#you two were impel down buddies!!

[mugiwara-lucy]

Luffy, quit hating on Buggy! 😤

[cebwrites]

I wanna know more about Kirin and Law

Kirin looks so cool, too! I like his long white hair! :)

waaaa i'm flattered thank you!! kirin's my favorite silly goofy guy ;w;

i have way too much lore for him but sdkfshg ig to start things off!

Kirin is a pirate captain and his crew is allied with the Hearts (they're more or less the same crew but just split off into two, the Hearts and Hiraishin are family ) - Kirin doesn't have a devil fruit but his mother is from a sky island of people who have electricity and/or wind abilities (his is electricity), a lot of people from that island have wings but since Kirin was born on the blue sea he doesn't (the wings are actually a kind of creature that attaches to a person's back and their people have done it when a kid reaches a certain age for generations, it's a whole thing)

He has a vague interest in finding the One Piece but wants to take his time instead of rushing like Luffy or Kidd, he also wants to help find the truth for his dad's sake - if it was up to Kirin he would lay low and get by in the shadows of bigger figures but he's been made a "big name" as well after Marineford and it's been hard to pretend like he's a nobody since then lol

Timeline-wise he appears on Sabaody with all the other Worst Gen for the first time and then on level 5.5 in Impel Down (he was captured on Sabaody to help his own crew escape from the admirals and then taken to 5.5 by the people there) From there he follows the prison break to Marineford, fights Hina and Mihawk briefly and then gets his leg severed by Doflamingo

The next time he shows up is post-Dressrosa climbing up the side of Barto's boat because Law went no contact for 6 months (because they didn't want Kirin and co to get involved with their thing with Law's Dressrosa plans/getting hurt because of them) and when Kirin saw them in the papers with Luffy's alliance he had to track them down - there's angst during Zou when Kirin doesn't talk to them/the Heart pirates and spends time around the Mugiwara crew instead because he's hurt, but by the end of that arc he reconciles with the Hearts and does so with Law on their way to Wano where Kirin's crew is waiting

The story I have now is that one of Kirin's crew members used to work in a tattoo shop with one of Law's crew members and was the one to give Law his bigger tats, something happened to their workplace and Law offered to take them both in (Izzy agreed to travel with them for a while because Hake was his friend but not to join the crew) Kirin's crew runs into them and Izzy joins him instead because they're all childhood friends and grew up on the same ship, Law is fine with that but doesn't really trust Kirin because it's another pirate crew even if they seem friendly

From there the crews keep running into each other even though Law insists they shouldn't get too buddy-buddy (the crews end up befriending each other quickly while Law remained grumpy about it) and with lots of shared hardship and helping each other when trouble appeared (Law said that whenever their crew helped it was only to 'pay the debt back' to Kirin's but it just kept on happening lol) And eventually before Law realized it they were all close friends, two years after meeting Kirin as well they also realized that they might have caught feelings for him and were NOT happy about it (falling in love, the vulnerability of it all, uuuu 🥺) Kirin was already dating his other partner Reijiat that time but they end up as a polycule anyway because he has two hands They met each other for the first time five years ago from the present! When Kirin was 22 and just having left Baroque

[sodrippy]

hii it's op anon, i'm at the start of marineford rn :3, where are you? how are you liking it?

sabaody was fun, i love that the strawhats are all enablers to each other, so slay, they should've gotten to wreak more havoc against the celestial dragons

impel down was great! i loved the wacky hijinks and seeing all the little villains return + jinbei seems cool!

i miss my friends thooo this isn't fun anymore :c and i know what's gonna happen soon and am NOT looking forward to seeing that

but roger babytrapping his two biggest rivals is sooo funny to me (ik it's not technically baby trapping but it's funnier to say)

ooh also are there any new characters you really like? c:

HIII ough god marineford................godspeed dude!

saboady and impel down were so fun i really enjoyed both of them! it was great to have some idiocy moments w buggy back and stuff, and yeah exactly the carousel of returning character cameos and everything was neat! saboady was just SO good and i thought the last fight w the pacifistas and kizaru and all were really good like the tension was so high in them even though i knew ultimately where everyone ended up yknow?

no same god i felt the exact same way going into marineford like. i know whats going to happen AND i dont even get to see any of the besties for emotional support?? but we soldier on !

BABYTRAPPING HELP thats so fucking funny yeah youre right its way better to phrase it like that. i loved the flashbacks soooo much like they are so cute and silly and brothers<3 ace really fully tried to kill baby luffy though it made me laugh so much like. he does nawt want you around bud, sorry!

i just finished up dressrosa, which i also really enjoyed! it drags a little towards the end for me but overall i found it really interesting and fun, maybe just bc the setting was quite cool. faves from that arc are viola and corazon i wish we got to see even more of them but obviously the arc isnt about them + theres a lot of random guys introduced in dressrosa in a sort of similar Assortment way as impel down which was exciting, like bartolomeo and cavendish who are just so fucking funny i really really enjoyed them too.

fave 'new' characters are ofc sabo and law. im such a sucker for like, 'disillusioned guy who has a shit family runs away to become a feral dude w a good heart' sort of stories so sabo is my bestie forever. also, lead pipe<3

laws abilities are soooo cool am obsessed w him + the way he is so smart and has really well laid plans...except then luffy happens is so so funny. sorry you are losing everything so badly all the time buddy</3 im really glad hes sticking around i hope he gets to have a win someday...

actually insane to think about how fast everythings moving post-ts i didnt realise it was all SO quick. like from the vague things i knew it seemed like soooo much stuff happens in terms of plot and each arc getting longer that i assumed it took a little while in the story timeline as well but thats not the case at all. i know in general the 'timeline' is very unspecific and fluid (like even just thinking about how the entire pre-ts story takes place over probably less than six months ???? is crazy to me) but i definitely feel like oh shit ok everything is just at hyperspeed now bc its all so Serious, alright !

[theentiregdtime]

dennis buys a boat.

PHILADELPHIA, PA 5:00 ON A FRIDAY

"Look, Mac, I don't- I can't even comprehend what you're saying right now. How can you possibly not be excited about this? Are- Are you even human?"

"It's not that it's not cool, dude! I just- When you called me down here and said you were gonna blow my mind, I- How did this even happen?"

"It happened because I'm a genius, goddamn it, now are you going to get in or should I call Charlie instead?"

"No, I'm sorry, man! Look, don't call Charlie, I'll get in the boat."

Dennis is a visionary and Mac is a fool. Dennis is the king of the Delaware and Mac is a Hessian cretin. Dennis is... he's fucking Poseidon and Mac is but a lowly fish.

Mac could have come down here to the marina, chanted about how 'awesome' this was (he calls everything awesome!), and been goddamn Nerites. Not that he would have allowed him to take the reigns of this supercharged chariot, but still! Alas, he doesn't get the boat, not like Dennis does, so now he's just a fish.

Still, though, it feels good.

Dennis is stood aboard a 2007 Sea-Doo Challenger, of which he is now the proud owner, perched with his hands on his hips like a navy-clad demigod. The warm sun is shining down on his back, the speakers are blaring Steve Winwood's The Finer Things, and Dennis Reynolds is on top of the world, baby!

"So like," Mac says tentatively as he steps in, "where did you even get this? Last night you told me we couldn't afford two orders of fried rice."

A self-satisfied smirk twists  Dennis' mouth.

"How does anyone get anything, Mac?" he responds, dipping his sunglasses down to flash his eyes. "The world's not about money. It's about charm."

"That makes absolutely no sense, dude."

He's not certain why he expected someone like Mac to understand. He hadn't exactly grown up with the same... entitlements as Dennis had. His idea of recreation as a child was poking dead things with a stick and throwing rocks. As a matter of fact, he had probably thrown rocks at boats! The savage.

But Charlie would have gotten sewage and toothpaste and cheese and other mystery stains all over the vinyl, and Dee would have ripped a hole in the seat with her goddamn jagged bird arms.

Mac was the obvious choice. He was usually such a fantastic hype-man, and Dennis would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm here.

"That's because you don't have any charm, Mac," he retorts as he sidles into the captain's chair, curving his fingers around the steering wheel. "You tumble into rooms and knock things over and spit when you yell like the damned Tasmanian Devil."

"Be that as in May," -that's not the phrase, but Dennis doesn't interject- "I get stuff through the power of intimidation."

Mac plops himself down, rather gracelessly, in the passenger seat.

"When has that ever happened? And don't say the time you 'intimidated' that man at the mall into giving you a free massage, because I hate to break it to ya', but that's not what that was, buddy."

He pouts so overdramatically that his frown reaches his chin.

"Hey. I'm tough, Dennis," he persists, and per usual, appears to genuinely believe it. "But don't worry, that doesn't overshadow your charm thing!" Mac's smile perks back up and he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Dennis' shirt. "Like, you look way better in sweaters than I do, man."

It's not so much a sweater as it is a nautical polyester zip-up pullover, but hey, he does look good in it- so he'll let that slide.

"Okay, okay, just... shut up and hold onto something, all right?" Dennis rolls his eyes, but there's an excited sneer forming on the edges of his lips.

He screws the safety key around his wrist onto the slot until it clicks into place. Mac would say something along the lines of 'safety is for bozos' before surely setting himself on fire or plummeting off of a rooftop, but Dennis will not be murdered by his own boat like some sort of seafaring Cronus.

He gives a quick wink to- well, not so much Mac, more to the boat- before adjusting the trim and wrapping a hand around the throttle.

"Prepare to have your mind blown."

Before Mac can ruin the moment, Dennis sends the throttle forward. The dock is relatively clear, so he's out on the water doing 45 in no time. He leans back in his seat to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror (shame it's so small) just as the song tells him about the golden things life could be, and yeah, he looks pretty damn cool. Obviously, Mac must think so, too. Not that he cares.

He darts his eyes over to see if Mac is looking at him.

And oh man, is Mac looking at him.

But not like he's admiring how 'awesome' he is or thinking about how he wishes he could be so goddamn glorious- not like that at all. It's like he's just happy to be out here with him for no other reason than to be here. He's got this stupid little grin on his face... The nerve!

Dennis focuses his gaze back on the river.

Well, if anyone with half a brain is watching him, they will certainly admire how cool he is.

After a half-hour or so of going near-60 (perhaps to show off, perhaps not...), Dennis kicks it back down for a while, and they coast along the river maintaining a comfortable speed over which they can actually hear each other speak. Dennis can hear the music again, too, Wouldn't It Be Nice bamp-bamp-bamping through its last chorus.

Part of him regrets it, because Mac immediately shifts in his seat and starts babbling, like he's just been wriggling anxiously, waiting for an opportunity to speak. He gets that way, after they haven't talked in a while- a day, an hour, fifteen minutes- like he has to tell Dennis every single thought that's gone through his head in the meantime.

"Hey, what do you think fish think about?" he asks.

Dennis' eyebrows tense. He rolls his teeth over his lip. "What?"

Mac seems offended, as if the question were self-explanatory. "You know, fish," he reiterates.

"That isn't the part I was confused about."

That answer doesn't satisfy him, and Dennis can feel his stare burning a hole into the side of his head without even having to look. He's like a child.

Rick Astley is pumping through the speakers now, and Mac is totally ruining it.

"I don't know, Mac, what do you think about all day?" he deadpans.

The connection to Mac having the brain of a common herring flies right up the windshield and over his head. "Oh, uh-" he starts excitedly, "like, the bar, ideas for stunts, who would win in a fight between Dutch Schaefer and John McClane, you, french fries, whether or not I could put a bear in a headlock, which I think I could if I got a running start-"

"You've made your point!" Dennis has to stop him, because he already knows all of this, and Dutch would obviously win because John is more stealth than muscle and Dutch clearly has experience with stealth. "I don't think fish think about fast food, which they have no access to, or whether or not you could fight a bear, because they don't know you and you cannot, or..."

Or me, Dennis just now registers. Did he really say that?

He shakes his head and dismisses it.

"I think they think about absolutely nothing! Some part of their tiny, gelatinous brain reminds them to move and to swallow smaller fish, but I can tell you with great confidence that there is nothing else. There is not some- some tangled, Desperate Housewives-esque drama playing itself out down there, damn it!"

Mac whistles through his teeth. "But, like... can you prove that? Can we be sure? Because science has only come so far-"

"Oh, I will not have this debate with you again!" Dennis inches his speed up just a bit in an effort to drown Mac out. "Are you determined to ruin fish for yourself by... by subscribing to the notion that they are capable of complex thought? You know how much fish we eat, Mac!"

"That's why I'm asking, dude!"

Dennis nudges the throttle up further, keeping his eyes trained on the water passing underneath them like sheets of polished glass.

"If they've got stuff going on up here," -he imagines Mac is pointing to his head, where quite clearly nothing is going on- "then maybe we should switch to duck or something, man!"

"Why- You- You think a duck thinks less than a fish?!" Dennis sputters.

He's almost up to 60 now.

"I'm not saying that for sure!" Mac transitions into shouting over the engine, the goddamn lunatic. "I'm just saying, flying back and forth every year seems like a waste of time!"

"Are you criticizing the migration of waterfowl?!"

"Well, why don't they just stay in the city, Dennis?! There's always food there!"

There's a rattling sound now, and Dennis assumes at first that it's a migraine forming from his teeth scraping together, but it's so loud and-

Ah, shit, it's the boat.

The needle on the speedometer starts creeping down despite the throttle being all the way up. Dennis adjusts it, as well as the trim, but the grinding only seems to intensify and the boat only gets slower. He checks to make sure the safety lanyard is still connected- which it is- and everything on the dash seems normal...

He can hear the music clearly once more. God, I wish I was sailing again, Jimmy Buffett mocks him.

"Uh, how much smoke is too much smoke for a boat?" Mac asks hesitantly. For once, it's actually a relevant question, and not some sort of riddle or existential crisis.

Dennis turns to look over his shoulder as the gauge creeps towards 20 and, yep, delightful, that's smoke.

"Did you suck something up?" he inquires rather stupidly.

"Yes, I absolutely did, and I did it on purpose," Dennis spits as he unhooks the lanyard and pulls the levers back down, "and you know what? I hope it was a fish, Mac, I hope it was the biggest, smartest fish in this entire goddamn river," -he hops up and paces towards the back, his heavy footsteps echoing off the sides of the boat- "with hopes and dreams and aspirations, a thousand times more superior than any duck! And I've just crushed it with the impeller like meat in a blender!"

"Why would you put meat in a...?"

Dennis rips the sunglasses from his face and tosses them to the floor. He doesn't know what else to take out his anger on.

"Is that the takeaway, Mac?!" he squawks, spinning back around to look at his idiotic fish face. This is why Poseidon is so engulfed with wrath all of the time! "Is that the one thing you choose to pick out of this entire situation?!"

Suddenly, Mac is on his feet and closing the distance between them. He has that pitying, holier-than-thou expression on his face, and for a moment, Dennis thinks he's going to pick a fight with him (and he would lose just like he'd lose to a bear!), until he feels steady hands clamp down on his shoulders.

"Den, listen to me," Mac says softly, lifting two fingers to point them back and forth between their eyes, "I'm with you. I'm on your side, man. Fish are stupid and they suck and we're gonna keep eating them, okay?" He lifts his palms to press them against Dennis' jaw. "But I need you to stay calm so we can figure this out."

Dennis should feel patronized and belittled, but he doesn't- he's simply stunned in place. His breathing is starting to steady, and he thinks he's nodding. Whatever Mac says or does next, he has a feeling he's going to believe him- even if he claims trout are capable of high-order thinking.

"Okay," is all he manages.

Mac parrots back, "Okay."

He gives Dennis a double-pat on the cheek before passing him to peer over the stern. There is utterly no chance he has any idea what he's looking at, but that doesn't stop him.

"Well, I don't see anything."

Ordinarily, Dennis would ask him what he expected to see- some sort of hook hand hanging off of the boat? Instead, he merely shrugs his shoulders.

He's oddly at peace with this. Jet-boating is kind of boring, anyways. It's nothing like a yacht, there are not nearly as many bachelorette parties waving to him as he'd envisioned, and there's next to nothing to see out here. There's a reason John McTiernan does not direct movies about flat water.

"I'm so sorry, Dennis," Mac apologizes, for some reason.

Now that they're floating sans engine, the smoke has died down, and there are no more ear-splitting scraping noises. Dennis would rather spend the night on this thing than hear that sound again- it's going to give him an even worse headache if he does.

"Just- open that up." Dennis gestures to one of the storage compartments.

Mac nods dutifully and does as requested, looking like he thinks it might lead to something he can repair. When it opens to a mound of ice and Coronas, he raises a surprised- but not displeased- eyebrow.

"Oh. All right."

Not two minutes later, they're sitting on the back row of the boat, beers in hand, having given up trying to remedy the situation. I'd Really Love To See You Tonight (absolute classic) is playing just as the sun is starting to set. They'll call for a tow once it gets dark- Dennis doesn't have the energy to think about it right now.

Mac's got his arm on the back of the seat, around Dennis, but not really touching him. There's much more space they could be utilizing, but this is fine. It makes it easier for Mac to open Dennis' beers for him, anyways.

"I think you should start paying for boats with money instead of charm, Den."

Dennis scoffs. He leans back onto Mac's arm as he takes another swig.

"I don't know..." he mutters, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. You see, it really doesn't matter much to me, the speakers remind him. "This isn't so bad."

Mac chuckles through his nose. He doesn't object.

It's quiet for a while as Seals and Coley harmonize and Dennis polishes off the last of his drink. He discards the empty bottle, letting it roll until it meets up with his shattered sunglasses.

"You want me to get you another one?" Mac offers.

"No," he half-whispers and scoots a little closer- just to get comfortable. There's no sense in being uncomfortable.

Mac's hand rests on Dennis' shoulder, drawing him in gently.

"Okay," he whispers back.

He passes Dennis his own, half-empty beer. Without taking his eyes off of the sunset, Dennis takes a sip, then hands it back to Mac, who immediately does the same. They trade it back and forth a few times. Dennis hums I'm not talkin' 'bout moving in...

"Dennis?" Mac mumbles in his ear.

"... Yes?"

He could ask him anything in the world right now, and Dennis thinks he might give him a real, honest answer. He imagines the answer to a lot of those questions would be 'yes, I do, I'm just so scared to tell you'. He would really love to tell him tonight.

"How many pennies do think there are... in the river?"

Dennis takes another drink. He's too tired to argue. It's warm, the sky is amber-peach, the boat is rocking gently, Mac's arm is around him, there's a warm wind blowing, the stars are out, and I'd really love to see you tonight.

Dennis sighs.

"Just pennies," he replies, passing the beer back, "or are we talking all change?"

[mymadmedleyw]

Milo in Corona - mml-tts crossover

I get from @chiscribbles4smiles an idea for a crossover between MML and TTS. Well, firstly I have to check what is MML but that didn't take long. (Mainly 'cause I've already known PnF). So two days before today I've found it and now here it is: a little something.

(ao3): https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893868/chapters/37038705

- - - - - -

Chapter 1 - Something unforeseen

"Who the hell are you?" crossly, was heard the sudden grunt as the obvious owner of the place abruptly noticed the other one's attentance during a quick turn around.

The boy stunnedly blinked twice, then noticed himself and reached out his hand, still grabbing with his other the bag on his shoulder.

"Milo Murphy." he introduced himself, smiling lively.

The stranger looked to the younger, viewing him tip to the toe then snorted and turned back to the desk. "I guess, you are not from near, Milo Murphy." commonly was it mumbled, while the combinating of a few shiny fluid has been continueing.

Then as those were mingled into a single bright green alloy, the dark coated one shook the result and satisfiedly smirked and put it into a special carrier. The elder closed the pack where seemingly other compounds have been waiting for theirs time and then, finally, took into account the uncalculated guest on the place.

The younger was seemingly enchanted by his current state. He was loafing around and wondering with admire on his big eyes about the place, marking each square centrimetre of the cellarage. "Is it a basement?" he voiced his curiousity. "Once I was in a similar place like that. Althought that was in the channels below the city."

The underground place's occupant gazed to him wearily, patiently waiting for the moment when the boy stepped to the right place and pulled a trigger below the desk. It made to move the batten, what bumped the container in the corner, and triggered to set the purple bubble in the way to the weirdly dressed kid. The boy innocently marveled the drawed maps and notes on the wall, everything seemed perfect. Except...

The pile between the two pieces suddenly would crack under the weight and what has been keeping till that time the whole in the vertical surface would loose out and collapse like the well-elaborated and created equipment wouldn't have been more than an clumsy man's lucky endeavour until that certain moment, that it has somehow kept in one piece thus far.

The dark coated quickly bendt by the falling wood parts from above and as the complete reached the floor with a bags of suffocating and all-out covering dust, the realisation was came to mind. Even if the rigidity and the negligent has been the representative for a long time, the unknown boy clearly hasn't done anything harmful – yet.

As the mist was gone, the occupant looked up and searched for the little known kid. For the biggest suprise, he was standing on the same place as earlier and seemed calm. Too calm. He rehashed his pants and then got out a small broom from his bag, like the former action would have been nothing at all.

"My bad." he stated leisurely. "I should have mention it before it happens." started the kid coolly the tidying.

"What are you talking about?"

The brunette lifted his head. "Murphy's law." puzzled, the owner looked to him. "Complicated. Easiest explanation that everything near to me has used to wreck. If anything can go wrong, it will." he said like he would have quoted it.

"That's a bit pessimistic attitude, don't you think?" murmured the black haired, but as the room's current sight reached the mind, rather grabbed the container of the phials immediately and minded to put it into a much safer place. Carefully stepped the local through the remains, carrying the pack under the arm and keeping the boy for safety's sake off the way in silence. As the precious thing has became well-hided from anything unexpected incidence, the blue eyed was back to the laboratory. The kid almost finished with the tidying.

"Nice manufacturing anyway. The tenons are really fascinating. Is it a self-made one?" he admired then, holding a broken piece of batten in his hand. "Why don't you use screws? Or metal parts? That would be safer, except counting with the corroding factor. In that case, maybe in deed the wood is the better choice downstairs. The air is quite dewy."

He looked around, mainly marking the part where the whole framework previously had belonged. "I guess-" he was thinking loud. "I can fix it for you." turned the boy then to the other. "See? There and there." were shown the small holes on the walls. "You have to underpin it with more spots. Otherwise it will collapse again or won't last long."

The boy, put down the broom and took his bag to the floor. "Let's see what we have for it." he digged into it and started to feeling in it. "As I remembered!" was heard the delighted shout and brought out some tools. "I packed the drill and two extra for security reasons and a screw-set. Sometimes it's slightly scary I can always use what I have in it." he whispered wonderingly.

As the other realised what on the younger was, stepped to him and cut his way on the half distance. "Oh, oh, oh! W-w-what are you up to, kid?"

"Fixing it." he said, holding the so-called drill in his hand. But then he eyed the other, the gloves and the goggles and immediately holded out the equipment. "You are right. It's yours. I used my safety gear when we were chased by the ostriches on the way in."

The local's eyes widened. "Ostriches?"

"Long story. When I was on my way through the corona-" began the boy, when the other rashly brought out something from the gross dark coat. His auburn eyes went wide in shock as the electric cattle prod-ish self-made device was trained against his chest and the drill scarely was fallen out off his fingers.

"Don't- just don't you dare to say anything about Corona!" hissed the elder dangerously to the boy. Fiercely, that cambridge blue eyes frightened the younger, nearly made him jump out of his skin. It was exceptional. He was scared different times, but not this terrified, ever.

"I- I- I meant it, as- as ridge. The ridge at the edge of Danville. Corona. Pith." he eyed the other. "Same word."

"I know!" cried out bitterly the black haired and was visible on to say something cursing again when something made to stop. A faint sound, like a cunning cooing. "Rudiger! Stop it!" was snapped the somehow suddenly appeared racoon.

The black and white animal gently clung to the almost floor length coat. The small pet bothered its owner until the weapon was slowly lowered and its menacingly sparkling part died out. "You are too warm-hearted, buddy." came to answer a headshake in a kind, played disbelief.

"Right." moaned then the elder to the rodent. The pesky little mammal satisfiedly chittered then jumped to the other corner of the room, taking place on the top an smaller table stealing out three apples from a box.

"Traitor." rolled the eyes the dark coated then turned back to the still terrified younger. " 'seems like Rudiger likes you. And he can be very determined with it. So if I don't want him to wake me up at dawn or make trouble around my works, I have to give you a few minutes." was the weapon taken down to the ground, leant against the wall.

"So, Milo Murphy, right?" looked to the younger the local, much more friendlier than earlier. "Take a seat." was shown welcomely the direction near to the black and white animal.

He confusedly followed the lead then sat down clearly facing with the dark beady mumbler. "H-hello Rudiger." he greeted shyly the furry shifter. A glad purring was heard as a jolly greeting.

"You can stop it now, buddy, I won't hurt him."' took a seat too the other with a gently tone. The racoon immediately turned to the elder and jumped down to the dark coated's lap, then as he impelled the gloved hand few times, the massage became received. "All right, I got it. How wayward we are today!" was sighed to the animal.

The occupant slowly stripped off the gross dark coat, then as it was put down, the racoon joyfully climbed on the elder's back and took his place, laying cross on the shoulder. "That was what you have been waiting for all along, didn't it?" was caught the furry pet. The silence undoubtedly gave the right answer.

As the washing bear took his calmed place, the guest became fixed by the blue eyes. This time the gross dark coat didn't keep the younger busy, so as couldn't hide the person beneath it. The other was tall, taller than him and skinny. Without the dark material the contours were visible. The occupant was nearly the same age as him. But the clothes what have been on the slight build, told that the truth wasn't just one or two years.

"Your- the clothes-" he started, but the thought couldn't have been finished.

"What's with them?" looked down to them the elder. "The apron is for safety reasons, and I washed my upper yesterday... - or the day before yesterday... - or two days before yesterday. Or last week." was it thinked. "Surely after the blue compound case and that wasn't that long ago." closed the self-taken question then the black haired with a shrug.

"No, I mean as their structure." explained he. "I reminds me a bit to Cavendish and Dakota. Oh, I come to think of it, didn't you meet with them? I was with them but Murphy's law came and I was broken away from them." the younger asked the other. "A tall grey-haired man in a tweed suit like in the 1870s, and a shorter one in a track suit from the 1970s."

The elder's cambridge blue eyes widened and near to a minute faced with the younger. "Did I say something wrong?" took the brunette the question, then the penny dropped. "Oh. I should have realised it. You are not like Scott, you are literally living in the past. And I thought that wall with the map is just a replica. So, the juice of it, I assumably have some time in two hundred years earlier." he smiled delightfully, ready to any adventure when the whole small table collapsed between them in a sudden. "Sorry, my fault!"

//chapter 2 - Anything predictable (ao3): https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893868/chapters/37224296#workskin

[larry-lutsky]

Redeemed

Gary drove down the familiar twisted dirt roadways that snaked through the back woods of North Carolina. It reminded him of when his dad Rick first taught him to drive when he was 16. It felt so far away now in both years and location. A half century ago he thought, and a totally different world from the frenetic life he has long lived in LA. He regretted not coming back sooner, but there was always something preventing the trip and relations with his father cooled in recent years. The phone calls had become less frequent and they always seemed to end in a fight. Rick had become even more stubborn and set in his ways as he became an old man, with his old-fashioned views becoming even more out of step with the times. Gary always intended to come back, to have this big reconciliation, but he ran out of time. He got the horrible news that dad died of a sudden and massive heart attack the day before and that was that. There had been no warning. Sure, dad was 86, but he seemed so healthy and strong, hardly ever sick a day in his life and longevity ran in his family. Both of Rick’s parents lived to their late 90’s. Gary hopped a flight the next day with his wife Peg and left her in the hotel so he could make this trip alone one last time. It would be just him and his younger brother Jim to go through the house and decide what to take and what to give away to the neighbors or throw out. It would be too painful for them to spend the night in their childhood home. In the distance Gary could make out the small frame house at the end of a leafy street, the place he called home during his formative years. Dad was born in Kentucky and after working the coal mines there and West Virgina, he had saved enough to buy this small, but cozy house in Pittsboro, North Carolina when Gary was eight years old; dad was living there alone for the past 20 years, ever since his mom died. Gary pulled up to the driveway and could see Jim’s car was already there. When he opened the front door, he saw the furniture in disarray and piles of the family’s belongings on the floor. Jim came out of the bedroom when he heard the door open and embraced his brother. “I see you got off to a good start here,” said Gary. “Yes, I have two piles so far. One to throw out or give away, and another I want to take. Start with the drawers in the bedroom and see if there is anything there you want to take,” replied Jim. Gary started with the top drawer. He took off a pile of clothes and noticed a ticket at the bottom. He picked it up and silently read the face of it. Railsplitters Vs. Miners May 17, 1972 Section D, Row 36, Seat 23 In small letters on the bottom, it said “Unused tickets cannot be redeemed after the game.” Tears streamed down Gary’s cheeks as the memories flooded back to him. “Hey Jim! Remember how much dad loved to go to the Railsplitter games? How he loved that team. Believe it or not, I found the ticket he bought for me for my eighteenth birthday. He secretly bought us two tickets for my birthday, and then I blew him off because it wasn’t cool to be seen with your parents at that age. I yelled at him for assuming I didn’t have other plans when he presented me with the ticket. Then I went off to a party with my friends. I was so stupid. I didn’t think how much it would have meant to him. All I thought about is my selfish pleasure. How I wish I went with him.” “Hey, don’t beat yourself over it,” replied Jim with a pat on the back. You were just a dopey kid. We all are like that at that age. Dad wasn’t mad at you. He understood and you made it up to him by going to other games.” Yeah, I guess you’re right,” replied Gary. I’m going to take this ticket as a souvenir and as a reminder to never be that selfish again.” With that, Gary put the ticket in his pocket and continued his explorations. At the end of the day Gary and Jim packed their respective boxes of things they wanted to take and got into their respective cars with plans to return the next day to continue on their quest to empty the house. Gary rode down the narrow street that led to the highway that would take him back to the hotel. His mind wandered until he saw the bright lights of what appeared to be a stadium down the road. He was puzzled as he knew the old stadium was torn down ten years ago when the Railsplitters left town. His dad told him about it when it happened on the sad day that the team left town for a new stadium in another city. Gary slowed down to read the sign in front of the stadium. It said “Railsplitters Vs. Miners 7:10 PM.” Below that there was a sticker with the words “sold out” written on it. Gay checked his pocket and found his ticket. “Could this be the right ticket for the game? There is only one way to find out,” he thought. Gary parked his car in the lot across the street and stood at the back of the line in front of the entrance. When he got to the front, the man in front of the turnstile took his ticket, glanced down at it, then tore off the stub and handed it back. Gary walked in and found an usher. The usher looked at his stub and told Gary to follow him to section D. “Um, what day is today?” asked Gary. The usher replied, “It’s May 17, sir.” Gary hesitated and then asked, “What year is it?” The usher looked puzzled and then said, “Nineteen seventy-two.” When Gary got to his seat, he saw his dad Rick sitting next to him. Rick looked up with a broad smile. “Gary, I didn’t think you were coming,” he exclaimed. What happened to your party?” Gary smiled back and said, “Dad, I wouldn’t miss this game for the world. There is no place I would rather be on my birthday than with my dad watching our favorite team.” Rick looked more pleased than Gary could ever remember. His dad’s face turned slightly red as he beamed. “Did I miss anything,” Gary asked. “Only one batter,” Rick replied. “Don Cardwell struck out on an inside fastball. That boy has to get better on handling inside fastballs. He did a good job on fouling off two wicked curve balls on the outside corner that were impossible to hit. Then he gets overpowered on a mediocre fastball inside that any decent hitter would pull to left field. He has to get better or they should send him back down to a lower minor league.” Gary could always see the passion in his dad’s eyes when he talked about baseball. “Hey, now that I’m legal we should get some beer and Cracker Jacks,” Gary said. His dad chuckled and waved over a vendor. They leaned back in their seats with a can of Budweiser in one hand and a box of Cracker Jacks in the other. After a loud crack of the bat, the ball soared up to their section, just to the left of Rick. There was a mad scramble of fans after the ball and after a few moments, Rick emerged triumphant with the ball in his hand. “This is perfect Rick said,” as he returned to his seat. “I’m going to write something on this ball and give it to you as part of my birthday present.” Then he took out a pen and wrote something on the ball before handing it over to Gary. Gary just glanced at it and put the ball in his coat pocket. Gary woke up groggy and with a headache, like he always does after a night of drinking beer. “What a vivid dream,” he thought to himself. Just then Peg walked into the room. “Where were you out so late lats night?’ she demanded. Joan told me that Jim got back from your dad’s house at 8 pm. “You did not come back to the hotel until after midnight. And you smelled like beer. Were you hanging out with some floozy in a bar?” Her voice sounded more strident as she went on. “You have some explaining to do buster!” Gary got up to splash cold water on his face in the bathroom. “My memory is that I came right back to the hotel after leaving dad’s house. Then all I remember is this crazy dream. I don’t know what happened between leaving the house and having this dream. I better call Jim and see if he knows anything.” Gary pulled out his cell phone and called Jim. “Hey buddy. Believe it or not I just woke up and I’m not sure what happened. What do you remember about last night?” Gary asked. “I was worried about you,” Jim replied. “First of all, you left in the wrong direction. Instead of taking the road that would lead you back to the hotel, you took the highway that leads to the old stadium. I thought maybe you wanted to see the old stadium, but then I realized you knew that stadium was torn down. There is nothing to see there. Then Peg told me you weren’t back yet at midnight. You really had us worried there. Where the hell were you?” Gary was confused and he held his head which was now throbbing in pain. He was worried that he had some sort of blackout. Then he remembered he had parked his car illegally in the street as there was no room in the hotel parking lot when he got back. “Jim, I’m going to have to call you right back. I just remember I parked illegally last night and I have to run out and move it before they give me a ticket.” Gary reached in to his pocket to fish out the car key. Out dropped a ticket stub. “That’s odd,” he thought. “I’m sure I took the whole ticket as a souvenir, not just the stub.” Then he ran out the door down the steps, and out the lobby to his car. Ater starting the ignition, he had some sort of premonition that he should open the glove compartment. He did not know why. It was almost like some invisible spirit from above whispered into his soul that he needed to open it. Maybe it was a faint whisper from his dad that impelled him. It was an eerie feeling that he never experienced before. He reached down and opened the compartment. A baseball rolled out and hit the floor. He picked it up and noticed it was yellowed with age. Through the scuff marks, he could barely read the faded print. “Carolina League 1972” it said. Gary then turned the ball around and there was the faded writing of a ballpoint pen. Gary squinted and could barely make out the print. It said, To my son Gary, Congratulations on your 18th birthday. I will cherish this day forever. There is nothing better than spending a day with you at the stadium watching our favorite team. Love, Dad Gary put his head on the steering wheel, bawling his eyes out with a mixture of grief and joy. Maybe unused tickets can be redeemed after all. After composing himself, Gary looked up and mouthed the words, “Thank you dad. I love you too.”

[memorylang]

Peace Corps Week in Europe | #33 | March 2020

At last came the fateful day I wished wouldn’t come so soon. My newfound Peace Corps friends and I left Mongolia. 

Concluding Peace Corps Week 2020, which began the day I boarded that Peace Corps vehicle to leave my city of service, I take you along our misadventures crossing Eurasia and the Atlantic from Mongolia to America. Many goodbyes and hellos follow in this penultimate part of these evacuation stories from my life with Mongolia. 

Departing Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

Wednesday morning, March 4, standing and staring out the window of our hotel’s continental breakfast room, wearing my traditional Mongolian clothes, I felt like an elderly man moments away from losing a home he’s known for generations. 

20 hours later, my departing group and those who came to see us off gathered together in hotel lobbies. We 49 left for the airport. I felt moved by an experience there. Then I reached our gate. 

I reunited with the rest of our crew in the waiting area. 

I saw the friendly sights of my senior sitemate and cohort friends, like the one I saw Monday and my Episcopalian buddy. I asked one to watch my belongings for a moment, then I returned just in time for boarding. 

As we readied, one of my fellow Volunteers, my kind sitemate, asked if I'm ready to go home. "No," I abruptly told her. 

But as we began walking toward our plane to board, I felt some excitement. Next stops, Moscow and Berlin. It'd be a long Thursday. 

Settling In

I saw an open window row across my aisle, so I slid over. I later heard people weren’t supposed  to change seats, but eh, no one said it to me. Nearby were both my cohort friend who visited me Monday afternoon and the senior cohort member who trained me my first weeks in Mongolia. 

As we readied for takeoff, I saw out my left window workers in the cold with this huge hose blasting green chemicals on the wing. I’d never seen anything like it. But I also saw billowing what seemed mist, so I got the gist they were defrosting the wing. I think I vaguely recalled from middle school aviation classes that ice increases drag. 

This seemed just like Mongolia that we’d need to defrost our wings for take-off. By take-off, our wing was still that weird light green...

Powerless

On the plane, my thoughts returned to a friend I helped before coming to our gate.

I remember her saying something as I left her group moments earlier, but I didn’t catch it. I still wanted to offer my support if she needed, though. Messaging her she’s welcome to chat if she wants, I noticed she tried to video call me after we boarded. Shortly after, a flight attendant asked me to power off my phone. I wasn't sure what to make of our missed communication. 

I remembered earlier she said something like she’s been so angry and rude, and yet I didn’t mind. I was thinking, "I care about you," wishing I could lift her pain from her, like Simon and the Cross. But I couldn't. How could I help my friend who’d done so much for me? Again Lenten thoughts made me think to God’s Cross. 

The hardest part for me was seeing my positive friend disheartened. I recalled how my friends, too, compared me to the sun. I wondered if my friends had felt as I did then, when my friends worried about me when I struggled through darkness. Friends in my undergrad years came through, so I guess I wanted to pay it forward. Compassion feels key. 

But I’d noticed other Peace Corps friends around my friend’s end of the plane when I boarded. So I accepted as long as she had people to support her, she’d be alright. 

Having done what I could, I focused on rest, now that my Wednesday’s all-nighter was through. 

Moscow Mayhem

Hours after, we neared Moscow. Whatever green on our wings was gone. I rested little. 

From the sky, visible buildings below reminded me of my city in Mongolia, just with tremendous more development. As we descended, our airport’s outskirts reminded me of Detroit’s view, too, but with more pines. I wasn’t sure what to make of comparing Russia’s capital to Detroit... 

Over the intercom, I heard a third language after Mongolian and English. I initially assumed it was Russian. But after listening more carefully, it sounded like German. Our flight was merely passing through Moscow, with Berlin its final destination. So German made sense. 

Also, while our plane taxied, I realized, I really can read Cyrillic! That felt cool.

But, dang, Moscow was rough. 

We disembarked, followed long lines and went through with an immigration woman. All on our flight could only file through two immigration windows. Security spoke Russian and insisted nonverbally, too, we move incredibly fast through. But then we all clumped in this huge, warm mass of people in a chamber, waiting to get through security to get back on our flight. Some of us commented among ourselves we’d be faster if they didn’t have us do this in the first place. 

I’d left Mongolia wearing that crazy six layers but took off and held two from the sheer heat in here. Around me felt weird, too, not seeing people wear face masks. All wore masks in Asia. But Peace Corps advised us to hide ours to minimize attention after leaving Mongolia. 

Nonetheless, I made the best of our wait. I wound up in line beside one of my cohort’s Volunteers who came from Kansas City. We hadn’t spoken much during our service, but I valued our talks. I admired her quiet wisdom. Sometimes, especially in our cohort’s first week last June, I feared I came off too enthusiastic, which might be off-putting. But I feel types of people show me insights I don’t often find alone. I enjoyed our talk. 

All reboarded by what would be considered nearly 1 a.m. in U.S. Pacific Time, half an hour late because of security. 

As we returned to our seats, I recalled the warning from the Mongolian Christian I met at my Last Supper in my city of service. She said Moscow’s airport was terrible. I got what she meant, about how staff spoke no English, and we got poor service. Well, I hoped the rest of Europe wouldn’t be bad. 

I tried to rest more, knowing I’d many more farewells. 

Berlin Bittersweet Goodbyes

As we entered the German capital’s airspace, I loved seeing such traditional European architecture. Clouds added additional depth to my field of vision. I even saw a cool needle-looking building. (Do all super cities have needle buildings?) 

We 49 in our Peace Corps squad hit the ground running in Berlin, with just under a couple hours to find our gates to Frankfurt and Amsterdam. More than about 30 were on to Frankfurt, leaving sooner, while my Amsterdam crew located our gate with little hassle. 

So, my Amsterdam folks and I had a spare hour. 

I walked with my senior sitemate and his friend, as we greeted every so often one of our friends passing on the opposite direction, to reach Frankfurt’s gate. We said last goodbyes of varying lengths, sharing camaraderie. 

My senior cohort friends went to buy snacks, so I had downtime again. I spotted two more of my friends just beginning to wait in Frankfurt’s line. They weren’t to move ahead too soon, I felt impelled to see them off. 

My friend I mentioned before seemed far happier now, seemingly back to the self I knew. She remembered I said days ago, I wanted to take a goodbye photo. My other friend, the Episcopalian buddy, commented it’s an honor when I want a photo with someone. 

Maybe I didn’t show it, but I felt a little bashful from the comment. I just love remembering when I meet, see and part from wonderful people. Maybe the honor goes both ways. 

The rest of my Berlin time, I joined my first-week roommate alongside one of my summer training clustermates. They sipped German beers while we chatted about our cohort’s murky future. My first-week roommate and I’d fly together into NYC, so he said I’d meet his parents. Neat! 

An American in Europe

Boarding the Royal Dutch Airlines (KLM) flight to Amsterdam went rougher than expected. 

Berlin’s airport transportation security felt displeased with my not knowing European security protocols. I qualified that it was my first time through Europe, but she wasn’t having it. Even the man coming behind me through security felt miffed. I tried not to take them personally. I figured this must be a cultural difference from America, where TSA verbally repeats everything to fliers. 

KLM staff hurried me aboard the plane. As I passed down the aisle, my assortment of bags, haphazardly carabinered together, careened a bit. I felt shocked how Europeans visibly looked violated and perturbed when I accidentally bumped them. This felt way different from Mongolia, where people usually squeezed together in public places. I totally underestimated personal space changes. 

I also considered the speed of business. Leaving Amsterdam, I felt Europeans I encountered expected me rushing way more than Asians did. The Europeans also weren't as forgiving for cultural ignorance. Still, they seemed more inclined to give reasons for their intentions. The flight crew asked passengers to sit but added so they could announce the cabin clear for take-off. 

"Thank you for your attention,” I heard after an announcement. I always found it weird to hear Mongolian students conclude close presentations with that phrase. I realized it’s European. 

My New British Friend

To my great relief, I sat beside an extremely understanding man on my flight. 

He started by helping my frazzled self get situated. Then we chatted the whole flight. I explained I’m American, going through a Peace Corps Mongolia evacuation. He said he’s from the UK, but he’d worked in Berlin, the States, and Hong Kong. He understood feeling confused with new cultures. He was a facade engineer, specializing in glass for high-rise designs. 

I asked my new friend what he thought of the States’ culture. Pleasantly, he described how he felt people in England didn't seem as concerned with ancestry the way Americans are. Americans he knew could name from which countries their ancestors came, when and from where. We discussed how this may relate to American identity formation, with its diversity. 

Our conversation cooled me down from the spike in stress leaving Berlin. Onward to our final European stop—and more farewells. 

After we reached Amsterdam’s airport, when I looked for a water fountain, my new friend reminded me we were in Europe. I laughed at my forgetfulness. Europe doesn’t have free public water the way America has. 

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

We rushed through Amsterdam’s airport to reach our scattered next flights. More Peace Corps goodbyes began after immigration. 

About half our group, maybe a dozen or so, split off for the gate to Atlanta. Sadly, this included my senior sitemate, who would return to Kansas City. I’d miss his cool collectedness about everything. The last three of our Peace Corps Mongolia group would be me, my friend and his friend, making our way to New York. As we hurried to our gate, a few more from the senior cohort accompanied us till they peeled off to theirs. 

And generally, our gate felt more pleasant. A kind Dutch flight attendant jollily asked our senior cohort friend about a buildable Mongolian chess set he carried. Apparently the attendant had seen a traveler with one before. I mused, how cool this Netherlands airport sees such international goods and people. 

I hoped I was done with security things. But two out of us three won the "random" extra check. The kind flight attendant gave a considerate laugh and assured us he doubted they were random. He gets them all the time. Dutch security swabbing my things felt like Chinese security with a different flavor. 

But overall, I adjusted quickly back to much of western culture. 

New Amsterdam, America 

When I heard over the intercom about our departure, I heard our flight as though from Amsterdam to "New Amsterdam." Our transatlantic journey would take us through time. 

Later on the flight, I felt I ate the best airline meal from the best airline inflight service I’d ever had. Seriously. Royal Dutch Airlines was by far among the finest I’d flown with. 

Regarding politeness, I felt European to American norms and expectations are as Taiwanese to Mainland Chinese. People in Europe and Taiwan seemed to expect more politeness, for they gave more. I also thought flight attendants were either great actors or good at what they do. They seemed to genuinely want me to enjoy my meal. 

Reverse Culture Shock in New York City 

As we descended after sunset Thursday, March 5 into NYC. My heart rate sped up seeing so many cars still on the highways. So many cars, such wide streets.  

After baggage claim, my cohort friend and I said our penultimate goodbye, to our senior cohort friend. Then my guy and I began wheeling out our luggage. 

A security person questioned us about where we came from, which spooked me a bit. But my friend took it well and suggested to me the guy probably just felt curious. 

Though last May, our cohort of more than 40 Americans flew out from JFK International to embark on our Peace Corps service, today just two of us arrived back here specifically. 

My friend’s kind parents greeted us at once and brought us to their car to give me a lift to my hotel. I had that weird feeling like college graduation, getting to meet my friend’s parents. Great people. But wow, I guess when I’m adulting I don’t think I’d ever meet my pals’ folks. 

Outside must have been around 9 p.m., but fatigue from crossing the Atlantic and Eurasia made that Thursday, March 5 feel later. Our group of now four chatted a bit about reverse culture shock. I commented on seeing around me these huge airport parking lots, big diverse automobiles, elevated highways and wide pothole-less roads. My friend’s folks even had this cool electronic toll collector—E-ZPass? Even thinking about toll roads felt Sci-Fi to me. As much as I tend to lament the States’ infrastructure compared to China’s, America still has so much infrastructure. 

In a short while, we reached my hotel. We hauled my luggage from the SUV’s trunk. I really appreciated the folks’ kindness. Gosh, and I’d miss my friend. Amazing to think we were assigned each other’s roommates when we first reached Mongolia, and here we were, the last Peace Corps Mongolia Volunteers we’d see for a while. 

Final Steps

And so, the week after I found out I’d leave my city in Mongolia, I’d already be back among family. In Mongolia, it’d be Saturday, March 7 by the hour of my return to Vegas. Peace Corps Week 2020 thus began the day I left my Mongolian city and ended the day I reached my American home of record. 

In the upcoming evacuation finale, I’ll share with you the moving experience I had flying across the States in my final flight home. Along the way I bring together my favorite theme of all: identity. 

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

[uss-edsall]

I began to drink again, waiting for Chuckler and Runner and the Chicken to reappear. But they did not. Other marines came drifting back, laughing, boisterously rehearsing their escape from the MP’s, but no comrade of mine was among them. "Hey, E Company,” I asked of the group which included the handsome now-drunk Barber, “you seen anything of my buddies from H Company? The MP’s get ‘em?” "Nope.” Then they laughed. “MP’s didn’t get nobody. They all went up them stairs after you, you simple tool! How the hell’d you get away from them?” "I told them I was from E Company, so they took pity on me,” I replied. "They’d know that was a crock o’ crap,” someone replied. “You don’t see nobody from E Company hauling ass. They’d know it was H Company right away from the view.” We exchanged insults, and there might have been a fight, had not the Barber slipped in stupor from his chair. They bent to aid him and, as they did, the MP’s came charging into the room again. They pounced so quickly there was no escape. I had moved toward the private dining room, but an MP intercepted me. “Where you think you’re going?” "After my hat.” "Hat, hell! C’mon with me, buddy.” The other MP’s had the Barber propped between them. His head rolled foolishly. His buddies apparently had escaped, sacrificing the Barber and myself to their retreat. One of our captors jammed the Barber’s hat on his head and began to propel him out the door. I turned to the MP who held me. “How about my hat?” “Whaddya mean—hat?” "It’s in that room there. I’ve got to get it. You’re not going to make me leave it behind, are you?” "Okay. But I’m going with you.” I approached the other door with the MP crowding behind me. I opened it. Then I kicked sharply behind me, slammed it shut, crossed the room, yanked open the other door, darted through, pounded past the swinging doors, and ran into the kitchen, shouting: “Quick, which way out?” I followed the eyes of a waitress to the rear and lunged through another door. Here a courtyard confronted me, and beyond this a high stone wall topped with barbed wire. But the sound of the pursuing MP’s impelled me across that courtyard like a cannon shot. Up against the wall I flung myself, grasping the ledge with clutching fingers, legs up, up, up, strain and over—and there I was, arching through the dark and moist night. A shot! The son of a bitch shot at me! The force of my fall sank me to my knees. I felt my hands bleeding from flesh torn by the barbed wire. My coat was likewise torn. But I could think only of the shots and I felt a hot rush of anger. But now I must defend myself against a pack of dogs that had gathered silently about me after I landed in their alley. Now they were snapping and yapping—making my progress through this dark lane impossible of stealth. Lights were coming on in the tumbledown houses which stood back to back in the alley. I crept along, feeling my way, fending off the dogs, stumbling against fences. A light came on in a house to my left. A door swung open and light flowed into the black. I crouched to avoid it. A woman’s voice called out: “Who’s out there?” I would have been foolish to pretend there was no one there. The dogs were growing more ferocious, growling deep in their throats, ringing me round now that they could see as well as smell me. "It’s an American,” I said. “I’m a marine. The MP’s are chasing me.” "The bloody provos,” she growled, advancing to a back gate, her flashlight in her hand. “Here, come over here. Go, you pack of mongrels, get away from here! G’wan! Scat!” She menaced the dogs with the flashlight, as I slipped through the gate. Her light fell on my hands. “You’re hurt,” she said quickly. “Come, I’ll fix you up. I used to be a sister. A nurse, you’d call it.” I followed her into the house. She cleaned the cuts, put mercurochrome on them, and bandaged them. I watched her. She was a plain, strong-faced woman in her early fifties. She was alone in the house, but it did not occur to her that she should be afraid. "What are you running from the provos for?” she asked, bandaging me with precision. "They’re after me. They’ve been after me all night. We’re aboard the Manoora and a lot of us went ashore tonight. But we’re not supposed to be on liberty—and we’re never supposed to be in work clothes like this.” "I thought so,” she said. “I wondered to see you sloppy like that. Your lads are always so neat—all shined and creased like you’d just stepped out of the clothespress.” I followed her through a narrow and dark hall. She made it seem casual, as though she might be doing this night after night. I shrank behind a curtain separating her hall from her kitchen. She opened the door. Two shots rang out! She slammed the door. “Oops,” she said, “they’ve just shot one of your mates!” It might have been that it had stopped raining, so calm was her voice. “Oops,” she said, reporting a fact somewhat more than commonplace—that the MP’s had shot poor Barber through the thigh, and with a .45 bullet at that, as I learned later. "He was running down the street, and just as I opened the door I heard the shots and saw him fall. Sshh, now—I hear them coming.” I shrank back further into the dark and saw to my amazement, that she was cautiously reopening her door. "Ahhh,” she sighed, closing the door softly, “they’re going now.” She raised a hand. I listened. There was the noise of a jeep in movement away from us. "Your cobber’s all right, I guess,” she continued. “He’s alive, anyway. They’re taking him away in their auto.” I came forward, and she said, “Do they always do that?” "No,” I growled. “I never heard of it before. Did they really shoot him?” "Oh, yes. I saw him fall.” “They’ll be sorry,” I said. “What do you mean?” "I wouldn’t like to be that MP—not when that fellow’s buddies find out who shot him.” "Well, I hope they give him a beating he’ll never forget. Bloody provos!” I thanked her and slipped out into the street.

Helmet For My Pillow, by Robert Leckie