#your liver will explode and you will die. I’m only doing this because my life has fallen apart and I have something deeply wrong with me

[isdalinarhot]

I love fanart where Dalinar is holding a book. It’s like. Yeah. That’s exactly what he’s supposed to hold. Because he’s a little book boy a geek nerd book boy who loves his books.

[morganaspendragonss]

quédate un segundo más (1/8)

@911lonestarangstweek day 8 - t is for...tumour, terminal, treatment

title from voy a quedarme by blas cantó, translates roughly to 'stay a second more'

thanks to @halsteadmarchs and @tarlos-spain for the beta!

as shown above, this will be eight chapters if all goes to plan, and i hope to finish it before season 3 begins. much of what is written both in this chapter and in future ones is ripped directly from life and i am only writing from my own perspective and experiences of losing a loved one to cancer.

ao3 | 1.6k | angst, hurt tk, cancer, terminal illness, more warnings to come in future chapters

A rare genetic mutation.

That’s what the doctors tell him when the results come back.

A rare genetic mutation that has rendered his cancer practically undetectable until its latest stages, until all that’s left to do is wait to die.

TK’s hands shake as various leaflets on Managing Your Diagnosis and What To Expect and Looking After Someone With Cancer are placed in them. He feels two steps to the side of himself, his entire world halting in its tracks the moment those words had left the doctor’s lips.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he’d said, eyes wide and empathetic. “Your scans and blood results have come back showing evidence of a tumour on your pancreas. There are treatment options which we can and will—with your consent—pursue, however I have to inform you that your cancer is entering stage IV. It has begun to spread to your bladder and liver. I’m sorry to say that, at this point, treatment is more focused on managing your pain and making you as comfortable as possible; we do not anticipate recovery.”

It’s just… TK’s fine. He feels fine. Like, sure, he’s been a little more tired recently and he’s been getting these weird pains, but they always fade after a while, and he’s fine.

But he couldn’t deny the blood spotting his pee, the last straw which had finally sent him to the doctor’s office.

Too late, apparently.

A touch on his knee brings him back to reality with a start. TK looks up to meet the doctor’s kind gaze, and he wants to cry.

“I understand this is a lot to take in,” he’s saying. “If you have any questions, please ask.”

“I…” TK shakes his head, swallowing a couple of times before dropping his eyes to his knees, the words on the pamphlets blurred through his tears. “How long?”

The doctor hesitates a moment, then sighs regretfully. “I can’t say for certain. People frequently outlive their projected timeframes; equally, it could be less. However, given the way your tumour looks and the rate it appears to be spreading at, I would estimate around six months.”

Six months.

Six—six months.

“Oh,” TK says, and it feels wildly insufficient but it’s all he has. What even is there to say? He’s dying, and that’s...that’s that.

“Do you have a support system in place?” the doctor asks. “This is going to be a difficult process, and you are going to need other people to help you through it.”

TK nods slowly, not looking up. “M-My husband. Carlos. He was supposed to come with me today but he was called into work last minute. He’s a detective, so he couldn’t exactly refuse—not that that stopped him from trying.” He laughs wetly, remembering how he’d insisted that everything would be fine when Carlos had stalled leaving this morning. “And there’s my dad, and my team—my family. I’m a paramedic and I work in a fire station, so we’re all pretty close. I… Shit, I’m sorry. You don’t need to know all this.”

“It’s okay.” The doctor is still smiling, still so understanding, and TK wonders—just how many times has he had to do this? “I’m glad to hear you have solid support behind you; that’s going to be incredibly important for the coming months. I’ve also given you a few leaflets about support groups you can access, that your family can access, and, of course, your treatment team will be there every step of the way.

“Now,” he continues, returning to a semi-professional aspect, “I want to see you later this week to iron out how we’re going to proceed. For now, why don’t you go home and rest, allow yourself to process this? Does Friday at 10.30 work for your next appointment?”

TK nods absently, clutching the pamphlets tight enough to crease them. “That’s fine,” he whispers.

“Okay,” the doctor says, just as quiet. “Are you going to be okay to get home?”

“Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. In this room, he’s separated from the rest of the world—TK doesn’t want to go back into it, where he’ll have to tell everyone he loves that he’s… That he…

“TK.”

TK’s head snaps up at the doctor’s voice and he flushes a little at seeing his pointed look. “Sorry,” he mutters, scrambling to stand up.

The doctor stands too, much more gracefully than TK, and gets the door for him. “It’s okay. I’ll see you on Friday, TK, alright?”

He mumbles an affirmative then steps out of the office, taken aback for a moment by the bustle and noise in the corridor. It’s strange to witness it now, to see all these people who don’t know him from Adam going about their lives, while his has, in the span of thirty minutes, completely crumbled.

TK takes a deep breath (and how many of those does he have left?) and joins the flow.

*

He’s home.

That’s… He doesn’t remember it. He must have unlocked the front door because the keys are in his hand and he’s standing in the entryway, but TK has no idea how he managed to get from the doctor’s office to here.

He made good time though, judging by the clock on the wall.

Small victories.

With heavy steps, TK walks to the sofa, easing himself down and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. It still doesn’t feel real that there's this—this thing inside him, growing and mutating and killing him. He’s not sure when it finally will.

Maybe in a few months, when his skin is sagging off his bones and his hair is gone and even the very act of breathing is a challenge.

Or maybe in a few hours, when Carlos comes home and TK has to break the news. TK can picture his face now, the way his ever-present smile will crack and break, the shock and hurt and grief that will take its place.

He thinks he understands his dad now.

TK closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind, just for a moment, of everything that’s happened today.

Which, as it turns out, is a mistake, because that’s when he remembers the letter that came for them yesterday and the phone call they’re going to make after dinner.

The phone call they were going to make after dinner.

TK wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. They’ve been waiting for that moment for so long, the moment in which they found out they were finally cleared to adopt a kid. And now…

Gone.

Carlos is going to be crushed.

As if the universe is reacting to that last thought, the door suddenly swings open, marking Carlos’s return from his impromptu shift. For a moment, TK panics. He’s not ready, dammit, he needs more time to plan and to figure it all out, how he feels and what he’s going to say, but—

But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. He could have had the most detailed and well-thought out plan in the world and it wouldn’t have mattered.

Because all it takes is one look at Carlos’s smile for TK to fall apart.

Carlos is by his side in an instant, gathering him in his arms and sliding to the floor with him when TK can no longer support himself on the couch. TK fists his hands in his husband’s shirt and cries into his neck, all the emotion that’s been slowly building all day exploding from him all at once.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Carlos shushes, which only makes TK cry harder, because how is he supposed to tell him that it’s not?

He shakes his head and clings onto him tighter, feeling Carlos do the same to him in return. TK’s always felt safe in his arms and it’s no different now; he thinks that, if he can just stay here forever, maybe things will turn out okay after all.

But the moment ends, as they tend to do. When TK’s sobs have run dry, Carlos carefully pulls back from him, his hands rising to cup his face and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” he asks softly, so much worry in those damn eyes that it hurts. “Is it… Did the doctor say something? Are you okay?”

TK opens his mouth, but the words refuse to come out. All he manages is a wordless shake of the head, and even that turns Carlos’s expression into the picture of devastation. He can’t bear to look at it, so he wraps his arms around Carlos’s waist and leans into him again, resting his head on his chest.

Carlos holds him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We’ll get through it,” he promises. “Whatever it takes.”

And it turns out that he does have a few more tears left in him; TK squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out shakily as a couple of lone drops fall down his cheeks. “We can’t,” he whispers hoarsely. Carlos stiffens and shifts as if to look TK in the eyes, but TK doesn’t let him. If he has to look at Carlos, he doesn’t think he’ll have the courage to say it. He hesitates a moment longer, a huge lump forming in his throat, but eventually he manages it.

“It’s cancer,” he chokes out. “Stage IV. Incurable. They think… I’ve got six months.”

It’s like time stops.

They’re both motionless on the floor of their front room, neither saying anything, barely breathing as the weight of it settles between them.

TK doesn’t know how long it lasts for, but suddenly Carlos sobs and grips onto him with a bruising strength. Carlos’s body heaves and shakes with the force of his cries, and it’s TK’s turn to hold him as tears drip down Carlos’s cheeks into his hair.

And, in that moment, it becomes real.

[script-nef]

#bokutoisblessed | Bokuto Koutarou

Category: crack, fluff

2.2k words; MSBY fans dying over Bokuto and his family

Bokuto uploaded another photo

It seems like just yesterday little Hana was swaddled in his arms and now look at her. Like. Holy [censored] look at the [censored] post. 

Dudes like. She can walk now. Her steps are so wobbly but also so cute and my heart like????? Just exploded when we were gifted with the sight of her??? AND THE WAY SHE GIGGLED WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT HER MUM’S LAP A SAFJAKFDL I CAN’T BREATHE

Comments [Anon]: Honestly we the fans of Black Jackals are so blessed because we get to experience this joy and bundle of life thanks to our lord and saviour Bokuto Koutarou and his amazing wife, who will hereby be named Kami-sama. Because God is a woman I called it.

[Anon]: I agree with 97% of this, except for the Kami-sama part. She said it’s uncomfortable and embarrassing so we have to call her something else. How about Wife-sama. That should be fine, right?

[Anon]: Oh I saw that post Bokuto put up! Saying how much he’s thankful for the support but not to call her that! The upload was a short video of her turning red after he called her Kami-sama and it’s a treasure I will keep for the rest of my life. And into the afterlife. Death can try to pull it out of my cold, dead hand but I won’t let it. YOU HEAR ME DEATH???? YOU CAN’T TAKE THIS FROM MEEEEEE

[Anon]: Bokuto said Wife-sama is fine! Apparently she was still red and it was the cutest thing ever. Bokuto is so biased (*cough cough* whipped *cough cough*) but hey I’m not complaining. I don’t think my imagination will ever come close to the actual reaction but I hope it does.

[Anon]: Do you guys remember, when he just started dating her, how he flooded us with posts of her and her only? Like, practically 95% of my feed was her since he was putting so much of them up. She could literally be doing nothing and he’ll be like “HOLY [censored] LOOK AT MY GIRLFRIEND!!!” Without swearing because he doesn’t do that, but still.

[Anon]: OH AND THEN HE GOT INTO TROUBLE WITH HIS SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER ASKJDSKDJF THAT WAS GOLD

[Anon]: THEY LITERALLY PUT A VIDEO UP OF THEM TRYING TO TELL BOKUTO WHY HE SHOULDN’T DO THAT AND HE CONSTANTLY SAID “BUT I’M DATING HER AND THIS IS MY WAY OF SAYING I LOVE HER!!” LIKE BOI WE GET IT EVEN ALIENS WILL GET IT

[Anon]: And it started up again when she was pregnant with Hana. Like I could make a time-lapse video or whatever of her pregnancy just from the photos he put up

[Anon]: I honestly wonder how many photos he has of her and Hana

[Anon]: Probably a couple thousand. I mean like, I have a couple thousand of MBSY members but my love for them pales in front of Bokuto for Wife-sama, so.

→ Continue thread

Holy [censored] I just met Bokuto

Okay so there was news about a new resident coming into our apartment, more specifically my neighbouring unit. It was previously occupied by this really old couple and we had this small farewell party. They dropped hints that the new residents might be kind of loud but that they were great.

A few days later, my doorbell rings and who do I see? It’s [censored] Bokuto. Like, straight up. In his casual clothes. Exactly the same as the photo on his Insta page where he said he was moving. Which I liked practically a few hours ago.

He was standing there with the biggest smile and saying that he’s the new resident and that they’re giving out homemade cookies because of the baby and Bokuto’s volume. And invited me to a small dinner. And I’m. Like my brain. Literally. Like my brain is even blank now. Bokuto. Invited me. To his house. So I could have dinner. And see his wife. And little Hana. 

So I am here now, raiding my wardrobe to see if I have anything wearable because HOLY [censored] [censored] [censored] I’M GOING TO HAVE DINNER WITH BOKUTO AND HIS FAMILY I’LL REPORT BACK LATER IF HE’S FINE WITH ME SHARING THIS EXPERIENCE OKAY I REALLY GOTTA GO BECAUSE MY HEART IS BEATING WAY TOO FAST AND I NEED TO HAVE SOME MEDICINE

[Edit]: This was riddled with spelling mistakes because my hands were shaking from the aftershock.

Comments [Anon]: ???? What did you do in your past life to be awarded the opportunity of being neighbours with Bokuto???? Did you like, save the country or something? Is that what it takes to be blessed with him?

[Anon]: No you gotta at least save the entire Earth for this damn dude thanks for your service I guess

[Anon]: But if you gotta save the world to be neighbours with Bokuto, then what the hell did Wife-sama do to be married to him?

[Anon]: She saved the universe

[Anon]: But I think Bokuto will be the one to say he saved the universe to be with her that cheesy dork ugh I love you

[Anon]: LMAO I CAN HEAR HIM SCREAMING THAT

[Anon]: Are you back yet? Are you alive? Are you blinded by the magnificence that is Bokuto Koutarou and his family? I know I would be. So in order to kill me as well, TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED YOU CAN’T KEEP US OUT LIKE THIS I AM KNEELING ON THE FLOOR AND BEGGING FOR THE INTERACTION PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I BEG OF THEE I WANT SOME MORE SIR

[OP]: That’s really weird so stop that. I’m just about to go out now! I’ll spend the dinner over there, experience heaven, hope I don’t die of heart failure and possibly come back with a war story. If they allow me. Wish me luck guys.

[Anon]: GO BRAVELY SOLDIER AND MAKE US PROUD I AM PRAYING THAT THEY’LL BE KIND ENOUGH TO LET YOU SHARE THIS WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE

I’M BACK

Okay so that could only be described as one of the best moments in my entire life. Don’t worry, they said it’s fine if I share this. #actualsaints

So I finally found an outfit and took the chocolate that I was saving for myself, but since I can give my arm and leg for Bokuto what the [censored] is a chocolate, right?

I’m greeted by Wife-sama herself. Like. Less than a metre from me, saying “good afternoon” and smiling like the saint of tranquillity. (A side note but how do you have that when you live with Bokuto? And a child? My brother wants to know your secrets.) And she’s wearing what I think is Bokuto’s shirt since it’s way too big for her, I mean the end comes to her thighs. Sharing shirts is the most romantic thing a couple can do I don’t make the rules I’m just the messenger.

Anyway she invites me into their house, their amazingly aesthetical and cozy house. There’s a display case for all of Bokuto’s trophies, awards, certificates and everything. There are photographs of them together all over the walls, hung from strings spanning the entire house. There was a wall section dedicated entirely to Hana-chan. I felt like an uncivilised cave gremlin there.

Wife-sama was still making dinner and I was going to help her but little Hana-chan came to me. Like, she tottered over to me in the blue frilly dresses and tugged on my pants, babbling and smiling. Y’all I nearly died. I literally saw the gates of heaven and had a foot in but Wife-sama saved me by pulling me back into reality. By asking me if I wanted to play with Hana-chan. Which killed me again. And she was apologetic about it too? Like she doesn’t think I would give my kidney to spend time with her?

So I was playing with Hana but sneakily looking at the two of them being cute as hell in the kitchen. Bokuto was attached to her at the hip for the whole time except for when she asked him to get some ingredients. He was a puppy incarnate. They were sneaking kisses, whispering to each other and it was honestly so cute like I was getting diabetes just from one night. 

The food was amazing, the dinner talk was so fun and delightful, Hana-chan was the cutest little angel ever, this was probably the best day of my life. AND WHEN I LEFT FOR THE NIGHT, THEY BOTH HUGGED ME AND IT WAS LIKE BEING HUGGED BY CLOUDS BUT THEY SMELLED SO NICE!!

I shall never forget this day. Mark my words y’all.

Comments [Anon]: How beautiful was their place? I feel like she would go with a pastel tone or black and white. And have cute things littered around everywhere.

[OP]: The house was really unique in the sense that it felt like two houses smashed together. Like they took turns decorating each section of the house. Looked like polar opposites. It was kind of weird at first but the aesthetics flowed well the longer I stayed there, if you can understand what I’m saying.

[Anon]: The fact that Bokuto and Wife-sama are practically opposites in many things but still formed a romantic relationship with each other and the fact that their taste or preferences complement each other perfectly is proof that they are soulmates. In this essay I will

[Anon]: Where’s the essay. Dude where’s the [censored] essay

[Anon]: HEY MAN COME BACK WHERE’S MY ESSAY

[Anon]: NOOOOOOOOOOO THE SACRED TEXTS

[Anon]: Bruh just a kidney? Take my [censored] liver. Take my heart. Oh no wait, she already has it in her squishy widdle hands.

[Anon]: I bid my left arm

[Anon]: Right arm

[Anon]: Lungs

[Anon]: I really love my brain but I barely use it so off it goes I guess

[OP]: ???? Guys? What are you doing? Stop this illegal organ trade in my post.

[Anon]: Shhhhh we’re showing our love

I saw Bokuto shopping and it was so cute

I do not do clickbait, it was genuinely adorable and my cheeks are about to fall off. As was everyone else’s in the entire mall.

I was just doing some shopping, getting some snacks and popcorn for the movie marathon I was going to have and who do I hear? Yeah, it’s Bokuto. And little Hana-chan whining to Wife-sama about how she’s not getting the snacks they want. It’s from memory since I didn’t take a video, I’m not a creep and I understand boundaries unlike some of you assholes, but it went something like this.

Bokuto: But think of all the caramel popcorn we could eat! Hana: Mama, sweeties. Sweeties. (What an angel, am I right?) Wife-sama: I already said no, it’s going to ruin your dinner. Hana: But it’s tasty! Bokuto: Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase? I’ll do all of the dishes and cleaning today! Wife-sama: You already do that every day, Kou. It’s not much of a bribe. (Husband goals) And Hana, we have other snacks at home. Caramel is bad for your teeth. Bokuto: But babe! Wife-sama: I said no, and that’s it. Hana: Mama!

It was just this repeated for like 10 minutes with Bokuto and Hana-chan alternating their whines. I would have snapped after 5 times but wow, this lady has the mental fortitude of Fort Knox.

They both sulked and followed her around as she finished her shopping. I can tell Hana is Bokuto’s daughter because her hair droops down like his and a cloud forms over her head. It was practically magic.

In the end, they bought one (1) salted caramel popcorn because Wife-sama is too soft-hearted and they literally clung onto her for 5 minutes peppering her with kisses. And Bokuto actually lifted her in his embrace. In the middle of the sweets section. Where everyone was looking.

Needless to say, she was very very red.

Comments [Anon]: Conspiracy theory: factoring in Bokuto’s godlike physical ability, inhumane and endless sunny disposition, his hair’s ability to reflect his moods, it can be concluded that Bokuto is, in fact, a God.

[Anon]: Well someone has a big brain

[Anon]: Wait then Wife-sama would be a Goddess. Gasp SHE DIDN’T WANT PEOPLE CALLING HER KAMI-SAMA BECAUSE IT WOULD BLOW HER COVER

[Anon]: Oh yeah, it’s all coming together

[Anon]: I can kind of see Bokuto and Hana sneaking in sweets and snacks into the trolley while Wife-sama isn’t looking lmao

[OP]: THEY ACTUALLY DID THAT I nearly ran into them again and heard her berating Bokuto for sneaking in chocolate and shoving it beneath all the meat so she wouldn’t notice. My man, please. You can never outsmart your wife.

[Anon]: Next time I go to the MSBY fan meeting, I’m bringing all the sweets I can for Bokuto and Hana. It’s the least I can do.

[Anon]: They’re so cute and I can’t wait for the MSBY match in three days where Bokuto’s family is going to attend. I promise I’ll post about it afterwards.

[meantforinfinitesadness]

Hi, and welcome to a new segment I like to call “Sick Songs Sunday”.... *coughs*. In this segment, I pretty much go through the numerous albums I have on my phone/vinyls/cd’s/whatever and choose one album and sort of just....tell you my favorite lyrics from each song.

I’m doing this because it’s Sunday, and I’m bored. It’s just for fun.

This Sunday, allow me to introduce you to an album called Soul Punk. If you’ve heard of it, sick! If not, I wouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, the album is by Patrick Stump, AKA the lead singer of Fall Out Boy. This was his solo project he made in 2011 during the band’s hiatus. It didn’t do very well, but I really like it. So, uh, give it a shot.

Explode: But if I’m never your hero/I can never let you down, You were born on a dare/But you were born ready/Cut the red wire/Or was that the green wire, Clap if you’ve got a ticket to the end of the world

This City: Cause this city/is my city/and I love it/I was born and raised here/I got it made here

Dance Miserable: Just dance like you’re disappointed in the world, It’s as bad as I remember/and it’s only getting worse/It only gets better when it hurts

Spotlight (New Regrets): Every words a new regret if you say it right/and every wound can be forgotten in the right light/oh, nostalgia I don’t need you anymore/’cause the silent days are over/and the beat is at my door/But don’t forget it’s your right/to do whatever you like/’cause you can be your own spotlight, A little sweetness keeps just out of reach/’cause compassion is something that they just don’t teach

The “I” in Lie: Temptation makes impatient impulses pump through married men/so just stop, breathe, count to three, But, honey, if he seems to good to be true/well, guess what?/he probably is

Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers): There’s nothing wrong with you/it’s something wrong with me, Step one: drink/Step two: make mistakes/Step three: pretend you don’t remember/Step four: drink a little more/Step five: I need to run dry, My liver’s killin’ me, but willingly/I’m gonna tell whoever asks/that I feel alright, I’m not just drunk/I really think I’m in love with you/(ok I really am just drunk)

Cryptozoology: They saw the shadow/of a figure in the night/something unhuman fleeing/from the scene of the crime/those little flashes just wreak havoc on the mind, They’ve got the search party/lookin’ for the ghost of the child/but what if he grew up?/he never died/in these old haunts/you get the eerie little feeling/that you’re under dead eyes/Cryptozoology, you just might exist/but call me in the morning/if that misconception still persists/some days I may express myself in curious ways

Greed: And there’s a crooked line/that I don’t wanna take the time to straighten/’cause when you do you realize/it’s the whole damn world that’s bent, Greed: one of the most deadly sins/many gonna enter/few gonna win/always try to notify the next of kin/’cause many gonna enter/few gonna win, The good news is everybody gets to have an outlet/the bad new is everybody gets to have an outlet

Everybody Wants Somebody: It’s been a long, long time/since I’ve had this line of doubt out loud, Everybody wants somebody who doesn’t want them/who wants somebody else, Well there’s plenty of fish in the wrong sea, Hold me/distract me/dress me up in bubbles, baby/save me from the troubles of my own skin

Allie: Whenever you find it/it’s none of my business/now wherever go, go, go/it’s not my concern/but for a second/you’re attention just belonged to me/and it passed so fast it just fractured all my cool/I’m not broken hearted/I’m just kinda pissed off

Coast (It’s Gonna Get Better): Maybe I’m too old to be so hopeful/maybe I’m too young to be so bitter/but I swallowed adolescence by the chokeful/and came away lookin’ like a quitter, I keep making mistakes/but it takes some time to get anything right, right?/’Cause it’s gonna get better/it’s gonna work out/just give it a minute/it’s gonna turn around/We’re gonna keep living/we’re gonna get by/we never have to lay down and die, So just coast with me, Life’s already been hard enough/without you giving up on yourself

Bad Side Of 25: It’s a subzero archeological dig/to find that artifact of a car, I’ve lived long enough/to see some good friends die/it’s a dangerous time to be a friend of mine, Some people fade like evening/some just never go away/but there’s simply no safer place/than the bank the day after the robbery, How old will I be when I try to freeze time/and my age degrades into a well worn lie, I’m on the bad side of 25

People Never Done a Good Thing: A person is alright/but people never done a good thing, They’re addicted to convenience/”in case of stairway, use elevator”, We’re instructions that want to be misread, And most of us do as little as we can

When I Made You Cry: Well, I thought you were a mountain/until I saw you erupt/and I’m sorry if I ever made you cry

Mad at Nothing: You can throw me what you got/I will take it with a smile/you can dole it without shame/but I will never be your problem/I will never be to blame, When your hands are overflowing/with stones you wish to throw/and your eyes filled with excuse/’cause someone lit your fuse/there’s something you should know/you were mad at nothing/you’re just wasting time/I’m not bluffing/you should’ve been a friend of mine

[harveywritings92]

How you met: Shay x Death Doula! Reader

Info on the reader's profession: A Death Doula is a person who assists in the dying process, unlike a regular doula who offer assistance for women in labor, Death Doula's deal with well... death! But they don't deal exclusively with just children, they were like an early version of grief counselors mixed with hospice nurse and funeral director all rolled into one package, their service list would include: Giving emotional,social and Psychological support, creating death plans, helping with funeral and memorial planning, and guiding mourners to their rights and responsibilities.

===================================

Shay was assigned by Haytham to investigate the rumor that a previous dead member was apparently alive and well. They were dismissed as just so... until, Thomas Hickey appeared before the grand master claiming to have seen the man, a one Robert Bancroft a former banker and tradesman wandering the New York market district, now that wouldn't be strange except Robert had dead for three months now! And what's more, apparently the late Mr. Bancroft has also gone on to calling himself Philip McCray not much info on that name though.

Haytham sent Shay to figure out this mystery, To start him off the grand master directed the former assassin to the home of an Undertaker: Father's name [l/n] seems there been a disturbance at his place of business that might just give them a lead to this mystery. 

Shay was wary at approaching the large manor-like funeral home he heard whispers and accusations of the undertaker being a demon butcher who cut up bodies and ate their livers, others that he'd chop the limbs off and sew them to other bodies and used dark arts on them. Though Mr. Franklin who was an old friend of Mr. L/n assured Shay that those rumors were hogwash; what the experiments undertaker does with the deceased was simply a misunderstood science that will one day change the way everyone looks at life and death.

That didn't do much to calm the Irishman's nerves as the smell of Incense invaded his nose the closer he got closer the the mortuary, Shy paused for a moment to admire the birdcage shaped censers hanging by the door he thought them they were lanterns, but duty calls Shay walked inside where smell of lavender potpourri lingered in the air and the sound of arguing invaded his ears Shay followed where the voices were coming from and found himself in a large sitting room, where a y/ht y/hc woman in a black and purple dress around his age was arguing with older man.

"Well someone has to do something about this, The man's wife thinks we're hiding him!"

"I said no! No interrogations, no investigations, no bloody mystery solving! This will blow over soon."

"Yes and meantime Mr.Cray's wife is telling everyone under the sun, about how I'm some husband stealing harlot, While at the same time some ne'er-do-well going around pretending to the man!"

"The woman is grieving Y/n, you've been trained to recognize such delusions, she saw him die, their friend saw him die and...and..."

The man's voice trailed off finally noticing Shay watching them, he straightened himself up and cleared his throat, while the woman whip her head around to see what got his attention."Oh, a customer, Y/n go make some tea for... um" The Templar held his hand out. "Shay Cormac, and that won't be necessary... I'm here regarding a break-in three months ago?" the undertaker looked uncomfortable as he look at Y/n who this knowing smirk on her face. 

“Yes we.. Well my daughter's office was broken into..." He led Shay to back of the manor to Y/n's office now that the Irishman could get a good look at her noting some resemblance between her and the undertaker they both had the same eye/hair color, they got to the office as Y/n spoke up as the assassin hunter looked around.

Soon Mr. L/n left and Y/n took over "Thieves weren't after any trinkets or valuables." She directed him to a large row of cabinets with a broken locks, "they were only after papers & records of the recently deceased, and was very careful at who he was selecting." She showed him an old file with details of that person's life. {Identification papers, birthplace place and cause of death etc.] and sketches of the deceased persons face she explained they used them for an "in case" scenario of multiple funerals in one day and if the families have the same or similar sounding names.

"Here's the man whose papers were stolen" she said handing the Templar the sketch he took out a small painting of Bancroft and compared the two "This is very well done." Shay commented taking in the sketch's detail right down to the scars and birthmarks. "Uh, thank you?" Y/n said incredulously not used to hearing her work be complimented especially from a man, Shay wasn't joking when he said it was good this McCray could be Bancroft's twin, Except...

Shay checked the death record McCray had black hair, Bancroft was blond, his first thought was a wig but the way Hickey had described the bloke his hair looked too natural to be a wig, nor did it look like soot and grease as Lee had suggested, was he using ink? his dark eyes glance over at a Y/n  looking out the window shaking her head at something.

 "Is there way darken one's hair color, without wigs or ink?" the assassin hunter asked not being familiar with cosmetics, Y/n cocked a brow as she thought. "Yes through henna and katam." Shay gave her a confused look Y/n sighed and took off her gloves and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a very impressive tattoo on her hand.

Shay took her hand her to get a better look, if it wasn't fading he'd almost mistaken another glove, the lotus design was delicate the way the ink ringed around her fingers like lace was almost fairy-like. "This is mehndi art made with henna it's a type of dye made from tree dyes from India, it can also be used to change hair color...if mix with the right components." She explained the as the Irish man flipped her hand over to stare at the moon design on her wrist.

"How long does this usually last for?" He asked giving her hand back. "Well depending on type and quality three weeks? applying oils is a good way to extend it." Y/n stated as she put her gloves back on. *who'd thought that wedding tribute for my friend in India would come in handy?* She thought not noticing Shay's attention suddenly shifted to the window, in a split second the large man suddenly yanked Y/n towards him using his body to shield her from her window exploding; glass shards flew everywhere as rocks were thrown through the window! 

Followed by a woman screaming "PHILIP KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!?" then there was some struggling Shay pulled away from Y/n the two went the window to see what happened, the Irishman kept her behind him just in case. as they watched a hysterical woman throwing rocks at the funeral home, as a man and two women and adolescent boy struggled to control her.

"PHILIP COME OUT!" The man finally got a hold of her. "Stop this right now Sarah, Philip is dead!" the Sarah shook her head not believing him as the women pleaded with her to listen to her brother, she gasped seeing Y/n and Shay watching her "GIVE HIM BACK YOU WHORE!?!?" Sarah screeched ready to throw a another rock as her brother dragged her away.

the boy walked over over to the shattered window. "I...I'm sorry for my mother Miss Y/n, My aunt says they'll pay for the window..." The y/hc woman the boy off. "Don't worry about it I know it's not your mother's fault." She assured as they watched his aunts and uncle load his mother into a carriage. the boy then looked around making sure his mother couldn't hear.

"Is it true?"  

"Absolutely not, I'm not hiding your father..."

"No, not that I know fathers gone, I meant...I heard things about you being able to speak to the dead, solving murders?"

"I don't speak to dead, I speak for the dead and I swear on your father's resting soul, I will find out whose behind this and bring peace to your mother."

The boy thanked her and went to join his family, Y/n winced hears Mrs. McCray scream at the top of her lungs "I WON'T LET YOU HAVE MY BOY!?" before being restrained by her sisters-in law as her brother shook his head clearly at loss and tired of his sister fits, as they rode away...

"Speak for the dead, eh?" Shay queried sounding amused and intrigued as Y/n averted her eyes embarrassed /face red from embarrassment as she thought he'd gone to find her father once Mrs. McCray was whisked away, "Well being a death doula, that is what I do in a way..." they were suddenly interrupted by her father entering the study, wooden planks under one arm hammer and nails in the other "Except most death doulas don't go on path of Derring-do just because they think someones a killer." Y/n looked offended at her father's words.

"Well I wasn't wrong before!" she huffed agitating her father more. "Stay out of it." he warned boarding her window up, he then turned to their visitor. "And you've got your evidence Cormac, Now I suggest you take you leave." Shay bid the last name's farewell, but before he reached the door he was stopped by Y/n grabbing his arm "Mr. Cormac, when you find this man." She made her father wasn't listening; he'd blow a gasket if he found out she was meddling. 

"If possible I would like you to return him here," Shay's brows furrowed at this request, "Here, why?" he asked confused over why she would want the thief whose caused her so much disarray in her house. "I think it might help if Mrs. McCray saw "Philip" for herself." Irishman nodded seemly understanding what the y/nat woman was planning. "I'll see if can keep him in one piece." He noted Y/n hadn't let go of his arm. "Is there something else you wanted" The y/ht woman fidgeted for a moment.

"Erm...Yes, if it doesn't trouble you, perhaps I could help you again?" Shay blinked wondering if he heard right? meanwhile Y/n inner thoughts were going haywire. "You idiot, why would you ask him? no man wants the creepy undertaker’s daughter especially someone as handsome as-" Shay's broke through her pity party. "That wouldn't trouble me at all." Y/n up at Shay who looked equally startled by his words.

Cue an awkward starring contest before Y/n realized she was still holding his arm, letting him go the y/hc shyly averted her eyes to the floor/cheeks went pink, Shay was thankful for that she couldn't see the tips of his ears were red, he calmed himself before walking out of the funeral home. "I'll see you again." he promised before heading back to Haytham with his findings.  

[mcrflashfic]

Pumpkin Bread

Mikey’s arms and the familiar scent of home would slow him down, would bring him back and he’d hear, “Please don’t die.”

Author: @throwupsparkles

Content Warnings: Past/Implied Drug Use/Abuse

Word Count: 2,310

Gerard is still clutching his phone, knee bouncing anxiously when Mikey finally gets to his apartment.

Help.

Was all Mikey’s text had said. Gerard had been finally cleaning his paintbrushes, a chore that he despised and usually took all morning since he let the brushes pile up under coats of paint. He could always hear his high school art teacher chastising him for ruining the bristles. I like them that way, he’d think as if he was still seventeen.

Gerard had called Mikey as soon as his name lit up on the screen, but Mikey put him to voicemail and wrote.

On my way.

Gerard knew, he knew something was wrong. He couldn’t explain it anymore than he could explain how he could have a full conversation with Mikey only using glances and eyebrow raises.

Mikey lets himself in, using the third spare key that Gerard had given him. Mikey always loses things. He looks so small under the weight of his peacoat, scarf, and even his beanie makes him look like a kid. His kid brother.

He sort of just hovers by the closed door, and Gerard wants to get up and pull him in the rest of the way. But he doesn’t, somehow knowing that Mikey has to take those steps himself. He’s looking at the key in his shaky hand. A sob escapes his trembling lips and then he’s moving. And Gerard is moving. Planets rotate around each other until, crash, and there’s nothing but limbs tangling and Gerard is whispering, “It’s ok. You’re safe.”

Mikey had been the first one to know that Gerard was too far gone. It was a hard line to walk. Mikey grew up following Gerard around everywhere, like his extra few years of life had given him the magic keys to the kingdom. He didn’t know what to do with the fact that Gerard had thrown the keys away and was trampling in the woods at dark.

Gerard had given Mikey his first beer and laughed at him when his face twisted into disgust. Mikey had just held his breath and chugged, Gerard’s eyes grew proud at his little brother as he took his hand and led him further into a party that was too old for him. Mikey puked the next morning, Gerard was still drunk and kept feeding him animal crackers until Mikey lulled back to sleep under the calm blue lights of the television.

They called them the chemical brothers, and Mikey liked that they were a pair of twisted molecules held together by alcohol. Mikey didn’t understand why everyone thought they were doing drugs. Mikey just drank until it felt that his liver was going to run away and abandon him. Then he saw his brother’s eyes one night. Pupils large and full of too much pent up energy. Mikey sat with him all night while Gerard coated canvas after canvas with paint and spouted illogical rants about what was going to happen after he died.

The worst nights were the ones that Gerard spent away from Mikey, leaving him to pace his basement wondering if Gerard was dead somewhere, choking on his own vomit. But he’d know. He would know if there was something wrong. He still could feel that tug on the rope in his mind, the gentle pull of someone else thinking. Sometimes, like those nights, the pull was frantic and erratic. Those nights when Gerard finally came home, Mikey would take his shoes off for him and push him on the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin like if he tucked him into bed he’d be safe like a child. But Gerard wasn’t the child, he was. And it scared Mikey that his guide to the kingdom had gotten so lost that he was asking him for help.

“Do you want some coffee?” Gerard asks.

Mikey shakes his head, his bleached hair sticking into Gerard’s nostrils.

Right. Gerard couldn’t drink caffeine the first months after he stopped coke, scared the added jolt would explode his heart. It took awhile for him to trust his body again, for him to trust himself with his body.

“Tea?” Gerard tries.

Mikey nods.

Gerard moves back just far enough to put a hand on Mikey’s shoulder and steer him to the couch. He coaxes him to sit and pulls the tattered mustard blanket off the back of the couch to wrap around Mikey’s too bony shoulders.  

Gerard goes into the kitchen and searches his cabinets for something soothing, finding a sachet of lavender tea from back when he was dating a philosophy major who listened to Enya all the time. It was a lonely time in his life.

He opens the fridge and cuts two slices of pumpkin bread, puts them on a plate and coats them in apple butter. He pushes the lever on his electric kettle, watching it turn red and spur the water to life. He braces his hands on either side of it, watching it like it’ll tell him what to say to his detoxing brother.

He closes his eyes. He had known. He tried to talk to Mikey about it a few times. Why he was losing weight. Why his hands were shaking. Why he talked too much and fast. Why he was always asking to borrow money. He knew the tell tale signs, but never got it out of him. Maybe it was because Gerard was trying to keep himself busy so that his own demons couldn’t find room in his brain to nestle. Maybe it was too triggering for Gerard to be around Mikey when he was speeding. Either way, it was Gerard’s fault that it went on this long.

Mikey was always the stronger one.

Of course he’d be the one to seek help.

The level switches off and Gerard pulls down a mug and fills it with the steaming water. He drops the tea bag in, dunking it a few times before picking up the mug and plate and walking back to Mikey.

Mikey would barge into Gerard’s apartment sometimes when his calls went unanswered for too long. He would find Gerard up and walking around the house in clothes that he saw him in weeks ago, his hair matted and his fingertips stained from ink and too many cigarettes.

Mikey would pull Gerard into the shower fully clothed, shoes slipping on the porcelain. He’d find the perfect temperature and point it to Gerard’s face, holding him under the cascading water until Gerard’s frantic rants dialed down to whispers then soft cries.

Gerard felt numb, but would wake back up under the spray. Would feel Mikey’s arms holding him down. Feel his jaw move against Gerard’s temple, but couldn’t hear him just yet. He’d be so fuzzy, moving too fast for this world. It couldn’t keep up and hold him here. Mikey’s arms and the familiar scent of home would slow him down, would bring him back and he’d hear, “Please don’t die.”

Mikey sips on his tea, using both hands to cup the mug and wiggle his fingers like they were just waking up. Gerard supposes they were.

“How long?” Gerard asks softly.

“Was I using or how long have I been clean?”

Gerard frowns. “Both?”

Mikey keeps sipping his tea and Gerard knows the answer. Too long, and not long enough.

“Do you have stuff?” Gerard asks, “Where are your things?”

“At Ray’s still. I think. I haven’t been there in a few months, he might have thrown them out after I stopped paying rent.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

Gerard pushes the plate of bread near Mikey. Mikey frowns, puts down his tea and picks up a slice, bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite. “Did you make this?”

Gerard scoffs. “No.”

“Boyfriend?”

He shakes his head. “I help this old lady on the top floor with her groceries on Sunday after she gets back from church.”

Mikey’s eyes widen a bit, but the curve of the corner of his mouth lightens Gerard’s heart.

“Apple butter?”

“Farmer’s market.”

“I hardly know you anymore,” he says lightly, but the words are heavy.

Gerard lights a cigarette and tries to hide his trembling hands. His mouth quivers, so he turns and takes a drag. He feels hopeless that the small man next to him feels like home and a stranger all at once.

“Hey.”

Gerard turns.

“I’m sorry,” Mikey says, and he means it. It’s not a pathetic apology that is fueled by drugs after your mind catches up to what you’ve done. It’s not an apology to just keep you around because you’re fuel to the addiction. Mikey’s eyes are tired, his lips are cracked, and his skin is too pale.

Gerard puts a hand around the back of his neck, thumb pushing on his pulse. Alive.

“I am too.”

They don’t talk much after that. Gerard puts on some late night cartoons on Cartoon Network and Mikey leans back on the couch so that his legs are rested in Gerard’s lap. Mikey is asleep before they get to the first commercial break.

Gerard didn’t realize he had a problem until he yelled at his boyfriend the next morning after a bender for doing the last of the coke. He never knew that kind of rage, the kind that made him blind and feel like his blood was boiling out of his skin. He had screamed and threw cups, “How could you be so selfish!” And in the end they ended up driving to a friend’s house so Gerard could get a bump.

The car ride home was quiet and Gerard’s mind was spinning, not just from the drugs.

When had he become this person?

Mikey’s neck must be getting stiff from resting it against the arm of the couch, so Gerard slides out from under his legs and slips his arms under his knees and against his back. He winces at the prominent spine he feels. He carries Mikey into his room, the only real bedroom since the other two have turned into a mix of studio space and junk room. He lays him down and Mikey stirs a bit when Gerard is unlacing his shoes.

“I can take the couch,” Mikey murmurs.

Gerard shakes his head and puts his shoes by the nightstand. “Go back to sleep.”

Mikey’s eyes flutter shut.

The worst night was when Gerard had called Mikey.

“I feel like someone is pulling my hair back and trying to restart my brain,” Gerard slurred.

Mikey pushed his fist in his mouth to keep from sobbing, then said as calmly as he could, “How much have you done?”

“All day,” he had answered.

“Where are you?”

“Kansas?” Gerard asked, “There’s a small dog. Like Toto.”

Mikey had gotten on his computer and started typing into Google. “What else? Are you at a bar? Someone’s house?”

“Bar. It’s bright. I didn’t think you could bring a dog into a bar.”

“Might be a service animal.”

“Can you get one of those to just, hug? Because I need hugs.”

Mikey’s heart broke. “What else, Gerard?” he whispered.

“60s vibes. Marylin is on the wall.”

Mikey typed. “New York or Jersey?”

“New York. I haven’t been to Jersey in…”

Yeah, Mikey knew. He hadn’t seen his brother in months. Hadn’t talked to him in weeks. He just kept feeling the rope, tugged it just to make sure someone on the other end pulled back.

Still here.

“Is there a menu? A sign, cocktail napkin?”

There was a pause then, “Johnny Hams.”

“Awful name.”

Gerard hummed in agreement.

“Be there in about…thirty five mintues,” Mikey promised, “Stay there.”

Gerard hung up and Mikey ran to the station. He sat on the hard plastic seat, knee bouncing as he kept tugging on the rope.

Still here.

He found Gerard in the bathroom, sitting in a stall, his head against the tiles.

Mikey sat next to him and placed a hand on his knee. “Ready to go home.”

Gerard lulled his head towards him, eyes wide but dead and a grim smile stretching his lip. “There’s no place like home.”

Gerard isn’t surprised that it takes Mikey until two in the afternoon to wake up. When he does, he’s quiet and comes to sit at the breakfast bar where Gerard is filling a cup of coffee. He turns and flicks on the kettle.

“Sleep well?”

Mikey nods.

“Call mom?”

He shakes his head.

“This evening?”

He shrugs.

Gerard hums and goes to the fridge to cut more pumpkin bread.

“I never thanked you,” Gerard breathes as he cuts into the loaf.

“Now’s your chance.”

Gerard’s vision goes blurry and he has to put down the bread knife and wipe at his eyes. He’s spiraling into self loathing. Hating himself for not knowing what to do here when Mikey knew exactly what to do to fix Gerard. He knew what he needed. Had pulled him out of that bar bathroom and locked him into his home until he forgot what the drip tasted like. Had kept him away from bottles of clear liquid that burned away his insecurities. Had changed the sheets over and over after Gerard sweated through the night, crying out at demons. Battle cries some nights, sobs and pleas other nights. Mikey sat in the arm chair in the corner of the room, watching. Tugging even though he could see Gerard.

Still here.

Mikey’s arms come around Gerard now. “Not your fault,” he whispers, pressing his lips into his hair.

Gerard held him close for a moment, pressing his face in his neck and breathing in the scent of home. He’s felt so lost for months, pulling on that rope just to get a weak shift at the other end. He closes his eyes and tugs.

Mikey pulls.

Still here.

[thetirisfaltheatretroupe]

[Script Archive] Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale

"Hellsqueal, the "True" Warchief's Tale" <<The following is a play that has been retired from the Tirisfal Theatre’s library, and will only reoccur for private events for the foreseeable future. This script has been placed here so that those who enjoyed the play or wish to perform it themselves may do so. Credit for this comedic performance goes to the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe>>  < Scroll to the bottom for trivia surrounding this place, as well as our original poster! >

CHARACTERS: Narrator, Grom (for one line), Garrosh, Thrall, Mag'har 1, Mag'har 2, Baine, Gamon, Sylvanas, Saurfang, Vol'jin, Taran Zhu, The Kor'kron with the Dictionary

<Our scene opens up with the narration> 

[Narrator:] It was said, that when Garrosh Hellscream was born...every shaman in the Warsong Clan came together to bestow a blessing upon him for strength- No...not because he was the great Grom's child... But because the baby looked so awful and ugly they needed to make sure he would not self drown himself. To Grom, however, he was so moved that the Shaman felt a sense of importance for his baby that he took young Garrosh and rose him to the sky gave out a passionate cry the spirits!

<Grom enters from stage left>

[Grom]: Ancestors! Upon this day, my son is born! May his fate ironically be my own! <Grom leaves the scene>

[Narrator]: At the time, he had no idea what irony was, and figured it was another word for honor... Grommash later discovered the true meaning of irony, shrugged, and figured it did not matter.

<the Narrator paces back and forth> 

[Narrator]: Ahh yes. But who can truly forget why we so “loved�� our former..former...uh fooormer Warchief? Let us begin with his humble origins those many moons ago where it all began. When the Horde rediscovered the brown orc known as The Mag'har in Outlands, Nagrand..

<Enter Mag'har 1, 2, and Garrosh > 

  <Mag'har 1 & 2 are chatting across from Garrosh, Garrosh is next to a basic campfire sitting down and crying>

[Garrosh]: Oh, woe is me! My father, great Grom Hellscream, is such a disgrace! The greatmother is going to die soon and there's nothing we can do about it! Life --<he dramatically approaches the audience and lays on the ground> IT IS NOT WORTH LIVING! 

  [Mag'har 1]: <facepalms> Great. Here he goes again, more mellowdrama.

  [Mag'har 2]: Think if we tell him the greatmother died and watch his reaction, it'll be good enough to make up for the fact that he'll probably reconfigure our heads after he finds out we were lying? 

  [Mag'har 1]: He'll probably cry his own head off because we made fun of him. <both orcs laugh and continue jabbering, enter Thrall stage left> [Thrall]: FEAR NOT, MAG'HARI ! Thrall, son of Durotan, has returned to his people! Surely you are all hard at work defending our precious homeland... and... 

 </e looks between the two grunts.> What in the name of Rend Blackhand's severed head is going on here? Why are you all not ...valiantly and proudly defending our people from the demons? 

  [Mag'har 1]: Oh. We're um...we're on holiday. 

  [Mag'har 2]: We are? <#1 nudges him> Oh, right. Yeah, this is our day off. Hellscream's orders. 

  [Thrall]: Hellscream? Ah! You must mean the one of Grom's proud and noble line! Tell me...is he a noble, <Garrosh picks his nose> And Strong,.. <Garrosh sucks his thumb loudly> And a proud  warrior who stands FEARLESSLY and defiantly against the demonic lords of the world just as Grommash did? <Garrosh scratches his butt>

[Mag'har 1]: Well, you have the defiant part down. Defiant to you, defiant to me. [Thrall]: And... And what about the demons?

[Mag'har 2]: The demons? Hrm. <he faces Mag'har 1 and shrugs> I haven't even seen him come face to face with any demons lately, have you?

[Mag'har 1]: I think he spat in one's eye just last week! Wait, no no, that was Elder Grapuul. He also ran him through - I have the head in my room along with a necklace made from his entrails if you wanna see.

[Thrall]: Ahhh no.... no-Ha ha thank you. That won't be needed! I would much rather speak to brave Hellscream. So please...keep all that to yourself.

[Mag'har 1]: You sure? The entrail necklace is far more interesting. If you listen closely, you can still hear the demon screaming "PLEASE ANYTHING BUT THAT!".

</e grows tired of this> [Thrall]: Look. Can you point me to PROUD and NOBLE Hellscream or not? <both Mag'har shrug and point at Garrosh>

<Thrall leaves their company and the two walk away snickering> [Mag'har 2]: <to Mag'har 1> Did you really save the entrails?

[Mag'har 1]: Of course! Wait, you don't? <Thrall waits as the two leave, and then turns to the moping Garrosh> 

  [Thrall]: Young Hellscream, the Warchief of the Horde... stands before you. Surely you know of our presence here in Garadar.

[Garrosh]: Leave me alone! I'm busy suckling my thumb. I was suckling on the right one earlier, but it became swollen, so I'm working on the other one. 

  [Thrall]: That's... </e scratches the side of his beard.> -fascinating. So you're Grom's boy...

[Garrosh]: <stands up and becomes completely over the top, irrationally angry> DO NOT DARE MENTION MY FATHER'S NAME! I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM SO MUCH I COULD... I COULD... <Garrosh breaks down for about 30 seconds crying, throwing a fit - add chosen creative styles of improv here, ending with him sitting with his back turned to the audience and crying more, Thrall moving in to place a hand on his shoulder> [Thrall]: There there. You uh...you want a nap? 

  [Garrosh]: Uh-uh.

[Thrall]: You...want a snaaack?

[Garrosh]: No. </e perks up. Idea!>

[Thrall]: Yooou want a belly rub?

[Garrosh]: <abruptly> What?

[Thrall]: NOTHING! Nothing at all. Juuuust going through a list of things I do to get my worg to calm down! Good ol' snack , nap and belly rub...Uh Alright look, the run-time for this production  isn't going to let us run this gag forever so HERE YOU GO! BEHOLD! 

<place campfire toy of choice down and put a green smoke flare over it> 

A VISION OF THE FIGHT BETWEEN YOUR FATHER, GROMMASH HELLSCREAM, AND THE DEMON LORD MANNOROTH!

<Both Garrosh and Thrall's actors pretend he is watching Grom gut Mannoroth pausing for a few seconds between lines> [Garrosh]: WOW! 

  [Thrall]: Yeah!

[Garrosh]: Sheesh!

[Thrall]: I know, right? 

  [Garrosh]: That's a lot of blood! 

[Thrall:] So you see young Hellscream... your father, Grommash Hellscream, was not a disgrace like you thought. He was a hero to our people, because he gave his -life- to undo the curse that bound our rage. 

  [Garrosh]: Forget that, he's not a disgrace because he made that Pit Lord axeplode!

[Thrall]: He did the what now.

[Garrosh]: Didn't you see it? It exploded into fel sparks or whatever after it dumped about fifty gallons of blood! It's right there, rewind it!

[Thrall]: Oookay.. </e puts his hand out and starts to spin it. Que rewinding noises as he sifts through the vision like a tape.> [Thrall]: Right there? 

  [Garrosh]: Yeah, now pause! 

  [Thrall]: I do not really think the Ancestors would approve this abuse of of-

[Garrosh]: <VERY ANGRILY> I said PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUSE! 

  [Thrall]: </ exhales.> Alright, fine. FINE! You whiny little little son of a...-there.- </e opens his hand, palm out. Symbolizing that he has stopped or “paused” the vision.>

[Garrosh]: Ooohoo..yeah. That's the stuff. Look at all that gore. I think I see a chunk of his liver flying off to the side. 

  [Thrall]: Actually, I think that might be his glubok.... 

  [Garrosh]: What's a glubock? 

  [Thrall]: You're out here fighting demons and know nothing about their anatomy? Look, right there. That is his plumbos, and that right there is well-...ah ha you'll know when you're older. 

[Garrosh]: Think you can copy this to a powder or something so I can watch it anytime I want? 

  [Thrall]: <insert lightning effect – Akunda's firesticks behind the actor works> ENOUGH! Hellscream, join my Horde! Fight alongside me, and together, we will make a prosperous future for our people!

[Garrosh]: And then can I have a copy?

[Thrall]: <facepalms> Why do I get the feeling I invited a baboon to hold a high rank over my people? <The Narrator pipes in> [Narrator]: And so it was that Garrosh, son of Grom, wiffer of bad odors and obsessive compulsive gore fanatic, joined the Horde. Before long, Garrosh had been introduced to the tauren, orcs, trolls, elves, and undead that made up the Horde at the time. But to what avail did introducing a warrior based on his lineage into the ranks of the Horde lead? While this narrator questions the decision, we ALL know he was just so amazing in Northrend. <Enter Saurfang and Garrosh, both reading maps> [Saurfang]: Alright, you remember the plan, right?

[Garrosh]: Yeah. 

  [Saurfang]: And you're going to stick to it this time, right? 

  [Garrosh]: Mhm.

[Saurfang]: No more of that funny business from earlier? 

  [Garrosh]: Not even. 

  [Saurfang]: <sighs heavily> Alright. Maps closed. <Saurfang closes his map, Garrosh keeps his open>

[Saurfang]: Closed! 

  [Garrosh]: Oh, uh, right. <closes his map> Alright, so I understand the plan, and I know what my part in it is. But just in case, I'll need you to go over the entire thing again. Just so we're clear.

[Saurfang]: Thrall's balls, you're dense! Look at your map again. <both orcs open their maps simutaniously> [Saurfang]: <points to a certain location on the map> See this? That's the Trail of Bones, Southern Icecrown. Our plan is to send our flank in through there, but have the extra forces move along the path to the East while we engage the enemy. 

  [Garrosh]: Right.

[Saurfang]: Once the others have made their way fully around, we trap the enemy forces within our two units. Then we wait for reinforcements, and press further North until we reach the Saronite Gates blocking our entry into the overlook of the Storm Peaks. It will be an ideal spot to set up an encampment until Orgrim's Hammer is flown into Icecrown and-- ...are you paying any attention to this at all? 

  [Garrosh]: <pauses for a few moments> Ye--....yes. But the mountains you speak of are all to the South. 

  [Saurfang]: <Grabs the map, turns it around> Now?

[Garrosh]: <pauses for a few moments again> Hrm. Seems to be in order. But just in case, can you repeat that ONE more time? 

  [Saurfang]: <spits and crumbles his map up> I can't do this anymore. I have better battle strategies with my axe than I do with him... <exits>

[Garrosh]: <chases after him> Wait! Old one, let us discuss this over a meal of hearty pork! Wait, no no, you don't like pork. I mean ham! Ham is what I meant! <as both orcs exit, the narrator returns to the stage> [Narrator]: Yes, the war in Northrend was handled quite well by our “handsome”, “completely competent leader.” Why, it only cost the lives of several thousand young orcs, who saw him as a hero afterward. When the time came for Thrall to step down as Warchief and answer the call of the elements, he called together his greatest minds and leaders... ...To decide who should become warchief in his stead.

<enter Thrall, Garrosh, Saurfang, Gamon, Vol'jin, and Sylvanas>

[Thrall]: Fate... is truly unkind, as I must now venture to hone my mastery of the elements... In my stead, however, who shall lead our people? I am ….. Conflicted.

[Garrosh]: <jumping up and down> Oh, me! Me! Pick me! 

  [Thrall]: Should any of you desire this very important, critical task of the Warchief's mantle, you should be capable for the task.

[Garrosh]: Pick me! Over here! 

  [Thrall]: Anyone? Saurfang! I thought I saw your hand up. No? How about...Ah! What about you Sylvanas? 

[Sylvanas]: I'd rather chop my arms off.

[Thrall:] Okay then, I could do without the passive aggressiveness. 

[Garrosh]: OVER HERE!

[Thrall]: Wellll... if no one wants it, I'll give it to Gamon! He'll save us!

[Gamon]: Actually, Gamon wishes to abstain from this discussion. Gamon isn't even sure why Gamon is here. 

[Garrosh]: <Throws something at Thrall – Happy Fun Rock, Pigskin, etc. > PICK! ME! 

  [Thrall]: Pfgh-Alright, fine. Garrosh, do -YOU- want the mantle?

[Garrosh]: YES! <pauses> Wait, no no, I'm not worthy.

[Thrall]: <Sighs deeply> Okay... Then who else will take this--

[Garrosh]: WAIT! I change my mind! 

  [Thrall]: Very well ! Garrosh. Come forth and recieve-- 

  [Garrosh]: <turns away dramatically> No, change my mind once again.

[Thrall]: By my Doomhammer, Garrosh! You're not a damn cat, are you in or out? 

  [Garrosh]: <pauses> I'm in. <turns to Thrall, everyone cheers> No, no wait, I'm out. <turns away, everyone facepalms/cries/etc.>

[Thrall]: Heeey Garrosh! Lookie lookie what I goooot! </e slowly pulls out the Gorehowl. From where? Who cares! He's a shaman.> Seeee it? Waaaant it? Gotta haaave it? 

  [Garrosh]: OOH! The axe that makes demons axe-plode!

[Thrall]: Your...your father's axe, actually. I figured this would have some significant meaning to you or something...you know.. 

  [Garrosh]: Forget that, I have me a brand new axe! <pushes Thrall away> I'm so happy with this thing, I feel like I can Warchief now! In fact, from this day forward, I am the new Warchief of the Horde! </e looks to the others and shrugs.> 

  [Thrall]: Well ! Fine by me. Who wants a round of cherry grog before I leave for Nagrand? My treat. <they all leave except for Garrosh, who is flexing> 

  [Garrosh]: Cherry grog? OOOH! ME ME! PICK ME! <runs after them> <the narrator returns to the stage> [Narrator]: Yes, the taverns were lively that day as word of our new hero and guardian, Garrosh Hellscream, spread like wildfire on a tauren's back. No offense to any tauren in our audience, of course. In the months to follow, a great cataclysm shook the foundation of Azeroth. Cities crumbled, livestock died, and the barrens turned into a great place for a weenie roast. Garrosh Hellscream was amidst rebuilding Orgrimmar one day when he was confronted by a most difficult decision. <enter Garrosh and Vol'jin, Garrosh looking at some papers> [Garrosh]: ...I still can't read this damn map. How is that mountain up North? 

  [Vol'jin]: Ey mon, you said you be needin' old Vol'jin? To what end?

[Garrosh]: Oh, yeah, you. See, you know how your people are all over my city, eating my food and buying my materials off of my auction house to make their magic carpets and mechano-hogs? <Garrosh spits off to the side> [Vol'jin]: Yours? Who da hell you tink you are? 

  [Garrosh]: Your mother, now listen. See, that's gonna stop. Cuz I mean, it's really hard for me to run the Horde when I go to the local bar and the last of the Cherry Grog is bought out by one of your random lackeys. 

  Were it a tauren? Maybe I'd let it slide a bit. An orc? You bet your ass I'd let it slide. But you trolls, you... 

  <Garrosh turns his back and Vol'jin approaches him seemingly holding back his anger and gesturing threateningly at him, stopping when Garrosh turns around to face him after angry gestures are made> [Vol'jin]: ...we're what? Get on wit it, you speak slowa dan you look. <Garrosh turns his back again and starts rambling. As he speaks, Vol'jin begins to make taunting gestures while he is turned> [Garrosh]: ...hrm. You know, I never gave it any thought, really. You're...all a bunch...of...people...with... <he turns around and Vol'jin stops the taunting and smiles, then turns again, Vol'jin doing a number of other taunting gestures - go big or go home!> [Garrosh]: ...with blue skin and...tusks? No, that's not what bugs me. You trolls are...

<Garrosh turns around again, Vol'jin acting innocent, then turns again, Vol'jin doing one taunting action>

[Garrosh]: So... <rinse and repeat> [Garrosh]: Uh... <And again> [Garrosh]: TWO-TOED! Yeah, you only have two toes on every foot, haha! 

[Vol'jin]: And you only have two brain cells on your feet - make o'dat what you will. 

  [Garrosh]: <gets threatening> WHY YOU INSOLENT-- 

  [Vol'jin]: Define eet. 

  [Garrosh]: Wait, what? 

  [Vol'jin]: De word you jus used, mon. Define 'insolent' since you like usin' it.

[Garrosh]: Don't be absurd, I'm the Warchief, of course I know what insolence is! It's what YOU'RE being right now!

[Vol'jin]: Yes, but what does eet mean? Explain to me, mah toes an' I just ain't as smart as de Warchief. 

  [Garrosh]: It...um...GUARD, BRING ME A DICKENER...er...DICTIONARY! <A Kor'kron comes in, kneeling before Garrosh and handing him a book>

[Garrosh]: <flips through the pages> Let's see...here it is! A pep...tide hormone produced by cells of the pancreas and is central to regulating...carboh...hydr...   

<Garrosh yells at the Kor'kron> 

THIS IS A GOBLIN MEDICAL DICKENER! UNACCEPTABLE! I'll burn you at the stake later! <the Kor'kron runs away crying> [Vol'jin]: Know dis, Garrosh. De way you runnin' da Horde? You gonna fall hard. You gonna fall fast. An' when you fall, it gonna hurt dat small head o' yours. And...something about a black arrow piercing your heart or...I dunno, what was I talkin' about?

[Garrosh]: Insulin?

[Vol'jin]: Oh, right, de meanin' o' dat word by de way is 'rude or disrespectful behavia'. See ya lata, mon. 

  <Vol'jin leaves> [Garrosh]: That was my SECOND guess! <Garrosh walks away, and the Narrator arrives once more on stage>

[Narrator]: In time, the Forsaken Warfront had gained a considerable advantage over the forces of Gilneas. Lady Sylvanas had a solution for the plight of her people so Garrosh came to give that plan a goooood once over... <Enter Garrosh and Sylvanas> [Garrosh]: This better be important, Sylvanas! I'm missing my goblin soaps for this-- I mean...I'm missing the chance to crush Alliance skulls between my thighs! <Garrosh flexes and Sylvanas facepalms> [Sylvanas]: Actually, I'm just here to tell you I found a solution to the Forsaken's plight, as the narrator just said. See, the Forsaken, being undead, are without the ability to reproduce, so to replenish our numbers, I-- 

  [Garrosh]: <gets uncomfortably close to Sylvanas> I ever tell you about the time I skinned a boar with my teeth? 

  [Sylvanas]: ...no. I don't particularly care to hear the story either. Now as I was saying, I-- 

  <Garrosh begins flexing as Sylvanas begins speaking and she rolls her eyes and waits for him to stop (flex three times facing different angles> [Garrosh]: Yeeeep, takes a lot of work to keep the guns in shape. Diet and exercise, and I drink plenty of juice. And if the bar ain't bending, you're just pretending. Yeeeep. [Sylvanas]: I'm sure you do all of that and more while you're listening to your radio romance dramas. Now focus on the task at hand. 

  [Garrosh]: You like Cherry Grog, Sylvanas? <he gets uncomfortably close again and flexes>

[Sylvanas]: I don't care to answer that. Anyway, my newly employed Valk'yr can raise the--

[Garrosh]: You...uh... ever seen a grown orc naked before, Sylvanas?

[Sylvanas]: What?! 

  [Garrosh]: I...said...you have that bone pork crated, Sylvanas?

[Sylvanas]: Can you focus for more than five fractions of a second? I'm trying to tell you how I plan to bolster my forces and combat the worgen packs of Gilneas!

[Garrosh]: Oh. I see how it is. <Garrosh walks away> You disappoint me, Sylvanas. You can have the alpha, yet you keep chasing the betas of the pack. Literally! 

[Sylvanas]: Warchief, are you implying that I have some sick personal obsession with the enemy aside from unleashing a wholesale slaughter? 

  [Garrosh]: CLEVER Bitch I MIGHT be! You're grounded, no Blight!

[Sylvanas]: You're an imbecile! 

  [Garrosh]: And you smell! <he pauses and sniffs his pits> No, wait, that's me. I haven't bathed in at least a week. I'll go do that now. <he leaves, but pauses halfway> 

[Garrosh]: ...nah, I'll do it next week. <Garrosh and Sylvanas exit the stage, and the Narrator arrives> [Narrator]:  With Garrosh largely responsible for the death of the loved Cairne Bloodhoof, many of the tauren went from being only politely and slightly disgruntled with the new Warchief to actually ...frowning at him for a change. Maybe even glaring at him! However...Baine Bloodhoof, son of Cairne, took the gentle people's anger into his own hands one day... <enter Baine and Garrosh>

[Baine]: Garrosh! We must speak at once!

[Garrosh]: Go away, lunch isn't for another three hours and I'm sick of steak. 

  [Baine]: <points at Garrosh> No, no more 'beef' or 'steak' jokes. I get enough of those from the idle elves that come to complete tasks I give out in order to gain favor enough with my people to purchase noble kodo... ...that they will probably leave in a stable and not feed or take care of for months on end! I tolerated your actions against my father because he agreed to your terms of mortal combat, and you at least helped rid the bluff of the traitorous Grimtotem!

<Sylvanas enters from stage left and waves at the audience, points to Garrosh, and faces the audience and nods, then snickers, inching closer to Garrosh every time Baine speaks. Garrosh is none the wiser and continues to face Baine. Vol'jin is also there, snickering and giving a thumbs up to Sylvanas, emotively encouraging her to pull the prank> [Baine]: <nods at Sylvanas and clears his throat> Where was I? Oh, yes. I found THIS...on my doorstep! <Baine tosses a smouldering satchel of a foul smelling substance at Garrosh's feet> [Baine]: Explain why this sack of worg fecal matter was burning at my doorstep this morning! 

[Garrosh]: What? That? I didn't do it. 

[Baine]: <shows Garrosh a letter> This has "From Garrosh" written on the front of it. 

[Garrosh]: That could be anyone!

[Baine]: It has your complete set of dental records and the phrase "It was totally 'm'" written inside. 

  [Garrosh]: Damn, I ALWAYS forget the 'e' in 'me'. 

  [Baine]: Aha! So you admit to this atrocity! 

  [Garrosh]: Admit to...? Oh, oh that, yes. Well, you see, I had to send the message to you that your people smell like burning shit somehow. Or... <he sniffs himself and shivers> 

[Garrosh]: ...I still haven't taken that shower. Nevermind, but my statement still stands. <Sylvanas gently pins a sign on Garrosh's back, snickers, and runs away> [Baine]: Know this, Garrosh. The day will come when you will answer for this attrocity. And when that happens, I will be sure to have a steaming sack of kodo leavings to set ablaze with the fury of the ancestors! <he begins to walk away> Oh, and Cherry Grog tastes AWFUL! There, I said it!

[Garrosh]: <goes into a fury> YOU TAKE THAT BACK! YOU TAKE THAT RIGHT THE HELL BACK! Tauren! I'm talking to you! I'm--wait, what's this on my back? <Garrosh rips the sign off as Baine exits stage right and reads it> [Garrosh]: "Kick me, I'm an ogre headed bafoon"? What? Hrm, there's something written on the back. 'PS: Vol'jin says 'hi'. What? <Garrosh suddenly gets hit by an arrow in the back, and yanks it out, unraveling a note tied to it> 

  [Garrosh]: "I mean 'die', the 'h' was just a 'd' and 'i' that came out wrong." What the Thok? WHO IS SENDING THESE?! <Garrosh gets hit by another arrow to the knee and yanks it out, unraveling the note on that arrow>

  [Garrosh]: ..."Your mother"? MOM! Why would you do this?!? 

<he cries and exits stage left, the Narrator arriving once more> 

[Narrator]:  Many moons have passed and soon the war in Pandaria was in full swing. It was the morning of Garrosh's greatest ah... “Triumph”, to him at least. In what was once a tranquil place, he arrives in The Vale of Eternal Blossoms, and sought to command powers greater than he could even possibly comprehend in that brain of his. This backfired quite a bit on him when confronted by Pandaria's most “happening” guardian. 

<The scene opens with Hellscream approaching the stage, singing to himself>

[Garrosh]: Storm~! Black clouds fill the sky, Earth, I hear my battle cry, Fire! And thunder will bring forth DEATH from the power of MY HORDE!~ Hahaha--eh?

 <Taran Zhu suddenly appears before Garrosh> 

[Taran Zhu]: ENOUGH! You have been allowed to cause havok for far too long, Hellscream!

[Garrosh]: Eh? Oh great, not another fat guy. 

[Taran Zhu]: I am Taran Zhu, lord of the Shado-Pan! I have observed your Horde since your people first brought havoc to my land and-- 

<pauses as Garrosh pulls out a pot labeled 'Hunny'> What...just...what are you doing? 

[Garrosh]: You're a bear, aren't you? Here, I'll give you this if you let me pass by. 

[Taran Zhu]: ... <throws a shuriken at the pot and breaks it> I have no patience for your inferior mind games, Hellscream! 

[Garrosh]: <in a fury> YOU WRETCH! Do you realize how expensive honey is?! That does it, now you're in for it! 

[Taran Zhu]: <takes a battle-ready stance> Indeed. Let us end this once and for all, no more formalities... <Garrosh narrows his eyes, then snaps his fingers>

[Garrosh]: HIT IT! <A 'chill beat' begins to play> [Taran Zhu]: What the--

[Garrosh]: Hellscream's the name, I ain't playing your game! You better give up now, but it's all the same! You'll be dead when I bust my Warchief rhymes for you, and when I'm done Gorehowl will split you up in two! You're a Shado-Pan? Big deal there buddy, I've got three frying pans in the kitchen, see! I'm a Warchef - I mean a Warchief, sorry. Been playing with that gag too much and now my mind's all tarry. [Taran Zhu]: <While Hellscream is still rapping, no pause> Tarry?

[Garrosh]: But I'm still fifty times the rhymes you are! I brought the Heart of Y'saarj up here, you can't get that far! You're too fat, it ain't muscle, don't you go lying - cuz if the bar ain't bendin' you ain't even trying! 

I'm the son of Grom, you aren't on my list - the most I know about you is that you made me pissed! So give it a try and then you die, at that hands of Hellscream, I'll make you cry. <Taran Zhu blinks and awkwardly picks up the microphone that Garrosh drops at his feet> 

[Taran Zhu]: I...am...unfamiliar with how this game is played, but I'll...best you at it, pay you back in spades! I am calm as a crane, the Shado-Pan my flock. Hardy as steel, earth and rock! You know so little about the powers you tempt, and so from my mercy you will be exempt! The Thunder King's forces could not stop me at all, so your divided Horde will surely fall! Like a snake in the grass I'll strike unseen, and kick your donkey - wait, ass, oh YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! None have survived a true battle with me, between my skill and cunning and mastery of chi! 

Your father tempted powers beyond reckoning as well, where is he? Oh right, suckling the dirt on your family tree! <Taran Zhu drops the mic in an epic fashion, Garrosh standing speechless'>

[Garrosh]: You take that back! You...take that back! That was mean! <Garrosh begins to cry> Too far! You always have to take things too far, you're freaking mental!

[Taran Zhu]: Uh...so I win? Yes, of course I win! <gets serious again> Ahem, I knew that. Hellscream, now that I have bested you at your own game, you will answer for your crimes and... ...would you please... get off the ground and at least take this seriously? No, I would feel awful about hurting a completely vulnerable opponent, even if you are an asshole. 

  [Garrosh]: <begins to suck his thumb again> No YOU'RE an asshole, asshole! So mean! I think I'm just gonna lie down here now. <Taran Zhu scratches the back of his head> [Taran Zhu]: You uh...have a spider on your shoulder.

[Garrosh]: <jumps> AHHH! WHERE?! WHAT KIND?!

[Taran Zhu]: <gets in a sneak attack> IT'S A TARANZHULA! <knocks Hellscream off the stage> There. I knew he was faking it...

< begins to walk off stage, stops, then picks up the mic he dropped earlier and shrugs > 

My name is Taran Zhu, and I'm here to say...oh forget it, this is TOO absurd. <tosses the mic behind him into the fountain> <the Narrator returns to the stage> 

[Narrator]: Yes...Hellscream, truly, has left an everlasting impression upon the Horde one so great that during those events on the Isle of Thunder, a revolution was established. On the day of his final downfall, Garrosh stood before Thrall one final time in defiance..... 

 <The scene opens up with Thrall staring down Garrosh> 

[Thrall]: Garrosh...you disappointed me. 

[Garrosh]: What? 

[Thrall]: You tortured the elements. You divided our people. You disgraced the Horde with your …-warmongering-! 

[Garrosh]: Hey, in my defense, people LIKED the warmongering! 

[Thrall]: Wha-? 

[Garrosh]: Yeah! I mean, it got us land. Resources. We didn't have as many territory issues. I fed our people who were starving in the desert. I mean, yeah, the trolls were kind of oppressed, but they only have two toes so who cares?

[Thrall]: ME!! I CARE! </e points to HIMSELF>  

[Garrosh]: Well what are you gonna do about it? You MADE me warchief after all. I mean, this whole thing is your fault. 

[Thrall]: Y- Wait, what? 

[Garrosh]: Yeah, I mean...I'm not perfect, but I did the job you gave me.

 <Sylvanas, Vol'jin, and Taran Zhu approach from the side stage>

[Sylvanas]: He's got a point, Thrall. 

[Vol'jin]: Ya, joo kinda dropped de ball on dat one. 

[Thrall]: Now hold on a minute-! 

[Garrosh]: I mean, if you hadn't made me Warchief, things would have been a bit different. I'd probably still be an obedient dog in your army instead of where I am now. 

[Taran Zhu]: So it is all clear now. YOU are the problem, Thrall! 

[Thrall]: Are you all listening to yourselves- WAIT-! 

[Garrosh]: Yeah, it's totally him! Now uh...I'm just gonna go get some snacks for everyone so, wait right here and--<tries to tiptoe away> 

[Sylvanas]: GET THEM BOTH! <all three begin to chase Thrall and Garrosh around the stage. One lap around the pavilion and then one through the audience.> 

[Thrall]: Aaaaaaah! THE END, I GUESS?! <END>

TRIVIA!

Hellsqueal was the very first major production ever produced and publicly performed by the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe. It was written by Atos Sunhart as a propaganda play for the troupes of Vol’jin’s Revolution, and premiered originally in October of 2013, during the week the final wing of Siege of Orgrimmar LFR opened! The final scene was intended to be comically prophetic, as there was a lot of talk about server canon at the time that the Siege was still technically going on.

The original run of Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale was performed at the Razor Hill Barracks, and by a cast of no more than 4 people, all playing multiple roles at a time. It was written so that it could be done by a relatively small cast, with enough roles to suffice for a larger cast if need be.

Our original Sylvanas was played by a pandaren. Just a fun tidbit.

Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale, has spawned two sequels, and the Hellsqueal character himself has appeared in several other plays of ours since. Moving forward we still plan to use the character from time to time.

By the time the play was performed, the Troupe was already a formed guild for over two years. However, recruitment for it had not started until two months leading up to the play’s release. As this was our first performance as a functioning guild, Hellsqueal marked the true birth of the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe, and as such we have celebrated our anniversary on the third Friday of every October since.

There is a missing scene that was added to the play during our second year of performing. In this scene, Lorthemar confronted Garrosh about his horrible spelling errors, and how he wrote his occupation down as ‘Warchef’. This scene also involved a hozen doctor named Dr. Ook-and-Pook. This scene is missing because, well, no one can find the copy of the script anymore with said scene written. Another scene involving Gallywix was worked on, but never finished, as we believed it would bloat the runtime far too much.

[onkey-bedtime-stories]

Stronger

This one is for my anon who requested #18. Angst always killing me but I hope you like it :)

Prompt is from this list 

—————————————

“It’s okay to cry..”

Jinki cannot help but blurted out the words after seeing Kibum kept pacing back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, the kitchen to the laundry room, the laundry room to the reading room, the reading room back to the living room, but then jumped out from the couch after not until five minutes sitting on it.

He ended up standing alone at the porch facing the crisp air of a solemn autumn evening, battling with his own head, the urge to run away to nowhere suppress him to the edge of his patience.

And there is Jinki, who calmly approaching with his soothing presence, but slowly wrecking the tall fortress he built to shield his soul from the pity of others eyes.

“You don’t need to be this strong all the time. You’re a human, Kibum.”

“If I’m not this strong, how do you think I can walk through my day?”

“Who do you think I am?”

Jinki’s sad eyes are mirroring his disappointment and all the weary feeling that had been washing him since the morning.

“Three years ago I promised you that whatever happened to you, to me, to us, I will be there, bearing all the strength left in my vein to take your hand and help you to pass all those shit tackling you on the way. Didn’t I?”

Kibum’s mind wandered for couple of second to the happiest day of his life, when Jinki smiled the brightest, asking him to be forever his.

“But Jinki..”

The brim of his eyes started to be filled up, the tears he avoided so hard formed inevitably there, shredding Jinki’s heart second by second.

“We did all the best, Kibum.. You did everything you can..”

“But it’s not fair, Jinx.. Not even slightly! You can’t give false hope one morning and then dropped the bomb the next day.”

“No one gave false hope, baby.”

“No one you said?! No one?! Damn, Jinki! I might be angry but I’m not stupid! Those doctors tried to play with my life!”

Kibum’s face now drenched as if waterfall move to those feline eyes on his pale skin.

“Honey, listen.”

“No, Jinki, you listen! I took the earliest flight to Japan because they said they had the liver donor for my brother but when I arrived at the hospital legs almost fell of my body they said they gave it to a girl who happened to be there already and also needed it! I put Jonghyun name on the list since five months ago, Jinki! Five months!!”

“Everything happened for a reason, Kibum.”

“The universe has no reason to not let Jonghyun live, Jinki!”

He’s wrapping his face with both hands, sobbing with all his might, whole body shaking uncontrollably. Jinki closed their distance and brought him to his chest and ran his hand along Kibum’s spine to calm the younger down. He kissed the top of his head repeatedly, however, Kibum’s enraged by himself not able to keep his promise to his brother.

“I shouldn’t tell Jonghyun about the news at the first time. I supposed to not getting ahead myself, Jinki..,” he murmured to Jinki’s sweater, both arms clutched around his waist.

The latter just stay in silent, patting Kibum’s head once in a while, or just rocking his body in a very slow rhythm to comfort both of them because at this point Jinki’s head almost exploded as well.

“I don’t know what to say to Jonghyun.. The sparks on his eyes after I ended up that fuckin’ phone call is the prettiest I’ve ever seen in this past year.”

“You don’t need to say anything to him..”

“I am not that heartless, Jinki..”

“Jonghyun..,” Jinki bites his lips in warry, contemplating should he tell his fiancée or should he stay in silence, “Jonghyun knew already..”

Kibum retreated himself from Jinki’s warm hug with total horror all over his face.

“WHAT?! Who told him?! You!! You told him?!”

“Baby, no, calm down, shit,” Jinki took one deep breathe before he reopened his mouth, “Jonghyun knew something wrong happened when the next morning you didn’t call us. He.. he said to me, that maybe it is not his turn yet. He realized he needs to wait longer for the transplantation surgery..”

His heart sunk to the ground when Jinki’s eyes crimson red holding the same tears Kibum evaded ten minutes ago. The minute Jinki ducked his head, Kibum bawled into dreadful cry.

“It’s not fair, Jinki.. Why Jonghyun? Why not me?! He’s supposed to be the strong one! He’s the one that always kick those stupid jocks on high school! He’s the strong one, Jinki!! He’s my strong brother!!”

Jinki wiped Kibum’s cheeks even though he knew it’s a futile attempt seeing how devastated Kibum at this point.

“He’s strong, Kibum.. Jonghyun is stronger than we think.. He’s been fighting for five years and not every single day I saw him showing any intention to give up. Never had I found him getting angry to whatever happened to him.”

The words just pierced his heart even worst. However, Jinki’s right. Not even once during the MRI, chemo, and weekly checkups he complained about how uncomfortable and tiring those stuffs can be. Though it’s hard for him, those puppy eyes are always smiling.

“I.. I have something to tell you, Kibum.”

Kibum didn’t say anything, but Jinki knows he’s listening.

“Taemin dropped me to the hospital yesterday.”

“What happened to you? Are you sick?! Oh my God, I’m sorry I’ve been busy these past weeks, baby! I’m so sorry!! Are you alright?!”

Jinki felt guilty looking at Kibum in panic.

“No, no, everything’s good, I’m alright, I’m super healthy..”

“Thank God!”

“That’s why I asked the doctor to run a test to check whether I can be a donor for Jonghyun..”

It was the longest silence in Jinki’s life because the beautiful man in front of him just freezes and drilled the hole to his soul through his eyes.

“Babe?”

“Are you out of your mind? First, I would fight the world to not let it happen! Second, you have different blood type with Jonghyun! I’m exhausted right now, Jinki, so please, just.. just don’t..”

“I’m a universal donor, Kibum. And I did once for Jonghyun, remember?”

Kibum kept his mouth zipped, silently cursing the cruel reality.

“If we matched again this time, it would be great for Jonghyun.”

“Stop making scenarios, Jinki!! I’m about to lose one of the two people I love the most! I can’t spare any more hour being haunted to lose both!”

“Honey, baby, listen. Listen to me, please. I asked the doctor about how it works. They will only take one third or half of mine because Jonghyun’s liver still can work up until 25%. We.. we will have more hope..”

Kibum didn’t say anything despite the tears keep coming down without any intention to stop. Everything that Jinki said is make sense but not in any world Kibum would let that jeopardized two beautiful souls he care so much.

“Jinki..”

One deep sigh and Jinki tried to give his best smile. He caresses Kibum side, kisses his forehead and to the south until finally he rests his lips on Kibum’s. It still tastes sweet for Jinki regardless of the traces of tears.

“Baby, I love you. And I love Jonghyun just like my own brother. Remember your grandmother said we need to try everything as our best? This is.. this is just another chance we should take, Kibum. The test scheduled next week. Can you tell Jonghyun about this?”

Kibum shut his eyes in fear and weakly nods into the request. Jinki winked to him when he open his eyes and pulled out another bitter smile. The younger peppers him with sad kisses.

Before his tears fall again, Jinki pulled Kibum into a hug. This time harder than before. He knows this is too risky. He knows it’s not as easy as he said. He knows it sounds impossible. He knows he might die during the procedure. But what he knows best is the fact that he loves Kibum too much he’s willing to do anything even crawling into hell to put back the smile into the love of his life.

[abandoned-as-mustard]

GoT 7x06

Jon: There isn’t a living woman or a hundred miles.

Tormund: We make do with what we’ve got ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Gendry: 

Hound: your lips are moving and you’re complaining about something. That’s winging. This one’s been killed 6 times and you don’t see him bitching about it.

lol

- Oh, Arya, just spit it out, tell Sansa why you’re mad

- UGH ARYA DON’T YOU KNOW THAT SHE WROTE THAT UNDER DURESS??

- NO. NO. NO. NO.

- FUCK U LITTLEFINGER

- “I don’t give two shits about wildlings. It’s gingers I hate.”

“gingers are beautiful”

- “you should see the way she looks at me.”

“like she wants to carve you up and eat your liver?”

“you do know her”

- “I don’t want you to be a hero. they all go off and do stupid things and they die. Drogo, Jorah, Daario and Jon snow.”

“interesting choice of men you named. They all fell in love with you.”

“Jon snow’s not in love with me.”

“oh, my mistake. I suppose he stares at you longingly because he’s hoping for a successful military alliance.”

- Undead bear just ate one of Jon’s snow co.

- time to use your hammer Gendry!

- well maybe not now, since the flaming swords killed it

- holy shit I only just remembered that this is the second last episode of the season. Too short!

- ugh. I hate littlefinger for doing this to arya and Sansa. 

- I could be a good actor for the undead army. I already walk like I'm half dead anyway.

- woooahhh I always think it’s wicked cool how they just explode when dragonglass stabs them

- “run back to daenerys”

TIME FOR GENDRY’S DEBUT AS THE FLASH

- Oooooh this is where Dany rescues bae because he’s aboutta fall off a cliff

- I'm sorry but the HHHAAAAGHHHHH noise the undead army are making sound too much like those classic zombie horror movies to make me scared

- LOL

still bad at math

- go gendry go gendry go!

- well, darn, how do they get out of this?

Gendry’s raven to Dany?

- OOOHHHHH HE COLLAPSED RIGHT OUTSIDE THE GATE 

YOU ARE FAST, MY BOY

- undead dude they’ve captured: *hissing*

Hound: *kick him*

the entire army surrounding them: *hisses*

- hound steals alcohol off a dude who just died’s body, if that ain’t like hound

- OHHH SO IT WAS THE PRIEST WHO KEPT BRINGING THAT GUY BACK WHO DIED

- what are the origins of the night king? why has he got weird pointy biological crown thing while the others just half rot 

- sansa: you’re going to king’s landing

Brienne: but what about you

sansa: jaime will be there

brienne: *leaves*

- CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT IS ON ITS WAY, JAIME!

gotta wear a new jacket to impress save Bae

- can’t wait for the dragons to flame grill them!

- Hound: *lobs a rock at the army* 

rock: *hits one in the face*

hound: dumb cunt

- how does that dude just light his sword on fire instantly? it’s lie a GOT lightsaber

- YOU DUMB DEAD DUDES GET OF TORMUND!!! GET OFF MY GIANT GINGER GNOME!!!!!

- And of course hound saves the life of one of the gingers he hates

- nuuuuuuu a dude just got accidentally pushed down into the army 

- couldn’t really see who it was tho

- DRAGON TO THE RESCUEEEEEE

*bae is here*

NOOOOOOOOOO THE NIGHT KING IS GONNA TURN VISERION!!!!!!!

- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

- JONNY JUST GOT PUSHED UNDER

- WHO’S THIS KNIGHT WITH THE FLAMES RESCUING JONNY BOI

- BENJEN!

- Noooooo he’s gonna actually be dead this time

- now Dany gets a real look at the not-so-figurative dagger to the heart wounds on Jon’s chest

- Sansa just discovered Arya’s faces 

- wtf? Arya? put down the knife? that’s seriously screwed up

just kill me already:

- oh dammmnnnnn 

“the dragons are my children. they’re the only children I'll ever have.”

“thank you, Dany”

“alright. not Dany. How about my Queen?”

“I’d bend the knee, but......” 

MORE HAND HOLDING AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

- SO SOFT

-ohhhh, great, the last thing I'm gonna see this episode is viseryon with blue eyes 

yep. :(

[etc-greys]

Season 13 Episode 23: True Colors

Songs of the Episode:

Backseat by Dagny

Dynamite by Nicky Blitz

Last to Know by Electric Owls

Synopsis:

Okay so this episode is INSANE! There is so much happening… just so much. Your emotions will be everywhere. You will probably yell at your screen. You will need tissues.

Meredith and Riggs are in bed together, and when she wakes up she’s stressed. She’s not ready for Riggs to meet the kids, especially if he comes out of their mama’s bed. Amelia rolls over in her bed and it’s mad evident that she misses Owen.

Meanwhile Owen is woken up to the sound of knocking on the door. He opens up the door to find two Army officials. He is in such a phase that we can’t make out what they are saying but it is safe to assume it’s about Megan. He’s sobbing, so you are made to believe that she died.

After only three therapy sessions, Steph asks for clearance. With little to know pushback, Webber signs off on it.

Alex finds Jo’s husband. His name is Paul Stadler. He goes to a conference and contemplates going up to him.

Owen shows up to work in a haze. A baby, who is choking, is rushed into the ER. He gives her a very forceful (excessive really) backslap. He ends up saving the little baby’s life!   Two patients are sent to the ER, who are expected to have been sleeping together in the car, when they get into an accident. Steph, April, Bailey, Deluca, and Jackson are all working on the case together. Stephanie gets called out when Minnick comes into the exam room and she scolds her for skipping out on counseling. Immediately after she puts her on scut work, as a form of punishment.

The little girl, whose baby sister was choking, goes wandering around the hospital. Her father and mother are both distracted by the baby’s scare and they lose track of their older daughter. The husband keeps texting the nanny (obviously having an affair) and paying no mind to his child. They ask to speak with Owen… uh oh.

Alex just stares at Jo’s husband, trying to come up with the words to say to him. All of the sudden he goes up to him and starts up a conversation about his work as a doctor. He tells him his name is Alex Stevens (any old fans will find this to be super ironic because that was the last name of his first wife Izzie). They drink together and Alex ends up getting him really drunk. As they are walking out together, Paul gets a call from his current girlfriend. Getting angry he yells that she doesn’t have to know where he is at all times and he’ll call her when he wants. The then throws his phone across the street shattering it. Alex is brewing after seeing the way he treated the girlfriend and thinks of Jo. At this point he begins beating him to a pulp. (In case you’re wondering, I was screaming at my tv! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was terrified for Alex’s fate). He KILLS him. Yes that’s right he kills him and ends up in JAIL again. (Now crying!)…

Oh wait… that’s just a vision. SHONDA WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME. I LITERALLY FREAKED OUT AND THEN POOF IT WASN’T REAL. While I am thankful it was only a vision, nonetheless it terrified me.

The guy who was in the accident with the girl wakes up and wants to see his presumed girlfriend. But he has a liver lack which could kill him if he moves, so he’s not allowed to see her. All the doctors then get into a debate about what they think the two patients are to each other. Some think it’s just a hookup. Others believe they are in love. Jackson and Maggie presume the worst, until they are considered cynical by the group. Maggie then decides to change her view and chooses to believe that they are in love. Trying to convince herself and Jackson that she isn’t cynical, Jackson just laughs at her determination.

After Mer had already returned the little girl to her parents when she attempted to play with a syringe full of epi, she find her again but this time in the X-ray scan viewing room. Riggs is great with her, extremely patient, and delightfully brings her back to her parents. Mer impressed with his skills with kids, decides to invite him to dinner with her kids. Mer begins to freak out a bit when she realizes what she’s done. She goes to Amelia to talk and tells her that she feels sick. Amelia ends up being her rock and pushes her to be comfortable with the uncomfortable.

Owen goes to talk with the family. Don’t worry they thank him! (phew) But as they are expressing their gratitude, he freaks out when she hugs him. Amelia, having witnessed the event, pulls him aside and finds out THE SISTER IS STILL ALIVE. It turns out that she was trapped in a basement for 10 years overseas. He’s absolutely terrified to believe that it might not be her, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Amelia decides that it’s time they find out. SHE REALLY IS THE REAL MVP IN THIS EPISODE!

We’re back to Alex. This time he finds Paul as he’s about to go on stage. He threatens him and tells him to stay away from Brooke Stadler… THAT’S RIGHT WE FIND OUT JO’S REAL NAME! But things go awry when Alex returns home. He goes to the Jolex apartment to talk to Jo when he here’s sounds of distress. He finds the door open and Paul on top of Jo. HE’S CHOKING HER! HE THEN TELLS ALEX: “HEY ALEX, I FOUND HER.” HE KILLED HER! (LITERALLY SOBBING RIGHT NOW) Hold on I need a few moments to gather myself…

So it turns out it was another vision. SHONDA. I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND. I WASN’T READY FOR THAT. ALSO THAT WAS JUST SO CRUEL. But THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR NOT ACTUALLY KILLING HER! … AND FOR NOT CRUSHING MY JOLEX DREAMS.

Stephanie is still working with the guy who was in the car accident and he persuades her to take him to visit the girlfriend.

Amelia and Owen go back to Mer’s house to find more information about Megan. Amelia speaks german? That’s just awesome! She ends up talking to Teddy Altman (another throwback to the OG Grey’s fans! She was the old Cardio surgeon who worked with Cristina and was best friends with Owen in the Army). Teddy confirms that it is definitely Megan. She has her transferred to Grey Sloan. Owen feels extremely guilty for giving up on his search for his sister. He just feels awful for moving on, living his life, while she was forgotten and being tortured for over ten years. Amelia hires the best PTSD expert for both Megan and Owen, so that they can recover together. They are certainly headed toward an uphill battle and this will most definitely take time.

They are definitely trying to ship Jackson and Maggie. They’ve been focusing on their relationship more and more this season. I think it’s only a matter of time before they hook up, or at least if they don’t someone is going to be friend zoned.

When they check on the girl who was in the accident, she is able to speak. She asks for the guy, wishing for his death…. Why you may ask? Well it turns out he got in her car and threatened to kill her. He forced her to drive into the woods so that he could rape her. But she was not about to let that happened and she pressed the gas forcing them to crash. Just as they receive this information the find that both him and Edwards are missing. THEY CALL A CODE ORANGE. Steph has no idea that he is a rapist or that he’s dangerous.

Alex decides to head home. Paul comes from behind him and steal Alex’s cab. In that moment Alex decides to let the husband take the cab and doesn’t say anything. There is an extremely long stare down… Something doesn't seem right about this. And I truly don’t believe that his story is over.

The police run past Edwards and the patient, and a doctor tells Stephanie that a rapist is on the loose. She then realizes something is very wrong, just as he holds a scalpel to her throat threatening to kill her if she doesn't get him out of the hospital. They head towards the stairs and he freaks out because he can barely walk. He forces her to help him down the stairs. As they are descending the stairs, she tries to shove him and he cuts her a bit on the throat. He threatens to go deeper if she tries anything again. Then they get out on an empty floor. OF COURSE THE LITTLE GIRL IS ON THIS FLOOR. Are you kidding me? Her parents need to pay attention to their child! Like what are you doing?!?! It turns out the doors are locked because of the lockdown. They are all stuck.

Mer comes home to find Owen asleep in Amelia’s lap on the couch. She tells Mer about Megan. She runs to tell Nathan, explaining that if it were her and Derrick, she would want to know.

There is no way out, that is until Stephanie makes the suggestion that a fire would be the only way the doors would open. Not understanding how crazy he truly is, he decides that’s a marvelous idea. She tries to talk him out of it when the little girl HOLDS OUT IN HER HAND A SPARK LIGHTER. SERIOUSLY? Little girl what are you doing? He makes her gather materials to start the fire, until Stephanie shames him to do it himself. As he is trying to place the fire closer to the detector Stephanie sees the oil and tells the girl to cover her eyes. She grabs the oil and SPRAYS IT ALL OVER HIM AND THE FLOOR AROUND HIM! THE FIRE PARTICLES FALL ON HIM AND HE ERUPTS INTO FLAMES! Yes, he’s literally on fire! Stephanie and the little girl hide in one of the exam rooms. But suddenly Stephanie sees that he is getting way too close to the oxygen tank. She tells the little girl to go to the far corner of the room and she runs to try to stop him… BUT IT EXPLODES SENDING HER FLYING BACK!

Does she die? While it’s not confirmed, my guess is that she did. Multiple explosions happen. Mer sees it. BLACKOUT.

A few additional thoughts:

I don’t even know where to begin. SO much has happened in such a short span of time. But I will say this, I think that Stephanie will die a hero. She tried to save the lives of many by sacrificing herself to stop the fire from setting off the gas tanks. I’m really disheartened by her loss and I think this is going to really change the morale of the hospital. She truly was an incredible doctor and I’m going to miss her on the show.

As for Megan. She is going to need a lot of therapy and time to recover after being imprisoned for so long. Both Nathan, Owen, and Owen’s mom are going to need to attend a lot of counseling to repair the damage done. I also think that this will end things between Mer and Riggs. He’s going to need time to process everything and reconnect with the first love of his life. Obviously she will understand and I truly believe she will be his confidant throughout the whole healing process.

Jo and Alex are on the mends, but something tells me that the season finale is going to do some major damage. I think Alex is going to tell Jo that he went to see her husband, but chose to remain silent. He didn’t want to put her in harms way or end up in jail for murder. This will put a strain on their relationship, but when Paul returns it will force them back together. I really wouldn’t be surprised if 1. he found Jo or 2. he ends up getting a job at Grey Sloan. I 100% believe that they are still in love with each other (I mean Alex found her husband and was willing to put himself in danger/at risk of jail time to confront her husband) and by him not doing anything shows Jo that he’s grown. Regardless, I think the only way they are going to overcome this is together.

Also what will happen to all of the people in the hospital? The patients, the doctors, nurses, everyone is now at risk! Not to mention the amount of damage the hospital will have when it’s all over. What does this mean for the fate of Grey Sloan? I’m terrified for the finale, but it will definitely leave us all on our toes!

[warwidowed-a]

here are my collective thoughts on my first listen at b.andstand on broadway. a lot of comparisons are gonna be made to papermill just because i’ve been listening to it for like six months straight waiting for this transfer, so it’s the version i’m used to. this post is NOT spoiler free, by the way. alright, let’s do it.

opening/just like it was before:

totally new arrangement from what it was at papermill, but i still really like the song

lyrical similarities right off the bat to ‘right this way’

“i’d like a good nights sleep, is that too much to ask?”

“the cream always rises” hmmmm, i see what y’all did there (see: donny novitski)

“you talk in your sleep” “i should have warned ya”

why is this score so lit

“if i can’t play, then what’s the point of making it back home?” have i mentioned today i love donald novitski because i feel like at this point i need to say that

that last harmonizing note fuck fuck fuck

donny novitski:

pretty much entirely the same as papermill

donny has some serious animosity at frank sinatra

i like hearing this song with the full orchestra though it’s lit

“donny needs something to block all the memories and break his insomnia spell” again, hello, i love donald novitski thanks

corey cott could kill someone with that last note his vibratto is killer

scene before i know a guy:

“we’re not open yet” “your back door is”

THEY GAVE NATE HOPKINS APPLAUSE AFTER HIS SAX SOLO I’M SCREAMING

i still can’t believe they call michael ‘rubber’ through most of this show

i know a guy:

the “drivin’ me nuts’ joke is still hilarious

JIMMY YOU SKINNY SON OF A BITCH

why is nick radel me

“how do you miss a b flat? it’s a b flat trumpet!”

THAT LITTLE JUST LIKE IT WAS BEFORE REPRISE

why did they skim wayne and johnny shy though like we got full scenes with davy, nick, and jimmy why not them too??

ain’t we proud:

still a catchy song but not one of my favs

NICK GOT APPLAUSE AFTER THEIR SOLOS HECK

corey fucking cott teaching himself piano for this show and you wouldn’t have even guessed what a fucking champ

post-ain’t be proud, pre-who i was:

i love johnny simpson more than anything in this life i will choose his happiness over mine every time

“how much slower will you get, will they put you in reverse” FUCK

you can hear johnny mumbling “sunday.... sunday” before he asks what day of the week is sunday i swear to god i would die for him

“the high balls are on me” “i don’t get it” “well see, griaffes are really tall”

“how bad was it?” “friendly fire got him” “were you the friend?” what kind O F FUCKING FORESHADOWING

“aren’t you a little old for ding dong ditch” julia,,,,,, julia,,,,,,,

i don’t like that they have that interlude and have julia invite him over a different day instead of just inviting him in right away. i feel like that could be cut out honestly

“i just want to know what happened” “what will that get you?” “i don’t know, sleeping through the night? closing a chapter? maybe just getting out the door?” juliaaaaaaa i’m a fucking wreck it’s fine

who i was:

AHHH I LOVE HEARING THIS SONG WITH THE FULL ORCHESTRA

the dinner scene:

“you look pretty” “well, turns out there’s better cosmetics than cake flour” Me: Fucking Squints(tm)

MRS ADAMS USED TO PLAY THE PIANO

THE DEVILED EGGS

“the top of the paprika shaker fell off” i’m

oh shit since they took donny’s parents out of the beginning number from papermill, his mom died when he was thirteen

julia crying while they go through the pictures i’m fine

JULIA ENOUGH WITH THE  CON DOM JOKES

“your daughter’s voice is beautiful, it’s really high” my god donny

just like it was before (reprise):

the chorus of “donny no” and “what are you doing?” from julia and wayne when he tells julia to come sing with them i’m shrieking

“wait, i gotta transpose” JOHNNY

first steps first:

it’s a bit different than what it was but gd i’d still die for laura osnes’ voice

“no need to be so shy, take reassurance i know how to guide you through the worst steps, first steps first” uh more foreshadowing re: donny

“why don’t you kick it up” “oh, thank god” DAVY

oooh yeah i like this new arrangement

“you want a drink?” “oh i hardly ever drink” “you wanna trade livers” davy please

“the best i could hope is to teach the kids choir at church” “DON’T. TEACH.” i love nick sm 

JULIA ASKING ABOUT WAYNE’S KIDS I’M SOBBING OH MY G OD

JULIA TROJAN IS THE LIGHT OF THIS ENTIRE WORLD AND I WOULD DIE FOR HER

their names are emily and grady btw 

“as far as i’m concerned i’m one of the lucky ones” “yes you are, you made it home” “no, lucky i don’t remember” again, i would die for johnny simpson too

god damn julia’s voice is so soft and sweet i’m dying. the voice laura uses is even softer than her ella voice i just wanna hug her

heck they kept the “parents warn their kids about people like you” line god bless

“oh a wise cracker! you might be watching too many pictures” uh ya did you not get the “avid cinephile” line, donny?

“i don’t need to be rescued” ur goD DAMN RIGHT JULIA

“i’ll give it a thought but there are a lot of things i want to know about michael” “first steps first” oh fuck i see what y’all did there

breathe:

“stop touching my stuff with your sweaty hands” this is literally a band full of five year olds

??? this song doesn’t really do anything ???

they could easily cut this song tbh

it’s pretty much just like them rehearsing for you deserve it

you deserve it:

DID YOU MEAN MY FUCKING JAM SECOND ONLY TO ‘NOBODY’? YEP

this song didn’t change pretty much at all and it’s still a bop

CAUSE WHEN YOU GOT THE CALL YOU STOOD UP PROUD AND TALL AND YOU DESERVE IT

post-you deserve it/pre-love will come and find me again:

donny and julia bonding over music i’m shook

“michael is buried in some place called manila, i'll never get to manila, i never got to say goodbye. a lot of things just vanish with not explanation and i wanna know. if-if he was in pain, i wanna know how his hands were folded in the casket and if-if his uniform was pressed and his hair was combed right and a million other things that keep me up at night” i’m sobbing 

julia takes no shit and i love her so much

“i survived mustard gas and pepper spray, i guess that makes me a seasoned veteran” davy’s jokes oh my god

JULIA BREAKING UP THE FIGHT BETWEEN DONNY AND NICK

“WALK ME HOME, DONNY, COME ON”

awwww julia’s poem

“don’t stay up all night reading them, get some sleep” “eh, gave up on that a long time ago” :////

THE LITTLE REPRISE OF WHO I WAS

“when i lost him it broke my soul. who knew my voice could be one part of the whole? well... perhaps someone does” fuck

“gershwin’s got nothing on you” MRS ADAMS 

“i’ll stay up all night, i’m good at that” again i’m ://///////

love will come and find me again:

laura osnes could step on me and i’d thank her

nothing has changed with this song but fuck it’s so good

right this way:

“bayer-FUCKING-asprin”

holy fuck this song might just win corey cott a tony nomination

ACT TWO

nobody:

AKA MY FUCKIN JAM AGAIN

literally the same nothing changed it’s still a bop

NICK ASKING WAYNE TO MOVE IN W/ HIM

“I JUST GOT A LIVE IN MAID” JFC

i got a theory:

LAURA ON THE UKE

nothing much changed with this song either tbh

JIMMY’S GAY AND HE LITERALLY WATCHED HIS BF DIE WHEN HIS SHIP EXPLODED FUCK THIS SHOW

i said it probably like twice already but i love johnny simpson

julia still having her moment of trying to convince davy to stop drinking ://///

post-i got a theory:

“was it quick? did he suffer? was he trying to save someone?” “you don’t wanna know”  “for a year and a half it’s all i’ve wanted to know. was he scared? what was the last thing he said? were his eyes open?” AND D ONNY SNAPS AT HER IM “

JUST STOP IT”

“i’m still waiting”

oh myg od

they changed michael’s entire death 

donny had accidentally dropped a grenade while they were in a trench and couldn’t find it. he tried to tell michael to get out and he didn’t make it and fuck he’s crying telling this to julia what the fuck has this show done to me

everything happens:

“IT WAS HIS FAULT” JULIA JULIA JU L I  A

i love mrs adams so much

what would julia have done without her

welcome home:

JULIA AND MICHAEL LITERALLY MET IN HIGH SCHOOL DOING THEATRE FUCK ME UP

“you know the first thing he said to me? don’t sing because you need to get the lead, sing because you just need to sing. you know what he said next? the girl who got the lead stuffs her bra with so much kleneex, one cigarette act and she’ll go up” no wonder julia wrote poetry for this guy he was smooth as FUCK

“stop picking up my clothes, if i wanted them in the drawer, i’d put them in the drawer” nick relax

donny singing welcome home i’m in tears

HE ENCOURAGES HER TO WRITE WELCOME HOME AS A LOVE SONG IF MICHAEL HAD COME HOME FUCK THIS ENTIRE SHOW

“sometimes i just think, maybe the wrong guy came home” again, fuck this entire show

a band in new york city:

THE GUYS AT THE VA PAID FOR THEIR TRIP SO PURE

this song is still a bop too

this is life:

idk i like this song but i think i almost prefer “give me a reason”

this also hasn’t changed at all from when they sang it at broadwaycon

but holy fuck do corey and laura sound incredible together

welcome home (reprise):

jimmy campbell: the real hero

“we came, we saw, we said fuck it” DAVY IS ME

THIS IS LIFE REPRISE FUCK F UCK FUCK

WHAT I FEEL FOR YOU JULIA IS TRUE. NO MATTER HOW TOUGH IT IS, NO MATTER HOW MUCH TIME IT TAKES, I NEED TO BE WITH YOU. AND THAT IS TRUE.

I’M SERIOUSLY HOPING THAT THE CROWD CHEERING IS BECAUSE THEY KISSED BECAUSE FUCK YOU GUYS I’M CRYING THAT WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN JUST THE “I LOVE YOU JULIA TROJAN” FROM PAPERMILL HE WAS LITERALLY CRYING AND I’M LITERALLY CRYING

the lyrics changed a bit to welcome home and it still breaks my heart

finale:

awwwww sweet betsy oh my god

donny inviting her and her family backstage to meet her father who served i’m sobbing it’s fine

it’s literally just a reprise of nobody oh god

it could have been a little longer but !!!!!!

okay, so overall holy shit. a lot changed from papermill. dialogue, songs, you name it. i think the book needs a little re-writing and there are a lot of pointless interludes between scenes that could be cut but!!!!!!! holy fuck overall i love it so much. i can’t wait until we get a video boot i need to see this choreography and ESPECIALLY this is life and before welcome home

[robininthelabyrinth]

Coldwave AU, where Len was burgling STAR Labs when the accelerator blew up - and thus he ended up merged with Stein as Firestorm

Fic: In What Furnace Was Thy Brain? (Ao3 Link)Fandom: The FlashPairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Clarissa Stein/Martin Stein

Summary: Yes, this time Len will admit his plan had been really stupid.

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Len’s bored, and being bored, he looks for something to do.

Mick would call this the Most Dangerous of moods, comparing it to his own impulses towards pyromania, the point where the itching under his skin has gotten to the point where something needs to be on fire and anything will do. This is when Mick starts trying to distract Len, keep him busy, so that his brain won’t seize on the first, worst thing to do.

But Mick’s not here right now.

That’s presumably why he picks up a newspaper at the newstand about the Particle Accelerator being opened up and goes “I’m going to rob that.”

After all, when everyone’s eyes are going to be fixed on Wells, Wells’ eyes aren’t going to be fixed on all the interesting tech prototypes he keeps in the back parts of his labs.

Unsurprisingly, like all of Len’s absolute worst ideas, it goes sideways almost immediately.

Breaking in is easy enough: service entrance to the gigantic ring of the Accelerator itself, a forgotten worker’s tunnel that wasn’t closed all the way, and from there into the back part of the lab. Len’s figuring on staying there while they turn the Accelerator on, stowing the take somewhere, then sneaking out with the gigantic crowd up front before coming back after everyone’s already discovered the theft and stopped looking for it.

He’s gotten inside, no problem, and he’s even made it to the labs with the prototypes – so many prototypes, many with helpful labels in someone called CR’s handwriting – to start looking for the goods, but there’s a noise. Just a whisper.

Len didn’t get to be this good a thief by ignoring his instincts, so he hides himself in one of the labs.

A hand mirror shows him the main hallway without revealing the whites of his eyes.

There’s a faint crackle of sound and the scent of – ozone? Like lightning? – and a man appears at the other end of the hallway. Len didn’t see him approach.

Must be the angle of the mirror.

The guy walks over and hits wall, which slides open. He ducks inside. Maybe five minutes later, he walks back out, door sliding shut again.

Secret doorway. That’s got to have some cool tech stuff hidden away.

Len grins, but he doesn’t head out immediately. The guy – tall, dark hair, Caucasian, probably works here – did appear out of basically nowhere, after all; and if there’s one secret door there may be secret passages.

He waits about ten minutes to be sure the coast is clear. The roaring of the crowd outside is helpful as a guide: the presentation has definitely started.

Len’s barely started to head back to the lab’s tech stash when the alarms start blaring.

Top volume, too; that doesn’t sound promising. He was pretty sure there were, like, ten variations of “don’t worry, it’s 100% safe” in the newspaper.

Looks like someone miscalculated.

Abruptly, some guy – tall, kinda muscular – runs into the hallway at full speed, passing right by Len without so much as a glance at him, heading inside the Accelerator and yelling something along the lines of “if I don’t get out, you’ve got to close the door! Promise me, Cisco!” over his shoulder.

Well, that’s some serious Apollo 13 stuff right there.

Len plays a hunch and follows him into the actual Accelerator. If there are alarms going off, his plan of stealing things from the labs isn’t going anywhere anyway, so he may as well figure out what’s gone wrong.

“What are you doing?” Len asks the guy.

“How’d you get in – no, I don’t care, hold this,” the guy says. “There’s something wrong with the Accelerator. It’s about to blow.”

“Blow as in –”

“Blow.”

“Shit,” Len says. This is why Mick vetoes his dumber ideas.

He should go now.

“I’m going to try to adjust the inside to make it explode upwards,” the guy says. “It’ll still be bad, dark matter’s going to go everywhere, but we won’t – it won’t decimate the surrounding area.”

“I don’t want this city decimated, even in part,” Len says, because that’s just no. “What can I do to help?”

“Like this –”

About four minutes in, the guy says, “My name’s Ronnie. Ronnie Raymond. You?”

“Leonard Snart,” Len says, too focused on rewiring the relevant sequence to think of one of his alibis. “Like this?”

“Yes! Just like that, perfect!”

“Great,” Len says. “Now let’s get out of here before we blow up.”

Ronnie checks his watch. “It’s too late,” he says grimly. “By the time we get there, Cisco will be locking the door –”

“Screw the door,” Len says, and drags him towards the worker’s exit.

The Accelerator is starting up.

This is the stupidest plan Len’s ever made, and he’s glad, perversely, that Mick isn’t here, even if every single day since the fire he’s woken up willing to give his liver in exchange for seeing him again, because at least if Mick’s angry at him somewhere, Mick’s not here. Mick’s not going to die with him.

Because Ronnie has a fiancée he’s mentioned like three times now, and he’s going to get married and be happy and have a purpose in life that isn’t just aimlessly chasing adrenaline high after adrenaline high as if it can make up for the gaping hole in his side where he left his husband and partner behind.

Len glances behind him.

The sparks are starting.

“Hey, Ronnie,” he says as they get to the door.

“What?” Ronnie gasps, prying the door open. The whistling is so loud that it’s hard to hear him. There’s something whirling above their head and it’s coming down towards them at full blast.

“Good luck with your girl,” Len says, and shoves him through.

The next wave hits Len dead in the chest, and Len has just enough time to think, “I guess that’s all she wrote –” before he’s gone.

And then he’s gone.

Gone.

Not gone?

The first few months are –

He’s not sure.

He’s not entirely there.

He walks and he falls and sometimes he flies and he doesn’t entirely know what’s going on; everything’s confused, he just gets flashes of strange things –

Math formulas he never learned –

Heists he barely recalled that he remembered –

Technology that he was sure died out before his time –

Mick –

Clarissa –

He doesn’t even know a Clarissa –

He doesn’t know how long it is before his brain starts actually recording what’s going on around him instead of just experiencing it.

He wakes up in a bed made of boxes.

He lifts his head.

“Hey, hey,” a woman’s voice says, sounding calming. He looks at her. She’s thirty, homeless. Unclean hair, circles under her eyes, puffy cheeks, several layers of coats. There’s a blanket over her legs from where she’s been sleeping not far from him.

Who is that girl?

That’s not his voice.

He opens his mouth, but he can’t speak. The thoughts are gone, the words are garbled.

It’s like two sets of words are trying to come out of his mouth at once.

“Relax, babe, it’s cool,” she says.

It’s not cool, it’s Cold, he thinks.

That one was him. Cold’s his prison nickname, Hot and Cold for Mick and him; he’d developed a fondness for temperature-themed puns since then.

“You want some food?” she asks. “Or some more sleep?”

I demand you tell me where I am at once! And – good lord, what am I wearing –

I need to know where I am and how long and –

His hand is on fire.

Is his hand on fire?

My hands are on fire! My head is on fire!

No.

Not fire.

Fire is Mick, the fire took Mick, the fire took him and tried to eat him and Mick stayed with the fire instead of coming with him –

I don’t know a Mick.

Of course you know Mick! What sort of universe would it be if he didn’t know Mick, if he –

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh, wait.

He knows this.

He knows –

Damnit, if he could only think; this is something to do with Mick, some diagnosis someone had suggested which had been wrong, wrong, wrong, but he remembers reading up on the symptoms just in case, the symptoms, something with the brain, something –

If he could only think –

He forces his mind to be quiet, just closes his eyes, rocking back and forth a bit, focusing on blank-blank-blank, white sheet of paper – formulas – no, white, white snow, white empty snow like in the mountains they went once – skiing is delightful this time of year – he’s never been skiing, skiing is for yuppies – I beg your pardon – goddamnit, think of the white snow, just the snow, nothing but the snow –

His mind slowly stills, and the words finally can come.

“Psychotic,” he forces through numb lips. “First break. Late –”

The buzz in the back of his mind gets louder; he ignores it.

“Late onset,” he manages to say. “Late onset – schizophrenia. Hearing voices. Disordered thinking.”

Actually, I must admit, that makes a certain amount of sense.

“Man, that sucks,” the woman says. “But still, you’ve been, like, catatonic for ages; this has got to be a step forward, right? You take some bad shit or something?”

I don’t do drugs.

That was weirdly in chorus or something.

“No,” he finally says aloud. It’s weirdly easier when the voices and the memories and everything drowning him seem to be in agreement. And then – “How long?”

“No idea, man,” the woman tells him regretfully. Her name’s Jaz; he remembers her telling him that over soup. They had soup yesterday; she fed him. Jaz and Rashid and Josh and Aryeh and Fatima; they were all homeless and they’d seen him with his vacant eyes and starving cheeks and sleeping where he fell, and they saw kin – they’d brought him to their boxes and let him sleep there with them, and they fed him when they had something to spare. “Fatima found you first, but you already looked pretty ragged. You know where you were when it started?”

He can’t even remember his own name.

He knows that there’s a Mick somewhere, or maybe he doesn’t; he knows there’s a Clarissa who’s worried, or maybe he doesn’t, but damnit, his brain just isn’t responding.

Disordered thinking is quite common in untreated schizophrenia. Hallucinations, too – that explains how he’d felt certain that his hands and his head were on fire.

He needs a way to tell time that doesn’t involve a stop or a finish.

In physics –

Fuck physics.

He raises his hand up to his head.

Shit, his hair’s nearly an inch and a half long, maybe two inches; he can feel it starting to curl like a crazy person. It does that every time, so he normally keeps it clipped – that’s half an inch – and the average person grows half an inch of hair every month.

So, two months, maybe three.

That was quite clever.

Yeah, it really was, wasn’t it?

That’s why he’s won all those awards.

…he’s never won an award in his life.

Great, the delusions have started.

He needs to get treatment.

Most definitely.

There are pills for this. Cognitive therapy. Plenty of things.

That would be helpful. And we need to get away from these homeless people – they’re certainly not going to help, and they might be a danger. Or in danger from me, for that matter.

They’re homeless people. They don’t have to help, but they did; they helped keep me alive. They’re perfectly capable of determining the level of danger they’re comfortable with here.

If that were true, they wouldn’t be homeless.

No need to be fucking classist about it. There are so many reasons you can become homeless.

…perhaps it was a bit of a hasty judgment.

Besides, I’m pretty damn white-passing, at least until my hair starts going crazy. What sort of moron helps a mentally ill white man? That’s the most dangerous creature on earth. Look at the statistics.

I beg your pardon! That’s hardly true!

Great. So now I’m an idiot. No one ever said anything about spontaneously developing narrow-minded privilege when you got sick.

I am – good lord, I’m arguing to myself about identity politics. I must be –

Don’t say ‘crazy’.

Fine. Schizophrenic. That seems like a reasonable explanation; it’s supposed to come on rather abruptly, isn’t it?

Yeah, but there’s treatment.

I should obtain treatment as quickly as possible.

Right, so treatment. Number one on the To Do list.

And finding Clarissa.

Who the hell is Clarissa?

Images swim sickeningly before his face: a woman, young, vivacious, smiling; eyes glowing under her veil on their wedding day, lips curled up like she had a secret smile; hair tossed over her shoulder as she laughs, bringing in dinner and kissing him on the cheek as he worked on the whiteboard –

None of that has ever happened to him. For fucks’ sake, he might appreciate the occasional woman or two, he might even accept that somewhere lost in his memory he might marry one – green card, maybe? A dare? At threat of a gun? – but a whiteboard? That’s just right out.

Jaz puts a bottle of water in front of his lips and he drinks gratefully. He’s sat back down sometime; he’s not sure where.

Right, right. He needs to think about getting treatment. A shrink.

I do not need a shrink!

Yes, you really do. I really do. Whatever.

…I will concede in this situation it appears to be reasonable to consult with one.

Geez, thanks muchly. When did I become such an arrogant snot?

That’s rude.

I’m rude!

I don’t want to get involuntarily committed.

I’ll use a fake name and break out if they do. Sheesh, stop worrying.

I can break out of places?

I’ve broken out of plenty before. It’s like breaking in, but less tedious.

I don’t remember being able to do that.

Well, you don’t remember Mick, so you’re clearly from the damaged part of my brain.

I beg your pardon! You don’t remember Clarissa; you cannot possibly be the symptoms of a sane mind –

“Hey, buddy, you good?” Jaz asks. Fatima and Josh have returned and the three of them are crowding around him. His head’s on fire again, but his hands aren’t, so he pushes himself up.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, because that’s nice and polite, and they have taken care of him. “I need to find –”

Help.

Clarissa.

Mick.

“– something.”

“You do you, man,” Josh says, but his eyes are worried.

“We’ll be here to take you in if you need to,” Fatima says. “It’s getting cold again.”

“There’s a house on Maple Street that’s always empty, the third one down from the stoplight,” he says. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he’s sure it’s true. “You could stay there, if it snows.”

They look surprised, but pleased. “It ain’t Family, is it?” Josh asks.

“No,” he says. He’s sure of that much. “No, not Family. Freelance.”

Freelance what?

I don’t know.

I miss Mick. He’d know.

Who is Mick?

We need to find him.

We need to find Clarissa. She’ll be worried.

Mick first.

Mick doesn’t even want to see you. Clarissa wants to see me.

Fuck you.

Please. I just want to see her.

Fuck, I’m a bleeding heart. Just stick a shiv in my heart, will you?

Shiv? Good lord, is that prison slang?

He has no idea what else it would be if not prison slang.

Oh, shit, his head’s on fire again.

Maybe it’s some sort of metaphor?

It could be a metaphor. But for what?

Fuck if I know. Leaving Mick to the flames?

That sounds like a bad thing.

It was. He needed me and I left him behind because he picked the flames over me, and now he hates me and doesn’t want to see me and it’s terrible because I feel empty, like a vat that’s been all poured out.

I don’t think I did anything like that.

What about Clarissa? You didn’t tell her where you were going. She probably thinks you’re dead.

Maybe I did do something terrible, then. But why the fire? I’m Jewish; I don’t buy into Christian symbolism.

Yeah, I know. Never have, even if I’m not the most religious Jew. Hard to avoid the Christian imagery everywhere, though, ain’t it? And there was Hannukah. I remember Hannukah was coming up.

Yes, Hannukah. We were going to celebrate, Clarissa and I, but I left because – I don’t remember any more.

I wasn’t celebrating, I don’t think.

Are you my past self? Some younger equivalent of me?

Shit, maybe. Is schizophrenia associated with amnesia? Am I actually super old? Did Mick die and I replaced him with someone called Clarissa?

No, I don’t think I ever knew a Mick. Maybe I’ve forgotten him?

That’s unlikely. You don’t forget someone like Mick.

“Hey! Buddy! Hey!” Fatima is shouting in his face.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

“You wanna come with us?” Jaz asks. “We’re going to try to find that place on Maple; we’d be happy to have you, you can point it out.”

“No,” he says. “I need to go. Thank you for your help.”

“If you’re sure,” Josh says.

“You took care of me,” he says firmly. “Thanks.”

“No need for thanks,” Fatima says. “You kept us warm.”

He nods. Not sure why they’d need the extra body heat, but sure. In the winter, the more the merrier, he guesses.

Is it still winter? No – gotta be March, sometime. Last burst of winter before spring.

Clarissa will be celebrating Purim. It was always her favorite.

They end up on a street somewhere in the suburbs. There’s an older woman in there, still beautiful in her way.

He’s never seen her before.

No.

That’s not right, he has. They’ve been here before, looking from a distance, catatonic and blank, but still watching.

Have they –

A memory rips out of the back of his mind, drifts to the surface.

Mick kept turning around to try to see him, but he’d kept back, kept to the dark. He’d looked – not good, he was burned all over, but it looked like they’d mostly healed up, and he had mobility. His eyes were bright and clear. He still looked like Mick. That was good.

He’d been loading a truck. Grunt work. No one ever appreciated Mick’s qualities, no one but him; they all underestimated Mick, either because Mick wanted them to or because they just didn’t understand how good he was, how skilled, how clever, all because he was sick and because he was violent and because he didn’t have smarts the way they thought of them –

He seems like quite a brute.

You take that fucking back!

He punches himself in the face a few times, hard as he can make himself do it, just to make the point stick, until even the voice in his head is yowling for mercy.

His nose is bleeding, his eye is swelling, but the voice says, I won’t say it again, and that’s worth anything.

They back away from Clarissa’s window.

We should probably go to temple for Purim.

We should get drunk for Purim. Religious requirement.

Maybe not in our current state.

Yeah, that’s a good point. Good one, hallucination.

I am not the hallucination! You are!

Pssht. I bet that’s what all the hallucinations say.

I am not a hallucination.

Let’s go find Mick again.

We don’t know where he is.

We tracked him the first few times, and we were catatonic. Also, stop saying ‘we’, it’s I. Just me in this body. I’m not suffering from dissociated identity disorder.

Wait, am I?

Damned if I know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of the softer sciences, but then again, I never imagined it would be relevant to my life. It’s not called multiple personalities anymore?

No, they updated the book. I think.

Oh, that’s helpful! Now we know exactly what type of insane we are!

We’re not insane. I. I’m not insane. Schziophrenia’s nothing more than a mental disorder, which can be handled with appropriate treatment; you shouldn’t make value judgments –

Huh, look at that, his hands and head are on fire again. They seem to do that a lot.

We – sorry, I – should keep track of the pattern. Perhaps it is associated with some emotion?

They – he, damnit, even though it’s increasingly easier to think as a ‘they’ – walk through the streets. The fire seemed associated with anger or other strong emotions, but they could force it in or out. They couldn’t keep the illusion for that long, though.

Oddly, that seemed to be the only visual hallucination.

Neither of them wanted to look in a mirror, because one of them was right – forty but strong, salt-and-pepper hair and blue-eyes, or old and white-haired, brown-eyed and glasses – and the other one didn’t want to know if they were the delusion, as they were both pretty sure they were the right one.

“Hey!” someone calls. “Wait!”

Oh, great, it’s the guy that’s been chasing them.

Neither of them remember exactly, but the memory floods forth clear as lightning: the man who’s been looking for him, looking everywhere, following their traces, and they’ve been avoiding him, even while mostly catatonic and running on instinct. Well, no reason to change now.

They duck into an alley, but he follows. They fly to the roof and hide there.

Did we just fly?

We totally just flew. How did we do that?

I don’t know!

You’re the delusion! You tell me!

Don’t start that again. Perhaps it was part of the delusion, that we flew?

No, I think we’re really on this rooftop right now. The fire just came out of our hands, Iron Man style, and we…flew. That was pretty cool. Maybe we actually just climbed the side of the building and thought that we flew?

We should try it again.

What, and risk having it shut off halfway through?

Good point. Perhaps we should try again, but once we are closer to the ground. Who is the young man following us, anyway?

Not sure. He’s not Mick.

No, we’ve established Mick. Isn’t there anyone else for you?

Lisa.

Who’s Lisa?

My sister, you dumbass!

Oh. My brother died in a car accident when I was a child.

I don’t – you know what, let’s not get into that again.

I most fervently agree.

So who’s this guy? He looks familiar.

Distantly, yes. An employee, perhaps?

Nah, he’s not a criminal.

I worry when you say things like that. No, he’s not one of mine – someone else’s. Wells.

Wells?

Yes, the name is familiar – I was going to see him –

Wait. I remember – the Particle Accelerator. Harrison Wells.

That’s the one!

I saw him there. And in the newspaper, right before.

Yes.

And this guy – I saw him, too. He was in the Accelerator. I pushed him out.

So it’s your fault he’s hunting us down.

How’s it my fault?

No doubt he wishes to thank you.

That’s dumb. You don’t thank people for shit like that, certainly not by stalking them through the city; you pay it forward, somehow.

So you have some philosophy after all.

Yeah, yeah. It’s just common sense.

Hmm. I think he’s gone.

I wanna go see Mick again.

Let’s do that, then. After we eat something.

I’ll break into the local bodega.

Couldn’t we have something more substantive than chips today?

I’ll grab some Ramen. Stop whining.

Words cannot express the depth of my joy at the thought of eating microwaved noodles in a cheap Styrofoam cup. Which I’ve stolen, let me not forget.

I’ll break into a Family-owned Italian restaurant and have some pasta next to the bags of cocaine, how about I do that instead, huh?

Ramen is fine.

Time passes in fits and starts.

They watch Clarissa, who cries, sometimes, alone in her living room where she thinks no one is looking, late at night.

They hunt Mick, who is becoming increasingly more paranoid that someone is following him. He works shit jobs, dumb muscle, intimidation; he deserves better. At least he doesn’t get arrested.

Clarissa goes to work and pretends to smile.

Mick lights a house on fire and stays to watch it far too long, but they call the fire department before he burns with it, and he runs when he hears the sirens. They run, too.

Fly, actually. They keep thinking they can do that.

Visual hallucination number two.

He clips his hair again, so they have a way of keeping time, but sometimes he blinks and finds that he doesn’t know where the last few weeks have gone. He sometimes goes to stay with Jaz and Fatima and Josh and the others in the house on Maple, which they’ve turned into an informal artist’s collective-slash-shelter.

They debate visiting Mick’s shrink, and finally do. The pills just make him sick, really sick, and they don’t seem to help at all, so after a month they stop taking them.

After some debate.

He’s never debated himself this much in his life.

They avoid Ronnie and his concerned wife, Caitlin, who works at STAR Labs and who he talks to on the phone a lot; Ronnie is very earnest and very enthusiastic and he believes that his life was saved by the mysterious man he is hunting.

He’d say that he doesn’t know who in their right mind thinks that stalking someone down is a good way to thank them for their life, but in view of his visits to Clarissa’s home and Mick’s safehouses, maybe they don’t have room to judge.

He’s still not sure where he came up with Clarissa. He only knows she means a lot to him.

The fire hallucinations continue ceaselessly. Hand, head, sometimes the soles of his feet.

Sometimes he touches things and they become other things. He literally turns water into wine once, which is just funny, though the fact that he can even taste the wine when he drains the water bottle stinks of a worsening mental state.

Their second attempts to get pills for their problem doesn’t work any better than the first.

They start experimenting with their hallucinations, which are at least very consistent. Sure, they’re mentally unbalanced, but as the voice in his head puts it, that doesn’t mean they can’t be scientific about it. After all, when else would they get such an opportunity to explore it from the inside?

It’s interesting, though it’s not entirely enough to erase the sense of loss of their real life.

He wishes he could go to Clarissa, or to Mick, to explain, to ask for help, but he knows how dangerous untreated schizophrenics can be. He knows how dangerous he can be.

I don’t remember killing quite so many people. Or – anyone at all, actually.

It gets easier after the first one.

Does it really?

No.

Oh.

My first one, I was nine. My dad told me to shoot a man, execution style. I stood too close and the blood and brains got all over me. I threw up afterwards, snotted up crying like a baby.

I’m…terribly sorry.

Dad nearly broke my wrist kicking my ass after that. He said I shouldn’t have cried.

Your father is awful.

Yeah, I know, right? You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to accept that.

The worst my father ever did was make me go to rabbinical school before finally permitting me to focus on physics and chemistry.

I never even graduated high school.

One of us is a startling well-developed delusion.

No kidding. I always thought it was exaggerated in the movies, how it was basically two totally different people, personalities, histories, that sort of thing.

For me as well! It always seemed so absurd; surely it wasn’t actually like that. I suppose my karma has repaid my hubris several times over by giving me you.

At least there’s only two of us.

Don’t frighten me. I can only handle one of you.

Back at you. I wish I weren’t schizophrenic. Assuming this is schizophrenia, which I’m starting to doubt.

I wish for many things.

Yeah. Clarissa.

Mick.

I don’t think I appreciated Clarissa enough, assuming your version of my life is correct. She’s so funny and smart, and she always seems to know how to get me back on track.

Yes, she is. You’re right. I should have appreciated her more when I had the chance. And assuming you were correct, there was Mick –

I didn’t appreciate him enough.

No, you did. I did. I really did. I loved him, and I saved him just as he saved me. But I – you – whichever one of us. We should have gone back to him, after the fire. He wanted you to.

He hated me.

He still loves you.

He’s not missing me the way Clarissa’s missing you.

He doesn’t know you’re missing.

No, he does. I think Lisa told him. I always check in with her, even if I’m in prison.

Why didn’t you this year?

Same reason as with Mick. She’d be in danger from me.

Memories drift up to them, memories of Lisa, of their childhood. Not good memories.

You’re not your father, you know.

No. But I’m not taking the chance, either.

Yes. I suppose not.

They watch as Central starts to become…strange.

“A streak?” he asks, frowning at Jaz who waves the blog page she printed out from the library in his face. “Fighting a – multiple man? Is this a joke?”

Or a tabloid.

“Or a tabloid?”

“No!” she says. “It’s real. I swear. I saw the streak myself, just the other day; moved faster than you could see, but definitely there. Bright red, lightning, the whole works.”

Out of morbid curiosity, he uses Aryeh’s computer – he’s the only one who has one, a used one he fished out a dumpster and repaired and now leeches wifi where he can – to hack into the traffic cameras.

“I didn’t know you could do that. Can you do that? Is that legal?” Aryeh asks Rashid.

“No. Definitely not,” Rashid says. “That is very illegal. Buddy, what are you even doing?”

He hushes them both.

“You can’t find the Streak like that,” Jaz says archly. She has the same nasal drawl as the rest of them: Central City slums, the accent that sneaks in to everyone’s voice eventually if they spend enough time in the bad parts of town. He suspects that’s one of the reasons they accepted him into their group, in the beginning: what few words he stuttered out identified him as part of the extend family of slum-dwellers. “It’s too fast.”

“He,” he says.

“What?”

“He. The Streak is a man,” he tells them, his eyes still fixed on the screen, where’s he’s paused the streak just enough to identify a hand, an arm.

A man who can move at super-speed. He could stop him, with a little technical help - something cold to slow him down – he could –

He could spasm and flail because his movements have stopped responding to him again, that’s what he could do. It always felt incredibly bizarre when that happened – as if his brain were sending two sets of instructions at the same time, one moving one way, the other another, but it never worked.

He can’t fight a speedster this way.

He sighs in regret.

Why would you want to fight him? He’s done nothing to you, and I must say, you’ve already fought plenty of people.

Listen, when people first found Mount Everest, do you think they said ‘oh, I’ve already climbed plenty of mountains, and this one’s done nothing to me’? That’s not how it works.

Adrenaline junkie.

Stop sounding so dismissive about yourself.

I never knew I was so brave before you.

Trust your subconscious.

Hah! Not in a million years. Regardless of which one of us is the ‘right’ one, I think we’ve both learned a very important lesson about not trusting our subconscious.

Yeah, well, my subconscious is apparently manifested in a stubborn, snobby old physic professor with an occasional daredevil streak.

I do not have a daredevil streak.

I wasn’t the one who threw us off a building to see if we could learn to fly faster that way.

It worked!

It was still stupid.

Well, yes…

Turns out they’re not the only ones watching the Streak. Not the only ones thinking.

Mick’s been tearing through all the safehouses they’ve both had for the last few months, almost as if he’s looking for something –

He’s looking for you.

Well, he can’t find me. I won’t let him.

– and Mick knows him too well. Too well, too well. He looks at the Streak and he goes: I know who would like to fight that.

I know who would stand at the foot of Mount Everest and say, “Hell yes, I’m going to climb that.”

“Someone’s fighting the Streak!” Jaz exclaims. “And he’s got a gun that shoots fire and someone’s already called the media, says the guy’s name is Heatwave!”

“Heatwave?” he asks, frowning, and goes to look at the television.

That’s Mick.

That’s Mick.

Shit!

You have to stop him. Fire is a useful weapon against a speedster, based on our assumptions regarding cell regrowth and enhanced metabolism –

But you need to be slow and cold if you really want to fight a speedster, I know, I know! He’s going to lose, and thus far, no one’s ever seen the people the Streak fights ever again. We need to find something – there’s no way to get liquid nitrogen on such a short time frame –

They rifle through their memory together, physics and crime and academia and street-slang all meshing together in a horrific mess which they both bemoaned as the destruction of their carefully ordered minds.

The cold gun – STAR Labs! You saw it when you were snooping, right before the Accelerator exploded –

It wasn’t finalized.

With a speedster on the loose? I’m certain STAR Labs would have finalized it by now.

On my way now. Please don’t – whatever you do.

I’ll do my best not to interfere.

Mick snarls on the television, the speedster having hit him quick as lightning, and they grab one of the illegal guns they bought for the artist’s collective when the Family started knocking and they run to the window and they leap and they fly.

He remembers studying the blueprints of STAR Labs.

It has roof access.

He’s not even questioning if this is a hallucination or not; he doesn’t care. He needs to get to the cold gun.

No one’s guarding anything at STAR Labs anymore, and the cold gun is easy to find. He grabs it and heads back up. He’s not going to let the Streak hurt Mick, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not – no more than he could let anyone hurt Clarissa –

He hears the sound of a fight from the other room, coming as if through a speaker, then a loud whoosh.

“I have him,” a young man’s voice says proudly. “I mean, ouch on the burns, but they’re already healing. Sorry about the suit, Cisco.”

“Why do you keep hurting my baby like this?” another young man, presumably ‘Cisco’ asks plaintively, then his tone changes. “But still: Heatwave! Our very first non-meta villain!”

“What do we do with him?” an anxious-sounding young woman says. “Should we put him in the Accelerator with the others? Or do we just drop him off at the police?”

“He’s discovered Barry’s identity, or at least that Barry is the Flash,” a low, mellow voice, male, older than the rest, says. “That’s the nickname you prefer, right, Barry?”

“Yeah,” the first young man says. “The Flash is so much better than the Streak. So you think we should keep him?”

“At least for now,” the older man says smoothly. “We can work out some sort of transfer system one the threat of metahumans isn’t looming over the city.”

That’s illegal.

No kidding, that’s illegal. That’s illegal imprisonment, failure to obey due process, keeping vital information from the masses, which don’t even know that metahumans are definitely a thing –

“Rory’s dangerous,” another voice, also older, also male, cuts in. “I agree with Dr. Wells in this case. He’s escaped Iron Heights before. I’m not sure we can risk him getting out again and telling everyone about you guys here.”

“Let me go,” Mick slurs. He’s been knocked out, but he’s reviving; it’s evident from his voice.

“Shit, he’s waking up,” Cisco yelps. “Put him in the Accelerator, Barry; I’ll open up another tube –”

You ready?

I supposed I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Go get them.

He takes a deep breath and pulls the fire inside his skin. He won’t be able to keep it that way long, but maybe long enough.

Then he marches into the room and fires the cold gun right at the one dressed in red.

He gets them by surprise, all of them, and the one in red, whose cowl is pulled back and who is just a young man after all, the speedster himself, is covered from toe to torso. He memorizes the face – he’ll hack Facebook and find him if he has to after this, for leverage – and he snarls, “Get your hands off of my partner.”

A black man pulls out his gun. “Stop!” he shouts. “Police.”

He turns the cold gun on him.

“Joe! Don’t let it touch you!” the Flash calls in a panic, and the policeman dives behind a table when the bolt of blue flame comes towards him.

“It’s Leonard Snart!” the policeman shouts. “Rory’s old partner!”

“I thought you said they didn’t work together anymore!” Cisco yells from where he’s dived behind a desk. The young woman has grabbed the other man in the room, an older man in a wheelchair, and carted him behind a glass door.

The older man’s eyes glitter in anger, though. Not fear.

He’s unable to use his legs, but he’s not afraid, not at all. That’s strange; the Wells I knew was a reasonable man, and quite cautious with his life. He’s hiding something.

Possibly a weapon. Keep an eye on him.

Right.

“I’m stuck!” Barry shouts.

“Vibrate fast enough to melt it!” the man in the wheelchair calls.

He ices the kid’s feet again. “Do that,” he says icily – Really, must you? I’m stuck in here with you, you know – “and the next time I’ll hit your face, and then I’ll hit your face with my goddamn fist until you crack into a thousand pieces, and see if your speed helps you heal from that.”

“Joe, wait! Don’t shoot him!” another voice calls out.

He turns his head, just a little, and he sees the man at the door.

It’s him. Ronnie Raymond, the one who’s been hunting him.

“Why the hell not?!” Joe shouts angrily. “He’s hurting Barry.”

“He saved my life!” Ronnie exclaims, throwing himself in front of them, grabbing Joe and grappling his gun. “He saved my life, and he helped save the city, and I’m sure he has a good reason to do what he’s doing.”

“Ronnie!” the young woman shouts, sounding distressed.

“He’s a goddamn criminal,” Joe shouts, fighting to pull the gun back. “There’s not an ounce of good in him.”

I think, loath as I am to admit it, you might be the real one between us.

Then where the hell is Clarissa from? Or, hell, the science?

I don’t know. I thought I was real, I really did…

“Len?” Mick says, his eyes wide and abruptly worried. He rises to his knees. “Lenny, is that you? What happened to you?”

He’s abruptly aware of how dirty he is, how his hair has grown out another few inches, just short of starting to curl; how he hasn’t really paid much attention to baths because he keeps losing time.

The man in the wheelchair is still watching. His eyes are still glittering. He is still unafraid.

He is still unafraid – except when he glances at Barry.

Len bites his lip, and plays a hunch.

He takes three steps forward and presses the gun against the Streak’s – Barry’s – head, and he looks him in the eyes and winks with the eye that isn’t facing the man in the wheelchair, and then he says, “Sorry, kid. End of the road.”

Ronnie and Joe look up from their fight, eyes wide in horror. The young woman shrieks. Cisco shouts, “No!” Even Mick’s mouth gapes open, not in negation, but in a silent question of ‘why.’

Barry, looking straight at Len, frowns a little, clearly wondering what he’s up to.

He doesn’t think he’s going to die, the Flash; he trusts in Len’s little wink and Ronnie’s vouch for him.

Len’s not sure if it’s youthful bravado or hope and trust and optimism in the goodness of strangers or perhaps in fate.

Len makes as though he’s going to push the trigger.

There’s lightning in the room.

And a blur of yellow.

Len was already turning to aim at him, finger pressing the trigger for real.

“The man in yellow!” Barry bellows.

“Doctor Wells!” the young woman screams, hands clenching futilely on the empty wheelchair.

Cisco scrambles to the desk. “I’m activating the therma-threading!” he shouts. “That’ll melt the ice!”

“You ruined my plans,” the vibrating man hisses, his voice dark and dangerous and Len’s gun is somewhere else and he’s being held up by his throat and his fingers are scrabbling there.

Mick scrambles to get his heat gun from where it’s on the desk, shouting, “Lenny! Lenny!” in a voice that sounds like his heart is breaking, but the vibrating man kicks him back, knocking him on the floor.

The Streak is shouting, frantic, vibrating at speed, his suit glowing, the ice melting, but it won’t be fast enough.

Ronnie gets the cold gun, but the second speedster knocks out of his hands, throwing it against the wall, carrying Len with him as if Len weighs only a feather.

I think - I’m afraid - that this is ‘it’ for us.

Yeah. Me too.

And then their hands are on fire again, and their head, too, just like always when they’re panicking, that stupid hallucination back again, except the speedster – a second speedster, he wasn’t expecting that, he thought he’d have a gun or something – is shouting in pain and letting go for some reason –

“Len,” Mick gasps, and his voice has changed. It’s still scared, still broken, but now there’s something else there.

Awe.

Adoration.

Worship.

“Len,” he says again. “Len, you’re on fire.”

It’s not a hallucination?

Wait. If that’s not a hallucination –

Maybe the pills didn’t work because we weren’t schizophrenic.

And perhaps we’re not the same person at all. Perhaps I really am me, and you are you. Perhaps the Particle Accelerator merged us or something – my Firestorm matrix mixing with the dark matter –

That’s nice. Let’s discuss later.

Len lights his hands on fire and throws it at the speedster.

Mick has grabbed his gun now, crawled over, and he shoots it at him as well, and the speedster howls and runs forward and knocks them all back, but by that point the Streak is free.

But the Streak doesn’t run straight for the yellow speedster.

He runs for the cold gun.

The ice covers the second speedster from head to toe.

“I think I got him,” Barry pants.

“Ya think?” Cisco says. “Caitlin, will that kill – him?”

“If he’s a speedster like Barry,” the young woman, Caitlin, says briskly, clearly forcefully ignoring her horror, “then no; it’s just slowing him down.”

Len ignores them. “Mick,” he says, staring at his partner, who’s picking himself off from the floor and sliding his head gun into a very attractive thigh holster. Len misses him so much.

Mick reaches for him, and Len draws away. “No,” he says. “If the fire is real, then it’ll hurt you.”

He hesitates. “You all see the fire, right? It’s not just in my head?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “We all see the fire.” He looks deeply shaken. “That was – that was the man in yellow.”

“Yeah,” Barry says grimly. “Yeah, it was.”

“Barry, your dad –”

“Is innocent,” Barry says. “Just like I always said.”

Man in yellow? Dad, Iron Heights, innocent –

“Wait,” Len says. “You’re Doc Allen’s kid? Really?”

Barry turns and gapes at him.

“What?” Len says defensively. “We were cellies, way back when. I used to read his mail, what he got from his kid.”

“You read my dad’s mail?!”

“There wasn’t anything else to read!”

“You’re a dick!” Barry says, but his eyes are starting to tear up. “Oh man. Oh man. If I’ve caught him –”

“Doc Allen can finally go free,” Mick says. “Good for him.”

“Leonard Snart?” Ronnie says hesitantly.

“Yeah, stalker-boy?” Len says.

Ronnie flushes and Caitlin barks a laugh, which she immediately covers her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“I just wanted to ask,” he says. “Is, uh – is Professor Martin Stein in there?”

Yes. Yes! That’s me!

“Oh, great,” Len says. “You gave him a name.”

We already knew my name.

Only because we stalked Clarissa’s mailbox. And we didn’t know it was your name for sure. We couldn’t trust you about it.

Well, it clearly is, so there.

Very mature.

“So he is?” Ronnie says, looking excited. “I knew it! I knew the Firestorm matrix must have merged into your systems – I’ve been working on a way to get the two of you apart –”

Apart?

Apart?

Holy shit, apart.

Yes. Absolutely yes. We should try out whatever this clearly intelligent young man has planned immediately.

So quick to get rid of me, huh?

I suspect that you’re about to have a reunion with your husband, and I don’t want to be here for that.

Yeah, good point.

“Can you separate us?” he asks Ronnie.

Ronnie looks at Cisco.

“Uh, I mean, I have the device, we can give it a try,” Cisco says. “But first, can we discuss how Doctor Wells is secretly evil?”

“He’s not Wells,” Joe says.

Everyone looks at him.

“Wells has an iron-clad alibi for the time of the death of Barry’s mother,” Joe says. “I’ve been – suspicious. For a while. Because of just how interested he is in Barry. But his story all checked out.”

“But, then – how?”

“I don’t know,” Joe says. “But conversations with numerous individuals who knew Harrison Wells before and after the accident that killed his wife all agree on one thing: the Harrison Wells from afterwards wasn’t the same man as before, and in ways that even grief has trouble explaining.”

“Have you searched the building?” Len asks Barry. “You have superspeed. You could do it.”

“What for?” Barry asks blankly. “You think he has some sort of secret hideway? Here?”

“I saw him walk into a wall downstairs,” Len offers. “When I broke into the building during the Accelerator explosion.”

“You did what?!” Mick says, looking horrified and pissed off the way he always does when he’s discovered one of Len’s stupid-crazy plans.

And, yes, this time Len will admit his plan had been really stupid.

“Let’s put him in the Accelerator,” Barry says firmly. “And find the room.”

The room is –

This is absolutely fascinating!

I’m glad at least one of us is enjoying this.

“Wells is from the future?!” Cisco yowls.

“Speedsters can travel through time?!” Barry yelps.

“You and Iris are married?!” Joe shouts.

“You know you’re still on fire?” Mick asks Len in a low tone. His eyes are a little glazed over. “It’s, uh. It’s really nice. Very pretty.”

Your partner is a pyromaniac.

Did I not mention that?

You did; it’s different being confronted with it directly like this. He also appears to have pyrophilia.

I think he just likes the idea of me not being able to burn.

Mr. Snart. Look into your husband’s face. That is definitely pyrophilia.

Len looks.

Hmm.

Okay, maybe the voice – maybe Martin Stein – had a point.

Of course I have a point. And just Stein is fine; I prefer it. Only my wife calls me Martin.

That’d be Clarissa, I take it.

Yes. You know, I think we’re adjusting to the merger; our thoughts have increasingly untangled, yours to yours and mine to mine, and we haven’t had any movement issues in a while.

And we haven’t been able to do the memory sharing so much anymore.

No, indeed. I think we’ll slowly be able to fade into a simple psychic bond.

Simple?!

Well. Compared to before…

Compared to the bit where we thought we had schizophrenia, you mean.

“Mick,” he says warningly when Mick reaches out to try to touch him.

“Oh, please,” Mick says. “Just a little.”

We can try to make the fire lack heat.

Can we do that?

I said we could try, not that we would necessarily succeed.

Len focuses, and Stein focuses, and when they feel like they’ve got something, Len gently reaches out and takes Mick’s hand in his.

The flame beats against Mick’s fingers harmlessly.

Mick swallows, hard, and stares. “Lenny,” he marvels. “Lenny, look at you. You’re the Burning Man.”

Uh, Stein, I don’t suppose –

First let’s figure out if I can block out my awareness of what’s going on first, thank you.

Right. And separate, too, if we can.

That would be even better.

Len clears his throat. “Can we talk about getting me and Stein separated?”

“Uh, sure,” Barry says. “Thanks for your help, uncovering Wells and all.”

“Happy to help,” Len drawls.

“Did you have to frost Barry for it to work?” Cisco asks.

“I was trying to rescue my partner,” Len says reasonably. “I didn’t realize about your Wells.”

“Wait,” Barry says. “But you winked at me!”

“I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Len explains. “No reason; I don’t kill unless it’s necessary – I never liked the heat. Besides, Stein’s squeamish –”

If it means you don’t kill people, then yes, I’m squeamish!

“Anyway, I just saw that he was really, really calm for a guy in a wheelchair, is all,” Len continues. “The only thing that worried him were threats to Barry.”

“Because he needed Barry for his evil plan to return to the future,” Cisco says. “And I can’t believe that was a sentence that came out of my mouth.”

“Is that necessarily an evil plan?” Caitlin asks, gnawing on her lip. “If he just wanted to go home…”

“He came to the past to try to wipe Barry out of existence,” Cisco points out. “His notes indicate that he thought that succeeding could mean that he cause a miniature quasi-black hole – not a real one, or we’d all really be screwed - to be formed here, destroying Central City and everyone in it –”

“Say,” Len interrupts before Cisco can go into too much detail. “While you’re looking up anti-speedster tech ideas, can we pause for a second and see if there’s anything in that doohickey about me?”

“About you?”

“About me and Stein, I mean,” he says. “Us separating.”

“Yes, Mr. Snart,” the AI they’ve managed to access chirps. “You and Professor Stein are called Firestorm when joined together. Your power set includes –”

They listen.

“Hold up,” Joe says. “What was that about nuclear power?”

I’m more concerned about the part that said that we will deteriorate into an explosive material when separated for too long.

Guess you’re not rid of me yet.

To be perfectly honest, Mr. Snart, I don’t know what I’d do without you by now.

Go back to your normal life.

What, and give up flying and minor criminal activity?

Hey! It’ll be major criminal activity, now that I know we aren’t schizophrenic and inclined to break down while on a job.

Then I must object –

“So you’re going to help us, right?” Barry says anxiously.

What?

“Huh?” Len says aloud.

“If we put Wells in prison,” Barry says, looking at them with big wide puppy eyes. “And if we get the thing to separate and stabilize you to work, then, maybe, could you stay and help? We need a main scientist - plus, you know, extra firepower - to help us fight the metas. They’ll destroy Central City if we don’t stop them.”

“Actually,” Len says, putting aside Barry’s absolutely ridiculous suggestion for the time being – and judging by Joe’s face, he agrees that it’s ridiculous, “let’s talk about your definition of ‘prison’ first. And about a few things I’d like to call, in order: the Geneva Convention, the Constitution, and Missouri state law. Do you know what all those things have in common?”

“Uh,” Cisco says. “No?”

“You’re violating all of them!”

Mick laughs.

It takes two days for the separator to be finished.

Two very long days, given that Stein absolutely refuses to let Len and Mick get on with their reunion until he’s out of there.

(He’s left the door open on potentially joining up and then shutting away his mind to let Mick enjoy the flames, but only if Len will agree to Barry’s ridiculous plan of becoming Team Flash’s new mentors. Mick – who had initially objected to the idea of becoming ‘heroes’ – suddenly changed sides on the debate when he heard the offer. He’s such a pyrophiliac.)

Not being able to screw did mean that they actually had to talk about it.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Len tells Mick without looking at him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten distracted,” Mick says, also not looking at Len.

“Not your fault,” Len says. “It happened so suddenly. It just went up. I know the risks, with you; I shouldn’t have taken you in there at all. I don’t hold it against you at all.”

“And I don’t hold you leaving against you,” Mick says. “Well, not anymore. You got scared, and you ran. You were trying to defend yourself.”

“Still –”

Oh for God’s sake, just forgive each other already.

Len snorts.

“What’d our guest say?” Mick says, turning to look at Len for the first time in this conversation.

“That we should forgive each other already,” Len says.

“I can do that,” Mick says.

“No more feelings talk for at least another few years,” Len agrees, and then Mick is there, right there, right in front of him, back again, partners again –

I take it back! Go back to being angry at each other!

Len snorts against Mick’s lips.

“Lemme guess,” Mick says, pulling back a little from where he’s holding Len close. “He’s complaining.”

Len hums in agreement and kisses Mick again – ignoring Stein’s theatrical groan – and then pulls away. “Soon,” he says.

“I’m going to go encourage Cisco and Ronnie to work faster,” Mick says.

“You do that,” Len says, and goes for check-up number a thousand from Caitlin.

(Wells is still defrosting. Caitlin estimates a full defrost will take three days, the countdown to which restarted yesterday because Len was feeling grumpy and didn’t want everyone’s attention to go away from fixing him.)

Oh, and Lisa shows up to yell at Len, but he was expecting that. He wasn’t expecting her and Cisco to hit it off quite so well, but hey, if she’s happy, he’s happy.

If the device works and he’s not schizophrenic and not joined together with Stein anymore, everyone’s going to be happy.

They put on the device.

Something just clicks into place.

Pulling apart is –

It’s easy. They just step apart, as if they’ve always known how to do it. And then they step together, hand in hand, and they’re one again. Then apart.

“So we just have to do that regularly, huh?” Len says to Stein, studying the older man’s features even as Stein studies his.

“Yes,” Stein says. “It appears so.”

“Guess we might as well stick around here, then,” Len says. “Wouldn’t want these idiots to get into trouble without us.”

Stein smiles. “I think we’ll be able to find enough adrenaline to keep even you interested,” he says.

“Len,” Mick says from the door.

“I’m going to go find Clarissa,” Stein says hastily, and heads out.

Len takes a step closer to his partner, then another. Mick’s eyes are fixed on him, his pupils already blown, and it doesn’t matter that Len can’t light on fire without Stein, not at all, because Mick wants him just the way he is right now.

The only question, really, is if they’re going to make it to the safehouse – any but the one on Maple, for which he’s already handed the lease over to the artist’s collective and pre-paid their taxes for a few years – or if they’re just going to fall down right here on the floor of the lab –

Judging by Mick’s face and Len’s quickening breath, they’re not going to make it to the safehouse –

“Uh, guys?” Cisco’s voice pipes up through the intercom. “I think we have a problem. A…monkey problem.”

“Technically,” Catilin chimes in, “I think he’s a gorilla.”

“I think he has mind control powers,” Barry says.

Len and Mick look at each other.

“Safehouse,” they say at the same time.

Team Flash’s emergencies can wait until tomorrow.

Ronnie ends up in charge of the cold gun. He mostly uses it against speedsters and as a high powered fire extinguisher when Len and Mick get too fire-happy. When accompanied by Caitlin’s later development of frost powers, they’re officially the chillest couple on the block.

(Cisco and Len high-five while everyone else groans.)

[verzerrte-stimmen]

Five Past Future

This one is for @quotable-ishtar! Have a semi drunk Bakura! ---  My eyes are heavy as I glance at the clock - it's 9 am. Last night I discovered a whole new level of destruction. This party escalated, I don't even remember what happened after I took the third shot of vodka. I only know that my brain feels like it is exploding over and over again. My muscles don't seem to work and my throat is dry. I rub my eyes and moan loudly. I don't want to get up but I have to buy groceries - at afternoon everything good will be already gone. Saturdays are always like this.

I can clearly feel the alcohol that is still flowing through my veins. The taste of it gives me the necessity to throw up. I don't want to know how my liver looks like right now. Some day I am going to die because of lung cancer, man.

Slowly I make my way to the bathroom and get ready. After brushing my teeth I feel a bit better but not good enough to feel okay. My pounding head won't leave me alone and my muscles hurt. Every muscle in my body fucking hurts. I can't even remember how I got home safely. Did I take a cab? Did someone bring me home? Did someone call the ambulance?

I brush my hair, put hairspray into it and leave the bathroom. With aching arms I put on my jacket and take my wallet. As I leave the house I feel this unbelievable need to go back to bed. I stand in front of the door for a couple seconds. In the end my sensibility wins and I make my way to the grocery store.

It is very cold and the wind is blowing. My black coat is usally very warm but I guess my body got just fucked up by the alcohol. I can't feel my fingers anymore and my face is freezing too. I walk faster so I can be at the shop faster. I just want to finish the grocery shopping as soon as possible and get back to bed.

I see the supermarket at the other side of the street and just walk across the street. There are red traffic lights but I don't care as long as no car is in sight. I'm getting forward with unsteady steps before I hear the sound of a speeding car in my left ear. In this moment, my heart is skipping a beat and my whole body freezes. I can't move and everything goes so fast, I look to my left and see the turned on headlights coming torwards me, I close my eyes and just wait for the crash, unable to move. Everything turns black and I can feel the gust, ready to die. I wait and wait but there is no crash. I hear voices around me shouting I should leave the street. "Why are you standing there?! Move! Move!", a man shouts. In the meantime, other cars have assembled and the drivers honk angrily. I stand here in the middle of the street and ask myself how this could happen. Where is the car that should have killed me?

"Are you okay?", a strange man with blond hair, golden jewellery and tanned skin touches me on my left shoulder. I immediately make a step backwards, I don't like being touched. I look at him, still with a frozen face expression. I should be dead. What happened?

The man grabs my arm and leads me from the street, the angry drivers can continue their way now. The people still look at me and shake their heads. I am confused, I am terrified and I am suprised. "Did you see this red car?", I ask the stranger and realize I just showed fear. I hate showing fear. I hate it when people can see my inner feelings. I hate it when they can tell that I am fragile too sometimes. I can't stand it. And that makes me furious. This whole situation makes me furious. The people who think they can tell me what to do, a tanned strange man who touches me and this car whose driver doesn't fucking know how to drive.

We stand in front of the grocery store now. "I am Marik and I just saved your life", he claims. I don't blink - I just don't understand anything anymore. Did he push the car? What happened? I am thinking of different theories but in the end I don't care anymore and I just want to go home. I don't want to be in the cold anymore, I don't want to see people anymore and I don't want to think about this whole situation anymore. I will just order some pizza for today.

"Have to go home", I say. "Let me come with you and explain! I am here for a reason!", Marik says. I roll my eyes; "On a mission or something?". Suddenly he shows me a digital device that I have never seen before. It is oval shaped with green glowing dots on its corners and I really never have seen something like that before. I start to get interested.

"Tell me more about this thing. But somewhere where it is warm", at this moment I wonder if my breath still smells like vodka. It would be embarassing. It would make me look like a desperate guy who drinks his weekends away. I mean probably it is like that but nobody should know.

We arrive at my house and I look at Marik as I want to open the door - a complete stranger in my house? First I think about how dangerous that can be but then I remember I can be a fucking killing machine, so I let him in. I order pizza and then we make ourselves comfortable on the couch.

"So, what is this thing you have?", I ask and glance at it interested. He presses a button and holds the device vis a vi to my TV. Suddenly, there is a code lighting up in the middle section of the strange thing. Marik presses one of the blue glowing buttons and my TV is moving to the left right in front of my eyes. I rub my whole face and take a look at it again - my TV is not in the middle of the shelf anymore. I turn my head to Marik; "What happened?". I sound very suprised what did not happen for a long time. As I said, I always hide my emotions.

"This device called 'Omega' can push things. And that's how I saved your life. In timeline A I saw how you got killed by this red car, so I switched to timeline B and moved the car before it hit you", Marik says with a relaxed voice. This dude tries to tell me he is from the future? What the hell...

"I don't know it this is the truth and I should thank you or if I should kick you out because you are a pathetic liar", I tell him with a deep voice. I start to get angry. My day was shitty enough and then this clown appears.

"I am not lying. Or do you wanna tell me you already have this device in the year 2017?", he starts to grin. I don't know what to say, I just know that my headache got stronger after I was walking in the cold on the way to the supermarket. I moan annoyed and lay down on the couch. I stare at the TV and I am really confused. I can feel how the blood is being pumped harshly into my head.

Suddenly the doorbell rings. "Pizza...", I mumble and answer the door. The guy stares at me with a big grin as he sees Marik and probably thinks I am gay. Now I am pissed off - I just slam the door with no word said. I carry the pizza to the table. Before I can grab the first piece, Marik already stuffs the second one into his mouth. "Excuse me, you little shit, this is my pizza", I remind him and look at him toxicly. "I saved your life!", he claims with a full mouth. I roll my eyes.

"Listen here, liar", I begin. "Go back with your imaginary time machine and let me eat my pizza!", my voice is loud. "It broke. I am stuck here - nobody knows the technology to fix it because this is the past", he grabs another piece. "But you look like you're from ancient egypt where people still believed cats were gods...", I start to grin. Marik turns his head to me; "My roots are egyptian, you annoying spike head!". I immediately stop to chew and give him a dangerous look. Did he just make fun of my hair?

"Can I use Omega to move people? Because then I'd use it to move you to the moon, bastard Ramses", I grab Omega and try to figure out how it works. "Did you just make fun of my nationality?", Marik throws a hot piece of pizza at me. I have now tomato sauce and cheese on my shirt and I am not pleased.

I grab his arms and hold them tightly; "I could fucking kill you, you fool. Don't think you are superior because you come from the future. I am still stronger than you". He starts to laugh; "I know that you will adore me in a couple of days. I know your sexual orientation better than you, friend". I am not sure about how to react. Is he right? I let go and breathe out desperately. Am I ... gay?

"I know what will happen and you can not deny. So, where can I sleep?", he gets up and looks around. I hit my head against the wall several times; " Please - tell - me - this - is - a -dream". --- Requests are open!

[theimmediateband-blog]

Songblog #003: ’With The Fireflies’

Introduction:

A friend of mine, who also happens to be one of the most brilliant songwriters I have ever heard, baulks at the idea of finding catharsis through the writing and performance of his songs. I think great writers want to evoke, or explode, or humour, or transport the listener regardless of their own personal experience: the writer’s, that is. I think that a great writer, too, can tap into whatever it is that makes us human, without having to resort to salacious over-sharing or cliche.

Catharsis, then, is more easily generated than wisdom is accrued and shared. It’s like hanging your dirty washing up and inviting a storm of other people’s tears to clean it for you.

I am, the last time I checked, 97.8% catharsis. I can only write when I’m wrestling with something deeply personal that I couldn’t, otherwise, comprehend or come to terms with.

So, much of our album ‘Manbuoy’ (still on sale at a very favourable price on bandcamp... cough! cough!) is songs either about divorce or about falling in love… two life-changing events that could only find release through the medium of ham-fisted chords and embarrassingly unambiguous lyrics.

I like both of these things: the ham-fisted-ness and the embarrassingly unambiguous.

It is my way, but it is not the only way.

My dad went through a Subway menu board of cancers following his first diagnosis in 2007: prostate, bladder, kidney, lung and liver. He and my mum bore all of the challenges that the disease put in their way with remarkable bravery and - I have to say - a real lack of melodrama. I know that some might - ultimately - interpret me writing a song about my dad’s death as incongruent with the quiet dignity that they showed - after all, you - dear reader - are not Dermot O’Leary thrusting a microphone into my noggin on flagging early Saturday evening ITV - however I had no choice in the writing of this song. I sat down full of the biggest sadness I have ever felt, mostly unaware how that that sadness had permeated every cell, and this song is what came out.

When my marriage failed and, eventually, broke apart, I found such succour and comfort in music, particularly The Joy Formidable’s ‘The Big Roar’ and particularly, particularly ‘The Everchanging Spectrum Of A Lie’ and ‘The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade’. They saved my life, I think. Certainly saved me from finding relief in things that would have considerably shortened it. 

I’ve found sanctuary in other music over the years… The Smiths ‘Hatful Of Hollow’; The Cure’s ‘Disintegration’; Bob Dylan’s ‘Blood On The Tracks’; De La Soul’s ‘3 Feet High and Rising’; Wire’s ‘Chairs Missing’; Husker Du’s ‘Candy Apple Grey’… all at different points in my life, facing different challenges, and all for different reasons. Some deal with emotional turbulence in a very explicit way (‘Disintegration’), others offer a soundscape and poetry that I could escape into with my emotions (not from them) (‘The Big Roar’); and the rest either offered actual escape or a proxy defiance (see also every great soul 7” inch I own that isn’t ‘just’ about fucking).

This song, then, is part of the way I’ve been coming to terms with my dad’s illness and then his death. I actually started writing it a week or so before he died, at the end of July.

I think I wanted to write something that reminded me of him and I together, and of his unremitting love, sense of adventure and curiosity… all of the things I hope I most share with him. I don’t think I knew exactly what I wanted to achieve, in all honesty. It was an exhausting and very emotional period. At times like that being able to pick up a guitar, and play, and leak tearful music, even when actual tears won’t fall, is a salvation. This song came from that, but the nuts and bolts of the writing are lost in the turbulence of the time, which means that the next section will be atypically light on detail.

The Writing:

The biggest difference that I’ve found between writing now and writing then, in the original run of the band (1992-1997) is that now, when I’m writing, I’m not forcing something out. It’s enough for me to hold the emotion that I’m feeling somewhere within me. To let it osmose and to not interfere with it too much.

The sense of imminent loss and love, tiredness and confusion that I was feeling about my dad, was a fertile primeval gloop. I didn’t have to encourage or search for any images, they came unbidden. The chords sort of fell under my fingers, because they sounded like the kind of chords that my dad would have liked… the kind of progression that he might have enjoyed.

I wanted it to remind me of James Taylor’s ‘Fire and Rain’ because that’s a song that my mum and dad like, and it’s also a song about loss, and living with a sense of loss, trying to put it into some kind of perspective.

I didn’t want it to be a facsimile of that song, though. So it’s a different set of chords, a different progression.

While the chord sequence was taking shape, just strumming and picking in front of the TV, the mournful cycle of reminiscence about my dad was continuing somewhere in the background of my conscience. I think that acknowledging this aspect of writing, without explicitly calling on it, is important. Brains will find words to fit your music if you give them a bit of flour and water (the music, even in its most nascent state), some yeast (whatever emotion it is that you’re holding within) and the gentle heat of, say, an airing cupboard (the act of gently bringing all of this together.)

This is how writing is working for me, currently.

I’m appalled it reads like a hooky guide to meditation. Or baking.

It doesn’t matter how long you have to leave the dough to prove, the less consciously you try to force something to come, the more likely something interesting will eventually arrive. 

“Use your feelings, Luke…”

I’m not saying that a whole song will come, fully-formed, like this… but its shape may come, and some of its defining features…

Remember, hard, that you can jot down any old nonsense in the first instance. Don’t baulk at words or ideas that are either patently shit or useless. Think of it as a song gradually coming into focus. There is plenty of time to tighten things up once the basic form has been summoned.

That’s what happened with this song.

A friend - a great songwriter and lecturer in popular music at the University of South Wales - suggested that this blog might be more useful if his students (who find lyric writing - in particular - a challenge) could see the different drafts of the lyrics, but these days there are rarely drafts. One of the benefits - I’ve found - of working digitally is that I can move, amend, change as I go… without obscuring the original sense of the song with too many words and annotations. Having written that, though, I’m intrigued to write in ink on paper again!


Ultimately, of course, you can do what you want, however you want... that’s the only truly pertinent wisdom in this section.

The Tools:

Yamaha LA8 acoustic guitar (circa 1997), Vintage AV3 semi-acoustic guitar, Electro Harmonix Big Muff Pi fuzz pedal, Korg MicroKONTROL MIDI keyboard, Shure SM58 dynamic microphone, Aston Origin condenser microphone, Unbranded condenser microphone, Roland DUO-CAPTURE EX USB Audio Interface, Sontronics ST-POP Pop Filter, Aston Spirit & Origin Shockmount made by Rycote, Garageband 10.2.0 Audacity MacBook Pro

Various rubbish microphone stands.

Lyrics & chords:

    A It was a storm-heavy night Em7 I could taste the thunder on my tongue   G A head full of adventures D       G Well I loved them when I was young

We were so far away from home And many sights had passed our eyes You said you’d worry about me Until the day that I die

       A   D We were  on a hillside      G   D With the fireflies On a hillside With the flreflies

You said that I’d try things Out of curiosity And you were worried Those things would be bad for me

There was a night in Liverpool When your words came back to me Coming up in a bathroom And I could hardly breathe

We were on a hillside When I was just a child On a hillside Chalking up the miles I was on a hillside With the fireflies You were calling out my name But I was swallowed by the lights

Dm     A Why do they glow and float upon the evening breeze (breath)? Is it all electrons or are they supernatural beings? (Where do they go when the sun is out instead?) F       D       A When I have a question who will I ask it to? G  D Well dad I tell you now that it will still be you… Dmaj7 Still be you…

We are on a hillside With the fireflies Forever on a hillside With the fireflies

Influences:

James Taylor’s ‘Fire And Rain’. It’s one of my mum and dad’s favourite songs. Also, Bob Dylan’s ‘Tangled Up In Blue’, especially in the way that it dances around those A major chords.



Lyrically it’s part Tangled Up In Blue (if Dylan’s travelogue had been enabled by a borrowed Maxi hiccuping along the motorways of Western Europe in the late 70’s) and part ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’. The opening to that book is one of my absolute favourite openings to any book. It’s poetic without being Poetic. 

The main influence were the memories, and sitting down in front of a keyboard and just letting them wash over me… typing out words when they coalesced out of the images.


Recording:

I recorded this at home. I recorded the first 2/3rds of the song to a click (the ‘metronome’ on Garageband) and turned the click off for the last chorus, so that it would accelerate naturally towards the end. The main reason for using the click was so it would be easier to do multiple takes of the fiddly guitar bits, if necessary, and then comp the actual finished guitar track from the takes when I got it right. Without the click that would have been nightmarish. In the end, the click made the recording of the guitar nightmarish, anyway. If you’re playing arpeggios with any degree of feeling, you have to have the freedom to let them roll and ring out at their own pace. By trying to weld them to a click track, I spent many hours frustrating the hell out of myself, killing the spirit in the part, and hurting my fingers (and going through strings).

In the end, the majority of the acoustic guitar track in the finished recording is the guide track I sat down and recorded in the first ten minutes of the session. There’s a bit of a tuning issue in the second set of runs (after the first chorus), but that take captured the flow and the feeling of the part much better than anything else I subsequently recorded. Also, the guitar - whether it was down to the newness of the strings, or a serendipitous mic placement - just sounded so much better for the guide track than it did subsequently.

Up until this session, I hadn’t quite realised what a huge difference mic placement and orientation can have when you’re recording an acoustic guitar. I’m sure it’s true of other acoustic instruments, too. I’d blithely assumed that sort-of-knowing where to position the mics, and sort-of-remembering in which direction they were pointed would allow me to replicate the same sound across different takes on different days. I was wrong. So so wrong!

Subsequently I have learned that this is a major issue for engineers. Some high-end microphones even come with built in lasers so that their placement can be measured, and replicated, to the greatest accuracy possible. It’s not just enough to think, well I pointed the shitty, unbranded condenser at the 12th fret on the guitar and had the Aston Origin vaguely pointing in the direction of the soundhole.

Try to remember how far the microphones were away from your playing position. Try to remember how they were orientated in their cradle or grip. Try to remember how you were sitting, and what was around you, especially if you’re not in a sound-treated room (a rug on the floor in front of me made a noticeable difference to the sound arriving at the mic, for example).

I experimented with a few different mics and combinations. I tried a Shure SM58 with the cover / popshield off (in essence, an SM57) so that I’d have a combination of dynamic and condenser mic to blend, imagining that this would give me the best of both worlds, but the SM58 was quiet and - when boosted - too noisy.

I tried combining a DI from the Fishman Rare Earth humbucker I have in my acoustic, but that sounded noisy and pretty awful, in all honesty.

During this session I had *massive* problems with the boom mic stands I was using. The Aston Origin is cast metal, and not a light microphone, especially in its shockmount. I struggled terribly with the boom arms gradually shifting due to the weight, on both of my stands. These are unbranded stands bought from a local music shop for £20-ish? As soon as I have the funds I’m definitely going to invest in something much more heavy duty, perhaps with a counterweight (although balance wasn’t really the issue) but with a proper lock on the arm.

Don’t scrimp on cheap mic stands (like I did). Eventually you’ll end up buying a half decent mic, and if it keeps moving or falls over and gets damaged because of a shitty stand, you will not be very happy, trust me!

My hands must sweat pure hydrochloric acid because I went through a couple of packets of strings recording the acoustic parts for this song, and that’s despite rubbing the strings down between takes. Once the strings went dull, the part went dull. The Yamaha acoustic that I use has a relatively small body. I imagine that bigger bodied guitars will carry what tone there is better than a smaller bodied guitar, when the strings lose their initial zing.

That initial zing can be a pain on some recordings, but here, with lots of open notes alongside fretted notes at higher neck positions, it’s essential to give the part a sparkle. You can’t eq that sparkle back in, in my experience. Once it’s gone, adding top-end in the mix is just going to make things sound thin and - potentially - noisy.

As with the guitar part, I had envisaged comping the final vocal from a number of different takes so that I could build one, ‘perfect’ (ha ha!) vocal. It didn’t work like that, though. I’ve used that approach numerous times in the studio, but there I had a brilliant engineer working with me (Russ Hayes) who could make sure that the sound was consistent; whose editing skills are seamless and well beyond what I can achieve on Garageband / Audacity; and whose presence meant that I could concentrate on performing the vocal.

When I’m recording by myself, there are so many factors that can interrupt the flow. I have to press the buttons to start recording, for example, and then place myself in front of the microphone in a consistent position. It sounds like a small thing, but it can be very disruptive, especially when I was trying to drop in for certain lines.

The finished comped vocal - assembled like this - sounded dull and bitty. I tried to bounce some of the tracks down to keep things manageable, but forgot to turn all compression and limiting off for that bounce. When I came to assemble the final take, some of the lines had more compression / limiting and eq on them than other lines. It was a mess.

In the end, I decided I’d do a one take run through of the song through the Aston Origin and use that - warts and all - and that’s what is on the final mix. It’s not perfect, by any means, but it does have a narrative to it and it does give the song a shape.

I recorded the handclaps with the Aston Origin. They’re quadruple tracked, which is a trick I learned off Russ… it just makes them sound fuller, and stops the transients from them dominating the mix (when I’ve only single-tracked handclaps before, they cut through the mix without having any real presence (as in actuality, not in terms of their eq). 

Backing vocals were quadruple tracked too, to soften and widen them (each take is panned to a different degree, to give them a natural stereo width).

The lead guitar at the end was suggested by a friend who heard an early mix of the track. It’s just my cheap Vintage semi acoustic DI’d via my Big Muff.

The final thing I added was some keyboards to add a little texture to the bridge and the later choruses, via my Korg MicroKONTROL MIDI keyboard, triggering one of Garageband’s preset sounds.

I had some issues with a couple of plosive sounds in the vocals, so copied the problematic ‘p’ sounds ( for example, “many sights had *P*assed our eyes”) to a separate track, and dipped 50hz-100hz via an equaliser, and that sorted the problem out.

And then I mixed it. Which was relatively easy because the key parts - the main vocal and guitar parts - were all in one take and had the necessary dynamics in their performances. 

It’s only very lightly limited and compressed (barely mastered, you could say) because I very much wanted to preserve the dynamics / the narrative of the track. I think this is really important for solo, acoustic recordings. I hear a lot, via my work, of acoustic songs that are limited to high fuck and lose any sense of development because of it. A highly compressed / limited, cheap(ish) acoustic guitar sounds dreadful, too. For my tastes, anyway.

If you have any questions, hopefully I’ve worked out a way for you to comment below! 

Good luck with your recordings. I hope this has helped, even the tiniest amount.



[zigzagmidas]

Philosophy from an idiot

For all my talk of philosophy I rarely put it to paper. Mostly because I prefer to let people see and judge it on a person to person basis, to know the person sitting with me is listening.

But sometimes people need to read something and not talk to anyone. And someone may even read my words and understand my "crooked" mindset.

To begin my philosophy, I must start with a story. Now this is the story as I remember it and understand it, I could be vastly wrong but as a story it helps my mind to rationalize my thoughts.

The story of Pandora and her Gift. For those unfamiliar: in an ancient tale a woman named Pandora is given a box to look after by the Gods. She is told never to open it for any reason. But her curiosity gets the better of her, and she peeks inside. Immediately every evil and suffering demon mankind will ever face explodes from the box. Pandora sees her mistake too late and shuts the box after almost all the evils have left. However, a voice comes from the box, begging to be released. Pandora refuses at first, but the voice pleads and insists it wishes to help humanity. She opens the box, and the tiniest light comes from the box, Hope.

Hope was the last thing inside the box. Now why was hope in the box at all? Because it was the worst of all the demons, and every other evil feared it so. It took every suffering imaginable to keep hope in the bottom of the box, because not only was it the worst, it was the strongest. It prolonged suffering and pain, promising a new tomorrow, possibly a better tomorrow. Hope is the hardest demon to kill, the most difficult to squash out, but is the easiest to rekindle and spread.

In this way Hope infected humanity and turned them into monsters. Monsters that outlast and grow despite everything that tells them how horrible life is. We are the greatest monsters, doing awful and terrible things, thriving even in the worst conditions. We, if not as individuals, as a species will endure and overcome, or die trying. This is a core tenant of my philosophy.

Humanity, and to a larger sense self awareness and hope are monsters of the universe, aberrations.

But this is not, as many would see it, a bad thing. Instead I take pride and encouragement from this. We are the greatest threat, as a whole and as a species. Able to overcome our suffering and failures and missteps.

The next core tenant is Nature.

Nature is EVERYTHING. If it exists in nature, then it is permitted. No word of man can stop that. No law, no decree or junction can say "This goes against God." So you have nothing to fear, nothing to stop you from heaven or a peaceful rest in whatever paradise awaits after death.

Transsexuals? They occur in nature, frogs and fish change sex constantly.

Homosexuality? That definitely happens in nature, ask any zoologist.

Now this also means that things we would consider "Evil" are too permitted.

Rape, murder, infanticide and cannibalism. All happen in nature. This doesn't make them less abhorrent but I'll get to that.

Nature is a blueprint for everything, from stars to zygote and basic DNA. So you have no reason to feel shame or hate for something simply because someone told you it was "Wrong". Embrace your nature, even if you do not understand it at first. Denying yourself and your nature will only lead to unnecessary suffering and pain and misery. Stand tall. No God will hate you or strike down your children or curse you for simply existing.

However, this also goes to say, things like murder and rape; when you force anything from ideals to your body onto another person, this is completely abhorrent. Why? Because you are hindering that person's growth, you are ceasing their evolution. If someone was going to join your cause or accept you, they would do so of their own volition because they thought you were right in some small way. Murder means you have ceased them altogether, they are no longer a person. That is why there are consequences for these actions.

Action and reaction: a driving force behind the universe. Not quite GOD, but it is an important quality of basic matter in the universe. Any action will have an effect, a reaction and repercussions. I'm not speaking of Karma exactly but picture this: under my understanding, if you burn down a church or mosque will some divine rule strike you dead? No. But people will react, you will be punished as they judge you should be. If you equally burn your house down because you don't want to pay for it anymore, even if no one can judge you for it, you are subsequently without a house.

If you rape someone or falsely accuse someone of such and are found out, there will be repercussions. And even if you are not you will have to live differently than you did before to ensure you will not be caught, another repercussion.

Humanity as a whole wishes to simply carry on with life and be unimpeded. The majority of humanity will seek this out simply out of instinct. But again, just as in nature, there are those who are miserable or unstable or some aberration of the whole. These individuals are miserable and angry and completely happy being as such and spreading as much misery as possible. These are NOT a majority. They are a minority. Simply a very vocal minority playing to anyone who is like them. We are not our minorities. Or even our majorities. We simply are humanity. A human race. Bound by bloodlines and evolution. It is key to remember this.

It is key to question. Question your group, your family, yourself and your identity. For without questions you will never grow. Never truly be human. Never accept anyone who tells you not to question them. Question someone else. Anyone who regards you as stupid for questioning is impeding your growth and was simply the wrong person to ask. There is nothing wrong with NOT knowing, you do not sprout from the womb knowing all there is about you or even your own body. You cannot tell a penis from a vagina or a lung from a liver. Always ask. Do not let fear stop you. Pain is merely momentary, embarrassment has no place for asking questions. Even if you must take time and seek counsel for your questions.

I touched upon pain before but here I shall lay my thoughts on the matter down: Life is suffering. Suffering and pain will always be your teachers. Prolonging life is prolonging suffering. And that is Evil. Life itself is a sort of evil. But that is why humanity NEEDS to be a monster, a great force. To overcome this. With hope.

Humanity prides itself on culture and civilization. But these are NOT what separate us from animals. This is a key component of this separation but not the root.

What is the baser form of man? A beast, to kill, to reproduce, to find shelter. By any means. A beast rapes and kills as he pleases, any tiger or carnivore can do that.

A monster rises above this, above the beast. What makes a Human? Understanding, compassion and love. Regret and learning. The things a beast could not do. Any beast responds to an offensive idea with violence and shows of threat. A monster understands, works to comprehend and compromise.

It is our duty as humans to be the Monster. Greater than any force or threat. A beast sees suffering and failures and does nothing. A Monster, a human being helps and takes some of the suffering of others off their shoulders, even for a moment. When you help another, or work to understand that person truly, this is when you have risen above the baser instinct of man and become a human being.

Thus self-reflection is so important. Why do I feel this way? Why did I dislike this person? Why did I do this? When I say everything is natural/permitted, I do not mean to run around naked and cry. It is natural to feel and think and be overcome. But understand that this feeling is a part of you and you had a reason for feeling this way. Whether it be your hormone levels or something someone said days ago. This is not shameful. It is a time for learning. About yourself and others. You may not be able to control your surroundings but you control how you react. And should something be truly wrong, if you raise enough attention to it, someone will find and attempt to fix whatever it may be. Too many go through life thinking what they experience is "Normal". Ask and observe, find what is typical or average and why your life is different.

This incredible chaos is what we are here to observe and suffer through together, to overcome together.

Without order nothing could exist, without chaos nothing could evolve.

Humanity is a monster, a confused evil monster who often seeks to help and does more harm. But we can make good. Even if there is no good to be found. We will make Good for we are the universe and nature itself.

This is my crooked philosophy, how I live my life and encourage others to live.

Naturally this will make some angry and confused but this is how I think and I have seen nothing to dissuade me from it.

I hope someone understands.

[fineartbyjamie]

What life is really like on public aid...

Today congress passed a bill to repeal the affordable care act, and all I can do is sit here in shock and sadness and fear. I know the GOP is once again back pedaling and working on coming up with a plan to replace it rather than just abolishing the whole thing outright, but as I sit here I wonder if any of those members of the GOP have any idea what it's like to actually BE on government assistance? If not, it should be a requirement, for a congressman to survive on minimum wage and government aid for at least two months. Maybe 3. First, let's talk about medical aid (aka Medicaid). Let's talk about the struggles to find doctor's that accept Medicaid, in a bankrupt state with no budget that is getting more and more difficult as doctors can't keep their doors open if they can't pay their employees, insurance, buy supplies, or pay their own bills. Once you actually find a doctor that accepts Medicaid, is taking new patients, AND can get you in before they retire, there is the stigma. You walk in to the office and the front desk clerks give you that disapproving look, like Regina George after you tripped and fell in her path. And heaven forbid you have a smart phone, then you get the "if she can afford an iPhone she should be able to pay for her own health insurance" thoughts dancing across her eyes. Never mind that you scrounged and saved to buy that iPhone on special sale, or that the Apple Watch you cherish was a beloved gift from an after Christmas open box return counter at Best Buy. People truly believe that if you are in need of government assistance you should not have any of the things "normal" people consider an every day item. Once you get called back you start to dread the unavoidable, terror striking gloom of stepping on THE SCALE. Because you can't afford to eat healthy, and you don't have a scale at home so you step on that scale like it's a land mine and you have no idea if it has been deactivated or if it is so old it won't wait for you to step off of it for it to explode. Seated in the room, the nurse checks your blood pressure, which you know is going to be higher than it should because just getting past the office gate keeper is anxiety inducing, let alone facing your doctor. She finishes her prodding and sits in front of her computer to ask those always lovely questions about your health. "Are you still taking that anti-depressant?" "I'm still broke aren't I?" The words hatch and die in your mind as you respond with the polite and civil "yes". "Are you still taking that inhaler like you are supposed to?" "Well, no. Because public aid decided it was too expensive so I'm taking the less effective generic version and it's doing squat for my lungs." "Hmmmmm" she says with feigned concern, clackity clack goes the keyboard in a rapid staccato that seems entirely too long. Finally the doctor comes in, you talk about your problems and she listens intently asking questions about your diet and your exercise. You admit your diet sucks, fresh organic food is expensive, the more additives and preservatives the less a food will cost. She doesn't want to run the tests you ask for because they are expensive and you are, after all, on Medicaid. Finally, you convince her to run the tests you just know deep down will get you some answers on what had been plaguing you for months now. You haven't gone to see the doctor because it is a delicate balancing act to get the time off work or be able to find an appointment time on your lunch break. If you are lucky enough to have a job, otherwise you plan the appointment for when you know you will have the gas or bus fare to get to the appointment. Sometimes getting back is an adventure. She orders the test, and first you have to wait for the hospital to approve your need for the test, then they have to get approval from Medicaid, then they call you to schedule the test..... they have an opening.......in a month.... Let the 125th annual medication games begin! May the odds be ever in your favor. This medication is only covered in this specific format, which has been known to cause fungal infections in your mouth so you need this medication to counter the fungus. Another prescription is completely not approved so you have to look at other brands of it, and hopefully there is a generic version. Wait, you mean this med didn't work for you and now your doctor wants you to try something else? Sorry, you have to wait until it has been 30 days since the order for the other medication went through. Are you an adult? You had better hope you don't need to fill more than four medications at once or something doesn't get covered, wouldn't it be nice if it were the cheapest tribute that you have to pay for? Sorry, no it's the $60 prescription that is the exact same as that over the counter allergy nasal spray that costs $20 (which you still can't afford, unless you can sacrifice something else from your meager budget.....toilet paper, maybe you can find a half roll someone used when they were sick because tissues are a luxury item, so is effective cold medicine, and vitamins). But you had better find a way to pay for it before you go back in to see your doctor or she will try to explain to you once again how important it is to be consistent with your medications... and auto-refill? Not in your dreams! How would Medicaid survive paying for all of those meds that people don't really need every month?! This way, if they don't refill them it's less money out of the program!! This also goes for equipment supplies, technically a sleep mask for a cpap machine is supposed to be replaced once a month. I've had mine for a year. "Why yes, I DO have acne right on the lines of where my sleep mask seals around my face, yes it is painful, yes I wash daily." There is just only so much soap and water can do for an aged yellowing mask discolored from the oils in your skin. But hey, at least you don't have to worry about calling in sick, right? Because you can TOTALLY afford to take a day off. You would never zombie shuffle in to work dripping snot like a pug with a sinus infection just because you can't afford the time off. You would never drink a gallon of coffee to stay awake and ease the shards of glass coating your throat....HI!!!!!WELCOMETOBURGERHEAVENHOWCANIHELPYOUTODAY?!?!?!!!!! NOIMJUSTREALLYREALLYREALLYREALLYEXCITEDTOBEHERETODAY!!OOHWHATSTHATOVERTHERE?!?!ACHOO!!OMGTHATISTHECOOLESTHAIR!! The worst part is that if you miss more than one day of work you have to bring in a doctor's note. So not only is gatekeeper Regina George judging you for wearing sweatpants on jeans day but now she gives you that disapproving glare like she "just knows you are overreacting and don't need to waste the tax payers hard earned dollars for every sniffle and sneeze" you can't sit with us, your tax dollars don't count because your daddy didn't invent toaster strudels. In reality, Medicaid saved my life. I had to push and push and push for all of the expensive tests before they found the dead organ filling my innards with infection so thick my intestines were a jumbled mess. Because I went a year without insurance, the infection was so bad my "routine" 45 minute surgery took 4 hours and my outpatient procedure turned into a 4 day stay in the luxurious glamorous hospital being released just in time to see my family for thanksgiving dinner. My surgeon, who had taken one look at me and decided I was just fat and lazy and my gallbladder attacks were the results of eating unhealthy fast food and no exercise, spent 4 hours burning out infection and dissecting my organs from one another nicking a major bile duct in the chaotic half melted gummy bear like mess my liver had become. I have no idea how much the antibiotics used to treat my sepsis cost. When my surgeon finished, he marveled to my family about the tolerance I must have had to live with a dead organ inside me for years. When you have no choice but to keep going working that menial job you can't call off for every ache and pain. I developed my pain tolerance because the system had failed me and I had no choice but to go through life in immeasurable pain. Because the judgement you would get for needing pain medications to function just isn't worth it, or you are allergic to anything covered anyway. If I had continued without insurance I would never have gone to the doctor, at some point the sepsis would have progressed to a point where I finally became too ill to get out of bed, hopefully I wouldn't have just died in my sleep. My liver would have long since been damaged by the infection so even if I had survived the sepsis I would have had to learn to manage life without a liver, because disability isn't enough to support a single income family. All of this is assuming I lived. All of this is assuming I didn't die before I was severe enough to forgo the credit score suicide of going to urgent care without any insurance. Congratulations Medicaid, the best thing I can say is that I'm not dead, in spite of every road block and skeptical specialist or technician I encountered while literally being poisoned from the inside.