow buildings were the most likely to be the Benton facility. He didn’t transfer his weapons from his old clothes, leaving them for now, going into the bedroom to sit on the mattress with his phone without allowing himself to acknowledge that he’d chosen it because it was where her presence was the strongest.

     Exhaustion bled into his bones, there in the dark, his focus drifting as he stared at the satellite picture of the woods, casting cursory looks over the tagged buildings and changing the ones he deemed at first glance to be his options from yellow to blue. He’d go through them more thoroughly once he had a better overview – weed out the less likely ones.

     He tried not to picture her, somewhere, in a white cell like his own, bolted to that fucking metal chair while Gerard smiled magnanimously at her and prattled on about some self-important bullshit. He tried not to picture her shot up with adrenaline and hallucinogens, forced to watch the same type of shit they’d played on a loop for him. He tried not to picture her chained up on the floor of a concrete box of a room in some fucking Government black site somewhere, awaiting her fate. He concentrated his attention on the map, checking building after building after building…

     In the darkness, a voice screamed. His wrists and ankles were encircled in steel, and he couldn’t move, and there was blood in his mouth. Everything around him was pitch black; he couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, until suddenly she was there, his mirror image, in front of him. Slumped in her seat, purple waves tumbling down over her bruised and cut up face. Queenie! His voice didn’t carry. Arin didn’t know if he’d spoken at all, or if she just couldn’t hear him, but she was alive, she had to be – if he could only reach her. Wake up.

     Wake up. This time it was a command, and it wasn’t his voice. A man tilted her chin up with the end of a baton – Gerard, Kingston, Ulrich, a faceless, swarming mass of Government Agent that wasn’t permitted to touch her. But they did. Queenie took every strike without a sound, cold resentment in her pale blue eyes when she raised them to her assailant, and she didn’t see him, but how was that possible when he was right in front of her? Look at me. Arin fought his restraints, but his body felt heavy and weak, and it was no use. Queenie. I’m right fucking here, look at me. She didn’t. Her stare was locked on the figure looming over her, like she recognized him, even when all Arin saw was the indistinct and unfamiliar back of a head.

     The shadows around them vanished in a blink, the walls coming alive, and he heard bombs going off, saw rubble and bodies stretching out in every direction, a crater filled with broken concrete and with most of his gang. He heard Rowan scream and cry, a piercing soundtrack to Queenie’s defiant muteness as the hostile shape circling her chair brought the baton down again and again, and he was helpless to stop any of it, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to–

     Arin shot up in bed with a gasp, his heart slamming against the inside of his ribcage as he tried to catch his breath – to get his bearings. He was alone. He’d fallen asleep. He raised his hands to his face, pressing his fingers against his eyelids, coercing his brain to pull itself out of the nightmare and focus.

   “Fuck’s sake.” His voice was muffled against his palms, and even then it seemed too loud for the room, the words sucked into the vacuum of Queenie’s absence to be swallowed whole by the ravenous silence that filled every place she wasn’t in. He lowered his hands, letting them skim across the twisted sheets until he found his phone, picking it up to check the time. Five a.m. He’d been asleep for almost three hours. Slipping the device into his pocket, he got up, pacing into the bathroom to retrieve his weapons that he’d left on the floor there in a heap. When he was finished, he took it out again, really looking at it now that his head was clearer.

     Matt hadn’t called, which meant he still had jack shit as far as any leads went, and Julian had texted him to let him know that Noriko’s crew was looking for him. Arin texted back to get rid of them, and Julian returned with a single word. Anything? His jaw clenched as he typed out his reply, and he dropped the phone back into his pocket as soon as he had sent it. Because he didn’t fucking have anything.

     Not yet.

[atruththatyoudeny]

Happy 28th! Sending out all my love to the authors and artists in this fandom! ♥ Here are all the fics I read and loved this month:

Ferricadooza! | suspendrs | 1960s - historical - boxing - period-typical homophobia - violence - sexuality crisis - identity crisis - hurt/comfort - Polari - 65k Harry can’t even fathom the idea of surrendering; he’d fight ‘til he died, if he had to, anything to keep from surrendering. Or, the year is 1963, homosexuality is illegal in the UK, Louis owns a gay bar, and Harry’s an underground boxing champion with an unfortunate enemy.

The Little Dog Whisperer | lovelarry10 | strangers to lovers - kid fic - fluff - dog walking - 29k Louis lives alone with his dog Clifford. When he spots a sign in the neighbourhood advertising dog walking services, along come Harry and his son Alfie into his life…

Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) | angelichl | a/b/o - Sugar Baby Harry - strangers to lovers - mutual pining - miscommunication - soul bond - soulmates - angst - 113k Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

Step Into The Light | lovelarry10 | PWP - established relationship - 13k Harry’s filming his music video for his new song in the humid heat of Cancun, Mexico after dark. Louis watches him with hooded eyes from behind the visor of his motorcycle helmet watching it all go down. How far can Harry push his desire?

Take on Me | haztobegood | magical realism - 60k Actor Harry Styles is preparing for his next leading role as Antonius the Gladiator with the help of Louis Tomlinson, Hollywood’s top stunt coordinator. When the demands of Harry’s career get in the way of their training, the pair head to a secluded cabin to complete their training. Then, Louis begins to share senses with Harry. What is causing this mysterious connection and can Louis and Harry figure out how to stop it before they leave the cabin?

Don’t Move In (Don’t Move Out) | 2tiedships2 | a/b/o - friends to lovers - mutual pining - misunderstandings - fluff - 14k Only one more week and Harry would be living under the same roof. Gone would be Liam’s alpha scent, quickly replaced with Harry’s. All Harry. Louis was going to fucking die. You’d think Louis would be used to it by now, that Harry’s scent would simply fade into the background like Liam’s did. But Louis had a feeling he would simultaneously be living in Heaven and Hell once Harry moved in. Louis was pulled out of his thoughts when Niall smacked him on the back of his head. "The fuck was that for?" Louis asked, rubbing his head and looking at the bloody Irishman he called his other best friend. "You were basically drooling, mate,” Niall said. “That was a courtesy smack to keep your daydreaming from seeping into your pheromones."

It's A Never-Ending Helter-Skelter | runaway_train | Circus - Desert Island - strangers to lovers - 8k The one where Harry winds up on a desert island with a bunch of circus performers and it might just be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

So...how's parenting going? vol. i: the case of the imaginary friend | thealmightyavocado | crack - established relationship - fluff - 8k Harry and Louis’ three-year-old son has an imaginary friend that is making their life a living, breathing hell.

Ad arbitrium | star_k ❶  Find what you love | a/b/o - soulmates - one-sided attraction - pining - angst - 26k Harry learns 16 years is a lifetime to be in love with someone else. ❷  And let it kill you | a/b/o - pining - miscommunication - 19k Louis doesn't believe in fate, but rather in choice. There's nothing romantic about being stripped out of his own.

Lambing Season | HelloAmHere | Farm AU - comfort - fluff - 24k “Shut up,” Louis says, an involuntary grin tugging at his mouth. It’s not every boy who will stand in the middle of a cold barn in a suit and play musician trivia. “I’m Louis.” //lambing season brings sleep deprivation, noisy alarms, cold barns, demanding animals, and warm strangers.

Its Mutual We (All) Discussed It | nikogda | a/b/o - polyamory - omega/omega/alpha - slow burn - soul mates - 28k Two omegas in a committed relationship are ready to start a family. In the process, their alpha donor becomes part of the family too. Every part of their relationship may be unconventional but all of them have never been happier

Promise in the Sky | Throwthemflowers | friends to lovers - slow burn - religion - sexual repression - internalized homophobia - homophobic language - angst - suicide attempt - implied conversion therapy - healing - acceptance - 99k AU in which Harry Styles, a naïve, repressed, socially awkward Midwestern highschooler tries to navigate his fundamentalist evangelical parents and radically progressive older sister. He’s doing an okay job of this until the Tomlinson family starts attending Lakeside Baptist Church and a boy named Louis changes everything. Harry is forced to come to grips with his true self when Louis becomes more than just his best friend; but their relationship opens a can of worms and sends them on the most painful, heartbreaking journey of their young lives. They risk everything and nearly lose, and Harry learns that perhaps only one Bible verse is true: that perfect love casteth out fear.

This Glorious Mess | theweightofmywords | mpreg - miscommunication - post-break up - 14k His head lolls to the side, and his eyes float open to focus on what used to be his bedside table. It’s empty now, devoid of the framed photo of the two of them. And Louis knows that he has no right to feel hurt, but somehow, this only confirms what this really is. “This is the last time,” he cries, his voice breaking both from pleasure and pain. “I know, baby,” Harry breathes, burying his face in Louis neck.

(It's New) The Shape of Your Body | FallingLikeThis | mpreg - enemies to friends to lovers - angst - hurt/comfort - fluff - mention of abortion - misunderstandings - mutual pining - 18k Taking a deep breath, Louis tears open the packet and holds the test in his hands. Deep down he already knows what it’s going to say. He can feel the certainty of it in his bones but he needs to see it. He needs confirmation. Movies always make it look like you have to wait a bit to know, like you have to set a timer and give it a few minutes, wringing your hands for an answer. Even the box says it’ll take time, but it actually only takes a second after Louis pees on the strip to see the two pink lines appear that tell him what he already knew. He’s pregnant. “Oh god,” he breathes, staring down at it. And just like he’d known the test would be positive, he knows now that everything about his life is about to change.

If We Have Each Other | ishiplouis | mpreg - One Night Stands - friends to lovers - angst - fluff - miscommunication - 23k AU where Harry is a single father and a one-night stand is going to change his life forever.

Little Miracles | Summertimebutterfliesandhome (RoseDaggerLouisHarryLS_28) | mpreg - IVF - infertility - 9k Harry and Louis have been trying to have a baby for ages but they haven’t been lucky yet. The doctors tell them IVF is the only way but when that doesn’t work either they give up. However, some little miracles happen.

We've got a lifetime to kill | louislovesharry | mpreg - kid fic - minor pregnancy complications - 5k Harry and Louis have a three year old daughter, Evie, who is their whole world, and another little girl on the way. When Harry falls and is put on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy, Louis and Evie must adjust - but it is all worth it for their newest addition to the Tomlinson family.

Lost in Leeds | Open_Direction | mpreg - camping - fluff - 8k After a couple of amazing nights together at Leeds fest, Harry and Louis get separated with no way to contact each other. This might be less of a problem if Harry didn’t end up pregnant.

Dirty Little Secret | Dont_Stop_Larry | mpreg - secrets - 10k The one where Harry and Louis fall in love, but can’t figure out how to tell Gemma. That is, until Harry gets pregnant, and they don’t have much of a choice.

This I Promise You | xDnicki | mpreg - friends to lovers - friends with benefits - 34k A long awaited boys night out leads best friends Harry and Louis go further than they ever have before. It also leaves them with a surprise pregnancy that will help neither of them to forget that night.

Come In and Change My Life | lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes) | mpreg - a/b/o - fluff - 12k Harry and Louis become friends when Harry looks after Louis' cat during away games, until one night at a party changes everything between them. It's just a shame Louis' going to be away for the FIFA World Cup for three months.

My Sun and Stars, Moon of my Life | OhHarold | mpreg - Game Of Thrones Fusion - arranged marriage - 7k Harry was used to the luxuries of Kings Landing and then Pentos but when his brother is desperate for the crown he is entitled to, Harry must be part of an arranged marriage to a ruthless Khal of a Dothraki tribe.

Dancing With Masks | messofgorgeouschaos | mpreg - fake/pretend relationship - One Night Stands - pining - fluff - 18k With awards season coming up and new films on the way for both of them, Harry and Louis' managers decide it's time for them to date for publicity. They don't mind, given that they are best friends and have known each other for ages. Besides, years of sexual tension built into a fake relationship for press, what could possibly go wrong?

You Wouldn't Believe the Dream I Just Had About You & Me | larryatendoftheday | mpreg - college/university - friends to lovers - slow burn - memory loss - 21k After a back-to-school bash and a few too many drinks, Harry finds himself pregnant from a one-night stand he doesn’t remember. His best friend Louis is the only one who knows about the baby. Together they try to find the father of Harry’s baby, but they keep looking in all the wrong places.

[doomedandstoned]

A Walk through the Desert of Absurdity with Mizmor

~Review & Interview by Calvin Lampert~

'Cairn' (2019) is a good cry. That was my impression after listening to the new Mizmor record for the first time; I felt positively exhausted after the last drones of "The Narrowing Way" faded into silence. Despite being on the surface a garish mixture of black and doom metal (or as Mizmor mastermind A.L.N. himself put it: “wholly doomed black metal”) there’s something comforting about Cairn, a sort of cleansing quality that goes beyond simple catharsis. And it was just what I needed. Fate has it that whenever I feel particularly down one of my favorite bands drops their new record.

Last year, it was YOB with their wonderful Our Raw Heart, and it seems like this year Mizmor aides. Even the impeccable release timing aside this was a release that I had high hopes in, especially after the incredible Yodh in 2016 and I was certain Mizmor would deliver. That’s just me of course, and your mileage will vary, on account of the deeply personal nature of Mizmors music and well...the music itself, which is anything but easy-listening. After all, Mizmor was created out of necessity, for A.L.N. to deal with his loss of faith, existential dread, and search for meaning, and, now with Cairn, the question of how to proceed with your life? Bleak stuff, even within the bleak realm of one-man blackened doom metal projects.

Yet, there’s a lot to appreciate about Cairn, so much in fact that I had an entire review written for it, only to scrap most of the draft, because I had found so many new aspects to talk about in the time leading up to the interview with A.L.N. (read below), and after talking to him I was left with an even deeper appreciation for the record and the way it is structured. An album I felt I hadn’t done justice with my initial draft. Thus, onto draft No. 2.

Possibly the most immediate quality of Cairn is the odd meddling of beauty and horror, hope and despair. One would be quick to point out the copious amount of world-weary, acoustic guitar sections (which are a staple of Mizmor's music) in contrast to the overall heaviness and abrasiveness of Cairn as the most obvious example of this, yet the aspect that was a particular standout to me was the rather unusual melody of the first half of the album opener, "Desert of Absurdity."

Cairn by מזמור

The first time you hear it it tricks you into believing that it is your standard black metal tremolo pick, but then the melody progresses into something more hopeful, uplifting even. But think less Deafheaven's "Sunbather" and more YOB's "Essence" (for the select few that are familiar with that rarity). In a way it even could pass as a continuation of the grand outro section of "Inertia, an ill Compeller" off Yodh. Good things don’t last though, and before long the melody shifts into something darker, in a process that I can only describe akin to watching a timelapse of a still life turning to rot. Mizmor never slips into outright exaltation and all that is beautiful comes with a ball-and-chain of melancholy at best, and abysmal despair at worst.

Cairn by מזמור

And it only gets darker from here. Follow-up "Cairn to God" with its gargantuan 18-minute runtime has (unlike "Desert of Absurdity") no concern for attention spans or fancy tempo changes and proceeds to drop a huge and indeed wholly doomed riff on your head. This is Mizmor at it’s blatantly doomiest to date; an exercise in patience, yet also a surprisingly varied song. But persistent above all else. The main riff is ever present, whether it is there as droning chords, slow tremolo pick or acoustic break, its resolve and grip cannot be broken, even when "Cairn to God" grinds to a complete halt and falls silent for a few tense moments, as if to gather its strength for the next step while it drags you through the landscape. In short, it’s agonizing. A labor to match for both the listener and the artist.

Cairn by מזמור

"Cairn to Suicide" feels almost like a respite. An odd thing to say, considering the less than gentle transition from the mournful wallow of "Cairn to God," to the full-on-blastbeat assault at a second's notice. More than any other song, "Cairn to Suicide" plays with your expectations, and just as you probably didn’t see that jump-scare of an opening coming, you won’t really be prepared for what is possibly Cairn's most triumphant moment -- a sudden return of the main riff after a fake acoustic outro that launches into a dramatic guitar lead over a striding mid-tempo beat and A.L.N.'s desperate howl. As with the bittersweet melody of "Desert of Absurdity," it is something that is hard to put into words (cue the saying of reviewing music is like dancing about architecture) and has to be heard to be really appreciated, but I cannot overstate how majestic, but also incredibly driving and urgent this section is. It lends a certain righteousness to despair; feeling anything but empathy for A.L.N. would seem wrong at this point. If you’re looking for a highlight, here it is.

Because of it’s varied nature, "Cairn to Suicide" also shows the virtues of the more polished production of the record. Whereas Yodh’s raw production made its densest moments feel downright claustrophobic and suffocating, Cairn's comparatively seems almost “lofty” -- “too much,” some might say. You feel vulnerable and exposed in the open space of the extended ambient section of "Cairn to Suicide," not quite unlike the small figure trapped the gaze of the towering, ominous entity that adorns Cairn's cover (yet another striking piece by Mariusz Lewandowski of Mirror Reaper fame). The art is equally reflective of that change from Yodh with its vivid colors; the all-permeating existential dread is just a different flavor this time.

Cairn by מזמור

Reaching a tentative climax with "Cairn to Suicide" begs the question where album closer "The Narrowing Way" will go. To the wake apparently, because in textbook funeral doom manner A.L.N. busts out a king size forlorn saaaaaad riff-lead combo that wouldn’t be out of place on a Pallbearer or Loss record, except it is much more bitter. No, "The Narrowing Way" doesn’t go gentle into that good night, and the lack of a pastoral acoustic outro, which had been the conclusions of the previous songs, is the least of your worries.

"The Narrowing Way" really can only be described as fucking bitter. A.L.N.'s vocals suddenly seem uncomfortably close -- it’s do or die, as his snarl shifts into an air-starved howl. The song begins to slow down to a crawl and lose form, collapsing into a cacophony of shrieks, until nothing but a distant chant remains. A.L.N. might as well have called it quits at this point but in a move that seems downright cruel a single menacing guitar rises out of the remains of the song, beckoning the arrival of Cairn's most desolate and barren chapter; an ugly, dissonant and crushing “thing” that you could call a breakdown. The breakdown to end breakdowns, really. We’re talking Primitive Man levels of sheer being-done-with-it-ness. Then, a final wail and nothing but smashed drones remain.

All gone and done, Cairn leaves you in shambles. And therein lies A.L.N./Mizmors greatest strength: his capability to craft emotionally devastating music. Yet (and because of) for how ghastly it all sounds, Cairn, just as its predecessor Yodh, is ultimately a very human record about the human condition. An earnest expression of A.L.N.'s feelings, created out of sheer necessity to expel, deadpan in its conviction and masterful in its execution. Ugly when it must be (which is more than often), beautiful when it can be, and always tugging at your heartstrings.

Whether “emotionally devastating” is something you’re looking for in your music is entirely up to you, but if it connects with you it’ll hit you hard. Granted, that’s a big “if,” but I think it’s what sets a record that is memorable apart from one that is merely good, and Cairn is definitely the former. And this is the lasting impression that has stayed with me for each listen, and each draft of this review.

An Interview with A.L.N. of Mizmor

This interview, just as the review, was unplanned. I had contacted A.L.N. a few days prior to congratulate him on the imminent release of Cairn, but before long we were exchanging bands and discussing the emotional effects of music -- something I had tried to address in our first interview at Roadburn 2018, yet had struggled to put into proper terms back then. A.L.N. offered himself up for another interview to discuss these themes, further put into the context of his new record. An offer I couldn’t decline.

How are you? What is on your mind?

I’m doing fairly well. “Cairn” came out today so I feel celebratory. Things on my mind: the album, tour preparations, other business, my cat who demands attention, my partner with whom I’ll be going to dinner this evening, my friends who make me laugh.

Can you talk a bit about the themes of the record? What is the concept behind 'Cairn'?

In a nutshell, “Cairn” is about setting up guideposts for yourself, in an effort to help navigate the terrain of life by aiding your memory, so as to avoid retracing your steps. It ruminates on the absurdity of life and the human condition, that is mankind’s continual search for meaning in a chaotic universe devoid of ultimate purpose. A person can have one of three responses to this premise: choose to reject reality and believe in God instead (to give your life a sense of ultimate purpose), kill yourself (because a life without ultimate meaning is no longer worth living), or accept the situation for what it is (and live life presently, in truth, in the face of the absurd, defining meaning for yourself in an effort to enjoy and live purposefully). The third option is the only viable one, as the other two escape reality. The cairns (or stacks of rocks) serve as giant memorials to the deaths of both the idea of god and suicide. With these built, the individual is free to continue moving forward, with less confusion and temptation, on the path of a life lived in truth, lucidity, and ultimately enjoyment.

I think a lot of people had very high expectations after 'Yodh.' I found myself asking what could possibly follow after a record of such magnitude? Not really that I was having doubts that 'Cairn' would be a great record, but it felt like 'Yodh' was final, just “razed everything”, and I couldn’t really sketch out where you’d go with Cairn. Did you feel any pressure during the creation of the record?

Yes, but a lot of it was self-imposed. As an artist, I am always seeking to push myself into new territory and outdo what I have done previously. My own personal bar I set is to try and make a record I will be comfortable with listening to in 10 years. I’m not sure this is possible, which is why I implement it (or it is possible and I just have not yet made a good enough record). I put immense pressure on myself to create something that displayed higher fidelity, superior techniques, better songwriting, and strong performances (as compared with my previous works). Like many, I am my own toughest critic, so making a better (and different) record than Yodh seemed difficult to me, since I still felt fairly satisfied with that album (in the sense that I felt it was an accurate expression of my emotions and thesis). But there were a lot of things I wanted to improve upon, and therein lies the pressure. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t aware of the fact that certain folks held “Yodh” in high regard -- we got to play important festivals because of that album and even had one of those live sets released on vinyl by a label, so I knew people liked it.

This was the cherry on top of the pressure cake I had created for myself. But at the end of the day, it truly doesn’t matter what other people think. I of course want my supporters to like the next thing I make, but the reason I make the music is intensely personal, and in that sense, I make the records for myself and my own satisfaction with my work is what I’m seeking to achieve. I want to get to the other side of the album creating process and be able to feel that I have successfully accomplished my goal of taking my vision and making it come to life effectively. Did the emotion get conveyed? Is the theme understandable? Does the sonic quality aid in the absorption of the message? Does the artwork help in the digestion of the music? I just want to be able to say, ‘Yep, I did my best to get this thing from point A to point B with my core intention still in tact,’ and in that sense, be able to feel proud of it. And whether or not people like it is another story.

We talked about how music affects us emotionally. Like, how I feel a strong connection to your music despite not having gone through the same spiritual turmoil as you have. We’ve both come to the conclusion that there seems to be a mutual empathic bond between the listener and artist. How would you describe it (as you seem way better at describing it than I do)? How do you experience and perceive it, more specifically as an artist? And whose music makes you feel that way?

That’s a good question. To answer the first part, as an artist, I experience the mutual empathy between artist and listener directly in its most potent form when people reach out to talk to me about their experience with the music. With Mizmor, this is usually related to traumatic religious situations: people who have escaped, survived, or otherwise left their religions. I personally love having these conversations because they let me know I’m not alone. There is a certain element of relief and even freedom in learning this. I’m humbled whenever someone shares with me their story and tells me my music has helped them in some way. It inspires in me a newfound sense of purpose; that simply being open, honest, and vulnerable about my own life and experiences in the form of creating art can resound in others and inspire relationship. It’s incredibly powerful; we help one other, therapeutically in this way.

The second part of the question is a little more difficult to answer. There is a broader sense to an intangible quality of music (and other art) which inspires in me what I will call ‘the feeling.’ What I mean by ‘the feeling’ is somewhat ineffable but can be hinted at with words like yearning, longing, being moved, and being taken with emotion. For me, melancholic melodies usually do this, especially when the human voice is involved. If you want some examples of music I am moved by from various genres, I recommend checking out the artist-playlist I recently made for Evil Greed on Spotify titled “Up to Date: A.L.N. (Mizmor)”. There is a more specific sense in which this can occur in a more potent form and I believe that is empowered by clarity and authenticity.

When music has a definite purpose/meaning, especially when it is an outlet for healing, therapy, and catharsis, it really hits home. For example, I am extremely moved by the music of my close friend Matt (or MSW, whose music is called Hell). Hell effectively utilizes melodies and riffs for the purpose of emotional release through the telling of a story of grief from the loss of a family member. If you don’t know this, the music is still absolutely amazing on its own (and you may even be able to sense that something more is lying beneath the surface of the sonics); if you do know this, the music becomes so incredibly weighty, that it’s nearly impossible to hear without becoming completely immersed and overwhelmed by empathy, sadness, and longing. The marriage of talent and purpose is what makes art truly compelling.

You’re heading out for your first tour next month. I imagine performing this music live every night will be very draining (both physically with you also drumming for Hell, as well as emotionally). How do you plan to keep things level-headed?

I don’t, haha. I am nervous. I will performing with Mizmor night after night; I’ve only ever performed a Mizmor set as a stand-alone affair. In addition to trying out this consecutiveness, as you’ve said, I’ll be performing with Hell every night too. Back to back performances, back to back nights. I’m used to performing with Hell on tour and though it’s difficult, we manage. I think Matt and I are going to get very physically and emotionally drained, not just from the performances, but in all the other ways that you must sacrifice comfort, stability, and routine to live life on the road. I will probably get sick, as I do on almost every tour (just a cold though), but we will only be gone for 2.5 weeks, which is the perfect amount. I am going to try and focus on how special it is to be with five of my dearest friends, traveling around playing music we’ve written. I am incredibly grateful for these opportunities and am going to continually seek to focus my attention on all the love and fun around me.

New music for Mizmor is only written when you have the emotional need to do so, so this might be too early to ask, but where do you feel that Mizmor is headed to next, thematically? Just as with 'Yodh' I find myself wondering what could possibly come after Cairn?

To be completely honest, I have no idea what the future looks like for Mizmor. I’ve always taken the project one step at a time, only progressing to new territory when it is necessitated by the demand for expression in myself and the demand for greater accessibility by my fans. Releasing a new full-length and going on tour for the first time are big enough steps for me that I’m still really just focusing on that right now. New music has to find me, which takes an unknown amount of time. But I think it’s safe to expect some more live engagements, here and there, around this new chapter called “Cairn.”

Thank you for your time!

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[scruffandyarn]

That One Time Scruff Wrote an Avengers Fic (part 9)

That One Time Masterlist

Bucky x enhanced!female!reader

Warnings: profanity, physical pain, medical testing, guilt and fear

Thanks, as always, to these wonderful human beans:  @siriuspiggyback (you are the absolute best) @fangirl-library (you kick-ass, wonderful person) @written-loki-imagines (thank you for your fantastical support)  @bkwrm523(where would I be without you in my life) @thejamesoldier (you’re amazing and deserve every good thing) @samingtonwilson (you’re super duper awesome) @invisibleanonymousmonsters (thank you so much for all your inspiration) @feelmyroarrrr (this is all your fault, still love you)

@shirukitsune @electraphyng  @l0kisbitch @yafriendlyfangirl  @marydragneell

Previously: Loki was still sitting in front of you, his arms hovering close to your head.  Except, his skin–his skin was blue.

As soon as he saw your eyes open, he dropped his arms and his skin returned to a normal color.  “We are done.”  He moved to stand.

“Wait!” You grabbed his arm to keep him on the floor with you.  His skin was still cool to the touch, but you held on.  “What the hell was that?  What are you?”

“Explaining my past was never part of our agreement.”  He yanked his arm out of your grasp.  “You have refused to follow my directions.  I will not be helping you.”

“Hold up.  Following your directions was never part of our agreement either.” You glared at him, in spite of your protesting head.  “We made a deal.”

“Very well,” Loki sighed.

Now: Between the meditation Bruce insisted you start practicing and whatever magic Loki was doing to your brain, it took two days before Loki finally deemed your brain relaxed enough to start with the ‘happy place’ shit.  Hell, when you walked out of Loki’s room on that second day, you swore you could almost see the hint of a smile on his face.  Of course, that could have been because he had actually trapped you in upholding your end of the oath.  But, given that his emotions were leaning towards the positive, you chose to accept that you were making progress.

.

“Where are you right now?”  Loki’s voice seeped into your brain.

“The moon.” In your mind, that’s exactly where you were.  Currently, you were sitting on the edge of a crater, your feet dangling, as you looked over the barren landscape.  “No people, no animals--I’m all by myself.”

Forget the mountains.  This was where you needed to live.

But then, you’d be alone.  

With nothing but your thoughts.  

Forever.

The image around you began to flicker and fade out.  “Fuck.” Your eyes popped open and you gasped for breath.

Loki frowned.  “What was wrong with that one?”

You supposed you could understand his irritation.  First, you’d imagined your cabin in the woods, but then a bear came out of nowhere to eat you.  Then you’d tried the bottom of an ocean, only to be met by a giant jellyfish that had wrapped you up in its stinging tentacles.  And now, the moon was proving to have its own nightmares.

“Aliens?” You tried, weakly, not wanting to reveal what had actually scared you.  Although, there was no point in lying--he was the one person who would know when you were.

For whatever reason, though, he let you play it off.  “You Midgardians consider me to be an alien.”

“Yeah, and that’s pretty terrifying all on its own.”

“We are wasting our time if you cannot imagine your brain as a space.”  He sighed.  “Why don’t we end our session for today?  You can spend the afternoon trying to think of a place where nothing will eat you or sting you or whatever about your planet’s moon was scaring you.”

“Fine.”  Your head wasn’t feeling so groovy, anyway.  Maybe after a nap, you could dink around online to find something that could inspire you as a possible ‘happy place.’

Loki watched you, curious, as you grabbed your tablet from its spot next to you on the floor.  After a few quick taps, you knew exactly what you needed to know.

“Guess I’ll be eating a little later.”

“What does that thing tell you?”

“It lets me know if there’s anyone in a particular room I want to go in.  It’s set up with F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she can help me avoid people when my head starts to hurt.”

“At least one of you in this forsaken place has a sense of self-preservation.”

“Fuck!” Yet another place you tried to invision had been completely ruined by some unforeseen fear.  In your frustration, you took your pillow and chucked it across the room.  “What am I doing wrong?”

Nothing was working.  Not the heat of the desert.  Not a cool, dark cave.  Not a boat abandoned in the middle of the water.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“What can I help you with?”

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go to get away from people and scary things?”

“I believe the North Pole is the only place completely devoid of humans.”

“That sounds--”

“Of course, there are many carnivorous animals that live and hunt in the region.”

“Thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“And with Global Warming, the polar ice caps will soon be melted and succumb to the ocean.”

“Great.  Thanks.”  You flopped back on your mattress.  Just what you needed to have in your brain right now. Polar bears and freezing like Jack in Titanic.

Relief flooded your veins.  Something was going on because this feeling wasn’t coming from you.  It felt like the greatest weight you never carried was suddenly lifted from your shoulders.  God, you could almost believe you could fly.

“What is going on?” You opened your eyes to see Loki staring at you crossly.  You pressed your hands to your head, trying to stop the lightheaded dizziness.

“I believe the mission is complete.  Which would explain the relief you are feeling.”

The room was starting to spin. “Mission?”  

“You are aware you are at the Avengers’ compound, are you not?” He scoffed.  “The Avengers seem to have this proclivity towards saving this ridiculous planet, so that is where the Captain, the tin soldier, and the female spy have been for the last week.”

“So, when I got angry--”

““Was when the three of them were first given the assignment.”

“And the fear?”

“That was the day they were supposed to be finished with their mission.  It took longer than originally thought.”

“Oh.  Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“Can we focus now?  The sensations you’re feeling aren’t going to go away with all this frivolous talking.”

“Right.”

“You’re a tough woman to find.”

“Steve.” You forced a smile as you looked up from your tea.  “How can I help you?”

He was not sporting any of the bruising you’d spotted on Natasha when you’d passed her in the hall on your way to get something to drink.  Maybe she’d taken the brunt of the physical abuse?  That didn’t really seem like something he’d do, though.  Bucky had told you how Steve had always been a scrapper, even before he got all buff.

Maybe it was a supersoldier thing?  That’d be cool to be able to heal from everything quickly.  Would that mean you could get over all the headaches and nausea super quick?

“--to Bucky?”

Oh shit.  You should probably pay attention.  “What?”

“Stop.” He sat down across from you.  “Why haven’t you talked to Bucky?”

“Steve--”

“He was healed.  He’d been fine for months.  One conversation with you and he’s doubting everything.”

Anger was bubbling just below his calm demeanor.  

“I didn’t--I didn’t mean to do all that.  I promise, it was never my intention to reveal--”

“I get it, I do.  But he needs your help.  He’s been sitting on this for days, questioning if he’s really in control of his mind.  You said you’d meet with him about it.”

“I said I’d try.”

“And have you?  Can you honestly say you’ve tried to talk to him about what’s going on in his head?”

Fuck.  “I don’t know what’s going on in his head.  I can’t get a read on the Winter Soldier.  I just know he’s there.”

“Why can’t you just tell Bucky that, then?  Why hide from him?”

“He’s gonna want me to fix it and there is nothing I can do!”  Your head was pounding and you couldn’t separate Steve’s frustration from your own.  “Do you have any idea what it’s like?  To see people you love in pain and know there’s nothing you can do to help them?”

“That’s called being human, having empathy.”

“No, not like this.  I experience their pain--I live it.  Every bit of it.  I know what it’s like to lose a brother to cancer.  I know what it’s like to have the love of my life sign away twenty years of our life together.  I know what it’s like to bury my child.  I even know all about how it feels to see my best friend on death’s doorstep because he was always so sick growing up.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you pressed on.

“It’s not just empathy.  It’s that ripping out my hair, clawing at my skin, sobbing until I choke heartbreak that drowns me even though I’ve never had a brother die, been married or a mother.  I’ve been afraid that I’ll have to watch you die even though my only experience with that is thanks to Bucky’s trip down memory lane when I was sick and he had to carry me to the lab.”

You’d worked yourself up only to realize you had nowhere else to go with your speech.  No one ever seemed to really understand the burden you lived with.  Pain that wasn’t your own lived and grew inside you.  Trying to alleviate it was always considered selfish because it was never yours to begin with, just yours to suffer through in silence.

“Look, I can’t say I get what you deal with, because I don’t.  But I think Bucky would.  He’s spent the majority of his life the same as you--having absolutely no control.  He knows what it’s like to have his mind at the mercy of others.  And if you tell him that you can’t fix it, he’s gonna accept that because he knows he can’t fix it either.”

The information you’d read about one James Buchanan Barnes came back to your mind and shame started to trickle in.  The life he’d had--the one that HYDRA stole from him and replaced with the worst possible existence you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Yes, you had experienced feelings that were never meant to be yours.  You’d never wanted them, but you knew them.  But that was it, wasn’t it?  You knew those feelings.

Bucky had spend most of his life not knowing.  Of having everything ripped from him.  Of not feeling anything.

“Fuck.”  

You felt like such a whiny little shit.  Some superhero you were turning out to be--hiding from your problems, refusing to help someone who just wanted to know what was happening in his head.  

Steve should have just punched you in the throat when you started whining and complaining about what you went through.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, when I can, I will.”

[tanadrin]

On Mars

Things I love about Mars: the landscape.

Mars's landscape is both alien and familiar. There are other fascinating landscapes in the Solar System, of course: Venus, Pluto, Europa, Titan, etc., and each has their charms; but the thing about those landscapes is that the environment in which they're found makes them more alien. Venus has mountains and plains and, like Earth, few craters; but the crushing sulphuric pressure of the atmosphere and the fact that every few hundred million years it seems the entire planet may go molten and resurface itself makes Venus a setting for hard SF, or individualistic person-versus-environment stories: the narrative that suggests itself to me when I imagine standing (in some megaspacesuit) on the surface of Venus is not "this is a place humans could one day be," but "this is an unpeopled Hell."

(Also: apparently Venus may have had liquid water as recently as 700 MYA. Life on Earth seems to have arisen almost immediately, as soon as the conditions potentially favorable to it existed. From the formation of its oceans to 700 MYA, Venus would have been climactically stable, thanks to higher cloud cover than Earth. So it is entirely possible that for a couple of billion years, between the oceans of Venus forming and the runaway greenhouse effect destroying them several hundred MYA, Venus had life, up until the Neoproterozoic period on Earth. But if the theories regarding how energy is released into Venus's dessicated crust are correct, the fossil evidence of that life would have been annihilated in the same event that resurfaced the entire planet some time in its geolocially recent past. Perhaps fragments of it persist, floating deep in the mantle like the Farallon plate on Earth--but for now, an actual record of the biohistory of Venus is lost to us. What I'm saying is, Venus is a postapocalypse: not a hopeful Perelandra, not even in the far future, but a grievous memorial for what might have been our lush and gardenlike neighbor.)

Titan, Europa, and Pluto--although they have very different landscapes--have a common feature, which is that waste heat from technology (heck, from human bodies) would melt or boil their surfaces. Pluto is especially bad in this regard, given that its plains are 98% nitrogen ice. Humans on Pluto would be creatures of unquenchable fire, destroying everything they touched. Europa is much more familiar, especially if it has warm seas beneath the ice; but its landscape is a vast broken plain of ice, possibly with a band of peninent spires rising into the sky at the equator. It's metal as fuck. But the airless, radiation-bathed surface is, again, seems to be suited mostly to being a vehicle of existential exploration, and the subsurface ocean may just be a hopeful dream, like the jungles of Venus. Titan, that weird little orange goofball, also has a water ice surface, plus a hydrocarbon "hydrosphere" which is fascinating! It's the first time the IAU has had to come up with a naming convention for actual bodies of liquid on a planet's surface. It has lakes! Inlets! Seas! But it's tiny, has very little gravity, and if you tried to terraform it even a little bit the entire thing would melt or evaporate. There are stories I would happily tell on Titan. I can even imagine they would have some features of the stories I would tell of an Earthlike world: here is a political boundary following a river, here are pirates on the Ligeia Mare (pirates on a methane sea, frost condenses on the inside of the hull even through half a meter of insulation, we haven't seen sunlight in weeks, we haven’t seen the sun since we were born). But the strictures of the environment also demand a more hard-SF sensibility, and a hard-SF sensibility applied to the "soft" aspects of science fiction: how do the constraints of the environment shape how societies function? How is politics, war, and economics different in a place where atomic individualism isn't just maladaptive, but maybe impossible? I've thought about these questions in other contexts (deep space, settlements on airless rocks), and although Titan expands the possibilities somewhat, it doesn't expand them much. But it's definitely my third favorite body in the Solar System (after Mars and, of course, Earth).

[Ligeia Mare, the second-largest lake on Titan, 78° N, 249° W .]

The rest of the solar system is either gas giants (which fill me with too much dread to really apprehend them on an immediate or aesthetic level; what hubris is it to try to imagine a little human soul against the endless storms of Jupiter?), or small, airless bodies specked with craters. Some of these verge on the utterly uninteresting. Io is at least respectably garish. But the narrative context they suggest to me is the same as Titan, shorn of the unique geographical points of interest that moon offers, and while that doesn't mean they're not interesting, they don't excite me nearly as much. I am glad they exist. Some are really beautiful (speckled Ganymede! gleaming Eceladus, Europa's twin! what the fuck is wrong with you Iapetus!).

(What did we do as a species to deserve a Solar System full of so many different, beautiful worlds? How much wonder is there in the rest of the Universe if this little corner is already so full of it?)

But Mars. Ah, Mars. You know, my head says that interplanetary colonization would be a waste of resources and, lacking a useful economic purpose, ultimately a giant boondoggle. There are inhospitable environments on Earth that are, against Mars, an Eden, and we have yet to people them; if science is our aim, even the practical benefits of a manned mission to Mars stop at orbiting the planet and controlling robots remotely below. And I know all this. But there's a quiet voice in the back of my head--quiet only because like the rumble of distant thunder it is spoken at much deeper frequencies, frequencies of the ground beneath my feet and of my soul itself--that says if I don't die having crunched the grit of Mars beneath my feet or run its dust between my fingers, my life will have been empty and devoid of purpose. Not to get too metaphysical on you, but I'm pretty sure there's a part of my soul that is convinced it was meant to be born on Mars, meant to wander the Kasei Valles and the Tharsis plateau, that longs to stand on the Olympus Rupes and watch the dust storms on the Amazonia Planitia below; to sojourn in the Labyrinth of the Night, filled with fog from sublimating frost.

Mars is alien. Mars is not like Earth. Yet its appearance suggests a world we almost know: here are canyons, here are sinuous valleys, here are dusty plains. On closer inspection, these things reveal their true, unearthly nature: this is a canyon as long as Europe, yawning deeper than the mountains rise. This is a volcano, yes--it is the size of France. If you stood on its summit, very nearly above the top of Mars' atmosphere (which is taller than Earth's!), its slopes would disappear around the curve of the world before you saw their end. These valleys are not river valleys: they are ancient outburst channels, the catastrophe that scoured out the Channeled Scablands--over, and over, and over again. The atmosphere is gasping-thin, and often choked with dust. The surface is freezing. Nothing lives, not so far as we can tell. But you can imagine yourself there. I wonder why?

[The informally-named “Columbia Hills,” Gusev Crater, Mars, 14.5°S 175.4°E. Mosaic image taken by the Spirit rover. The distance is about 300 meters to the base of the hills.]

Part of it, of course, is the wonderfully detailed photography from Mars missions, and the fact the planet is extensively mapped--one of the best-mapped bodied in the Solar System. As part of the Inner Solar System, we can orbit it comparatively easily, and we don't have to rely on photos snapped during quick flybys. (The USGS has complete, detailed maps of Mars available for free! The USGS is a freakin’ international treasure.) I think Mars more easily than most worlds in the Solar System is a canvas onto which we can imagine projecting the psychodramas of our own history. If the "minor" objections of its ultrafreezing surface and its unbreathable, thin atmosphere can be overcome, we can almost imagine it like any other harsh desert into which human habitation has intruded (and humans, like a gas, do tend to occupy all available space). And those objections can be overcome, if we are patient and work very hard, and they can be overcome without annihilating the surface of the world. It would be possible to blanket Mars in a thick, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere and bring its temperature up to, say, Antarctic levels (i.e., you could survive indefinitely in very warm clothing with a breathing apparatus) with several centuries or possibly a millennium of the diligent application of existing technology. We have no reason to do it right now, and it would be madness to try, but it's doable--so one day, we might.

And if we did? Well, I'd like to think that the species that did that would be, after Carl Sagan, a species very like us but slightly better in important ways, and that by then Earth would be a much nicer place to live; and Mars, therefore, by extension, would be a more rugged and difficult environment but still full of basically decent people who have solved problems like poverty and oppression and large-scale warfare. With a light brushing of a sort of Mad Max visual aesthetic, what with all the breathing masks and the exposed ductwork. Hopefully they would continue the IAU trend of giving everything really atmospheric names, so we wouldn't have the place carpeted in stupid shit like "New Canada" and "President Reagan Land", like Antarctica has been. (Seriously, the IAU needs to take over naming stuff in Antarctica, it's dire down there.)

There is another possibility of course, and in my mind that possibility is inextricably linked with the fact that Mars is small. Mars, like Earth and Venus, probably formed with a dense atmosphere. Its coldness, believe it or not, is not a feature of its distance from the Sun. That's a common misconception. The approximate habitable zone of a G-type star like the Sun extends from within the orbit of Venus to just to, or slightly beyond, a planet at Mars's distance (1.5 AU or so). Venus, for its part, was doomed by being just too warm, and, as the Sun aged and its energy output increased, the homeostasis of its environment being tipped a little bit too far, until the whole thing collapsed, the seas evaporated, and the water vapor was shorn apart by ultraviolet energy, its hydrogen scattered into space by solar wind. But Venus is big. Venus could hold on to its atmosphere regardless. Mars could not. Though further from the Sun, and initially with its own hydrosphere (which now sleeps frozen beneath its crust and at the poles--which have enough water in them to deluge the surface meters deep), the solar wind gradually stripped away Mars's atmosphere, until it was unable to trap heat, and liquid water ceased to be able to exist on its surface for more than the briefest periods of time. Earth, too, would be frozen desert if it had an atmosphere like Mars.

[A Noachian-era alluvial fan in Eberswalde Crater, 24°S, 33°W . Many Noachian-era craters show evidence of having once been filled with water. The aptly-named Noachian period was the last time surface water might have been abundant on Mars, and ended roughly 3.7 billion years ago.]

Any atmosphere we give Mars is doomed in the long run--on the order of thousands of years, not millions. Any civilization we engender on Mars is not a civilization for eternity: it is doomed from its beginning. If we are less wise than we hope, less able to cooperate than we wish, less able to accomplish the miracles of terraforming that we require, the saga of human habitation on Mars will not be the saga of overcoming the frontier, of planting a new, bright tree of our people on a neighboring world; it will be a saga of a promising beginning and then a long--terribly long--slow decline. The Martian desert will slowly cover cities and whatever little groves of life we plant; our first, tentative seas will dry up; increasing scarcity will become the norm, not for a few generations, but for whole civilizations, until the entire memory of the world is nothing but a medieval feeling of decline, of loss, of some ancient glory which we cannot quite remembering being forever beyond our reach. The midcentury scientific romances of a dying Mars were true, but they were not accurate assessments of the present or the past. They were prophecy--a prophecy which is not guaranteed, but which should serve as a warning nonetheless.

Again, my interest in these concepts is mostly from the standpoint of fiction and imagination. Colonization of Mars is a long, long way off, and sitting here in the mythic past of any future Martian civilization, with a warm green spring outside my window and the luxury of breathing free oxygen kindly manufactured for me for free by the native biosphere, I would be surprised if any future settlement of Mars unfolded more than a little bit in the way I expect. Nonetheless, these are the thoughts that occur to me as I pore over maps of Mars. Here, the Chryse Planitia. Here, the graceful curve of the Claritas Fossa. Here, Elysium, its scattered features named for the abodes of the dead. Here, the illimitable Vastitas Borealis. Here, the Chasma Australe, which cuts deep into the southern Martian pole; where Edgar Rice Burroughs might have imagined the ten-thousand mile River Iss. I know that I will probably never see this world with my own two eyes. But God Almighty! I would give anything!

[herelaymythoughts]

Las Vegas is everything I despise about this world. Ostentatious displays of wealth, replicas of objects of actual substance, manufactured culture on the bastardization of actual culture. Instead of building on the land, with the land, the magnificent desert it’s in, it decided to replicate Venetian canals and Parisian architecture... To what end? How devoid of soul must a place be to completely reject all that is, to invite all that isn’t, foreign objects, all to please people, to make a profit? The metaphor extends too literally to the people there, filled with botox and silicone. The natural beauty of the desert is jaw dropping, but most who visit Vegas revel on the strip, amidst cigarette smoke and in front of digital screens, playing a rigged game to earn fake survival tokens. My father always told me that you only cannot accept in others what you cannot accept in yourself. I always held that I despise ingenuity because I value authenticity, but because of what he says I always check myself. Perhaps I hate Las Vegas because I too desperately try to be something that I am not. Perhaps if I accepted myself for all that I am, that I too would be able to accept Las Vegas for what it is, even if what it is a denial of itself. Perhaps Las Vegas had to do what it had to do to survive in the desert. Out in the middle of a barren desert, it created an international tourist destination that brings in revenue for its land and its people. So what if it’s all superficial? Perhaps my distaste for Las Vegas and “fake” people in general simply stems for a deeper distaste for myself, for the way I try to appear to come from money, be of upper class. 

I’lll admit that I’m fake as fuck. Practicing ways to introduce myself to appear a certain way, putting on various amounts of makeup to appear certain ways to certain people, adjusting my behaviour to appear a certain way. But perhaps that I understand that I ought be fit for all occasions is my nobility. That I understand what different social situations call for and can differentiate between them and adjust my behaviour and appearance accordingly is not fake, it’s versatility. I’m not putting on a show or being deceptive when I first meet people, it is merely a showcase of the shinier parts of myself. That is still myself, full and raw, like seeing the side of a sphere where light hits. It’s not an act, it’s not superficial, it’s merely unnecessary to show everyone every side of one self upon first meeting them. 

I am authentic, for I deliberately try to show the less than shiny parts of myself, and that requires a lot of bravery and acceptance of oneself. All of life is but a contradiction. The same way there exists no right or wrong, there also exists no real or fake. 

“Everyone has a role to play in the theatre that is life.”

–

If I stopped asking myself, what would Blair Waldorf do? What would insert rich girl on instagram do, and simply asked myself, what would the best version of myself do? What would 8-year-old-me do? What would 80-year-old-me do? 80% of the time, the answer to all those questions would be: having a good time doing something else. 

I recently came back from a trip in Vegas to attend Electric Daisy Carnival, a three day electronic music festival, one of the biggest in the world. The trip was funded by a a brigade of Chinese gangsters. They put me and Lize up in the Bellagio, took us to the festival in a party bus that costed more money than my rent anywhere I’d lived, each way, for two days, bought tables at pool tables. 

The first party we went to was at Encore Beach club. Ironic, I thought, because Las Vegas is in a desert. The people there were so perfectly... middle class. They enjoyed generic club music that pumped out of loudspeakers, the illusion of wealth and power golden bottles of champagne and centre-stage tables exemplified. We started out at a table in the corner, but then moved to a table in the centre of the club. The head girl of the group later told us that she upgraded us because she was, “feeling a little poor”, at the corner table. I guess she needed to be in the middle to feel... herself. 

My conservative estimate is that 85% of the people at that club were NPCs. Walking to and from the bathroom, I was being eyed down by various men, who stared at me the way I too stare at men I want to fuck. Human being really evolved way too fast. How is it that we’ve deluded ourselves into thinking that we are intelligent when all we do is run around in circles to trying to maximize our mating potential? 

Cambridge was such a stark contrast to Las Vegas. People wore plaid wool coats and baggy denim and collegiate hoodies, clothing of actual substance, rather than cheaply made sparkly rayon that wouldn’t last ten minutes in a delicates cycle. 

What is this obsession of mine with ivy league colleges and final clubs and secret societies and country clubs and class? Truly, what is with my obsession with this? That isn’t me, why do I want to be it so badly? Insecurity, without a doubt, but why this brand? Why is it expressed through this? 

All this negative energy inside me, why? I ought occupy my time otherwise. Yesterday was my birthday and I am such a silly girl. 

I love Joshua Benjamin not because he is in a final club. I love him because he is the most considerate, intelligent, conscious individual I know. He is not great because he is in a final club, his greatness is independent of anything that he could ever be associated with– college, company, job title, degree. I would follow him to the end of the world without a single penny in our pockets. I really would. At the end of the day, finding a partner really boils down to whether or not they are nice to you. And Josh is so nice to me. 

My dad called me a few days before my birthday and asked how I would be celebrating and I said I that I hadn’t planned anything. He told me that I’m finally starting to, 活明白了, which roughly translates to understanding life. Josh called me on my birthday and asked me how I’m celebrating and I told him that I didn’t plan anything and he said that that’s the best way to do it. I told him what my father had said to me and he said that one more similarity and he would just become my father and we could only be emotionally intimate.

Late fall 2021

[lumoui]

return - spideychelle

Returning home after a long time, Michelle tries to face her fear and come to terms with a lost.

A/N: I’m sorry in advance. I tried making this perfect but nothing in the world is perfect. Please enjoy.

word count: 2,765

Their home is deserted when she enters.

   The home that started their lives together. The home that started their family. A home where they made love. A home where they promised forever. Their home.

   She travels slowly through the hall, hands trailing across the photographs on the wall. The first photo displays a small child dressed in pirate attire with a smile that could brighten someone's day. Frizzy long brown locks fell into her chocolate brown eyes.

   The third photo aligned on the wall showed a man, a man with a smile so real, a stranger wouldn't believe he carried the world on his shoulders. He seemed to be staring off into the distance, watching something, admiring it or them. The man appeared put together, happy even.

   A woman staring down at her round belly, a book in hand. She was oblivious to the fact that a photo had been taken of her. There was something about how deeply invested she’d been. As if the only thing in that moment had been her and the miracle living within.

   Them, a family. The small child cradled in the man’s arms, her head leaning against the woman's chest, laughing. The woman smiled down at the child, eyes full of love. The man, oh the man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, stared at the woman with so much love and admiration, even those who didn't believe in love couldn't deny his.

   Continuing on, she entered the overly spacious living room and stopped. Everything was the same since then, since the accident. The couch lacked its usual attire, throw pillows with a blanket thrown over the back. A pair of combat boots were laid messily along the floor, next to a pair of high top glittery sneakers. Her eyes lingered on the shoes for a short while before she tore her gaze away.

   In the center of the room, scattered across the wooden floors were various toys. To be specific, Avengers. They were all positioned together as if they were all prepared to fight together with spider-man leading the charge. They displayed a teamwork that no longer exists within this universe.

   Her feet moved of their own accord towards the kitchen, halting once they reached the counter. Her eyes locked on the two empty plates. There were small stains, most likely difficult to remove considering the amount of time they've been there. It was the same, nothing out of place. On the fridge door, a few items were holding on for dear life. A homework sheet with a “Good Work” stamp on it. Underneath that was a reminder board.

   Her eyes scanned the board countless times, engraving the words into her brain. 1. M’s first day of school. 2. Ice cream date. 3. Surprise daddy at work. 4. Remind mommy and daddy how much you love them. The fourth one had been written in sloppy handwriting, hinting that a child had written it with help.

   Her attention then drifted towards the last thing, a photo. She couldn't detain the smile that forced itself onto her lips at the sight. The small child was crouched down on a large rock, arm outstretched towards the photographer, pretending to be shooting webs from her wrist.

   There wasn't any possible way to avoid how alike the child and the man were. She had been a smaller version of him. She contained small traits from her mother, such as her golden skin tone and her nose. Also, there was a hint of a purple strand in her hair.

   Turning away, she couldn't look much longer. The longer she looked, the quicker her heart would break into pieces. She couldn't have that, not again. Not now.

   Straightening herself up, she exited the kitchen and located the stairs. Before continuing up, she took a deep breath. “You can do this.” She whispers to herself.

   Before she knew what was happening, she'd been trudging up the stairs. As soon as she reached the top, she stopped at the first door, their door. She couldn't understand why this was so hard, she promised herself she could handle this.

   Her hand wrapped around the knob, twisting it and pushing the door open. The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was as if no one had slept here. The whole room, everything was untouched. The bedside table consisted of a vintage lamp, and tangled jewelry.

   The closet door was open, showing all the clothes on the hangers, and neatly placed shoes ordered by color. There’s a poster hanging on the wall behind the bed, saying some stupid math joke that she knows he loves. The computer desk in the corner is a mess with papers tossed all over the place. Beside the computer is a frame with the woman. Both of her middle fingers are raised in the air but there is a smile on her lips.

   In the photo, she sported a Midtown High blazer. Her hair was thrown up into a messy ponytail with small strands falling into her face. She was different then. She was different now.

   There was one more thing left to do now. As she walked out the room, her hands brushing her hair up into a messy ponytail. She couldn't care less about how it looked, she just needed it out her way.

   Once reaching the hallway, her feet directed her towards the room at the end of the hall. As she stopped before the door, she read the letters printed across. May. Her fingers traced the letters slowly, closing her eyes. This was it, this was her biggest fear. This is what has haunted her for months, years and finally, she stood before the door that would change everything. She just couldn't decide if it was for better or worse.

   As she reached for the knob, she stopped, hand hovering mid-air. This wasn't right, she wasn't. She shouldn't have come. She should have just stayed far away from here. But she's here now and there was no turning back. Her doubts relinquished within seconds and she entered before she could get the chance to over think again.

   The walls were plain blue and the floor covered in white carpet, which was surprisingly spotless. In the center of the room was a bed wrapped in simple white sheets, a comforter folded neatly on top. May never had interest in multicolored or character sheet sets. She was a rather simple child, people claimed she had taken that trait from her mother.

   There were cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. She walked slowly towards them, heart hammering against her chest. Various items were placed in the box neatly. Reaching into the box, her hands grasped the first thing in reach. Pulling her hands out, she observed the item.

   A small rustic looking box, Maylen Parker written on top in permanent marker. Tucking the box under her arm, she moved over to the bed, gently sitting down at the end. Placing the box down beside her, she observed it once more, staring confusedly at the unfamiliar item.

   Tucking a loose strand of her brown hair behind her ear, she chewed on her bottom lip nervously as she contemplated if she should open the box or not. She’s never come across this before and she couldn't help but think how important and private this was. It had been kept out of reach for a reason, who was she to invade someone's privacy, even if it was a child's?

   Apart of her refuses to open the box but her gut is convincing her otherwise and she'd always been one to go along with her gut. She runs a hand down her face and opens the box. Her eyes, now filled with tears, stare at the items it contained. A necklace with the letter M, gifted to her by her grandmother on her mother’s side. Two photographs of the child and a boy around her age, the other with her family. There was one last item resting inside, a letter. The brunette picked it up and her glossy eyes read the messy words scribbled on the paper.

Mommy, if you ever read this, which I know you will because you are nosy, I love you and you are the best mommy in the world. For my five years in the world, you have taught me so much. I want to be just like you when I grow up. Love you, mommy. Oh and if daddy say’s he helped me write this, remember,  he’s a loser and losers lie.

   Clenching the letter to her chest, tears streamed from her eyes like a waterfall. It feels like her heart has just been torn from her chest and crushed into tiny pieces. She thought she’d be able to handle returning here but she couldn’t. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to come to terms with this. She stored the item back in its place, closing the box and returning it where it had originally been. Running her hand over her face to clear the tears, she turned towards the door but immediately halted in her tracks.

“Michelle?”

   Peter’s eyes flash with surprise, but in seconds his expression is pained as if someone had stabbed him in the heart continuously. There are no words spoken between them for a few moments, moments that seem like a lifetime. Michelle’s hands are now at her sides, completely still. While they’re frozen in the spots, Michelle’s eyes weren't. She took in every inch of him, embedding all detail of him in.

   Loose curls hung past his forehead, reminding her of the times she used to tease him about it but secretly she loved it. Soft brown eyes that used to be full of life were devoid of anything but guilt as they stared her down. His appearance wasn't him. The suit that hugged him in all the right places, that wasn't him. He resembled someone else, someone he admired.

   Peter moved forward, parting his lips to speak but the words never came. One second she stood there motionless and the next second she closed a good amount of space between them, shouting at him. “Don’t,” she seethed, hands clenching at her sides. “Don’t you fucking dare!” Peter stopped, fighting the temptation to hold her in his arms.

   The tears were uncontrollable, flowing down her puffed up cheeks like water spilling out of a tilted over water bottle. Michelle hated that she such was an emotional wreck, especially in front of him. He was the one person she promised herself she’d never cry in front of ever again. He didn't deserve to see her tears.

   “How could you?” she cried out, “How could you erase her like this?” Michelle was never one for violence but she couldn't control herself. Using as much force as she could, she shoved him back. It wasn't much a surprise that he barely moved an inch but she didn't care. She needed him to know how hurt she was. She needed him to know he crossed the line.

   Peter grabbed her wrist with enough force that he wasn't hurting her but she couldn't remove herself from the grip. “Michelle, please listen to me.” He whispered, the pain in his voice evident. She shook her head, trying to release herself from his grip. “There isn't anything you have to say to me. Let me go.”

   “Mj, please?” He begged. Peter hated that they were in this situation. He hated that they were torn apart when they needed each other the most. All he wanted was for them to have that back. Though at this rate, he wasn't sure that would happen.

   Michelle shook her head, tugging harder as she felt his grip loosening. “I couldn't take it anymore..” He cried out in a low whisper. Michelle stopped trying to remove herself from his brace, looking him in the eyes, which had tears streaming from them. “Michelle, I've come into this room every day since that day and each day becomes harder and harder. I couldn't see my little girl’s things without breaking down. My intentions weren't to erase her, I could never do that. I just couldn't think of all the memories we’ve had here without thinking about that one memory. It's just too hard.”

   Peter locked eyes with her, his saddening at how hurt she looked. “Michelle, please say something.” His hands careful slipped from her wrist to her hands, entangling them with his. Her brown eyes darted to the ground for a second before she looked back into his. “But I just got her back... I just got all our memories back and now everything that made her, her is gone, packed into boxes to be placed away. I’m losing her again.” She choked out.

   She was shaking, every inch of her. Peter pulled her into his embrace and as much as she reminded herself she didn't want this, she did. She missed him cradling her in his arms, reminding her when things were bad that they'd get through it together. But the thing is, she couldn't get over this and she wasn't sure she ever would.

   His hand reached up, stroking her hair, something he knew she loved. He did this whenever she needed to relax and sometimes even helped her fall asleep. “We’ll get through this together.”

   As the words left his mouth, she quickly detangled herself from him. While doing so, she caught the pained look on his face. As much as she wanted to be with him, she couldn't. “Peter….We can't be together.” The words barely reached his ears but they did and he wished they never left her mouth.

   “Wh-what? Please don't do this..” He pleaded, reaching for her hands once more but she stepped back. There were tears streaming down both of their faces, eyes blood red from all the crying. Her hands wiped her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m not ready for this yet, for us.”

   “Please don't say that, please.” He cried, moving towards her. This time she let him hold her. He held her like she was the most fragile thing in the world like he never wanted to let her go. “I’m sorry, it just hurts too much.” She whispered into his ear. He clung to her tighter, she relaxed into him.

   Her hands tangled in his hair, hugging him closer as her tears stained his buttoned-down, navy blue shirt. “I need you,” Peter mumbled into her shoulder. And Michelle needed him more than she would ever admit.

   Pulling back from his embrace, her hands trailed to either side of his face, bringing her forehead down against his. Her eyes fluttered shut as their lips brushed against one another's. “You remind me of her in so many ways. She was a little you in every way.”

   “With her mother’s personality.” He whispered, eyes now shut also. Michelle hummed in agreement. Everything felt so right here, being with him, holding him but that feeling didn't seem to override the dying feeling she felt when their daughter came to mind. She couldn't spend the rest of her life doing this, making him miserable because she couldn't let it her go. She refused.

   “Peter, I love you.”

   “I love you too.”

   Pressing her lips against his, they moved in sync with each other. It was like two missing puzzle pieces found their way back together, sadly these two had to separate again. After a moment more, she reluctantly pulled away, trying to catch her breath.

   “Michelle,” she glanced at him, “how long?” Peter knew he wouldn't like the answer but he had to ask. He had to know how long he’d have to go without her in his life again. “Peter,” she breathed hard, running her thumbs against his cheeks gently. “I don't know if I ever will be. It could be months, years….”

   He nodded, his heart being torn to shreds. “I’m gonna miss you.” He mumbled against her lips. “Parker, I'll always be thinking of you.” Pressing her lips against his more, she quickly pulled away and headed towards the door but stopped, glancing over her shoulder. He turned around, watching her.

   “This isn't goodbye, this is simply see you later.” Without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway. Pain and regret followed close behind, along with Peter's heart. It didn't matter how far, how long or what universe they were in, they’d always love each other but in the end, was that ever enough?

   “See you later.”

[polinathinkstoomuch-blog]

Day 2/3 - Hallucinations & Realizations

I’m rehashing both days today because I had Tumblr issues (and some dedication to this issues), so I apologize in advance for the length, but you know what, I think the cumulative recap will actually help tie some things together so I'm not really that sorry about it you're welcome.

If you read Day 1, good news, I did resolve to hiking yesterday. Bad news, mistake. Still harboring some insecurities about going out there alone, I walked toward the hiking trail sign and then proceeded to out loud talk myself through it - like cute, bunnies! And where am I going, and I guess this is a trail if I follow the signs and then, completely causally, that’s a coyote. At which point I immediately booked it right back the way I came, looking behind me the entire time to make sure that a DESERT WOLF (spelling is very key here for maximum dramatic effect - a dessert wolf wouldn’t garner nearly as much concern) wasn’t following me. This makes the people I saw night hiking yesterday even crazier. A blind wild mountain pig is one thing - you can probably drop kick it out of your path - but I don’t know what kind of white privilege lets you fuck with coyotes in the dark. I don’t have it. The best part is that everyone else was so nonchalant about it - my mom advised me to just walk behind the other woman hiking; the barista the next day - upon hearing that I saw a coyote - laughed. Like that was the local coyote. Oh Tom, you trouble-maker, when will you learn - that sort of thing. Arizona makes you numb to face-eating wolves apparently.

Instead, I decided to hike the property which is miles upon miles of desert, cactus, prickly tress and walls of khaki and beige. I expected to have a lot of thoughts and emotions hiking, of having the earth unveil itself under your feet - and maybe if I was going up the mountain instead of horizontally - I would have, but I had no thoughts - until about 45 minutes in - at which point I started thinking how do people do 8 miles of this?!?! At two miles in I started hallucinating. Not in the way of seeing bunny rabbits everywhere - although there were rabbits everywhere this is apparently a luxury rabbit farm - but in the way of being completely devoid of anything. It may be the 98 degree heat that literally fogs everything around you to make it seem like time isn’t moving, but also, I think for me particularly, the fact that I’m in a desert. There is something about that land that makes me feel lost; like my car broke down in the middle of nowhere and I’m hiking to what I hope is the nearest gas station and not a the hills have eyes community. It was not for me. So I chose not to hike again during this trip, but instead have committed myself to doing something I surprisingly found way more enjoyable - tanning to music and swimming. 

Swimming the first day was interesting because it still brought up some solo guilt. The first time I went into the water it was just me on the right side of the pool, and I enjoyed it some much - more so than I expected since I truly detest the smell and feel of chlorinated water - what I don’t detest is the all over body chill when you glide through the water. When I wanted to go back in after baking in the sun, I noticed a couple in the water and had a moment where I didn’t want to disturb their space - be this object swimming in the parallel lane. That lasted about 3 minutes, but it’s an insecurity that I have in the back of my head - the need to have to explain or apologize for my presence as a “permanently single.” The idea that my body takes up space in an unnatural way. But I slid into that water regardless because I remembered how much I loved it and nothing stops me from reliving the small loves in my life.

On my Day 3 swims (first at the pool then at the spa pool this SPA man, I could move in and live there, more below), I harkened back to a thought I had on Day 2 - which I may have written about and then had promptly deleted in front of my eyes by this website or my laptop or both - that age - for me - is really about sitting into my personality but that doesn’t mean hard headedness to change - but instead a more narrowed focus on what I want my life to look like and who I want to live it as without compromise for expectations. It came from how much easier swimming was today than yesterday’s heavy breathing nonsense, and the difference being focus - of following my hands, watching my palms switch positons, eliminating everything that wasn’t directly in front of me.

Speaking of the spa, man, listen. It was amazing. It was expensive, but it was truly gold. Now I have never had a message before so a full body scrub and hot oil was already going to be a boundary crossing moment for me, but the moment that salt hit my skin and the pressure pushed into my back it was like having everything pushed out of me, without me knowing how much I needed that - even if symbolically. I tend to absorb everything that happens to me - I’m super sensitive sue me; everything good and bad, and just let it sit in my body like a mass and then continue moving with all of it inside me and then just bring it up like leftovers when I can’t find the silence. I call it experience or a reference bank or coping whatever it needs to be for the purpose of explaining it to people, but it’s there, for a lifetime of forgiving but not forgetting and it gets heavy. So to be in a room where everything is designed (both audibly and visually) to remove you from your physical presence there - was such a relief. I felt so clean and warm and comfortable that I felt like I was falling down slowly into a bottomless end - on both the facial and body scrub days. I spent hours HOURS in that spa, reading under the low lights, smelling the incense, listening to the Japanese flutes, drinking crystal water, taking over a cabana, gliding around in mineral enhanced water or whatever they drop into that pool (hopefully not acid), but it’s glorious. And the sheer feeling of being there entirely alone (no exaggeration - I was by myself at the spa pool and the main pool for hours at a time) and feeling settled in my skin to dance, sing along, read a book, swim, all at my own pace and schedule was really freeing and easy.

And that’s how I would describe this entire vacation - easy. It is the easiest vacation I have ever been on. There has been no pressure to do or not do anything. No topics of conversation planned, no responses required, no responsibility for another person’s good time, feelings, thoughts. I was at my own disposal; everything was on my time, when and for how long I wanted to do it and no one made me feel uncomfortable about it and I didn’t feel guilty or obligated back. There were spurts - because phones exist - but for the most part I felt like I didn't have to be accountable to anyone else and that in and of itself was such a break from my everyday life where I don’t want the people I care about to forget. The spa also brought me full confirmation - in the form of an aesthetician - that the natural color of my skin is pale (color you shocked) - so fair, that it reacts to every touch by turning pink. She asked if I blushed when I’m embarrassed. I said I had no idea, I have no shame.

My dad sent me flowers today for my birthday - thanks Dad! Everybody asked who they were from and I’m all my Dad, you know my taste in men, which one of them would have the consideration, the character, the moral and ethical  dedication to reciprocity of treatment, would ever send me flowers - especially to a different state, girl please, it’s my Dad. And that’s fine. At least my Dad means it. I remember when a co-worker of mine and I were sitting in my kitchen trying to warm up after we got flooded out of Lolla and he noticed a card I have on my fridge that says happy birthday. He asked me if it was, and I responded that it was from last year’s flowers - I kept it on the refrigerator to remind myself that my parents love me. He laughed because of course your parents love you. But Billy, it’s the only love I value because it’s the only one I can rely on. My parents - suffocatingly so - love me. Care about my well being and my safety and I’m getting a little emotional even typing this - I can’t say the same about anybody else and this is not meant to be insulting or discount the friendships I have in any way, all of which I truly appreciate and put my energy into reciprocating and rewarding as much as and every chance I get, but people have their own lives - they change, they move, they develop different inner circles, their priorities changes, their partner’s priorities change and they leave first in body then in spirit or vice versa. It’s an unreliable moment - that trap door floor is what keeps me independent - its what keep me focused on relying on myself more than anyone else. Other than my parents. I unabashedly need my parents. I need their presence, and their dumb jokes and their uncomfortable friendship with my dog - and I loved seeing those flowers. I love seeing that card every day, and I worry only about being a person that loses their respect and their presence - but truly not much else. So yes, I like the reminder Billy. It pushes me when people live their own lives around me and despite me. I’m going to try to think of a way to get these flowers on board. I’m thinking Ziploc with water - vase in bag - I don’t know. Stay on your toes TSA.

Ugh, and now I have to go back to work in my aggressively air conditioned cubicle including to people that I have let disrespect me in the past from a place where I respect myself. Annoying. Oh well, at least I’ve removed them from my life - even if not from my eyesight - and that’s a big enough step for now. Thanks AZ.

[idiottantrum-blog]

The 14 Dollar Carrot

Ever wondered what a 14 dollar carrot would look like?

Wonder no more. here it is:

As it turns out, a 14 dollar carrot looks suspiciously like a regular carrot that somebody cut in half, heated up and put on a plate with a few artfully plated mooshes of unidentifiable shit.

The 14 dollar carrot is what you get when you go to a very fancy Vegan restaurant in Philadelphia.

Perhaps some backstory. 

My wife has been a vegetarian for almost a decade and while I support her lifestyle choice, I personally continue to eat meat. Partly because I like meat and partly because most vegetarian/vegan foods taste like what I assume getting a degree in Latin yodeling then being sad for the rest of your life because you're unemployable and in a mountain of debt would taste like if it were food. In other words: disappointing and unpalatable.

Despite the fact that I am not a vegetarian myself, I'll occasionally bite the bullet and try whatever form of weird grass-fed lettuce she wants me to eat for the sake of marital compromise. She tolerates me cooking meatloaf, which even as a person who likes meatloaf I can admit is fucking disgusting, so I figure I owe her one every now and again.

We happened to have a gift card to this fancy vegan restaurant in the city that she'd been talking about trying for ages. We'd never actually made the trip because the place has a reputation for being a bit pricey and I've got the pallet of a third grader, so it wasn't likely I was going to find anything on the menu appetizing. With the gift card though, I thought why not; if I'm going to subject myself to choking down some upper crusty vegan nonsense as a meal at least not having to pay for it makes me feel better.  

I made a reservation a few weeks in advance and surprised Emily with a dinner date in the city. 

I pretty much anticipated the place was going to be  an insufferable den of hipster bullshit and I was not disappointed. It was a veritable smorgasbord of flannel shirts, buddy holly glasses and wrist tattoos of anchors up in there. I'm positive they could tell I was an outsider. It was as if I had a certain smell to me that indicated to them that I don't own a fixed gear bike and I think cochella is stupid. The restaurant itself was very nice, but walking in the door was like a way more passive aggressive version of when a city-slicker walks into an old west saloon. If there had been a guy in suspenders and a bowler hat playing a piano he'd have hit a flat chord and come grinding to a halt while everyone turned to glare at me.

I mean, there absolutely was a guy with suspenders and a bowler hat, but he was just there having drinks.

The dining experience was generally as expected; every single ingredient used in every single item on the menu came equipped with its own own laundry list of qualifications on how vegany it was, which equated to roughly a six hour seminar just to get through the specials. We get it Becky, your tofu is free range, cruelty free and contains no gluten, can we just move on with our lives?

On the bright side, service was extremely fast. It wasn't five minutes between when we ordered and when our food showed up at the table. I suppose when your menu only consists of three different ingredients, one of them is a carrot and the other two are soy pasteit doesn't take all that long to prepare a dish.

Here's the highlight reel of the experience:

Everything on the menu was weird stuff. Fancy Radishes? Fuck off. Unless you put little tophats and a monocles on those things and give them a trust fund they're still a shitty mostly tasteless tuberous root that you washed dirt off of six seconds before you fed it to me. Also, I saw someone order the Glazed Romanesco. I don't know what shit you people are trying to pull, but that thing was a piece of lettuce with some stuff drizzled on it.

I've got to hand it to them at least, looking through this menu, there is not a single item on here that can possibly cost this restaurant more then a dollar a plate. they are successfully charging people out the butthole for this stuff.

This is the vegan restaurant version of bringing bread to the table. It's 'carrot soup'. It was warm-ish, served in a shot glass and tasted like spicy carrots strained through a tube sock. I did not care for it.

For our meals Emily got the previously depicted 14 dollar carrot and I got this tofu because it enraged me the least out of everything on the menu. No, that is not a trick of perspective, that is in fact a 15 dollar meal consisting of a single piece of grilled tofu only slightly larger than the head of a fork. 

Also there is whatever this shit was:

The one thing I will say is this: The outside of that piece of tofu was fucking delicious. It may have been the single best marinade on a grilled piece of food I have ever eaten. 

However.

No matter how mouthtacular the glaze was, there is a singularly detrimental issue with this dish, which I have depicted in a handy diagram below:

And again for further clarity: 

Not even all of the top hats could disguise what essentially boils down to eating a mostly tasteless lego brick of pressed bean milk. They can grill any flavor they want onto the outside of a piece of tofu but the entire interior is always going to taste like licking a kitchen sponge. I ate it though. So help me I ate it with nary a top hat or monocle to be seen to fancy it up.

If the rest of the meal up until desert was a parade of overpriced pretentious crap where they put a single vegetable on a plate and drizzled a sauce on it, desert made up for it in spades.

My thing was all sorts of toffee, caramel and peanut butter flavored stuff and it was good. Not even like, good for being vegan food. It was regular food good. I couldn't even tell that the desert had been made of sadness and a sense of superiority (the only vegan ingredients left when you remove dairy from an ice cream based desert). I would come back to this restaurant just to eat that.

The thing that looks like a hockey puck of monochrome cat food in coffee grounds I understand was some sort of ice cream with chocolate dusty stuff that Emily got. It was also very good I am told despite perhaps less than stellar curb appeal.

All in all, my expectations were met regarding our dinner at the vegan restaurant. I went in assuming I was going to find the general demeanor of the establishment vaguely annoying, and that I was going to force feed myself something way too expensive that I found moderately appetizing at best. I was correct on both counts.

Emily seemed to enjoy the experience though, and I am not devoid of an ability to at least fake proper dining civility once in a while for her benefit. I doubt I'll be rushing back to any vegan restaurants any time soon, but if you are a vegetarian, vegan, or have an abnormally tiny stomach and some spare cash, you could do a lot worse. I can certainly see why people who, unlike myself, are not complete barbarians would very much like the place.

[stars-forever-dwell-blog1]

Winter Weaving

Well, winter is swiftly passing (though for me this time of year always seems to drag by impossibly slowly, so by the time spring actually comes, I’ve almost forgotten what grass is…I don’t know if I’m alone in this), and I figured I would update my blog in case anyone actually reads it. And for myself too. Yeah.

This is the first winter in which I went into it with my eyes wide open, fully aware and with no illusions about how bad it can get, how low I can go, and as prepared for it as I could possibly be. Armed with a sun lamp, vitamin D, the two more epic cats in the history of cat-kind, a yoga ball and lots of dark green veggies for the depression (not to mention the super duper pills my doctor prescribes for me…that was sarcasm. I hate taking them.), kava kava, ridiculous amounts of free time, and herbal tea for the anxiety, and yes, a helluva lot of compassion and gentleness for myself when I’m less than perfect and less than what I expect of myself, which is basically all the time.

The irony of it all is that compassion and self love are two concepts that I’ve struggled with since my early 20′s, when I became a self-proclaimed hippie, flew out west and lived in a tent in the woods for a year and half, and first heard of such an idea. Considering what it would mean to apply it to myself, I was shocked to discover how much self loathing I carry around, definitely more than the average person. Which then became the catalyst for some seriously deep soul searching, some intense asking of my favourite question, “Why?” And the root of a whole new vista of self knowledge that I won’t get into here. But the point of this paragraph is that self love and compassion have eluded me over and over again, like trying to chase down your own shadow. I guess I thought that I would be sitting there on a rock by the ocean one morning, smoking a cigarette in the lotus position while the sun rose and all my fellow hippies were still sleeping, and Compassion and Self Love would just slide into my skin as easily as the passing wind, and my eyes would brighten and suddenly everything would become so clear, and from that moment on my life would be forever changed. All my self hatred would dissolve in the salt water at my feet, I would start taking my dreams and goals and creativity seriously (but not too seriously), I would start eating well, start exercising regularly, teach yoga, find a boy who worshiped me, travel overseas, wear those pants that only come down to the tops of your calves, make your ass look amazing and your legs look capable, and sandals that support your arches. I wouldn’t be gangly anymore. My dreads would be perfectly even and would have beads and treasures hidden deep inside them. I would spend my 20′s traveling the world and then, at the glorious onset of my 30′s, probably on an airplane over the desert somewhere, would come to the neatly packaged conclusion that my real calling in life is to _______________ (insert some kind of natural healing career here), and would then begin a conscious journey into attending university to achieve the schooling necessary to do this. I would have supportive friends who came over for potlucks with strawberry and blackberry wine, bright scarves, attentive lovers who were drawn to my inner light but could never touch it, an old upright piano, a calico cat, and an apartment that was built in 1901 with a Victorian couch. My futon would have suns and moons and stars on it, and when my friends would sleep over we would talk far into the night, and once I had fallen asleep they would lie on their backs, staring at the sarong draped across the ceiling with the perfume of incense wafting down into their nostrils, enchanting them, making them wonder, with the music that softly played. Loreena McKennitt, Sinead O’Connor’s Gospel Oak, Ravi Shankar.

The reality of it, however, is that Compassion and Self Love finally came to me when I was too tired, too beaten down, too broken, to do or to be anything else. I was in the hospital with no one and nothing, and I wanted to die. Because I left the bright scarves, the turn of the century apartment buildings, the potlucks and sleepovers behind, in my quest to find the mountains and the fierce rage of snowboarding, of house music and Jager bombs, or situations that I could describe as sick and fucking epic, and when I found it, all that was in myself that didn’t align with it just fell away, and writing this now, three years later, I still barely remember who I am. Because I sacrificed it all to feel, for one safe and steady moment, normal. What I considered safe and steady, what I considered normal.

And now, I would give almost anything to feel like myself again.

But the funny thing is, I’m not only that girl from Osborne Village anymore – the one who dances at The Toad, the one who eats at Massala and Wasabi and who remembers Out of the Blue when it was cooler, and who has an account at Movie Village. I see myself as a tapestry, woven of so many bright, so many muted, complex threads. Can’t I be a Villager and a snowboard chick? Can’t I love the energy and the pulse of the city, and be a horse person too? Can I love the painting that happens with the written word, and be moved to indescribable levels by music, by art, too? Maybe it’s about integrating our images of ourselves with all the new things we’re learning and becoming every moment, and never limiting ourselves to what we used to be, even five minutes ago. Not worrying that no one has ever done it like this before.

I’ve felt, for my whole life, that I don’t have deep roots, or a strong sense of who I am or what I’m about. So maybe I’ve been shaky from the beginning, so no wonder I feel so lost. But lately it’s my passions that I keep coming back to as a touchstone for who I am. What is it I believe in? Like, really believe in? Down to the bone? What is it in my life that I feel like I’d die if I didn’t have? The things that make life feel worth living? What are my morals, my ethics, even when the world around me seems so devoid of them, or like no one cares? What do I care about? And you start to shape your life around these passions.

I think that as we grow older a refining process begins to take shape within us. We don’t lose our passions…we just start to see time differently. We start to ask ourselves, what matters most? What do I want to put my time and energy into? What do I want to grow in this garden that is my life? What will I cultivate? Because we can’t give 100% to all our passions (if we have as many as I happen to). We each have to create our own medicine wheel, and balance out what goes within it. How much Deer, how much Dolphin? How much piano, how much dance? How much sketching, how many horses, what colours will they be? And so on. Kind of like a recipe.

So every day, no matter how big the snowbanks are or how short the days, I remind myself that January is almost over, and that spring is on its way. Reminding myself of what’s true, even when all evidence is to the contrary.

Bye for now.