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#I still find myself lucky and privileged cause I know there are stories MUCH worse than mine

samwisethewitch · 3 years

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Coping with religious trauma

CONTENT WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS DISCUSSIONS OF MENTAL ILLNESS, TRAUMA RECOVERY, AND HOMOPHOBIA. The advice in this post is intended for an adult audience, not for those who are legal minors.

A lot of people find their way to paganism after having traumatic experiences with organized religion, especially in countries like the United States, where 65% of the population identifies as Christian. (This number is actually at an all-time low — historically, the percentage has been much higher.) Paganism, which is necessarily less dogmatic and hierarchical than the Abrahamic religions, offers a chance to experience religion without having to fit a certain mold. This can be extremely liberating for people who have felt hurt, abused, or ignored by mainstream religion.

To avoid making generalizations that might offend people, I’ll share my own story as an example.

My family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, better known as the Mormons, when I was nine years old. The Mormons are an extremely conservative sect of evangelical Christianity that places a heavy emphasis on maintaining a strong community that upholds their religious values. The problem with that is that Mormon values are inherently racist, sexist, homophobic, and transphobic. As a teenager in the Mormon Church, I was told that as a woman, my only purpose in life was to marry a (Mormon) man and raise (Mormon) children. I was discouraged from pursuing a college education if it meant delaying marriage. I was not allowed to participate in the full extent of religious ritual because I was not a man. I was not allowed to express myself in ways that went against Mormon culture, and I kept my bisexuality secret for fear I would be ostracized. I didn’t have any sort of support system outside the Church, which inevitably made the mental health issues that come with being a queer woman in a conservative Christian setting much, much worse.

I left the Mormons when I was seventeen, and by that time I had some major issues stemming from my time in the Church. I had been extremely depressed and anxious for most of my teen years. I struggled with internalized misogyny and homophobia. I had very low self-esteem. I had anxiety around sex and sexuality that would take years of therapy and self-work to overcome. I wanted to form a connection with the divine, but I wasn’t sure if I was worthy of such a connection.

I was attracted to paganism, specifically Wicca, because it seemed like everything Mormonism wasn’t. Wicca teaches equality between men and women, with a heavy focus on the Goddess in worship. It places an emphasis on doing what is right for you, as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else. It encourages sexuality and healthy sexual expression. Learning about Wicca, and later other types of paganism, helped me develop the kind of healthy spirituality I’d never experienced as a Mormon. Although Wicca is no longer the backbone of my religious practice, it was a necessary and deeply healing step on my spiritual journey.

I’m not sharing my story to gain sympathy or to make anyone feel bad — I’m sharing it because my situation is not an uncommon one in pagan circles. The vast majority of pagans are converts, meaning they didn’t grow up pagan. Some had healthy upbringings in other faiths, or no faith at all, and simply found that paganism was a better fit for them. Others, like myself, had deeply traumatic experiences with organized religion and are attracted to paganism because of the freedom, autonomy, and empowerment it offers.

If you fall into this latter category, this post is for you. Untangling the threads of religious trauma can be an extremely difficult and overwhelming task. In this post, I lay out six steps to recovery based on my own experiences and those of other people, both pagan and non-pagan, who have lived through religious trauma.

While following these steps will help jumpstart your spiritual healing, it’s important to remember that healing is not a linear process — especially healing from emotional, mental, and spiritual trauma. You may have relapses, you may feel like you’re moving in circles, and you may still have bad days in five or ten years. That’s okay. That’s part of the healing process. Go easy on yourself, and let your journey unfold naturally.

Step One: Cut all ties with the group that caused your trauma

Or, at least, cut as many ties as reasonably possible.

Obviously, if you’re still participating in a religious organization that has caused you pain, the first step is to leave! But before you do, make sure you have an exit plan to help you disengage safely and gracefully.

To make your exit plan, start by asking yourself what the best, worst, and most likely case scenarios are, and be honest in your answers. Obviously, the best case scenario is that you leave, everyone accepts it, and all is well. The worst case scenario is that someone tries to prevent you from leaving — you may be harassed by missionaries or concerned churchgoers, for example. But what is the most likely case scenario? That depends on the religious community, their beliefs, and how involved you were in the first place. When making your exit plan, prepare for the most likely scenario, but have a backup plan in case the worst case scenario happens.

Once you’ve prepared yourself for the best, worst, and most likely outcomes, choose a friend, significant other, or family member who can help you make your exit. Ideally, this person is not a member of the group you are trying to leave. Their role is mainly to provide emotional support, although they may also need to be willing to run off any well-meaning missionaries who come calling. This person can also help you transition after you leave. For example, you might make a plan to get coffee with them every week during the time your old religious community holds worship services.

Finally, make your strategy for leaving. Choose a date and don’t put it off! If you have any responsibilities within the group, send in a letter of resignation. Figure out who you’ll need to have conversations with about your leaving — this will likely include any family members or close friends who are still part of the group. Schedule those conversations. Make sure to have them in public places, where people will be less likely to make a scene.

If you feel it is necessary, you may want to request that your name be removed from the group’s membership records so you don’t get emails, phone calls, or friendly visits from them in the future. You may not feel the need to do this, but if contact with the group triggers a mental health crisis, this extra step will help keep you safe.

Of course, it’s not always possible to completely cut ties with a group after leaving. You may have family members, a significant other, or close friends who are still members. If this is the case, you’ll need to establish some clear boundaries. Politely but firmly tell them that, although you’re glad their faith adds value to their lives, you are not willing to be involved in their religious activities. Let them know that this is what is best for your mental and emotional health and that you still value your relationship with them.

Try to make compromises that allow you to preserve the relationship without exposing you to a traumatic religious environment. For example, if your family is Christian and always spends all day on Christmas at church, offer to celebrate with them the day after, once their religious commitments are over.

Hopefully, your loved ones can respect these boundaries. If not, you may need to distance yourself or walk away altogether. If they are knowingly undermining your attempts to take care of yourself, they don’t deserve to be in your life.

During this time, you may find it helpful to read other people’s exit stories online or in books. One of my personal favorites is the book Girl at the End of the World by Elizabeth Esther. Hearing other people’s stories can help you remember that other people have been through similar situations and made it out on the other side. You will too.

Step Two: Seek professional help

I cannot overstate the importance of professional counseling when dealing with trauma of any kind, including religious trauma. Therapists and counselors have the benefit of professional training. They are able to be objective, since they’re approaching the situation from the outside. They can keep you from getting bogged down in your own thoughts and feelings.

I understand that not everyone has access to therapy. I am very lucky to have insurance that covers mental health counseling, but I know not everyone has that privilege. However, there are some options that make therapy more affordable.

There may be an organization in your area that offers free or low-cost therapy — if you live in the U.S., you can find information about these services by checking the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) HelpLine or visiting mentalhealth.gov. You can also look for therapists who use a sliding scale for payment, which means they determine an hourly rate based on the client’s income. And finally, if you have a little bit of extra cash you may want to look into therapy apps like BetterHelp or Talkspace, which are typically cheaper than in-person therapy.

If none of those options work for you, the next best option is to join a support group. Support groups allow you to connect with other people whose experiences are similar to yours and, unlike therapy, they allow you to get advice and feedback from multiple people. These groups are often free, although some charge a small fee.

Finding the right group for you is important. You’re unlikely to find a group for people recovering from religious trauma but, depending on the nature of your trauma, you may fit right in with a grief and loss group, an addiction recovery group, or a group for adult survivors of child abuse. If you’re a member of the LGBTQ+ community, you may be able to find a queer support group. (The LGBTQ+ club at my college was an invaluable resource in my recovery!) Depending on your area, you may also be able to find groups for specific mental and emotional issues like depression or anxiety.

Make sure to do your research before attending a meeting. Find out what, if anything, the group charges, who can join, and whether they use a curriculum or have unstructured sessions. See if you can find a statement about their values and philosophy. Make a note of where meetings are held and of who is running the group. Some support groups meet in churches and may or may not have a religious element to their curriculum. It’s best to avoid religious groups — the last thing you need right now is to be preached to.

Getting other people involved in your recovery will make you feel less alone and prevent you from getting stuck in your own head. A good therapist, counselor, or support group can help you realize what you need to work on and give you ideas for how to approach it.

Step Three: Deprogramming

“Deprogramming” refers to the practice of undoing brainwashing and reintroducing healthy thought patterns. This term is normally used in the context of cult survivors and their recovery, but deprogramming techniques can also be helpful for people recovering from a lifetime of toxic religious rhetoric.

To begin the process of deprogramming, familiarize yourself with the way organizations use thought control to shape the behavior of their members. I recommend starting with the work of Steven Hassan — his BITE model is a handy way to classify types of thought control.

The BITE model lays out four types of control. There’s Behavior Control, which controls what members do and how they spend their free time. (For example, requiring members to attend multiple hours-long meetings each week.) There’s Information Control, which restricts members’ access to information. (For example, denying certain aspects of the group’s history.) There’s Thought Control, which shapes the way members think. (For example, classifying certain thoughts as sinful or dirty.) And finally there’s Emotional Control, which manipulates members’ emotions. (For example, instilling fear of damnation or punishment.)

Here’s a simple exercise to get you started with your deprogramming. Divide a blank sheet of paper into four equal sections. Label one section “Behavior,” one “Information,” one “Thought,” and one “Emotions.” Now, in each section, make a list of the ways your old religious group controlled — and maybe still controls — that area of your life. Once you’ve completed your lists, choose a single item from one of your lists to work on undoing.

For example, let’s say that in your “Information” column, you’ve written that you were discouraged from reading certain books because they contained “evil” ideas. (For a lot of people, this was Harry Potter. For me, it was The Golden Compass.) Pick up one of those books, and read it or listen to it as an audiobook. Once you’ve read it, write down your thoughts. Did you enjoy it? Why or why not? Why do you think your group banned it? What was in this book that they didn’t want you to know about? Write it down.

Once you’ve worked on the first thing, choose something else. Keep going until you’ve undone all the items on your lists.

If you want to go further with deprogramming, I recommend the book Recovering Agency by Luna Lindsey. Although this book is specifically written for former Mormons, I genuinely believe it would be helpful to former members of other controlling religious groups as well. Lindsey does an excellent job of explaining how thought control works and of connecting it to real world examples, as well as deconstructing those ideas. Her book has been a huge help in my recovery process, and I highly recommend it.

Step Four: Replace toxic beliefs and practices with healthy ones

This goes hand-in-hand with step three, and if you’re already working on deprogramming then you’ll already have started replacing your unhealthy beliefs. This is the turning point in the recovery process. You’re no longer just undoing what others have done to you — now you get an opportunity to decide what you want to believe and do going forward. This is the time to let go of things like denial of your desires, fear of divine punishment, and holding yourself to unattainable standards. Get used to living in a way that makes you happy, without guilt.

Notice how each step builds on the previous steps. Therapy and deprogramming can help you identify what beliefs and behaviors need to be adjusted or replaced. Your therapist, support group, and/or emotional support person can help you make these changes and follow through on them.

These new beliefs and practices don’t have to be religious — in fact, it’s better if they aren’t. If you can live a healthy, happy, balanced life without religion, you’ll be in a better position to choose a religion that is the right fit for you, if that is something you want.

Your new healthy, non-religious practices may include: mindfulness meditation, nature walks, journaling, reading, exercise, energy work, learning a hobby or craft, or spending time with loves ones — or it might include none of these things, and that’s okay too. Now is the time to find what brings you joy and start doing it every day.

Step Five: Ritual healing

This is an optional step, but it’s one that has been deeply healing for me. You may find it helpful to design and perform a ritual to mark your recovery.

Note that when I say “ritual,” I don’t necessarily mean magic. Rituals serve a psychological purpose as well as a spiritual one. They can act as powerful symbolic events that mark a turning point in our lives or reinforce what we already know and believe. Even if you don’t believe in magic, even if you’re the least spiritual person you know, you can still benefit from ritual.

You might choose to perform a ritual to finalize your healing, or to symbolically throw off the chains of your old religion. It can be elaborate or simple, long or short, joyful or solemn. It might include lighting a candle and saying a few words. It might include ecstatic dance. It might include drawing or painting a representation of all the negative emotions associated with your old religion, then ritually destroying it. The possibilities are literally endless. (If you’re looking for ritual ideas, I recommend the book Light Magic for Dark Times by Lisa Marie Basile.)

One type of ritual that some people find very empowering is unbaptism. An unbaptism is exactly what it sounds like — the opposite of a baptism. The idea is that, if a baptism makes a Christian, an unbaptism makes someone un-Christian, no longer part of that lineage. It is a ritual rejection of Christianity. (Obviously, this only applies if you’re a former Christian, though some of the following suggestions could be adjusted to fit a rejection of other religions.)

If you’re interested in unbaptism, here are some ideas for how it could be done:

A classic method of unbaptism is to recite the Lord’s Prayer backwards under a full moon. (For a non-Christians version, use a significant prayer from whatever religion you have left.)

Run a bath. Add a tiny pinch of sulfur (a.k.a. brimstone) to the water. Get into the bath and say, “By water I was baptized, and by water my baptism is rejected.” Submerge your entire body under the water for several seconds. When you come back up, your unbaptism is complete. (You may want to shower after this one. Sulfur does not smell good.)

The Detroit Satanic Temple has a delightfully dramatic unbaptism ritual. For a DIY version, you will need holy water or some other relic from the faith you were baptized in, a fireproof dish, a black candle, and an apple or other sweet fruit. Light the candle and place it in your fireproof dish. Toss some holy water onto the flame (not enough to extinguish it) and say, “I cast my chains into the dust of hell.” Take a bite of the apple and say, “I savor the fruit of knowledge and disobedience.” Finally, declare proudly, “I am unbaptized.” You can add “in the name of Satan” at the end or leave it out, depending on your comfort level.

Personally, I’ve never felt the need to unbaptize myself. I’ve ritually rejected my Mormon upbringing in other ways. Maybe someday I’ll decide to go for the unbaptism, but I’ve never really felt like I needed it. Likewise, you’ll need to decide for yourself what ritual(s) will work for you.

Step Six: Honor your recovery

Our first reaction to trauma is to hide it away and never speak of it again. When we do this, we do ourselves a disservice. Your recovery is a part of your life story. You had the strength to walk away from a situation that was hurting you, and that deserves to be celebrated! Be proud of yourself for how far you’ve come!

You may choose to honor your recovery by celebrating an important date every year, like the day you decided to leave the group, the date of the last meeting you attended, or the date you were removed from the membership records. Keep this celebration fun and light — get drinks with friends, bake a cake for yourself, or just take a few moments to silently acknowledge your journey.

If you feel like having a party is a bit much, you can also honor your recovery by talking to other people about your experiences. Share your story with others. If you’re feeling shy, try sharing your story anonymously online. (Reddit has several forums specifically for anonymous stories.) You’ll be amazed by how validating it can be to tell people what you’ve been through. `

Another way to honor your recovery is to work for personal and religious freedom for all people. Protest laws with religious motivations. Donate to organizations that campaign for the separation of church and state. Educate people about how to recognize an unhealthy religious organization. Let your own story motivate you to help others who are in similar situations.

And most of all, take joy in your journey. Be proud of yourself for how far you’ve come, but know that your recovery is a lifelong journey. Be gentle and understanding with yourself. You are doing what is right for you, and no god or spirit worthy of worship could ever be upset by that.

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osterfieldshollandgirl · 4 years

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Golf Games Part One

In the summer, your friend and you decided to get a job on a golf course as caddies, hoping to meet cute boys and save up money for university. This job was only supposed to be for the summer, however, with everything going on your job opened after being closed for months. This was a good thing but now this meant that you had to get up early and go to work by 8:30 in the morning. Today seemed like a good day when you woke up in a good mood and you hoped it stayed bubbly all day as your mood gets more tips and requests for you as a caddy meaning a raise. The rule is that you as an employee must wear a mask, however, the golfers did not have to wear a mask. This was not at times. My uniform is not too bad, it consists of polo and black slacks which are quite flattering. I noticed the time is near 7 and I am scheduled to work at 7:45 it seemed like a good idea going early.

I reach the course at 7:20 and taking my time gathering my belongings, I notice a boy looking down at his camera. As I am walking up to the door, I did not notice a person walking and bumped right into their chest causing me to fall forwards falling almost on top of the person. A deep groan comes from the person saying "Oh no my camera" and I see a camera still in tack and I sigh in relief picking it up as I quickly stand up brushing some grass off of me and hold a hand out for the person to grab. I realize that I have my mask on and am grateful that they could not see my red face. I finally get the nerve to see who it is and I see that this person has red curly hair, brown eyes, and looks around my age, he is attractive. The words that come out of his mouth though not so much. He scuffs and picks himself up and rudely says, "Watch where you are going, you could have hurt either one of us." I feel myself glare a little and add a snarky reply, "I am sorry that I bumped into you, but you could also have looked up from your camera." He looks at me curiously to me talking back and says, "I am sorry sweetheart, but you also could have not been running like a deer in the middle of the road." I laugh sarcastically and say, "Well this is fun, but I have to go to work. Have a pleasant day and hopefully I will not have to see you again." I am walking away as I hear him yell back, "Same goes to you." I can feel his annoying smirk on his face. I shake my head and walk to clock in and realized that I have been assigned to the Hollands and get myself together after that interaction.

After getting myself together, I head to the lobby to meet the people I am caddying for and see my friend is helping the other people sadly. I go over to her and explain the whole thing to her as we had the time and she laughs at the end of my story. Offended I ask, "What is so funny?" She answers, "It seems like he kind of flirty with you in a sarcastic way. I think it's cute that you stood up for yourself though." Letting the words sink into my head, I hear my name as I bid goodbye to her and walk towards a group of people somewhat near my age. I hear and "This is your caddy who will take care of you, Y/n. She is a great person please do not feel afraid to ask her for anything." My boss finished and walked away. As I am packing up the cart, I hear "Oh great it's you again." I roll my eyes knowing exactly who is behind me. I turn around and notice all the boys are not wearing masks so I can see their handsome faces. The one with beautiful brown eyes and curly brown hair smiles and rolls his eyes at the boy making me laugh a little. He walks over and stops at a safe distance, "I am sorry for his attitude, I am Tom, that idiot is Harry, and the blue-eyed boy is Harrison." I smile and realize that they cannot see it and say, "Hi I am Y/n, nice to meet you." I hear Harry scuff and ignore him as I head to go drive the golf cart Tom stops me. I freeze and look up and say, "Is something wrong?" He shakes his head and flirts, "Is it possible if I drive the cart, you can sit and enjoy the view" winking at me as he finishes his sentence. I blush and nod, as I go to sit down in the back of the cart, I feel someone looking at me and have a feeling it is Harry.

Throughout the game, it is hard not to check out the boys and admire how good they are at the game at such a young age. At first, everything was okay until I went to bend down to get a ball and a boy who is too privileged for his good walking by whistled and said, "Why don't you come to join my group, I can make your day" winking at me, I gasp in disgust and see Tom walk over quickly. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I blush underneath my mask as he says, "Do not disrespect a woman like that especially a beautiful one like her. So, I kindly suggest you walk away." I am shaking underneath his touch and he sensed it as he pulls me closer causing me to become less shaky and calmed down. Others are now walking by and observing the interaction. The group walks away as they see this is causing a scene and that Tom is much stronger than them all combined. I turn completely around and hug Tom tightly as I feel tears down my face. He pulls away and pulls down my mask slightly wipe the tears then adjusting it properly. He smiles and says, "I am sorry that happened to you. I feel sick that people are like that. Now let's move on and I will teach you how to play golf the correct way." I laugh and nod as we walk over, I sense that the others were watching and go pack to move on to the other whole. On the cart ride Harry looks over and I see guilt and embarrassment in his eyes, I look away and sigh to myself. After Tom parked the cart and I could get off, a hand grabs my wrist, and I am pulled aside.

Harry clears his throat and says, "I am sorry for being rude to you this morning, I had no right to act like that. What happened back there was wrong, and I should have done something, but Tom came to the rescue which benefited you." I scuff and retort, "I do not see how this is an apology as you are thinking that I set that up to be protected. This is not the first time that has happened, and my work does not allow me to talk back. Excuse me for appreciating someone who stands up for something wrong." I walk back towards Tom and Harrison taking a deep breath, leaving a confused and bitter Harry behind. As I reach Tom and before he could ask what is wrong, Harry comes storming over and says, "You have no right to assume that I would not protect a girl and snapping at me like that was unnecessary. I think we should ignore each other and just finish up this round and be done for the day." I am speechless as I look at the ground and see only blur thinking how this day could get possibly worse until Tom asks one question to which I must answer honestly.

Tom asks gently, "What did you say to Harry's love?" I take a deep breath and answer hesitantly, "He 'apologized' and in the same sentence said I set up the incident to gain protection from you guys. I just said that I can not talk back and you protecting me was appreciated. He did not do anything, so it is not fair for me to be judged like that." I wait for the response to be agreeing but it goes the opposite and Tom in a monotone voice says, "I can see your point but also his point is valid. I need to be careful, but I did what was right for me. Talking back like that was a bit rude." My reaction immediately was to snap back which I did unconsciously, "I cannot believe that you are taking his side. I can not protect myself due to rules, but I thought the way you protected me you were on my side. You and Harry are as bad as those guys. Not you Harrison though you are decent." "Love, that is not what I meant- "he starts before I shake my head and nod saying bluntly, "I have a feeling I will not need any golf lessons after this. Let's just move on so this is over please." I hear them get into the cart and not being able to be near any of them I walk alongside and ignore their pleas for me to sit.

They are finally at the last hole and the last hour has been torture whereas before it was full of laughter and fun, it is now sadness and awkward tension. Tom will try to talk but I answer respectfully with short answers and will ask them ever so often if they would like anything and stay quiet for the rest of the time. Harrison walked with me instead of going in the cart after we cleaned up and headed back to the lounge area. He was humming to himself and I couldn't help but blurt out, "You smell really good." He laughs and says, "Thank you love" and I am taken back by his voice it's a bit deeper than the others. He compliments back, "I am impressed with how you stood up for yourself back there. They both should not have ganged up on you. However, you should also understand Harry is a different person, so you are talking back makes him more edged on. He seems to take a liking in you though." I laugh slightly shaking my head and ask, "How he yelled at me in front of you just now?" He looks at me knowingly, "He also would look and check up on you when you were not looking. I assure you two do make sense but the chemistry between you both is real and electric. I wish I could find something like that." Smiling and looking at him slight flirting, "Well you are very handsome, so any girl is lucky. Those blue eyes make me feel dreamy."

He smiles shyly slightly blushing and says cutely, "Wow, Harry is lucky you are beautiful and caring." I blush and jokingly lean on Harrison as we walk for a second making us laugh. We walk by each other's side and I test the theory and see Harry watching us from afar as they pass by us as we are reaching the lounge, I wave to break the tension to which he looked away. At the lounge, the boys start to walk away, and hoping Tom would come to say something to me is rejected as he goes to talk to my boss. I feel anxious about what it could be about and what makes it worse is that Harry is talking to my friend in a flirtatious way. She is giggling and making him smile making me more annoyed until Harrison puts his hands-on shoulder causing me to jump and turn to him. He looks down at me as he much taller than me and says, "Listen he is trying to make you jealous because he saw us flirting a little so either we make it look real or tell the truth." I smile up at him as our masks are allowed to be off at this point and say, "Game On" and intertwined our hands together making sure that Harry sees making him more envious.

@littlekidsteve @hollandsimpson @tom-holland-is-spiderman @follow-tom-holland-is-spiderman @parkerpeter24 @frenchfrostpudding @osterfieldnholland @fanficparker @mymoontom @marvels-blue-phoenix @holytingle @petertiingz @fancyxholland

#harry holland smut #harry holland angst #harry holland imagine #tom is so handsome #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagines #tom holland smut #tom holland angst

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badgersprite · 4 years

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Fic: Desiderata (5/?)

Chapter Title: Perspective

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: References to past childhood abuse/trauma, and people being shitty about it.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda spearheads the search and rescue operation she helped organise. In 2185, Samara gets Miranda to see an incident from someone else’s perspective.

Author’s Note: Miranda is still bad at people, but she’s trying. Shout out to self-isolation for giving me time to work on this.

* * *

“You’re sure this will work?” Miranda asked, examining her forged identity documents. A passport. A driver's licence. Even a birth certificate.

“Can’t be any surer than I am,” Niket answered with a slight shrug. “It’s not like I could test it, but I have nothing but assurances from everyone I’ve spoken to that these counterfeits are the highest quality. They never fail.”

“What if they do?” Miranda had imagined a hundred different ways her father might deal with them if they got caught. She still wasn't sure which one was the worst, or that he couldn't exceed her expectations of his cruelty.

“Relax.” Niket placed his hands on her shoulders. “Even if they do pull you up, I've spent months creating an online identity for you. The only thing left is to set up an account and wire some money into it. Enough to keep you on your feet for a while. We've thought of everything, Miri. You won't trigger any red flags. As far as anyone would be concerned, 'Jessica McMahon' is a real person.”

Miranda sighed uneasily. She’d been working on this escape for so long that it was making her paranoid. No matter how careful she was, it was simply impossible for her father not to notice what was going on, given enough time. For all his faults, he was a smart man. He had to sense something was awry, at some point. It always felt like she was moments away from her plot being uncovered.

“Are you forgetting something?” Niket remarked, expectantly waiting for her to say her thanks. To her credit, Miranda realised her oversight.

“You’ve done a lot for me, Niket. When I’m out of here, I won’t forget that,” she said sincerely. Niket was the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had. She was grateful towards him. She really was. She just wasn’t fantastic at expressing it. Her upbringing might have played a role in that.

“You’ve already helped, in a way,” Niket admitted, taking out another passport. “Got one of these for myself with your money. Figured I’d involved myself enough that I’m going to have to get out of dodge once you make your escape, or else your father’s going to find my fingerprints all over this.”

“Good idea.” Miranda nodded, signalling her approval, glad he’d protected himself. Besides, she didn’t give a damn about her father’s money. He had plenty.

Being the daughter of an extremely rich man did have its benefits. As part of her preparations, Miranda had been able to casually drop a few thousand dollars at a time here and there without raising suspicion.

There was no mistake about it, though - the money he gave Miranda to spend was a symbol of his own vanity, not a kindness. She was his daughter. That meant she had to fit a certain image, or it would reflect poorly on him. She had to indulge in expensive tastes, dress well, buy and read rare books, play music on the most expensive piano, or else people might not be impressed by how inordinately wealthy he was.

He framed it like a reward for living up to his impossible standards, but really it was another means of controlling her. Miranda had no freedom in what she spent money on. It was a test. He’d only given her access to her own money so that he could see for himself how well he’d trained her - to prove that his little experiment would continue acting in accordance with his designs and his preferences even when he wasn’t watching her over her shoulder.

But he’d underestimated her. Her father always had. As long as she remembered to keep her stories consistent with the fake transactions on the bills, he would never suspect anything, even if he was secretly going through her spending with a fine tooth-comb, which he did, of course. Provided that she appeared to be spending money on purchases he approved of, he wouldn't question it. And Niket had taught her how to manipulate that data.

“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but not everyone would resent your fate as much as you do,” Niket spoke frankly. “You have a nice house. Nice room. Nice clothes. Fucking...palatial gardens. Provided you don't piss him off, your Dad usually gives you enough money to buy anything you want, within his rules.”

“That makes up for being an experiment?” Miranda shot back instinctively.

“For some people, it would, yeah,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, Miri. I’m not saying it’s great to be raised by a loveless jackass or that you’re wrong for hating him and wanting out, but there are plenty of people who would trade their life for yours in an instant. I mean, you’ve told me how he treats you. And, sure, he’s strict, but not to where you’d say he’s violent or he beats you. Some people aren’t that lucky.”

Wow. Miranda was hardly a sensitive person, but that comment was a dagger in her heart. She’d confided in Niket about her father’s cruelty because she trusted him. Nobody else knew, who wasn't an accomplice to it. To hear him downplay what she went through only twisted the knife her father had put there long ago.

“If those people want my life so much, they can have it,” said Miranda, trying not to show how deeply it hurt to hear Niket undermining everything she endured under her father's toxic influence. “It’s not my fault they don’t.”

“It's not about fault. It's about reality. Some people not only have shit fathers, but they get to be dirt poor too. I should know. It was my reality,” Niket countered, his words chastening Miranda into silence. She didn't know enough about the outside world to compare experiences. She barely knew anything about the outside world that she hadn't read in books, or learned about from a screen.

Maybe Niket was right. Maybe other people did have it worse than her. Far worse. Maybe she was selfish, ungrateful and privileged. Then again, she’d never told him her very real fear that her father might…murder her one day.

Niket could probably only imagine her father throwing her out on the street if she displeased him, or if he decided it was time to replace her. At worst, he probably expected her father might sell her off to some stranger to be their “daughter” instead of his. Killing her, though? That wasn’t something Niket would have predicted, unless she brought it up as a possibility. And Miranda hadn’t.

She didn’t want Niket to know of that risk. If he did, Miranda could picture him acting rashly to protect her, dismantling their carefully crafted escape plan.

Niket wasn't like her. He was more passionate than she was. More emotional. Normal, presumably. Miranda may not have understood normal people very well at all, but she did have feelings. And she knew well enough that getting emotional could cause a loss of control. Bad judgement. So what did that mean for someone who lacked her restraint? Someone who didn't have years of practice at suppressing their instincts? At suffocating those feelings?

Miranda couldn't trust what Niket might do if he had a reason to hate her father as much as she did. That was why it wasn’t worth telling him the truth. But, even so, he was the last person she would have expected to second-guess her desire to escape this gilded cage.

“I’ve never claimed to have the worst life in the world. I know I don’t,” Miranda continued, her voice quieter, defending herself as calmly as she could.

“No. Don’t worry about that,” Niket assured her, regretting his poor choice of words. “I’m not saying I…Look, when it comes to getting you out of here, I’m with you all the way. Don’t ever think I’m not. That’s not an issue with me.”

“Good,” said Miranda, still offended by the fact he’d even brought it up. He’d explicitly confirmed that all the things she’d told him about her father didn’t qualify him as a cruel man in his eyes, and that Miranda's problems weren't real problems. What more was there to say? “Then let’s not discuss it.”

“Miri…” He reached out to her apologetically, but she brushed him off.

“We don’t need to talk about this,” she stated firmly, smothering her own emotions, putting up her defences. “Just get it done.”

* * *

“Come on. Where are they?” Miranda complained, growing tired of waiting for the bulk of her team to catch up. Honestly, she was faster hobbling on a crutch than these grunts were at full fitness. With tanks. “Ox team, report. I need an ETA on those bulldozers. We're in search grid V-44A. What's taking you so bloody long to reach us?” Miranda asked, impatience starting to get the better of her.

She'd used up her last political favour to organise this effort. This was the last big chance they would have to find anyone alive. If this failed, there would be no do-overs. No second chances. As far as they ventured in the next three days would be as far as they would go for a while. It might be months before they expanded the habitable zone of London any further again.

Every second counted. They had to make the most of what little time they had.

“Apologies, Director Lawson,” the comms crackled in her ear. “We picked up some readings of instability in the area. Almost like seismic activity. Our crew is checking it out. We're waiting on an all clear from them before the vehicles advance. Don't want to open up a sinkhole by accident.”

“A warning would have been nice. Run a scan,” Miranda commanded the soldier on her right. She would have used her own omni-tool to do the job, but her arm was busy supporting her weight, and she didn't have a spare. The soldier dutifully obeyed. “We'll continue searching the area on foot ahead of you. Keep me updated on your progress. Time is short, and this debris won't clear itself. Find another path to us if you have to.”

“Roger that. Ox out.”

“Useless,” Miranda muttered under her breath. This was why she preferred to work alone. At least she knew she could rely on herself to get things done. But this was the kind of operation that required a lot of bodies on the ground. Hers was just one of several teams conducting their wide-scale push across the city. Jacob was leading one. Wrex another.

The efforts to coordinate between the Council races had also paid off. The human, asari and turian military forces on the ground had all organised their own teams as well. Miranda's team was even partially comprised of Alliance soldiers, but mostly those who had already been working in close concert with Bailey. Nobody really seemed to care that they were taking their orders from him. What mattered was that, in total, their search and rescue must have consisted of at least a thousand people, if not more. It was a start.

“I'm not reading anything. Then again, their scanners are stronger than mine,” the soldier on her right remarked. Miranda rolled her eye, deciding to make use of the people already with her, and do the rest herself.

Bailey wouldn't like her doing any heavy lifting. Miranda was useful to him, after all. If she got hurt, he lost a valuable asset. But screw it. He could sanction her if he had a problem with it.

“You, do a full sweep of that building. You, over there,” she commanded, gesturing with her crutch, splitting the relief crew off into groups to search the street for survivors, supplies and paths through the wreckage. That way, the demolition, clearance and salvage teams could plough through without wasting any more valuable time when they finally did arrive. “You two, come with me,” she instructed impatiently, heading into a dilapidated ruin of a building personally, not bothering to wait for the bulldozers.

“Yes, Director Lawson.” Everyone followed her orders without question, including the two Alliance soldiers who began to follow her.

It was the middle of the day, but the skies were still dark from the dust. Miranda hadn't forgotten how difficult it was to tell time in the wasteland. Even the brightest hours of the day felt like dusk. And it was cold. It was always cold now.

Miranda approached the only building that hadn't half-collapsed. An office block, with a lobby and reception area on the ground floor. Its exterior was still largely intact, bar the windows, which were all gone, shattered during the battle. Parts of the outer walls had come down, exposing the insides, as if a Reaper had blasted a hole in one side of the building.

“Get a light in there, would you?” Miranda instructed. One of the soldiers complied, the other continuing to run scans as he had before. The flashlight washed over the inside of the building. It was a mess. Some of the upper floors had fallen down into the lobby. Broken desks, computers, wires and lights hung from a half-broken ceiling. The sad thing was, that was a vast improvement over most places they'd come across. At least this one was still standing.

“Director Lawson, my scan couldn't penetrate too deep, but I'm detecting a possible source of the instability,” the male soldier, Alexei Resnikov, told her. “There are cavernous openings right below us.”

“Cavernous openings?” his squadmate echoed, a woman named Keiko Yoshizawa. “You mean the London underground? Or a car park? Here on Earth, we don't all travel by skycar, space cowboy. It's not like a space station. In case you haven't noticed, some of us still use roads and rails to get around.”

“How rustic,” Resnikov remarked with a snort.

“Knock it off,” Miranda ordered, bringing their pointless chatter to a swift and sudden end. “You mentioned the underground. We haven't been able to access it this far out. But if there is a station near here, that would be a likely place to find survivors. It's safe, it may still have leftover food and water, and the tunnels provide an easy path across the city. Until you hit the cave-ins, anyway.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Yoshizawa nodded, bringing up a holographic map. “We're heading in the right direction. The nearest one isn’t far from here. Cutting through this place is probably the easiest way, since the streets are blocked.”

“Why are you standing around like you're waiting for a taxi, then? Get moving,” Miranda spoke curtly, prompting the two soldiers to go on ahead of her. They didn't hesitate to comply.

She followed them into the lobby. It was even darker than outside, the air filled with a heavy cloud of particles. Miranda paused long enough to lift up her scarf, covering her nose and mouth. Ceiling panels and broken light fixtures were dangling down from the floor above, like vines in a thick jungle. Thankfully, there was no electricity to worry about. But it still required a little caution not to get tangled up in the wires as they moved through.

Resnikov and Yoshizawa's torches were the only light source, beams flashing through the shadow as they examined the scene. They made it maybe halfway across the floor before their path hit a dead end.

“This could be a problem,” said Resnikov, torchlight finding no longer finding any promising gaps they could manoeuvre through. “The upper floors have completely caved in ahead of us. We're blocked.”

“There's an elevator shaft,” Yoshizawa pointed out, nudging her beam of light towards it. “Given this building has underground parking, there should be a ramp or a stairwell to take us out the other side.”

“Should be?” Resnikov emphasised, clearly sceptical. “Look, I already saw an entrance ramp near where we came in, and that was totally clogged. If there is another exit, we can't guarantee it won't be blocked by rubble too.”

“So let's check,” Yoshizawa insisted.

“Pry the lift open,” Miranda ordered, willing to chance it. Yoshizawa set to work.

A slight tremor passed through the building. Dust sprinkled down from above.

“Did you feel that?” asked Resnikov.

“Nothing to worry about,” Miranda assured him, shaking her head, clearing the dirt from her hair, blinking it out of her eye. “We're not going to be in here for long.” Even as she spoke, the strange ripple coursed through the foundations once again. She furrowed her brow. “...Wait a moment. That isn't coming from above us,” she observed, concentrating on the subtle disturbance.

It happened again, shaking the ground beneath her feet. These tremors were happening in steady intervals, their tempo too precise to be something random. It almost sounded like a slow, low-pitched drumbeat.

“It feels like there's something underneath us,” said Resnikov.

“Whatever it is, it's sending out a pulse of some kind,” Miranda murmured, thinking aloud. “A signal, maybe.” If she was right about this, that would suggest there really were survivors in the tunnels. Perhaps these vibrations were somebody's way of trying to get the attention of anyone on the surface.

“Alright. We're clear.” Yoshizawa backed away from the doors after wrenching them apart as far as they would go, gesturing for the two of them to go ahead.

Miranda took a quick look inside. The fortunate thing about this building being largely intact was that the lift didn't seem to have been destroyed, meaning there were no obstructions at the bottom of the shaft. By sheer luck, the steel cables were still in one piece, supporting the weight of the elevator, which must have been hanging somewhere above her, frozen due to lack of power.

It was odd to still see an elevator with this design. Miranda had forgotten how low-tech parts of Earth could be, especially in old cities like London, where past architecture often survived through retrofitting, or, as in the case of the underground, a sense of tradition.

This building may have stood largely unchanged for a hundred years, for all Miranda knew. Maybe longer.

“Hold this,” Miranda stated. It wasn’t a request, giving her crutch to Yoshizawa before the soldier could ask what she intended. Miranda biotic-pulled the cables towards her, rappelling down the shaft and swinging out onto the level below. The landing wasn't particularly gentle on her knee, which was nowhere near healing from the shuttle accident, but she could live with the discomfort. It was dark down there. Pitch black, almost. But she saw sunlight ahead.

“You were right. There is a way out,” she told them, lowering her scarf long enough to be heard, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her leg while she waited for them to follow her lead. Part of the wall on the far side of the building had collapsed, leaving a hole and a pile of rubble that led back up to the surface. Probably where an emergency stairwell used to be.

“What would you have done if there wasn't?” Yoshizawa asked on her way down.

“Climb,” Miranda answered bluntly. She was one-armed and wounded, but she wasn't useless, for heaven's sake.

She felt the tremor again. It seemed louder than before.

It was oddly familiar to her, but far too faint to place. What was it? It was like a word on the tip of her tongue. If she could just put her finger on it...

Soon enough, the three of them made it back to the surface, manoeuvring around debris on their way to the station, which wasn’t far ahead. If someone was using the tunnels to get around, Miranda admired their cleverness. It would have saved her a lot of trouble if she could have done the same, but alas she hadn't found an intact tube station during those five days she spent crawling through the wasteland. Intellectually, she was sure she would have passed more than one, but they must have been buried under debris, or otherwise inaccessible.

On the other hand, if she'd gotten stuck down there, Samara never would have found her. Given the state of her injuries, even if there had been one nearby with any food and water left, it probably wouldn't have kept Miranda alive. She would have succumbed to her wounds eventually, and died alone of sepsis. Her bad luck had been good fortune, as it turned out.

“That's it right there,” Resnikov pointed out, approaching the steps that led to the underground. They were partially obstructed – debris from the very building they'd just left, most likely.

“Stand back,” Miranda said, using her biotics to clear a path into the station, blasting away the pile of loose rubble that blocked the entrance. It was then that something clicked in her mind.

Of course. Miranda knew what the sound she'd heard before was. That was why it seemed so familiar.

Detonations. Someone was causing biotic detonations down there.

But for what purpose?

“Still plenty to scavenge here,” said Resnikov, his flashlight moving over to a small, abandoned kiosk. The security grating had already been bent by looters, probably months ago. But they hadn't taken everything. “Hey, Tupari. Love this stuff.”

“I only drink Paragade,” Yoshizawa remarked.

“Your loss.” Resnikov bent down beneath the warped security shutter and picked up a can, stowing it away for later.

“There's that sound again,” Yoshizawa commented as they passed through the ticketing gates, heading down the stairs and towards the station platforms, following the sound. She activated her omni-tool, analysing the noise. “There. It's coming from that tunnel. North of here.”

Yoshizawa jumped down onto the tracks, quickly followed by Resnikov. Miranda ignored Resnikov's unspoken offer of assistance, easing herself down unaided.

This wasn't the first time Miranda had explored the underground since getting back on her feet. Her first search and rescue operation under Bailey's command had taken her through the carcass of a train, not far from Paddington station. Their hopes of finding anyone holed up inside the carriage had quickly dwindled when they realised the train had been swarmed by Reaper forces long before the final battle. There were no survivors.

“Hello?” Resnikov called out, his voice reverberating off the walls. “Is anybody there?” Squeaking rats scurried through the darkness. Miranda hid her growing physical discomfort as she limped behind her troops.

Yoshizawa went on ahead, leaving Resnikov to help light Miranda's way. Miranda watched her silhouette head further into the hollow, claustrophobic chamber, the small circle of light hitting the walls ahead. Abruptly, the sound happened again. This time, it shook the ground they were standing on.

“Director! That was right ahead of us!” Yoshizawa instinctively rushed towards the noise, disappearing around a bend in the tunnel. Miranda hastened after her, listening to the young soldier speak with whoever it was that was causing these detonations. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Yoshizawa paused. “It's alright; I'm a rescuer. I'm with two others right now, but there's more above us.”

That confirmed it then. There were survivors down here.

She came around the corner to see Yoshizawa at a thick blockage in the tunnel. It looked like part of the road above had collapsed, leaving an impassable obstacle of concrete, metal and earth. Probably the footprint of a Reaper.

“Please! You have to help us,” a muffled voice pleaded from behind the debris. Miranda could barely make it out, even as she got closer. But she sounded young. Younger than Oriana. “We're stuck back here!”

“Keep them calm; I'll call it in,” Miranda ordered. “Sweep team, we have survivors trapped in a collapsed metro tunnel in grid V-44A. We need a drill to get them out.”

“You're going to be fine,” Yoshizawa answered back to the anxious voice. “Just hold tight. We'll dig you out of here.”

“Teach, they're telling us to stop,” another voice spoke, a male this time. “Maybe you should cool it with the detonations? You've been at this for way too long. You're going to wear yourself out at this rate.”

“No. Screw that,” a third voice sharply replied. Older than the others, but no less impetuous. “Seanne needs help now, Prangley. Not later. I'm sure as hell not sitting here in the dark counting on a bunch of assholes who can't do a damn thing to help us to be our only way out. We're doing this my way!”

The entire tunnel shook as a brutal burst of biotic force smashed into the wall.

Miranda whirled around, startled by the shockwave that rocked the ground underfoot. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you trying to get us all killed?!” she shouted through the obstruction, livid at the woman’s recklessness.

“If I stop, Seanne dies!” the obscured voice answered back, followed by another biotic combination. Chips of concrete and dust sprayed everywhere. With so little time to react, Miranda didn't know whether she should prioritise keeping her balance or shielding her eye from the fallout. Instinctively, she ended up choosing the latter when a second strike occurred.

A small shard of concrete grazed her cheek, opening a cut. With one last roar, the rogue biotic slammed into the obstruction, finally blowing open a gap in the debris. Miranda saw her shadow fall forwards, onto her outstretched palms, panting for breath, visibly worn out.

The woman arose from the ground, onto her knees, holding up a hand and squinting against the blindingly bright beams of light that Yoshizawa and Resnikov were pointing at her, both soldiers staring at her, too stunned to move.

Miranda's breath caught.

It couldn't be.

This wasn't possible.

“Ow. Hey, cool it with the damn flashlights, will you?” the figure groaned in discomfort, turning away to let her eyes adjust after living in darkness for so long.

“Jack?” Miranda said in disbelief, astonished to see that all too familiar face.

Judging by the silence that followed, Jack recognised Miranda's voice immediately, now that there was no wall blocking the sound. “Oh, fu—crying out loud...” Jack reluctantly swallowed the urge to curse in front of her kids. Of all the people she could have run into...

Miranda quickly recovered from the shock.

“What were you thinking?!” Miranda scolded, marching right up to Jack, despite her impairment. Not the consummate professionalism her soldiers expected from her, but her anger was warranted. “Do you have any idea how unstable the buildings are above us? This whole area is on the verge of collapsing in on itself! While you were blasting away like a lunatic, this entire tunnel could have caved in on top of you, and taken me and my people with it.”

“So? It didn't. I didn't know you were up there, anyway.” Jack shrugged as she stood up, doing her best to block out the headache-inducing onslaught of those torches shining directly into her face, barely even able to make out Miranda's silhouette, despite standing right in front of her. “Hey you, point those fucking things somewhere else,” she grumbled at Miranda's team, clearly a threat.

“Language, teach,” one of Jack's group spoke up.

“Ah, ffff...” Jack trailed off into a groan.

“You'd been doing so well, too,” another student joked.

“Hey, laugh it up later. We aren't out of here yet. And we still need to get Seanne to a doctor,” Jack said, her tone stern but fair, calmer now that they'd made contact with someone she knew, even if it wasn't someone she liked. She turned back to Miranda, her eyes still adjusting to the light. “Isn't that the part where you come in? What's the hold up, cheerleader?” she asked, gesturing at her to hurry it up.

Miranda shook her head and sighed with exasperation, activating her earpiece once more. “Ox, this is Lawson. Belay that order on the machinery. It's no longer necessary,” she informed them. “We're extracting the survivors on foot.”

“Roger,” the earpiece crackled in reply. “We'll meet you back at the square.”

Miranda closed the channel, glancing at her old squadmate. “I'll get you and your students the help you need. You're welcome, by the way,” Miranda muttered.

She heard Jack snort. “I never thanked you.”

“I noticed,” Miranda curtly replied.

“Yo, you two know each other?” one of Jack's students asked, the entire group of them beginning to emerge through the hole behind her one after the other. There weren't that many. Probably ten all up.

“We're acquainted,” Miranda answered dryly.

Jack uttered a sardonic snort, evidently having more choice words in mind to describe her history with Miranda. To her credit, she refrained from sharing them. This wasn't the time. Not with her kids depending on her. That didn't escape Miranda's attention. It was a far cry from what the old Jack would have done.

In that moment, in the torchlight, Miranda saw Jack wiping beads of sweat from her brow. It was no secret that using biotics consumed a lot of energy. Biotics who actively used their powers might have to eat three times more than a normal person just to function, if not more. Jack was holding herself together admirably, but she looked drained. Miranda softened, reminded of how she'd battled with exhaustion during her own struggle to survive.

“Resnikov, give her that Tupari of yours,” Miranda said, thinking that might help Jack recover some blood sugar.

“Sure thing, Ms. Lawson,” Resnikov responded, handing Jack the can.

“...I could use a boost,” Jack reluctantly murmured, which was about the closest she could get to an admission of gratitude, at least where Miranda was concerned. She cracked open the drink, and started chugging it.

“We should get moving,” said Miranda, shifting focus to what mattered. This place didn't exactly scream stability. “I don't want to stay in this tunnel longer than we need to. Resnikov, Yoshizawa, give Jack's students a hand, would you?”

“Will do,” Yoshizawa responded, nodding her head, she and her comrade heading over towards the small gap in the debris, where the students were awkwardly squeezing their way through the hole one by one.

Jack's eyes widened when the two passing torches suddenly washed over Miranda's form. She nearly choked on her drink, taken aback when she finally saw her old squadmate illuminated as more than a dark silhouette hidden in shadow.

“Whoa. Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?” Jack coughed to clear the mis-swallowed drink from her throat, startled at the sight of Miranda's extensive injuries. She hadn't been expecting that.

“Looks worse than it is.” Miranda turned away, not sure she wanted to hear Jack's take on her condition. Not that she was bothered by how she looked. She just knew Jack would have a bloody field day with it.

“Yeah, no shit. 'Cause you look like you should be dead. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? Did you get in a fist fight with a thresher maw?” Jack questioned, in what sounded like a snicker, shock quickly giving way to twisted humour.

“Something like that,” Miranda drawled offhandedly, only half-listening to Jack's comments, concentrating on counting heads as Resnikov and Yoshizawa tended to the students. Jack's mockery didn't really matter to her. She had other priorities.

“Hey, if you ask me, having half your face blown off is a huge improvement.” Jack shrugged casually. “For you, anyway. Garrus would say it gives you character.”

“Right,” Miranda distractedly replied, scarcely paying attention.

“How bad's the scar?” Jack asked, trying to glimpse beneath the bandages.

“Don't know. Hasn't healed yet,” Miranda answered, gradually losing patience.

“From the looks of things, I bet it's real fuckin' ugly,” Jack said, smirking.

“Are you done?” Miranda ignored the comment, already bored with this.

“Not even close. I haven't even started making fun of your arm yet.” Jack grinned mischievously, enjoying this way too much to quit anytime soon. “Want me to shut up? Clap once for yes, zero times for no.”

Miranda just stared at her expressionlessly, not offended but not amused.

“Instructor?” a young woman called out. Miranda glanced up to see several of the students huddled over one of their own, the last one to be brought through the gap Jack had created. All appeared desperately worried. Their friend looked faint. Pale. Almost green. “Seanne's getting worse again. She's burning up.”

“I know, Rodriguez. You did good, taking care of her. But these jerks will handle it from here,” Jack spoke, calm and confident. “Drink your juice, and let them carry her. Except you, Reiley. You can stay by her side. Miranda will make sure she gets all the help she needs. Or, if she doesn't, I'll punch a hole in her stomach,” Jack assured them, and Miranda knew that threat was a guarantee.

In Jack's mind, anyway.

“No need for that,” Miranda said, having no intention of impeding the girl's treatment. “Let's get moving. The sweep team will meet us on the surface. They'll take your friend to a hospital.”

“Okay.” Rodriguez nodded, comforted by that promise. The boy they’d identified as Reiley gave Seanne's hand a gentle squeeze, staying by her side as Resnikov and Yoshizawa picked her up, draping her arms over their shoulders. The poor girl could barely walk. She probably didn't even know where she was.

“The station's not far,” Miranda said, limping alongside Jack, ahead of the others. It was good that they were getting an opportunity to speak before meeting the rest of the team. Despite their strained history, there were details she wanted to know from her, and she was sure Jack could say the same.

Over a month had passed since the war ended. Jack didn't know a damn thing about what had happened in that time. About Shepard, and the Normandy...

“These are all your students?” Miranda asked, aware of Jack's role as a mentor to gifted biotics in the Ascension Program. She'd learned about that long ago, having kept tabs on her former squadmates while she was on the run from Cerberus, to the extent that it was possible to do so. Jack had spoken fondly about her 'tykes’ back at Shepard's apartment on the Citadel. That makeshift reunion seemed like a world away. It was strange to think how recent it was.

Shepard had invited them all to that party, gathering the whole gang together on a whim, knowing it would be the last opportunity to do something like that before they took on Cerberus and the Reapers. Back then, Miranda had wondered how many of those faces would never see the light of day again. Now, she knew at least part of that answer, but the fates of all but a handful of their group were a mystery.

“Yeah. These are my kids. All the ones who lived.” Jack instantly dropped what remained of her joking demeanour, an uncomfortable hint of stark seriousness crossing her face. Miranda recognised the shift in her expression – it betrayed the presence of a deep sense of responsibility.

She blamed herself for everyone she'd lost, a burden Miranda knew too well. The difference was, Jack actually cared about the people under her command. She loved those kids. And she'd had to watch some of them die.

“What happened?” Miranda encouraged, urging her to share her story.

“We were stationed a ways south of here during the fighting, managed to escape north when the big wave hit. There was an outpost near us. Emphasis on was. Went there first, but no survivors. We holed up there for a while because it had some food and water. We figured, if anyone else had survived, somebody would fly over and spot us eventually, but nobody ever did. Once there was nothing left above, I came down to the tunnels; I figured the train lines were our best chance of crossing the city,” she explained.

“You were probably right. Much of the surface is impassable, and our search and rescue teams would have had no chance of reaching you. This is the first time we've gone so far northeast,” Miranda commented. “You would have been stranded out there. Staying above ground would have meant certain death. It nearly was for me.”

“Not sure this was much better,” Jack mumbled to herself, crushing the empty Tupari can and throwing it aside, her frustration becoming evident. “I thought it was a good deal. I mean, we found shit to eat and drink, they were safe places to sleep in, and there's not as many dead things as there are in the streets. But we'd always hit blocks in the tunnels. We'd either find another station nearby, or dig our way through. Eventually, I figured we'd be better off staying in one place for a while. Hunker down. Try to radio out or something.” Jack drew a deep breath, releasing it in a heavy sigh. “But I fucked up. I got too comfortable, and I stayed put when I should have been making ground.”

“How do you mean?” Miranda pressed.

“A few days ago, Seanne started throwing up,” Jack told her. “For a while, I thought it was best to keep her in one place and hope it would pass. But it's gotten worse. Her fever is out of control. I know she's dehydrated, but any fluid we give her won't stay down. She just vomits it up again. Her brother has to sit there and watch her waste away. I don't know if it was dirty water or if the rats got to her...”

“Don't worry. A drip in her arm will do her a world of good,” Miranda assured her. Jack looked down at her feet, visibly troubled to think she'd caused this – that she might lose another student, through nothing but her own poor judgement.

Jack shook her head, hating how powerless she felt. “Shit, it's my fault. I should have moved faster,” she said, wishing she'd had the sense to realise that something like this might happen. “I could have gotten her to you days ago.”

“Don't blame yourself. You didn't even know we were there,” Miranda reminded her. It was in Miranda's nature to be critical of others, thanks to her father's influence. But she knew how hard it was to navigate the wastes. How desolate they were. How easy it was to get lost, or think you were the last person alive. “You did the best you could for her, and now you've found us. I'll pull whatever strings I can to ensure she gets the best care possible.”

Jack slowly nodded, swallowing as she absorbed that reassurance, setting her mind to the thought that Seanne was going to be okay. For as many issues as she'd had with Miranda, she knew she wouldn't have said any of those things just to be nice to her. Far from it. If she thought Jack was at fault, she would have been the first person to tell her everything she did wrong. Miranda wouldn't have told her things were okay unless she meant it. She took some comfort from that. Everything really was under control now. They were over the worst bit.

“...Yeah. Yeah,” was all Jack said, lost in her own thoughts.

Miranda's expression softened, well aware that this was the most genuine moment she and Jack had ever shared. Not that there was any competition. The loss of so many friends, and the near-destruction of an entire galaxy could put a lot of things into perspective like that.

“Jack?” Miranda spoke again, prompting her to look up. “I'm glad you're okay,” she admitted, willing to be the bigger person in this situation, and to extend the olive branch. And, oddly enough, she actually meant it.

Jack uttered a quiet but authentic laugh, letting her head fall back for a moment. “Yeah, you too,” Jack conceded. Strange, but true. “You're still a cunt, though.”

“Well, we can't change everything,” Miranda remarked, choosing to take that as a term of endearment rather than an insult. Judging from the light chuckle she gave, Jack probably intended it to be both.

For as irreconcilable as their differences had once seemed, they had parted on comparatively good terms the last time they met. Certainly, their brief interactions at Shepard's apartment hadn't magically transformed them into friends or anything like that, but it seemed to have quelled the bulk of the animosity between them, resulting in something perhaps not far removed from mutual respect and tolerance. They appeared to have reached the point where they could mostly co-exist, without lingering feelings of hostility. Miranda could live with that.

“Found anyone else of ours?” Jack asked, breaking Miranda's train of thought.

“No. Well, yes, but...What I mean is, before you, I was the most recent find,” Miranda clarified. “Samara brought me out of ground zero. Saved my life. That was four weeks ago. Jacob was already at the camp. Wrex is there, too. They're both fine. Physically, at least. Since I woke up, Samara's...disappeared, for unknown reasons. We think she's still alive. Everyone else? Not so fortunate. They're all unaccounted for.”

“Ah, shit.” Jack scuffed the ground with her boot. Miranda paused, wondering if she should share the news about Shepard's demise, but she thought better of it. This wasn't the right time. It would only upset her.

Honestly, Miranda didn't like to dwell on it, either. As far as she knew, the four of them were all that remained of the Normandy SR-2.

Her morose ruminations were swiftly silenced. A vicious crack echoed throughout the tunnel, as loud as thunder. She whirled around instinctively, as did Jack, unable to tell where it was coming from. Yoshizawa and Resnikov shone their lights back down the tracks. In the glow, Miranda saw dust trickle from the ceiling, from the same direction where Jack had demolished the blockage.

Oh, bloody hell.

“The tunnel's falling apart. This whole area could cave in at any moment,” Miranda spoke, her firm tone punctuated with an undercurrent of creeping urgency.

“Fuck,” she heard Jack curse beside her, realising she may have triggered this in her reckless haste to get Seanne into the hands of someone who could cure her sickness. “Come on! Double time it!”

Even if they weren't directly under the most precarious point, none of them wanted to take that risk, nor be trapped down there if anything should happen. All it would take was a building being tilted too far to one side, and then countless tonnes of collapsing concrete, glass and metal could leave them trapped inside. If they were lucky enough to survive.

They couldn't afford to let that happen.

“Move, move, move!” Jack pushed the students to run past her. Miranda also made sure Yoshizawa and Resnikov carried Seanne ahead of them, not about to leave anyone behind. Not again. Suddenly, Miranda felt a sharp pain in her injured shoulder. “You too, you crippled motherfucker,” Jack said.

“Hey!” Miranda instinctively protested through gritted teeth when she saw Jack draping her bandaged stump of an arm over her shoulder, all but carrying her out of there. God, it hurt. “Let me go.”

“Fuck that. Joker moves faster than you do,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda couldn't really argue with that. She couldn't run with her left knee practically demolished on the inside.

Miranda swallowed a gasp of pain, trying not to show how much her body was killing her. It felt like Jack was going to tear what little was left of her arm clear out of the socket, or snap her already wounded leg clear in two. Still, she could see the platform getting closer by the second. They'd made it back to the station in one piece, not far behind the others.

Jack jumped up first, extending her hand to pull Miranda up onto the platform behind her, the two of them ascending the stairs to the upper level. They'd made it about halfway through the concourse before Miranda heard the sound from the tunnels below. The very place where they'd been standing a minute ago was no doubt now completely buried under a mountain of earth, bitumen, concrete and twisted metal. It was a good thing they'd left when they did.

“I think we're in the clear for now,” Miranda said, wincing as she gingerly made her way out of the underground and into the ash-clouded sunlight.

“Director Lawson?” Miranda heard a voice over her earpiece. “What the hell was that? Are you okay?”

“We're fine here, Ox. One of the train tunnels collapsed. Fortunately, we weren't in it,” she informed them, taking her last few steps back out onto the street, easing herself back against a nearby skybus shelter, keeping the weight off her throbbing knee, her body reminding her just how injured she still was. “We've located eleven survivors. One critically ill. Can you get through to us at the station?”

“Negative, Director. With that tunnel caving in beneath you, this whole street is one giant catastrophe waiting to happen. Protocols prevent us from moving the dozers in your direction right now, which means we can't get to you. It's simply too dangerous,” the Ox team commander answered back.

Miranda hesitated. Objectively speaking, she understood their decision, and they were only obeying her earlier commands by keeping those priorities in order. But that left them stranded in a precarious position. If the ground shifted again, any one of these buildings could come crashing down on top of them.

“Is there another way around?” Miranda asked over the communicator.

“Another way? We don't have time for another way!” Jack pressed, as if that should have been obvious. “Our best bet is to cut through one of these buildings right now and meet them wherever they are.”

“Jack, please.” Miranda silenced her, focused on her conversation. She couldn't rush this decision. She needed to think. Exasperated, Jack threw her hands up in the air and began to pace back and forth impatiently, Seanne's health weighing heavily on her mind.

“I suppose we could circumvent the area, or try to meet you somewhere else, but honestly there's no telling how long that might take, or if those other paths to you are any safer,” the Ox team coordinator told her straightforwardly. “Besides, that still leaves you in a danger zone. Even if we hurry, it's risky.”

“Look, listen to me,” Jack began, coming back to her once more, trying to present as calm and rational of a demeanour as she could manage. “These structures are already unstable. The longer we sit here and wait, the shakier they're gonna get.” Miranda could hear the undercurrent of emotion in her voice. Jack was doing a good job of staying composed, no doubt knowing Miranda might disregard her advice otherwise. She did tend to be more amenable to a plan presented without yelling or swearing. “So why wait? Let's just punch through here nice and quick. Get out now, while this block still stands.”

Miranda paused, considering her words. A few months ago, she wouldn't have given her input much if any consideration. But that was a different time. Jack really had changed since then.

She wasn't the selfish, violent psychopath Miranda had met last year. Far from it. Instead, Jack had helped her without a second thought, making damn sure everyone got out of that tunnel in one piece. Hell, maybe the person Miranda once thought Jack was never existed. Maybe she'd always been wrong about her.

Plus, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that Jack had managed to do something she hadn’t during the war. She’d kept people alive.

Miranda’s breath shallowed, remembering the faces that haunted her nightmares. The team she’d led to Earth. The Alliance soldiers she’d fought beside at the barricade. The shuttle crew that had come to her rescue. One by one, they’d followed Miranda to their end, like lemmings off the edge of a cliff. Weren’t there enough deaths on her hands?

In that silent moment of reflection and regret, Miranda did something she’d never done before. She second-guessed herself.

“Alright,” Miranda agreed, making the decision to trust Jack's judgement over her own. “There's a car park underneath that building. That's how we reached you. The ramp is obstructed on the other side, but we can climb up through the elevator shaft. Once we're out, the rest of my team should be waiting for us there.”

Jack seemed relieved, though Miranda had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't have mattered whether she supported her idea or not. Knowing Jack, she would have disregarded any order to stay put.

“Remain where you are, Ox. We're going to try and reach you. Better that a few of us move through this area on foot than risk the bulldozers triggering a reaction that threatens us all,” Miranda informed them, straightening up once again. “When I return, we'll resume our operations on a different route.”

“Copy that. We'll keep our heavy machinery at a distance just to be safe, but a few of us can head your way to help get the survivors to safety.”

“One survivor is in critical condition. She needs an urgent evac,” Miranda relayed, not sure Seanne would be able to survive the journey back without medical attention. She didn't fail to notice Jack watching her as she spoke to her team, an unreadable expression on her face. Miranda turned away, electing to ignore her.

“Noted. We've already radioed for an emergency medical shuttle. Should be here soon, so just get her to us and we'll load her on. In any event, we'll make sure some medics are there to meet you.”

Miranda breathed a small sigh. That was all they could do. “Alright. Lawson out.”

“Let's go,” Jack didn't hesitate to instruct her kids, eager to get Seanne into proper care. Resnikov carried her through the street and down the loose slope of rubble into the car park unassisted, Yoshizawa focusing on lighting the way once they made it inside.

“Resnikov, you should take Seanne up first,” Miranda advised, recognising that getting the poor girl into the hands of a medic could make a huge difference to her odds of survival. “Get her to the rest of the team and have them bring her to a hospital. Letting her wait here for the rest of us is only an unnecessary delay.”

“I'll need someone else to help me get her up the shaft,” Resnikov answered.

“Reiley should go with her,” Jack spoke up, gesturing to him. “He's her brother.”

“Fair enough.” Miranda nodded. That was as good a reason as any. Without delay, Reiley went into the shaft, scaling the tight space with the aid of the cables. Seanne was still aware enough that she could extend her hands under her own power, letting her brother pull her up, while Resnikov pushed from below.

“We're up,” Resnikov called down. “I'll come back in a few minutes.”

“Hopefully we'll be out by then,” Yoshizawa answered. “Alright. Who's next?”

Two more students went up the cables. Miranda had a good internal clock, which was normally a blessing, but in this case made her uneasy as she took note of how long this evacuation would take. Six more students had to go, followed by herself, Jack and Yoshizawa. She knew why this space made her so tense. If something went wrong, this basement car park was not the place they wanted to be.

“Jack,” Miranda spoke in hushed tones, subtly pulling her aside in the darkness. “Now that Seanne is in good hands, the rest of us should consider taking the long way around,” she suggested. None of them had any pressing need to hurry.

“Why?” Jack shrugged. “We're, what, ten minutes away from getting out?”

“Maybe, but it does occur to me that we're right above that tunnel you inadvertently destroyed,” Miranda pointed out. “Call me overcautious, but that knowledge doesn't exactly make me comfortable about standing here for any prolonged period of time.”

“Don't be a pussy,” Jack said with a snort.

“Better than being dead,” Miranda retorted. Jack blew her off, moving to be with her students. So much for that conversation.

“Okay, you're next.” Yoshizawa gestured for the girl named Rodriguez to come forward. Miranda approached them, standing among the remnants of the group, contemplating running a structural scan on the building, if only to disprove her own doubts. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

Rodriguez reached out for the cables, a little unsteady on her feet. She caught one, but seemed reluctant to go into the dark space alone. Miranda had noticed consistent signs of anxiety in the girl. She reminded herself to have all these kids scheduled to meet with a crisis counsellor later for a mental health assessment, overburdened though those services were. Post-traumatic stress disorder certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility for any of—

Suddenly her non-deaf ear pricked up, her thoughts snapping into silence.

Rodriguez flinched and glanced up. “What was that?” she gasped.

Miranda heard it too.

“What was wh—?”

“Get back!” Miranda darted past Yoshizawa, hastily pulling Rodriguez away from the doors, sending them both tumbling to the floor. They escaped the impact by mere moments, Miranda shielding the girl with her body as best she could.

Metal crashed into concrete with crushing force. A concussive blast resonated through the cold, dark space in a deafening echo. Miranda didn't need to guess what had happened. One of the elevator cables had snapped, and the lift had slammed into the ground. From a long way up, it seemed.

“Holy shit,” Jack's voice broke the silence, stunned with shock.

Miranda released a sigh of relief. Wounded though she was, her reflexes were still as fast as ever. She groaned as she picked herself up, resting back on her good knee. “You okay?” Miranda asked with a grimace, checking on Rodriguez.

“Yeah. Thanks,” the girl answered, shell-shocked, but unharmed. “What about you?” she asked in return, not so sure she could say the same about her saviour.

Miranda stifled a wince, trying not to let it show just how badly her body hurt after doing that. “I'll be fine. Just give me a minute.” She waved her off, not quite sure her leg wouldn't just buckle underneath her if she tried to stand.

Rodriguez didn't question her, silently handing Miranda her crutch for whenever she was ready to use it. She got back to her feet, giving Miranda her space.

Jack watched on. Miranda could feel her scrutiny, feel those eyes assessing her. She was painfully conscious of it, in fact.

Jack was the only one among them who knew what Miranda was capable of before the war. She'd seen her at her strongest. To everyone else, the fact that Miranda could do anything at all must have made her seem like a superwoman, which wasn't entirely inaccurate to be fair. But not Jack. Jack could recognise just how badly Miranda was struggling. How much pain she would have to be in to be unable to stand. How much weaker she truly was.

From her silence, Miranda knew it was already too late. Jack had seen through her efforts to keep it hidden as soon as her mask had slipped. The only saving grace was that Miranda was quietly confident that Jack wouldn't give a shit.

“Well, I guess we're not climbing out,” Yoshizawa broke the silence, shining her torch in the shaft. Sure enough, the cables were broken now.

Suddenly, Miranda heard a shrill, high-pitched scream. Followed by another, and another. The sound crescendoed, like the swell of a rising wave, voices yelling out in horror, but their cries were drowned out by sickening cracks from above. Yoshizawa pointed her flashlight upwards. What Miranda saw there made her blood turn cold, and the rest of her freeze in place.

The floor above them was crumbling. The entire building was breaking apart. And it was coming down on top of them.

People often said stupid things about how time slowed when death was imminent. Miranda could attest otherwise. It happened incredibly fast. Too fast for even her to possibly react, even with her heightened reflexes. She heard the upper levels cascading down on top of each other, entire storeys sliding loose and falling into the streets below, the levels of the building collapsing in on themselves one by one. Dust and debris rained down from above, filling up the elevator shaft. Deep gashes burst open in the ceiling as the immense mass bore down upon them.

Miranda instinctively raised her hand and looked away, realising it was too late. But nothing happened. Seconds passed, and she was still alive.

A faint blue glow washed across her face, prompting her to glance up and scan the area. All she could hear was the thunderous pounding of her own heartbeat, her thoughts racing to assess the situation.

Then she saw it. Miranda was awestruck.

Jack was single-handedly holding up the building, using only her biotics.

“What in the...How are you doing that...?” Yoshizawa gasped in awe.

Jack grimaced, her body shaking as blue biotic light dimly illuminated the darkness around her. “Whatever you're going to do, do it fast. I don't know how long I can hold this.”

Miranda knew that was no exaggeration. Frankly, it was a miracle she was doing this at all. Anyone else would have been flattened instantly. Anyone else but the most powerful human biotic ever to live.

A quick glance at their surroundings revealed that the way they'd just come in was sealed shut, too much debris having fallen behind Jack. That meant the other exit was their best hope – the only chance they had. But they wouldn't get anywhere unless Ox team could help dig them out from the other side.

“Over there!” Miranda pointed to their best way out, pushing herself up to her feet, leaning heavily on her crutch. “Everybody move as fast as you can. We'll need to dig our way out,” she urged, and Yoshizawa didn't hesitate to follow her direction.

“Come with me!” the soldier commanded, leading Jack's students towards the debris blocking the ramp. They quickly began pulling at every loose bit of rubble they could find, grabbing nearby bits of steel to help wedge fallen chunks of concrete out of place.

Miranda activated her earpiece. “Resnikov, do you read me?”

“Yeah. We're all okay over here. The top part of the building just collapsed and fell off, but it looks like it stabilised somehow,” Resnikov replied back.

“From where I'm standing, it's not looking very stable. We're still trapped in the car park underneath. And now the way we came in is blocked,” Miranda replied, keeping her tone as calm as she could, given the circumstances. Panicking would help nobody.

“What? Shit...” Resnikov swore on the other end of the line.

“Listen to me, I need you to gather everyone you can to start digging us out from your side. Everything. Bulldozers. Machines. People. There's still nine of us trapped down here, with no other way out,” Miranda instructed, tension running high.

“But...Director! I...The protocol—!” a different voice came over the channel.

“Override the fucking protocol!” Miranda snapped into her communicator, momentarily losing her cool. It was warranted. This situation was hanging on a knife's edge. If they didn't act immediately, they would die. They would all die.

Emergencies didn't come more urgent than this.

“...We'll do everything we can. Hold on,” Resnikov replied.

Then the channel went quiet.

Miranda swallowed, adrenaline coursing through her system. She didn't do fear. She didn't get scared. But the stakes of the situation were not lost on her. They should have already been dead. The only reason they weren't was...

She glanced back at Jack. Standing alone. Shaking under the strain. Burning with biotic light. Carrying the weight of an entire building on her back.

She was damn near tearing herself apart to try and save them. But she was a long, long way from that blocked exit ramp. Even if they opened up a gap, how the fuck were they supposed to get Jack out without the building falling down on top of them?

No. That wasn't an option. Past grievances between them meant nothing anymore. Jack was part of her crew. And Miranda wasn't about to let someone who'd fought at her side for the future of all organic life die if she could possibly help it. She would think of something. She had to.

With that in mind, she headed back for her. Miranda may have been crippled, but she still had her biotics. If she could just take the pressure off Jack for a little while, maybe she could buy them all enough time.

Jack eyed Miranda like she'd lost her mind, watching her hobble across the distance between them. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked, teeth clenched, barely able to move her lips given how hard she was concentrating.

“Saving your life,” Miranda coolly answered, raising her one good arm, adding her strength to Jack’s, beginning to feel just how tenuous the structure actually was through the 'fingers' of her biotic field. She couldn’t do much, but that dim blue glow grew a little bigger, and a little brighter.

“More like dooming us all,” said Jack, visibly wincing. Miranda didn't want to think about how badly it must have been hurting her, holding this building up by herself.

From Miranda's meagre contributions, she could tell that Jack was using her biotics in two different ways. First, to make the building lighter, to the extent that she could. Second, exerting force – a barrier to hold it up. Miranda was carrying only a fraction of the weight that Jack was, not from lack of trying. Even that was enough to give her a sense of just how monumental this feat truly was. How was it even possible to have this much power, let alone this much control?

“We don't have time for this. Get them out of here,” Jack said, jerking her head towards the ramp, the students and the soldier trying in vain to dig their way out. “I'd do it myself, but...” A tremor running through the building above them cut off whatever Jack intended to say. She looked like she was about to either throw up or pass out, but she endured. Somehow.

“We have a fleet of rescuers converging on our position as we speak,” Miranda assured her, not worried that the machines could dig out an opening. That's what they were there for.

“Yeah, good for you, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm kinda busy keeping us from getting flattened. If I move, we're toast,” Jack pointed out, managing a roguish laugh despite the stress her body was under. “Much as I'd like to bring this building down on top of you and take you down with me...” She trailed off, briefly meeting Miranda's gaze. She couldn't even pretend she was considering that anymore, much as the old Jack would have. “Well, that would set a bad example for the tykes. And I wouldn't want to do you the favour.”

“That's not going to happen. To either of us,” said Miranda, glancing over her shoulder to see a sliver of light as the team outside began clearing the ramp. A hiss escaped her as the weight of the building shifted again. “If we can just brace the ceiling long enough, they can get in a crane to hold this up for us, or knock the upper floors down away from us—”

“Are you serious?” Jack all but snapped. If her hands weren't otherwise occupied, she would have slapped Miranda on the mangled side of her face. “This building's coming down no matter what we do. I'll hold it as long as I can. But you need to get your stupid ass out of here.”

“Damn it, Jack. You stubborn—” Miranda cut herself off from unleashing any insults. As motivating as her mutual animosity towards Jack had been at times, now was not the time to bicker. “Just hold on.”

“What do you think I'm trying to do?!” Jack shot back, pushed beyond her limits, both mentally and physically. She was giving Miranda an out – giving her former enemy a chance at life by sacrificing her own – and she wasn't taking it. Miranda wouldn’t let her do it. It must have been driving her crazy. “This is fucking bullshit...” Jack commented under her breath, glancing down, as if the burden of her thoughts surpassed the weight of the building.

Miranda couldn’t argue with that assessment.

After a moment, Jack collected herself, and cast a sideways glance at Miranda. “Look, I'm stuck here, but you don't have to be,” Jack said, speaking with the kind of even, straightforward tone Miranda would normally have associated with Shepard. “I don't care about surviving. You just get these kids somewhere safe. Now clear the ramp and get them out before this building comes down on top of us,” she calmly instructed, looking her dead in the eye, though it went against every fibre of her nature to be so composed. Jack would talk to Miranda any damn way it took to get her to do what she told her.

Miranda stared at her. The selfish psychopath she'd met a year ago was nowhere to be seen. Either that, or she'd grossly misjudged her this whole time. Suffice it to say, Miranda was stunned by the depth of the change in Jack. She'd grown more than any of them. It wasn't even close.

Suddenly, Miranda felt a lot more riding on getting Jack out alive than mere duty to an old shipmate. These fleeting moments they'd shared since they'd reunited down in the tunnels, they'd forced Miranda to see Jack as a real person, a three-dimensional person, a complex person, a person who deserved better than the cruel hand life had dealt her. And, if the genuine concern and emotional connection those teenagers had for her was any indication, that person had a lot left to live for.

“Did I stutter or did you lose your ears too?” Jack challenged when Miranda didn’t move. “I'm not making a polite request. I'm giving you a fucking order.”

“I don't take orders from you,” Miranda persisted, refusing to abandon her.

“Get moving. Do it. Get the fuck out,” Jack said, her stance momentarily wavering under the burden of the half-broken building.

For once in her life, Miranda didn't know what to say. No perfect, prepared answers or replies. She was torn. Intellectually, she knew that the smartest thing to do was focus her efforts on clearing the ramp. Get the most people out. Save herself. But the other part of her knew that would mean leaving Jack to die. And she couldn't do that. She couldn't add another name to the list of people she'd lost. She couldn't add another face to the ghosts that haunted her dreams. The people she'd failed to save in this war. The team she'd led to their deaths in London. The friends and crewmates she'd never see again.

The old Miranda would have made the pragmatic decision in a heartbeat. Without hesitation. But Jack wasn't the only person who'd changed. Maybe Miranda's change hadn't been as drastic. But the person who could make that cold, calculated choice didn't exist anymore. Somewhere down the line, she'd learned to care. Sometimes she wished she hadn't. Because, even though she was terrible at it, it couldn't be unlearned.

What was she supposed to choose?

“Jack—”

“Do it or I swear to every fucking god what happened to your fucking face in life will be a fucking cakewalk compared to what I'll do to you in death if you don't get my kids the fuck out of here!” Jack finally snapped, her patience frayed to breaking point, and her meaning deadly serious.

A steely look came over Miranda. Like it or not, Jack was right. Miranda knew what to do; what she had to do. But she would be damned if she was just going to accept it that easily.

“I'm coming back for you, Jack,” Miranda vowed, reluctantly stepping away, much to Jack's relief. She moved as quickly as she could towards the others, adding her biotics to the effort to clear the ramp. The students had made progress, with help from the soldiers on the other side. Miranda could hear machinery through the wall of debris – it sounded like handheld drills. They were starting to cut through.

Pretty soon, they started to see light. Small holes. Each one felt like it was worth its dimensions in gold. Every ray of light was a beacon of hope. They worked frantically on both sides to try and wedge the holes open, digging wherever their hands and their tools found purchase.

“Come on. A little more and we can probably start squeezing through,” Yoshizawa encouraged the students, doing an admirable job of keeping them focused. She wasn't wrong, either. The holes were widening inch by inch. Miranda could hear her team on the other side barking directions to each other, working as hard as they could to get them out.

Just as Miranda tried to peer through the gaps to see what was going on outside, she heard a pylon not far behind her crack, everyone ducking instinctively, most of them certain they just saw the ceiling get about a foot lower. Miranda clenched her teeth, glancing back to Jack. Jack was struggling, the weight gradually pushing her closer to the ground. She was bending, bowing under the pressure. But she didn't buckle. Somehow, she was still enduring. But every passing second must have felt like an eternity.

“Where the bloody hell are those bulldozers?!” Miranda called out through the holes in the debris, slamming her fist into the concrete in frustration.

“They're coming as fast as they can. But I don't know if they can make it in time. The roads aren't clear,” Resnikov told her, from his position just beyond the rubble. Miranda growled, cursing internally. He was right. The street was blocked by too much debris, mostly from all the other buildings that had crashed into the ground during the war.

“Then we keep doing it the hard way,” said Miranda, grabbing her crutch and wielding it like a battering ram, bashing her way through the wall of rubble, even if her one-armed efforts were basically useless.

Eventually, their combined efforts managed to push through the debris, forming a gap just wide enough to get people through. About six different pairs of feet kicked at the hole, knocking away anything that someone could potentially get stuck on. It would have to do.

“Alright, let's move,” Miranda ordered, all but pushing one of Jack's students towards daylight, waiting for them to worm their way through the narrow crack before doing the same with another. It took time for each person to squirm through. It wasn't easy.

“Go, go, go!” Resnikov ordered, still working on wedging the crack open from the other side, stretching the gap further apart, knocking away loose bits of rubble, finding it easier now that they had a little more leverage.

“What about Jack?” asked one of the students, a young man. Miranda hadn't caught his name. “We're not leaving without her!”

“I've got her. Don't worry,” Miranda assured them, heading back for her, limping out across the floor to where Jack stood alone. “Come on, Jack,” she spurred her on, gesturing for her to make a dash for it now that they had a way out. The hole was getting bigger. The light was getting brighter. “There's enough space for us to get through. It's now or never.”

“What part of 'this building will collapse if I'm not standing under it' do you not understand?” Jack shot back, furious with Miranda for endangering herself despite her repeated efforts to get her to leave.

“Is sprinting intellectually beyond you?” Miranda sarcastically countered.

“I'll be dead before I take my first step,” Jack replied, knowing that if she moved for even a second the roof would immediately cave in right above her head. She could feel the crumbling structure like an extension of herself.

Miranda wasn't a fool; she'd felt what Jack was going through. And she knew she was right. But Miranda didn't care anymore. She'd lost too much already. Surviving the war had come at such a cost. She hadn't even begun to fully count the price. If this was going to kill her, then so be it. But she wasn't about to let the universe take one more god damn thing from her. Not without a fight.

“Well, I'm not leaving you behind,” Miranda vowed, a surge of power flaring through her wounded body. Without even thinking, she used her biotics to pull a largely intact column out of the debris pile that had been blocking the exit ramp, slowly prying open a massive, person-sized hole. She didn't even care that moving something so big and dense took a lot out of her, or that she was pushing herself beyond her limits. At a time like this, she couldn't afford to have limits. She strained with effort as she began to tear it free.

“What—?” If Jack had intended to ask what she was doing, she didn't need to. Yoshizawa and the remaining students had to quickly duck and dodge out of the way as Miranda abruptly pulled the column loose and dragged it across the floor. Her biotics were running on sheer determination alone, moving the column into position beside Jack, forcing it to prop up the ceiling beside her. Jack snorted. “Don't be stupid. You know that's not going to hold the building.”

“It doesn't have to. It just needs to last long enough for you to make it out,” Miranda answered her, steadfastly refusing to budge, even as she could feel the effort ripping at the muscles in her arm, and sending piercing jolts of pain through the implant in her brain. Miranda could take it; it was nothing compared to what Jack was suffering.

Jack uttered a hollow laugh. “You're a real fucking cunt, you know that?” she said. Yet again, coming from her that sounded almost like a term of endearment. As much of one as Miranda would ever get from her anyway.

Miranda tasted blood, her teeth grinding together from the exertion. She looked back over her shoulder, leaning heavily on her crutch for support. The person-sized hole she'd torn in the wall meant the last of the students had gotten out easily, together with Yoshizawa. Distant faces watched on from the other side, too sensible to risk going in after them. There was no one left to rescue. Just Jack.

Miranda's gaze narrowed to a glare when she turned back to find Jack still hadn't moved so much as an inch towards her. Both women stood their ground, as if fused to it in a game of self-sacrificial chicken.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Miranda, feeling her pulse quicken as time grew shorter. “Alright, Jack, you wanted to prove something to me? To show how much you've grown, and how much of a better person you are than I am? Well you have. You were right about Cerberus, and I was wrong about you. You're a better person than I am, and you've overcome things that I never could have,” she admitted, willing to acknowledge that Jack's ability to pull herself together and get her life on track had far exceeded anybody's expectations. She'd come the furthest out of all of them, which was a fucking miracle given where she'd started. Was that what she wanted to hear? “You don't have to kill yourself to spite me.”

“Spite you? Man, fuck you. You would win the gold fucking medal in self-centredness. But, news flash: everything isn't always about you,” Jack remarked, giving something between a sneer and a hiss.

“Then why won't you go?” Miranda challenged, her biotics beginning to falter from overuse. She wasn't alone in that. The strain of maintaining her biotic field for so long made bulging veins visible beneath Jack's skin, like her blood vessels were threatening to burst, or pop clean out of her flesh. She wouldn't hold out long, especially given how tired she'd been to begin with.

The more Miranda looked, the more she realised Jack was beyond exhausted. Even the last remnants of her energy reserves were long gone. She was running on empty. She should have been dead by now. Maybe she already was, and they just didn't know it.

“Look. Here's the thing. If I sprinted, I might make it out,” Jack conceded, breathing more heavily by the second, perspiration falling from her dehydrated brow like torrential rain, soaking the ground beneath her quivering feet. “Probably got about a one in twenty shot of making it. Not likely, but it could work. But what about you? You can't even walk, let alone run.”

“I can try,” Miranda replied, not concerned. She could handle herself.

“Or you'll just kill both of us,” Jack pointed out. She'd been watching Miranda, noticing the signs that belied her façade of strength. She knew exactly how sick and injured Miranda still was. She wouldn't make it two steps before being buried beneath the wreckage.

“I'm prepared to take that risk,” Miranda insisted, unwavering. It was worth it, if it gave Jack a chance. Miranda may have survived the war against all odds, but she'd made peace with death a long time ago. Besides, she'd led enough people to their untimely ends. Maybe she deserved to join them.

“Then where the fuck does that leave the tykes?” said Jack, her tone increasingly dark. “Those are my kids. They're mine.” Her stance kept getting lower, like there was someone pressing their hands into her shoulders, pushing her down with all their might. Her strength was slowly wavering. Her arms were shaking like they were about to break off. “Ugh. You know, you really do suck for making me go through this,” she grumbled, but if it was intended to sound resentful, it didn't. More like resigned.

Miranda didn't plan on giving up on her just yet.

“Is the building clear or not?” the voice of Ox team's commanding officer came over her earpiece. Miranda hadn't even been paying attention to the comms, too focused on herself and Jack.

“Ms. Lawson's still in there with a survivor,” Resnikov said. “Should we go back in?”

“No. It's too unstable. I can't send anyone else in after them,” the commander replied. Cold, but sensible. Exactly what Miranda would have instructed in any normal situation. “We can't afford casualties.”

Hearing that motivated Miranda to move closer. “Come on, Jack. Go,” she ordered, prepared to drag Jack kicking and screaming to safety if she had to. If she weren't one-armed and limping, she would have done that already. “I'll hold on to the pylon as long as I can.”

“That won't do shit and you know it,” Jack responded. For all her gifts, Miranda's biotics couldn't hold a candle to Jack's. Especially not now.

“Then what do you suggest?” Miranda snapped. Even when she was trying to save her life, Jack still managed to vex her to no end. Bloody nutcase. “Run for it now and you have a chance. The building is coming down whether you move or not—”

“Damn it, would you shut up and listen to me for five fucking seconds!?” Jack cut her off, sick of Miranda making everything about herself, and her guilt. At that, a spark of recognition flashed across Jack's bloodshot eyes. Maybe there was still away to appeal to Miranda – to talk her out of this senseless self-sacrifice.

“Hey. If you really do regret the way things went down between us, or if you feel the slightest bit of shame about working for Cerberus, then do this for me – you look after those kids,” Jack said, giving her one-time nemesis a long, unwavering look, as if staring into her soul, to see if any part of her deserved to be imbued with that amount of faith. Jack had long doubted that Miranda had any genuine redeeming qualities, but, if there was ever a time for her to show them, this would be it. Maybe saving her life would bring it out of her. “I need you to make sure they land on their feet, okay? They haven't got anyone else.”

“They've got you,” Miranda persisted, continuing to walk forward with her arm outstretched to hold up the pylon, her crutch long abandoned, her knee screaming in pain.

Jack gave a sardonic laugh. Of all the people she would have pictured entrusting her found family to, Miranda wasn't anywhere on that list. Hell, a year ago, Jack would never have pictured there being anyone she cared about, let alone a bunch of kids she considered her own, and protected as fiercely as a lioness defending her cubs. But things changed. She'd grown enough to gain a new perspective.

“Hey, cheerleader,” she began, channelling the Commander who'd given her a chance what seemed like a lifetime ago, “I'm going to be straight with you: part of me still wants to kill you, especially knowing that I'm already dead. Yeah, I admit, you're not as bad as I thought you were. We shared a few drinks, and we had a few laughs back on the Citadel. But I don't trust you for shit. Can't help that. What can I say? You're a fucking snake, alright?

“But, when we took down the Collectors, you showed me something, and that one thing is the reason why I think saving your life right now is worth it. And that's how much you love your sister. How much you gave up to keep her safe, without her even knowing you existed. I didn't understand it before. But I get it now. And that's why I know I can trust you to give my students a good life – a normal life,” Jack said, and she meant it. “Promise me. Promise me you'll take care of my students,” she implored her, blinking back tears that got lost in the sweat pouring down her face. “Treat them the way you'd treat your own sister. Do that, and we're cool.”

“Damn it, Jack,” Miranda didn't know what she hated more, Jack's foolhardy determination to be a bloody hero or the fact that, had she not been injured, she would already have marched over there, bashed her in the back of her head and forcibly dragged her out of the building. If she had just been in a better condition, Jack would already be safe. They wouldn't be having this conversation.

“Promise me, damn it!” Jack demanded, feeling her control beginning to slip.

“You can look after them yourself! Come on. On the count of three, we both let go. And you take my hand and run,” Miranda pleaded with her, in spite of the searing sting that shot through every nerve as she moved closer, biotics firing on overdrive as she reached out, extending her hand to Jack. She was within arm's reach. Fingertips away. “Just do it. Please,” she begged her, not sure how much longer her biotics could hold out. “We're getting out of this together. I won't leave you.”

For a second, it looked like Jack was considering doing exactly that, even if it meant risking them both. Miranda dared to feel hopeful that she'd succeeded in convincing her that she wouldn't take no for an answer. They would thrive together or perish together, just like the old days.

Who would have thought it would be just the two of them?

Suddenly, Miranda heard a sound above her, and felt a sheet of dust rain down onto her shoulders. Jack saw it too. The cracks in the ceiling were rapidly getting worse, spreading across the concrete, threatening to break like glass under the pressure. The roof was about to cave in directly on top of them. Jack's biotics were waning. She'd run out of time.

“Look out!” Jack yelled. Miranda threw up her arm and unleashed what little remained of her biotic reserves to brace the ceiling just a few seconds longer. She heard the roaring wave of destruction advancing towards her from the highest floors of the building. Gravity was about to catch up with them. Fast.

All of a sudden, a sonic boom cut the air. A beam of light shot into the darkness, and abruptly stopped. A hand grabbed Miranda about the waist. Green skin.

Her eye shot wide open with recognition. Shiala. And she was preparing a biotic charge straight back the way she came. Without Jack.

“Wait!” With her last burst of strength, Miranda lunged forward, just barely managing to seize the lapel of Jack's jacket and pull her forward. Reluctantly, Jack gave in, offering no resistance, letting herself be grabbed and dragged towards Shiala. She was still holding up a biotic field, although now it was serving more as a shield against the debris rapidly pelting down around them than a brace, doing little prop up the collapsing building.

Shiala took Jack in her other arm once she got within reach, securing them both as best she could amid the downpour of falling masonry. She crackled with energy, preparing for another charge.

“As soon as we stop, run,” Shiala warned them, her voice nearly drowned out by the cracks that tore through the foundations of the building.

At the last possible moment, she charged back towards the ramp. Less than a split-second later, the very place where they once stood was buried, engulfed in a tidal wave of rubble.

They came to an abrupt stop, a few yards short of the entrance ramp.

“Go!” Shiala pushed Jack ahead, almost throwing her. There were people waiting for them, countless hands reaching, frantically grabbing Jack and pulling her to safety as they all hastened to retreat and take shelter from the impending collapse.

Ignoring the pain in her still injured body, Miranda scrambled for the entrance, narrowly dodging the torrent of falling masonry. Her bad knee buckled, slowing her down. Shiala noticed that she was struggling. She reached back and physically pulled Miranda up the ramp by the scarf around her neck, the two of them dashing and diving out into daylight as the structure came crashing down behind them, barely escaping death.

Miranda didn't even utter a hiss at the blaring flashes of agony blazing through her body, too busy turning to look back at the disaster zone to care if she'd worsened her injuries.

A wall of dust all but exploded out from the collapsing building, swallowing everyone in the street. She raised her arm to protect her face as pieces of the broken building began to rain down onto the street. Shiala threw up a makeshift barrier, which diverted some of the shrapnel. Even so, a few stray projectiles hit Miranda in the side and in her good shoulder as everything that remained of the building fell down on top of itself, leaving only a pile of rubble. It sounded like a freight train driving straight into the ground.

It was all over in seconds. The silence set in, unrelentingly cold. The only thing Miranda could hear beneath the ringing of her ear was her own heavy breathing, and the thundering of her heart as she dared to look up through the dust cloud.

The building had been flattened. Everything had sunk into the basement levels.

A second slower, and that would have been her. A moment longer, and none of them would have survived.

As the dust settled, shock slowly giving way to a delayed sense of relief, Miranda glanced over to the familiar green face beside her, regarding her with silent recognition. She didn't know how or why, but Shiala had saved her life. And Jack's. And nearly killed herself trying to save people she barely knew.

Shiala looked back, as if sensing at least one of Miranda's wordless questions. “I heard you were in trouble,” she explained with a small shrug, somewhat awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck. “I came as fast as I could.”

Miranda's head was still reeling, scarcely able to make sense of the fact that she was still alive. Incredulous though she was, she wouldn't forget what Shiala had done for her. At least this was one saviour Miranda would be able to thank.

Her thoughts were quickly shattered by a loud scream.

“Jack?” Miranda barely heard herself saying her name beneath the ringing in her ear. Her focus shifted. She grimaced as she pushed herself forward, past Shiala, trying to see what was going on.

“Teach? Teach?” One of Jack's students was leaning over her, visibly concerned.

“What's going on? What's wrong with her?” another of them asked the soldiers.

“Move aside,” Miranda instructed, wincing as she dragged herself over, pushing her way between bodies. She looked down and saw Jack writhing in agony, her muscles all tensed, her limbs rigid. She was wide awake, and conscious, even though every fibre of her body seemed to be seizing up in pain – so much that she couldn't speak.

Miranda had never seen anything like this before, but she understood immediately. She had felt a fraction of the weight Jack had carried on her back for so many minutes – the biotic energy she had to exert to keep that up. Her body had been pushed beyond its limits and, for lack of a better word, overloaded. It must have felt like being struck by lightning.

“Give her a sedative and a muscle relaxant, and get her back to camp,” Miranda quietly commanded, figuring the best thing she could do for Jack was help ease her pain, and knock her out for a bit while her body began to heal itself. A nearby medic didn't hesitate to follow her orders.

“Will she be okay?” the student Miranda recognised as Prangley asked.

“I can't make any promises, but for what it's worth, I don't think she's done any permanent damage,” Miranda replied, watching as the sedative began to take effect, and Jack slowly began to calm down, her muscles going limp as the tension gradually left her body. “If my best guess is correct, then the worst she'll have suffered is a torn ligament here or there.”

“We've got it from here, Director Lawson. We'll take her to the medical evac shuttle with the other critical patient,” one of the medics told her.

Miranda gave them a nod. “Make sure the rest of the kids are okay, too. They've been through a lot. We'll wait here while you do.”

“Sure thing.” They got to work carrying out her orders, loading Jack up on a stretcher, taking her back to where the bulk of the team was waiting. The medics began to evaluate the health of Jack's students. Everyone else within sight...needed a few minutes to recover. A building just came down in front of them.

That had been a close call. Too close.

With that, Miranda hobbled a few paces back from the wreckage, as if finding physical space would give her the room she needed to think. She ran her hand through her hair, releasing a long breath, processing what had just happened while the tinnitus blared in her ear. She let her forehead fall against the cold stone of a nearby building, her mind voicing a thousand different thoughts of how close she'd come to letting things go horribly wrong, and the words she and Jack had exchanged when it seemed like their lives were about to end.

It didn’t seem real. It had just happened, but it felt like waking up from a vivid dream. She couldn’t quite fathom the things that had gone through her mind (or hadn’t gone through her mind) in the intensity of the moment.

No matter how much she and Jack clashed in the past, there was a special bond between shipmates, especially those of the Normandy. No matter how much they still disliked each other, they'd been part of something. Everyone on that ship had seen things no one else in the universe could appreciate or understand.

And Miranda had been given an opportunity to save her, one of those people who'd walked through the fire with her, and she had so very nearly failed. Hell, in a way, she had. By sheer luck, Shiala had been there to bail them out from a situation Miranda should have seen coming, and should have prevented. Her mistakes had nearly cost them all.

What was worse was knowing that, with so many others she had served beside, she wouldn't get that chance to even try. They were already gone.

How had she come so close to wasting not only her own life, but Jack's, and her students'? What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? Why had she doubted herself when she knew going underground was the wrong call?

Not only that but...what if Shiala hadn’t shown up? Jack was right. There would have been no saving either of them, let alone both. Miranda would have thrown her life away pointlessly, all because she would have rather died than live with one more person getting killed on her watch - one more person she knew. Realising that about herself was...going to take some time to process.

“Director?” Yoshizawa's voice penetrated her thoughts. “Director Lawson, are you okay?”

Miranda blinked herself out of her strange stupor. It seemed like an eternity that she had been standing there in thought, but, when Miranda broke herself out of it, it had probably only been a minute at most.

“I'm alright. I'm unharmed,” she answered, gingerly shifting her body around. She'd lost her crutch in the building collapse. That was annoying. But the job always came before anything else. That was just how Miranda did things. She couldn't function any other way. “Make a report, will you?”

“Report?” Yoshizawa repeated vacantly, still dazed by the events that had just occurred.

“Yes, report to base. Eleven survivors rescued. Two in need of urgent medical attention.” Miranda hesitated, looking over at the students, and at Jack. They were all watching their teacher get carried off towards the same transport as Seanne was on, going to get the help they needed.

Yoshizawa followed her gaze. For a moment, Yoshizawa seemed to consider whether to extend some word of comfort to her after nearly losing someone she knew, as well as nearly losing her own life trying to rescue Jack, but she apparently thought better of it, carrying out the order without another question, leaving Miranda in peace, letting her dwell on her thoughts in private.

Miranda noticed a few sideways glances in her direction from her team, some quiet words being discussed about her. She wondered if they thought her heroic and brave for staying behind with Jack. If so, little did they realise there was nothing courageous about it. Her reasons had been entirely selfish.

Funnily enough, Jack was the only person who had seen that.

“Could somebody fetch me a bloody walking stick?” Miranda acerbically remarked in the general direction of some of the privates who were hanging around the scene. They all stiffened, visibly scared of her. One of them saluted and ran off to fulfil her request. Miranda rolled her eye as she shifted around to lean back against the wall behind her. “Incompetents,” she muttered, because it was easier to snap at them than kick herself for letting this disaster nearly happen.

“Are you sure you shouldn't go with them too?” Shiala asked, moving to Miranda's side, nodding her head towards the medics. Miranda hadn't even noticed that she'd followed her.

“I'm fine,” Miranda assured her. Shiala sent her a look, as if to make sure she was telling the truth. “Really,” she added, trying to sound sincere, not failing to remember that Shiala had seen the vulnerability beneath the mask before.

“Then I'm glad,” Shiala replied, taking up a position beside her, almost matching Miranda's stance against the wall. She sighed, admirably calm, but understandably a little shaken by her near-death experience. “You are a very impressive woman, Miranda Lawson, but it would be my preference if for once we could meet under less...dire circumstances,” she remarked, sensing a recurring theme.

Miranda uttered a chuckle at that, unconsciously rubbing at her injured shoulder, trying not to aggravate her amputation site. “If I bought you a drink later, would that count?” she asked. That was the least she could do to express her gratitude.

Shiala summoned a small smile, as if liking the sound of that. “It would be a start.”

Miranda looked out over at Jack's kids again. Some of them were crying, wiping tears from their eyes as the shuttle carrying Jack and Seanne departed, the aftershock of everything they'd gone through passing over.

It was funny. In all honesty, Miranda couldn't say her heart hurt for any of them, or what they were going through. She understood it intellectually, but seeing people cry didn't elicit any emotion in her. She didn't possess that latent empathy. She didn't even know most of their names.

But, that being said, that didn't mean she didn't feel anything. It would have been extremely easy for her to choose not to care but, well...that Miranda had been left behind many months ago. She wasn’t that person anymore.

Her past self wouldn’t have, but Miranda did feel sorry for these kids, and what they'd gone through. As much as she could, at least. She knew what they'd endured. She understood their loss. She'd seen how much they cared about each other – how much they meant to Jack. She'd nearly watched them all die avoidable deaths, because she hadn't trusted her instincts to get them out of that building. Because Miranda had been indecisive and taken a fucking shortcut.

It wasn't right. It wasn't right to just...walk away from any responsibility she bore, like it had never happened. To wash her hands, and absolve herself. Not now.

It wasn't lost on her that they were all only a little younger than Oriana. She was twenty now. They were, what? Seventeen? Thinking of Ori was always the ticket to bringing out Miranda's softer side – a side she wouldn't have even had without her.

Miranda thought about the things Jack had said to her mere minutes ago, in the heat of the moment. About looking after her students, the same way she would look after her sister. Protecting them. Keeping them safe. Giving them normal lives.

Miranda wasn't good with other adults, let alone kids. She'd never really been one. Or had friends at that age. Giving Oriana a normal life had meant staying far away from her. But when Miranda set her mind to anything, she could do it. Already, she had begun to think about how she could pull strings. Make sure their needs were looked after. Make sure they landed on their feet.

There were nine of them. Ten, including Seanne. Ten teenagers. And Jack.

Eleven. Eleven people might be feasible. Temporarily, anyway. That was how many housemates Miranda already had, after all. It was worth trying, wasn't it? Worth seeing if it worked out. Worth trying to do the one thing Jack had asked of her.

Miranda had never made any promises to Jack, so, technically, she wouldn't have been doing anything wrong if she ignored that request. She didn't have any obligation to honour her wishes. And Jack was still alive to take care of her students herself. But, frankly, those technicalities Miranda might once have clung to in order to easily rationalise this all away and to absolve herself of any sense of duty didn't seem to matter anymore. She didn’t want to take a pass on this.

She was sure something could be arranged. Miranda had a lot of pull with Bailey. She was his best agent. Surely, if she spoke with him, he would be willing to make a few special accommodations for her. Anything to ensure she continued working for him for as long as possible.

Even if her plan worked, that would take a few days, at a minimum. Not to mention that Miranda's work out here in the wastes wasn't over yet. They needed somewhere to stay in the interim. Someone to look out for them while Jack was out of commission. Someone she could trust.

“Shiala, you've already done a lot for me, so I wouldn't want to impose by asking anything further,” Miranda began, trailing off momentarily. Shiala tiled her head, listening intently. “Those nine kids need a place to stay. I know you and the Zhu's Hope colonists probably don't have enough room, but you have connections in the green zone. You know it better than I do. If you could put them up somewhere, just for a couple of days, while I get their affairs in order...”

“That's not an imposition at all,” Shiala stated plainly, thinking nothing of it. “I can take them on my shuttle, get them there faster.”

Miranda had to admit, she was a little taken aback to hear Shiala so readily volunteer her assistance again. She was expecting she'd have to work harder to convince her, or trade her something of value. Not that she was complaining but...why did Shiala keep helping her? What was she getting out of this?

“I appreciate it. I'll make it up to you,” Miranda offered, since it only seemed fair. That and she didn’t like feeling at a deficit in terms of favours to call upon.

“You don't have to do anything for me.” Shiala shook her head, dismissing the thought. “You've already earned my help. And...well, if you'll have it...you’ve earned my friendship too,” Shiala added, a little more self-consciously, as if wondering if she was saying too much, or being too awkward.

Miranda blinked. Oh. Was that what this was? Was that what she wanted from this?

Honestly, she had never contemplated that. Miranda had a habit of viewing all her dealings with other people as inherently transactional, due to how she was raised. It was a mindset she was slowly learning to change, but it still caught her off guard every now and then to be reminded that sometimes people just did things for others, not because they were repaying a favour or because they expected something in return, but just because they cared and wanted to help.

That and, in her entire life, Miranda had met maybe five people who actually seemed to like her as a person and enjoy her company. One of them was her sister, and two of them were dead. Suffice it to say, she wasn't used to it.

“...Sure,” Miranda said, not sure how else to answer that. She didn't know Shiala particularly well, and in all honesty she saw her purely as a useful contact. But she saw no reason to reject her offer. That would just hurt her feelings, and more importantly sabotage the inroads Miranda had made with her as a reliable ally.

If this was all Shiala wanted in return for assisting her then Miranda could...try the friendship thing, she supposed. It was less effort than the blackmail she usually had to resort to when securing third party contacts. Presumably.

Shiala turned a more bashful shade of green. “Uh, well, that's great! I'm...glad. And I will...take you up on that drink,” she said in that awkward, stilted way of hers. It was like she was always torn between whether to speak with traditional asari formality, or whether to emulate the more casual ways of speaking the Zhu's Hope colonists would surely have taught her to use with humans by now. That and it always kind of seemed like she was talking through a headache.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Miranda replied. She wasn’t really, of course, but Shiala didn’t need to know that. In any event, she wasn’t averse to the idea. And lying to be polite was a skill she still needed more practice at, unless she wanted to continue alienating people with blunt honesty for the rest of her life.

Tempting, but no.

“Me too.” Shiala nervously cleared her throat. “I will, uh...see you around. Stay safe this time,” she said, taking her leave. Miranda gave her a parting nod.

Judging from her reaction, Miranda got the sense Shiala hadn't had that many friends before either, Zhu’s Hope not included. She wasn't sure whether that would make maintaining this proposed friendship extremely easy, since her standards would be low, or whether that made this a terrible idea, because neither of them brought anything of value to the friendship table. Maybe both.

Miranda watched Shiala approach Jack's students, introducing herself and offering them a place to say. It was funny. Despite how much she'd grown over the past year, Miranda was still at a distance from all but a select few – looking from the outside in at people who could form bonds so much more easily. People who could just naturally relate to others.

She would never be able to do that. She just couldn't.

At the end of the day, did it really matter? Did it matter that she didn't genuinely care about these kids as much as Jack did? Did it matter that she didn't honestly reciprocate Shiala's feelings of friendship? She was doing good by her actions, wasn't she? Doing what Jack had asked of her. Somehow, despite a complete lack of effort, managing to be someone whose companionship Shiala enjoyed. Those positive outcomes had to count for something, right?

Progress was progress. After all, who would have ever thought that Miranda fucking Lawson would become a person who risked her own life for Jack’s, a protector of lost teenagers, and a person who made friends? Jacob would have been proud of her, if not for the fact that he would never believe it.

It was also a hell of a lot easier to focus her attention on those things than to confront the fact that she still hadn’t dealt with the phantom faces that haunted her in her dreams, or the missing names from the Normandy, or the tinnitus that made trying to fall asleep at night into a marathon of audial torture, and how those things were affecting her even in her waking moments.

Miranda swallowed, not ready to face those problems. Not yet.

“Alright. Playtime’s over. Let’s get moving,” Miranda called out to her team assembled in the square. “We still have a city to clear.”

* * *

Miranda was definitely in a mood that day when she stormed into the Starboard Observation Deck, her arms folded across her chest. She sighed and went to the viewport, leaning with one arm against the transparent window. Samara continued to meditate, undisturbed. That earned a somewhat suspicious glance back over Miranda's shoulder.

“What?” said Miranda, eyeing her. “You're not going to ask me about the fight I had with Jack?”

“I was not,” Samara replied. “Although I did overhear it, as did everybody on this deck of the ship.”

“Great.” Miranda shook her head, flipping her hair back. “I know Shepard managed to talk her down, but she walked into my office and physically assaulted me. She's unstable.”

“She did. And that was wrong of her,” Samara acknowledged, pausing for a moment. “Did you do anything to provoke it?” she asked, sensing Miranda was perhaps...minimising her role in the argument.

“Provoke it?” Miranda echoed, offended at the insinuation.

“It is merely a question,” Samara said calmly. “Jack is a volatile character. However, she has been a member of this crew for a considerable time without incident.”

“So I must have caused it?” Miranda sarcastically shot back, rolling her eyes and shaking her head when Samara didn't respond. Typical for her to get blamed for everything.

Samara waited a few moments, perhaps considering that she had erred in taking the direct approach. “I am aware that she recently revisited a place of immense childhood trauma,” Samara began, choosing a different approach. “This must be a sensitive time for her.”

Miranda sighed and glanced down, her arms stiffly folded across her chest. She could acknowledge that. “I never said what Jack went through wasn't horrible. I know it was. I went to that facility. I saw it for myself. No child should ever have to endure that. All I said was that it couldn't have been Cerberus. Or, if it was a Cerberus affiliate, then someone clearly went rogue and made a terrible mistake.”

That had to be the case. Cerberus didn't play by the rules, but the organisation had just aims. It was the first place where Miranda had been praised instead of criticised – allowed to make her own choices and do things her way. The Illusive Man had been a better father to Miranda than Henry Lawson ever was. Sure, they walked a morally grey line and did things other people weren't courageous enough to do, but Cerberus wasn't malicious or cruel, merely pragmatic.

“Do you think that distinction was important to Jack?” Samara's question broke Miranda from her musings.

“What?” Miranda regarded Samara strangely, finding her difficult to read. Samara let the question hang, waiting for an answer. Miranda had to admit, this wasn't what she had expected, given their growing friendship. If anything, she was a little hurt. “I thought you'd be on my side.”

“You sought me out to speak about this. If you did so and did not desire my honest opinion on the matter, then you have grave misapprehensions about my character,” Samara remarked. She would never give counsel that contradicted her morals.

“So you agree with Jack?” asked Miranda. That was the last thing she would have expected from someone as rational as Samara.

“It is not a question of agreement. You are focused on 'black and white' instead of seeing things from her perspective. And, with the greatest of respect, you must be aware that you are in a superior position, because the subject of what Jack endured does not affect you. This was not your trauma. You are detached – you can think about your words and actions in this situation, in a way that Jack, for whom these events are intensely personal, cannot.”

Miranda snorted. “Are you saying I should lie to her?”

“As a Justicar, I could never advocate for dishonesty, merely mindfulness. Like you, I am a hard woman. I have many honest thoughts. In the past, I have often voiced them carelessly, with little regard for their effect on others. There is wisdom in appreciating when our opinions are best kept silent, lest our words do harm,” Samara thoughtfully replied.

“If she can't handle my words, that's her problem,” said Miranda, staunchly believing herself to be in the right. “We've all been through bad things. That doesn't excuse attacking people.”

“No, it does not, but your own experiences should enable you to understand her better than most,” Samara dispensed her sage advice, encouraging sympathy.

“Exactly my point, though; I'm not the way she is. We turned out completely differently. We couldn't be more polar opposites if one of us was made of anti-matter,” Miranda pointed out, extending her hand to emphasise that. “My father did horrible things to me too. I'm not saying that it was on the same scale as what was done to Jack, but you don't see me losing control of my emotions.”

“Do not compare her reaction to yours. This is not what is important,” said Samara, dismissing that distraction. “Instead, try to empathise with her perspective as to why your words were harmful. For example, imagine speaking to someone about what your father did to you.”

“You don't know what my father did to me,” Miranda interrupted her before she could get started on that subject. “Nobody does.”

“Yes, precisely. They do not know. However, you do,” Samara continued. “You lived through those experiences. You understand how they affected you. Now, instead of listening to you and acknowledging what you endured, imagine someone giving you their unsolicited opinions on your childhood or your father, even with regard to something that may technically be correct.”

“Like what?” Miranda asked, shrugging her shoulders. Why would she be bothered by something factual?

“For instance, your father created the genetic code that exists inside you and your sister. Clearly, he is a brilliant scientist,” Samara observed. “Here is a hypothetical scenario: you tell me about his abuse towards you in your youth, I acknowledge that what he did was wrong, but I keep repeating to you that he was a brilliant scientist. How would you feel?”

Miranda's lips pursed, and she released a slight exhale. God damn it. Leave it to Samara to express things in a way that actually made her see what she was talking about, and see things from someone else's perspective.

“I would think that you're diminishing what I went through and defending the people who did it to me,” Miranda acknowledged. “I would probably find that very frustrating. If you or Jacob were saying it, I might even feel betrayed for confiding in you only to have you speak up for him.”

She knew, because it had happened before. Niket. The man she'd trusted to help her escape. The one person she thought understood the effect of her father's abuse. Instead of taking her side, he had accused her of being wrong for sparing Oriana all of that suffering. He'd even implied that growing up wealthy was a fair trade for her father's callousness and cruelty.

Miranda sighed, dropping her guarded posture as she raised one hand to rub her forehead. “Okay, so you have a point. Maybe I did inadvertently provoke her just a little bit. Not that it takes much.”

“You made a mistake. You are learning from it,” said Samara, not judging her for her imperfections.

“I suppose I have to; I didn't exactly learn social skills growing up,” Miranda admitted, never particularly happy with it when she realised there was something she'd done wrong. Her father had made certain that she despised failure, as he always went out of his way to make her dread the consequences. “That's becoming more apparent, lately. Being in such close quarters here with so many non-Cerberus personnel on The Normandy has forced me to do more 'socialising' than I have in the entire last thirty-five years of my life. People can be so...”

“Alien?” Samara supplied, somewhat wryly.

“I was going to say 'complicated', but that works,” said Miranda, slumping down on the floor beside Samara, chastened by her lecture, no matter how kindly put and...astute it had been. “You're lucky I trust you that none of this is going to leave this room,” she commented, glancing over at her companion. “If anyone else heard me acknowledge that I have weaknesses, I'd never live it down.”

“Everyone has weaknesses. To demand otherwise is unattainable,” Samara reassured her.

Miranda bit her lower lip. She thought about how much she already knew concerning Samara's past, and how she had obtained that knowledge behind her back. She still felt something resembling guilt about it. It only seemed fair to open up about some of her own secrets, so they could be on more even terms.

“I wasn't allowed to have anything he deemed a weakness. My father, I mean,” Miranda confessed, finally broaching that subject that she had long kept to herself. “The problem was, his definition of 'weakness' was anything that didn't directly benefit him. That included making friends, or smiling, or having my own interests, or feeling pain, or crying. Everything you can imagine really. All I knew throughout my entire childhood was control. I had to do everything exactly the way he wanted when he wanted it, even if I had absolutely no way of knowing what that was, even if it changed from one moment to the next, which it often did. And that was what I had to do just to be tolerated. Never anything more than that. Not loved, or praised, or accepted. Just tolerated. Anything less than his version of perfection and I would be punished, in some form or another.”

As she spoke, she felt Samara's eyes on her. It made her slightly self-conscious. She didn't want Samara to think she was heaping her personal problems upon her, or throwing a big pity party. That wasn't her intent. She just thought...Samara might actually understand her a bit better, if she told her the truth.

“I'm not saying any of this for sympathy or as an excuse,” Miranda explained. She didn't want those things. She didn't need those things. “I think it's just starting to crystallise for me that maybe I never really stopped listening to his voice, or obeying his vision. Perhaps there are some things I need to...reassess.”

“Much as the trauma of her youth is the source of the anger you experienced from Jack, you too carry the scars of your past, as I do with mine,” Samara spoke up. “Jack may not yet be ready to move on from it, but I believe that you are, if you so choose. You have already come further than you may appreciate. You have the capacity to identify what you need to change within you, and you have the will to see it done. This may take time and self-reflection, but it is achievable.”

“That's what you were talking about before, with the meditation, wasn't it?” Miranda surmised.

“It was one reason I suggested it,” Samara acknowledged. “It is a means of pursuing this kind of clarity – identifying aspects of oneself that the rigours of life normally distract one from perceiving and analysing.”

Miranda paused and glanced down, swallowing. “...I suppose I should thank you,” she said. Samara's silent response indicated she didn't know what Miranda meant by that. “For seeing the best in me, instead of dismissing me for my faults.”

“Could I not say the same to you?” Samara replied.

That thought managed to bring a small smile to the corner of Miranda's lips. She had a point. Then again, it wasn't hard to see the best in Samara. It was quite touching to think that maybe Samara would have said the same thing about her.

Maybe that was just what it was like when you met someone you felt instantly connected to. Maybe that was just how someone knew a rapport like this was real.

* * *

It was a few days before Miranda was really able to get back to the green zone and get her affairs in order. The operation had been a moderate success. They had found outposts of survivors who had hunkered down during the war, found pretty much anything resembling usable supplies that was left in the covered area, and found some habitable buildings to start moving people into.

Nobody had seen Samara though. Miranda was trying very hard not to let that concern her. It helped that she had other priorities to focus on.

Shiala had kept her updated on the status of Jack and her students. Thankfully, Seanne was recovering quickly from her illness. She was still in care, but expected to be released in the next couple of days.

Jack was...well, doing a lot worse than Seanne. Her condition was stable but her biotics had damn near destroyed her body. Almost as bad as the shuttle crash had destroyed Miranda's. No permanent damage, most likely. But her muscles were in a lot of pain, still slowly repairing themselves. From the sounds of things, it would take a lot of time and rehab to get her back to where she was.

Miranda was able to confirm all that with her own eyes. It wasn't hard to find Jack, even among all the beds, and all the sick and injured. She didn't look great. There were clear bruises where capillaries had burst beneath her skin. It did look like she'd been in a crash.

Jack must have sensed someone watching her, obviously not coping much better with bed rest than Miranda had. Bleary eyes glanced over in Miranda's direction, immediately turning with irritation when she realised who was standing there.

“Who the fuck let you in?” Jack groaned. Miranda was the last person she wanted to deal with when she was like this.

“It's a field hospital, Jack. Not much in the way of security.” Miranda thought about reminding her that she was known around here and people let her go wherever she wanted, but she had the good sense to realise that Jack would probably want to kill her if she said that. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”

“Fuckin' hurts,” Jack remarked, draping her arm over her eyes, hoping Miranda would just go away. “But I still look a damn sight better than you, fuckface.”

That was debatable, honestly. “You're lucky you didn't tear yourself apart,” Miranda said quietly, moving closer. She was trying to be civil and understanding. “Not just limb from limb, but on a cellular level.”

Jack didn't respond, deliberately ignoring her in an effort to get Miranda to leave.

Miranda rolled her eye. So much for her efforts to be kind to her. Obviously her presence wasn't wanted. With that in mind, it was probably best to just cut straight to the point.

“Listen, I've spoken to Bailey. They're starting to house priority personnel in apartments in the city. That means Alliance officials, and people involved in the recovery effort. Civilians and non-essential personnel are the lowest priority. You'll be lucky to get a look-in on a place to live even a year from now, unless all of you are prepared to work for it. And, no offence, but you're not really in a condition to do that,” Miranda set out the facts.

“Why the fuck do you always talk like you're answering a question nobody fuckin' asked?” Jack grumbled. Despite her complaint, she reluctantly opened her eyes and shifted her head to listen to what she had to say.

Sensing she had her attention, Miranda continued. “I tried to convince Bailey to make an exception for you and your students, but he can't. Not unless someone who warrants high priority quarters chooses to take you in. Someone like me.”

“I'd sooner fucking drink bleach than live with you,” Jack shot that down.

Miranda had expected Jack to say that. “Okay. But what about your students? They don't have spare beds at this field hospital, Jack. There's barely enough room for them to breathe if they wind up in tent city. It's not safe for them out there by themselves. You don't know anyone else here. And, right now, you can't exactly look after them. Not without help,” Miranda explained. Much as she visibly hated it, Jack couldn't object to that. “I've already made the necessary arrangements. I can cancel them if you want, but I'm prepared to take them in, with or without you.”

“...Why are you doing this?” Jack asked suspiciously. It sounded like Miranda was being sincere, but it was hard to tell. Miranda never did anything for anyone without an agenda behind it. Unless it was for her sister. Or Jacob. Not for someone she didn't care about. Not for Jack.

Miranda pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. “There are only four of us left, Jack. If not for Shiala, that number would only be two; neither of us would be here right now. You nearly died the other day. And it would have been my fault if you had,” Miranda stated frankly. Jack had held an entire building up to keep her alive, and broken her body doing it. “That was why I couldn't leave you.”

Contrary to popular belief, Miranda had never hated Jack. Disliked her, yes, but the hatred had been entirely one-sided. Truth be told, she'd never cared about Jack enough to hate her. She hadn't cared about her at all. Not back then. In a way, that was a lot worse than hate. Jack would probably take it that way, if she knew. And Miranda had the decency to feel a tinge of regret about that, in hindsight.

Most of her memories of Jack were of conflict, or mutual avoidance at best. But Miranda had never set out to antagonise Jack, deliberately or otherwise. She hadn't sought her ought for anything, good or bad or neutral. Not once. She was completely uninterested in her. Apathetic. She didn't give Jack any unprovoked attention at all. Not that it mattered one way or the other. The fact that she was a Cerberus Operator had been cause enough to make her enemy number one.

Miranda hadn't batted an eye, save when things got violent. To her, not getting to know Jack was fine, and her hostile attitude had said more than enough about how little she was worth anyone's time.

Jack had loathed her. And Miranda had found her a nuisance at best. An insignificant insect who would be brushed aside as soon as the mission ended.

But she'd been wrong about her, hadn't she? Jack had been right about Cerberus the entire time, and Miranda had been too blinded by loyalty to believe her. And, while Miranda had been on the run from The Illusive Man and his agents, Jack had turned her life around. She'd set out to give the kids in the Ascension Program a far better shot at life than she ever got herself.

Miranda had done some growing of her own as well. She'd been cold and callous back then. Not just towards Jack but towards everyone. Whether she'd realised it or not at the time, she'd still been living in her father's shadow, letting the way he'd raised her shape how she treated others.

But things had changed. They weren't the same people they once were. Maybe they were never the people they'd assumed each other to be. But they were both working on being better people. And they'd lost almost all of their other comrades along the way.

Maybe Jack still wanted to hold onto her grudge, and maybe she was justified in doing that. But Miranda was tired. She wanted no part in this anymore. She couldn't carry on pretending her past grievances with Jack meant a god damn thing to her anymore. She didn't have the energy. If there was ever a time to bury the hatchet and move on, this was it.

“You said if I wanted to make up for all the bad history between us, and all the atrocities Cerberus committed against you, the only way for me to do that is to look after these kids the way I would look after my own sister,” Miranda recalled, knowing how much the students meant to Jack. “So...Okay. This is my answer. I want to honour that. I can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I intend to fulfil that bargain. This is me trying to make things...better.”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, a cold, hard stare, studying her face for any signs of duplicity. She didn't find any. Miranda wasn't lying. Her motives may have been self-centred, but that was to be expected. Jack would have been suspicious if they weren't. At least that reasoning made sense as to why Miranda suddenly wanted to be a less shitty person. For her, this was progress.

“...I never thought I'd say this, but you're actually fucking right about something,” Jack admitted, willing to put personal feelings aside for the well-being of her kids. “Living in a real fucking apartment is better for them. Better than being out here in this depressing shithole. So I'm going to tell them about you and what you’re offering. But I'm not going to force them. It's their choice.”

“Okay.” Miranda nodded. That was it, then. This was really happening.

She didn't want Jack to sense it, but she had mixed feelings about what she was getting herself into. Looking after teenagers was not high on her list of things she wanted to do. And she knew she was taking on a lot of responsibility. But this had been the one thing Jack had asked of her when she thought she was going to die. Doing her best to deliver on that request was the least Miranda could do, especially since Jack had saved her life that day.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, not sure whether Jack would be joining them. “I know we don't exactly get along, but you're welcome to stay too. I'll just make sure to hide the bleach before you do.”

That remark elicited a snort. “Yeah, about that. I don't think I'm gonna be going anywhere for a while,” Jack glanced down at herself.

Miranda gave a small, understanding smile. “I was in your position not long ago. I promise you, it will feel like an eternity. And your rehab will take time. But you'll be healthy enough to stay somewhere else sooner than you think. It doesn't have to be with me. Jacob is keeping my old bed free in case you'd prefer that.”

A conflicted look passed over Jack's face, a little bittersweet. “So I wouldn't be with the tykes?” she realised aloud.

Miranda suddenly recognised a possible flaw in her plan. “Jack, I'm not trying to separate you from them. I'm just offering them a place to stay. A roof over their heads. They're at liberty to see you whenever they want. And vice versa.”

“I know, dumbass,” Jack cut her off. “I'm just...I'm not sure they'll take it that way.”

Miranda softened. “You nearly gave your life to save them. If they don't know by now that you love them far too much to abandon them...well, I don't know, maybe tell them?” Miranda suggested. That's probably what Samara would have advised. “I don't know. I'm not good with people. Maybe don't listen to me on this subject.”

“I don't listen to you about anything,” Jack assured her, only half-joking. It hadn't escaped her notice that Miranda really was making an effort. Having some semblance of humility. Admitting that she sucked at something. The old Miranda never would have spoken to her like this. “...I'll think about it. I've got time. I've got some healing to do. I'll decide my living arrangements later.”

“Sure.” Miranda nodded, accepting that. “...Well, I'll start getting the apartment ready. There's still a lot to do, so...we'll talk another time.” Miranda elected to take her leave, getting up from her seat.

“Hey, Miranda.” Miranda paused, wondering if that was the first time Jack had actually called her by name. She turned and looked back. “We're not starting over at zero. It's too late for that. But I know you had nothing to do with what Cerberus did to me. And, if you're serious about trying to be straight with me, and you're not just going to throw my kids to the wayside the second you feel better about yourself, then...fuck it, I'll give you a shot.”

“This is you trying?” Miranda inferred. Jack didn't say anything, but nor did she protest. Miranda gave a nod, satisfied. She could live with that.

There was no chance they could ever become friends. But coexisting relatively peacefully would be good enough.

* * *

“Finally making use of the library, I see,” Miranda remarked, catching Samara in the act of reading.

Samara cracked a small smile as the doors closed behind Miranda. “I do reside on a human vessel. It would seem a terrible waste to remain ignorant of your arts and cultures when you have been so gracious in sharing these resources with me. That is if you do not object.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Miranda, not at all surprised that Samara appreciated what humanity had to offer based on their previous conversations, but glad for it nonetheless. Her long lifespan had not robbed her of her curiosity and adventurousness.

Despite their reputation for benevolence and co-operation with others, some asari Miranda had encountered could be incredibly patronising towards human cultures. Even if they welcomed other species into the fold, there were some who looked down on humans as effectively a novelty – like lost children taking their first steps on the galactic stage, whose beliefs and habits were cute, but would soon be a thing of the past once they were 'enlightened' by more ancient races. Thankfully, Samara wasn't like that. Her respect for other species was genuine and unfeigned.

“How many books have you read so far?” Miranda inquired, noticing that she was currently nearing the end of her copy of Moby Dick.

“Fewer than I would have liked,” said Samara, almost with a hint of self-deprecation.

At that point, EDI piped up. “Justicar Samara has requested my assistance in selecting texts from a diverse array of authors whose works were written in different cultural and linguistic contexts, as well as different genres and time periods.”

“This is correct. Thank you, EDI.” Samara nodded her head at EDI's holographic interface, which continued to operate silently. “I have heard that your species is far more diverse and varied than those who have come before. I did not wish to make the error of inadvertently and arbitrarily narrowing the scope of human literature available to me. This could lead me to draw false inferences, such as misconstruing humans as more homogeneous than you actually are.”

“Read anything by an Australian author yet?” Miranda asked, impressed by the care and consideration Samara had put into her decision to explore human literature for fun. That was thoughtful of her.

“Not at this time, no,” Samara confessed.

“You're not missing much.” Miranda shrugged nonchalantly as she joined her on the couch, not even sure there were any Australian texts in their small library. Out of curiosity, she brought up the database on her omni-tool. It contained a record of all available books aboard the ship and showed who had checked out what and when, so nobody could get away with not returning them. Unsurprisingly, Samara was the most frequent user of the library, closely followed by Kasumi.

“I am sure that is not the case. I have yet to encounter a text that I have not enjoyed the experience of reading. Although I confess that, at times, certain details may have been lost on me,” Samara admitted as she closed her book and put it aside, acknowledging the effect that her own limited understanding of Earth and human history had on her comprehension of these stories.

Miranda tried not to smirk. “You had to ask EDI to explain to you what a whale is, didn't you?”

“She was very informative,” said Samara, which elicited a chuckle from Miranda. “Do you read?”

“When I have time, yes,” Miranda answered. It was also one of the few things her father had allowed her to do as a child, since he saw intellectual value in it.

“Are there any books you would recommend?” Samara asked, implicitly trusting her taste.

“Sure. I could send you a list, but I'm not sure that my preferences would be along the lines of what you're looking for,” Miranda acknowledged, earning a curious look from Samara. “For the most part, I don't read fiction anymore. There are some exceptions, but I rarely enjoy it.”

“I see.” Samara took a moment to contemplate that, choosing to seek elaboration. “Is there any particular reason why you tend to dislike it?”

“Well, on merit alone, ninety percent of all content produced is not worth consuming. As for the remaining ten percent, the vast majority of novels I've read are like being locked in a room listening to the inane thoughts and dialogue of annoying characters while the author either beats you over the head with their uninformed opinions or waffles on aimlessly while avoiding making anything that constitutes a worthwhile observation or statement,” Miranda explained, remembering how irritating she had found so many texts she was forced to study in her youth. “Even when the ideas and concepts are intriguing to me, I find it’s often ruined by the characters or the writing style getting in the way.”

“What makes a character annoying to you?” Samara pressed, curious about her comment.

“They make stupid decisions, they think things that I would never think, and everything is just a frustrating waste of time while you wait for them to cut the nonsense, realise the obvious and get to the point of the plot,” said Miranda. She hadn't anticipated an interrogation of her views on fiction. Fortunately, her frustrations were well-founded, and she never struggled to defend her positions.

Samara stared at her like she wasn't entirely certain whether or not Miranda was being facetious. “...Is that not, perhaps, the intent?” Samara considered aloud, prompting Miranda to glance up from the library database. “If the story reached its conclusion from the outset, bypassing all conflict and circumventing all faults and failings possessed by the characters, then would the author not have lost the opportunity to explore the – what is your term for it? – human condition?”

“It's not my bloody condition,” Miranda dryly remarked.

“You understood my meaning; do not be coy,” said Samara, mildly amused by her retort. “One of the benefits of literature over and above any other artform is that it allows you to experience life through the perspective of another, even down to their most private thoughts. It prospers empathy and understanding, even for those characters who are deeply flawed, as we all are. It is why I personally find that I have learned more about other species through reading their stories told in their own words than from any other source – certainly far more than I have gained from the detached academic writings of an asari anthropologist.”

Miranda shrugged, seeing her point. “I'm glad that you get so much out of it, but I never have,” she said honestly. “I can appreciate the themes of all these works on an intellectual level and the skills and techniques they've used in their writing, but I've never connected with a book or related to a character the way I've heard other people say they have. Fiction just doesn't resonate with me. Perhaps we're built differently like that.”

“Perhaps,” Samara replied, though if she had thoughts to the contrary she did not express them. “What is your preferred form of artistic expression?”

“Music,” Miranda answered without hesitation. “Not 'songs' per se, but I'm not as rigidly confined to the great composers as everyone seems to assume. I like my operas and my symphonies but I have a flair for the experimental as well. The theories and formulas that underpin music are there for a reason, but brilliant minds know how to break them in just the right ways.”

“Do you play?” asked Samara.

“Not since I was sixteen. But yes. I was classically trained in piano. I also did two years of violin before my father objected. Didn't like hearing me practice.” Miranda didn't feel the need to share that he'd ripped the violin out of her hands and thrown it across the room to break it in front of her because he'd decided she hadn't mastered it quickly enough and therefore wasn't taking it seriously. It wasn't relevant to the conversation and was more personal than Miranda cared to get.

“That is unfortunate,” Samara spoke sympathetically, evidently inferring why it was that Miranda had stopped playing nearly twenty years ago, given it held such a strong association with negative memories of her father. “One day, when the time is right, maybe you will play again.”

“I think you're the only one who wants to hear that,” Miranda commented, finding the thought of her other crewmates' reactions comical to ponder. “The rest of them out there would assume I was showing off and hate me for it.”

“Most likely. But you do not strike me as a woman who constrains herself based upon the opinions of others,” said Samara, with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Do I make it that obvious?” Miranda joked, unfazed by her unpopularity.

“Nevertheless, if the opportunity arises, perhaps you should consider it,” Samara quietly encouraged. “Your devotion to your work is admirable, but you should not squander the time you have by avoiding things that bring you joy. A day may come where you look back upon your years, and find them filled with regret for chances you did not take, and simple pleasures you let pass you by.”

“...I guess you'd know,” Miranda conceded, although in her heart she knew she had no intention of following through on playing again. Too close to home.

With that, Samara returned her attention to the book cradled in her hand, content to sit with Miranda in silence, as they often did. Miranda watched her for several seconds before speaking.

“Which one was your favourite?” she asked, prompting Samara to glance up at her in search of clarification. “Of the works you've read, I'm guessing either Don Quixote or Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” Miranda speculated. They seemed to her taste.

“Astute choices. But there was another I preferred. A poem, in fact,” she said. Miranda arched her brow, curious. “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. And, whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be and, whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul,” she recited.

Miranda's lip quirked in recognition. “That's Max Ehrmann, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, meeting her gaze. “There is much wisdom in those words. I would do well to remember them when I stray. So too would it benefit many others to hear them.”

“You may have a point,” Miranda agreed, appreciating that Samara found meaning in those words, even if they did not particularly strike a cord with her. “It sounds like the sort of thing you could reflect on in your meditation.”

“I have,” said Samara. “Every day.”

* * *

#fic #miranda lawson #samara #mass effect #femslash

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imaginetonyandbucky · 5 years

Note

Can someone do a story where the Soldier is the main personality in bucky/winter headspace and that he sides with tony in the whole winter soldier civil war arc? It can have anything else but i would perfer no steve/tony. Thankyou.

Combined with:

May I have post-CW angst please? Heart-wrenching, sad sad angst. Happy ending, ofc. Please, no Steve bashing - both Tony and Bucky love their friend.

No Steve bashing was SUPER easy, since I love Steve and would never bash him, even when he’s made some pretty dumbass decisions. :D I’m not sure I was able to give AwesomeBees exactly what she wanted (I couldn’t bring myself to have the Winter Soldier as the main personality, and I know my feelings on the Accords are pretty clear), but I tried!

On AO3

Everything Good

“Hey,Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, “Captain Rogers is on the phone. He wantsto speak to you.”

Itwas late afternoon at the Facility, and Tony had his hands full—literally—with Rhodey,helping him during one of his physio sessions. Honestly, Rhodey was lucky he wasgripping the parallel bars, because Tony was so shocked he nearly dropped him.

“Uh,yeah. Put him through, Fri. Wait.” Tony glanced at the therapist, thengrimaced apologetically at Rhodey. “You two good without me, kids?”

“Yousure you’re up for this, Tones?” Rhodey asked instead of answering. Tonywas sure he’d have put his hand on Tony’s shoulder if he didn’t need both ofthem to hold onto the bars for dear life. He’d come a long way in the lastcouple months or so, but a spinal injury wasn’t something you could just walkoff. Even with a mobile brace.

Unlessyou were Steve Rogers, probably. Not that Tony had come close to paralyzinghim. That had been more what Tony had done to Bucky, though for a moment thereTony had honestly thought Steve was going to decapitate him and he reallyneeded to stop thinking about that.

“Iwas born up for this, Rhodeybear,” Tony said. He was absolutely certainhis grin looked 100% fake, but he held it like parallel bars while Rhodeystared at him. Tony let that painfully accessing gaze settle until Rhodey justlet out a breath and gave Tony a sad, knowing smile.

“Just,be careful,” Rhodey said. “I know how hard this whole thing’s been onyou. I don't—”

“Ipromise I’ll be home by midnight with a full tank of gas, Dad,” Tony saidbreezily, cutting Rhodey off. He turned his back and strode to the locker rooms,waving over his shoulder and taking merciless advantage of how his best friendcouldn’t follow him. It was a dick move for sure; just one more thing to feel guiltyabout. God knew Tony was used to that.

(More after the break!)

“Okay,F.R.I.D.A.Y., put him through.” Tony was sitting on the bench in theshower cubicle he’d designed specifically for Rhodey. Half the showers hadalready been disabled-accessible (never knew when one of the regular-humantypes would be badly injured), but Tony had made sure the one for Rhodey wasspacious, non-slip and top of the line for ease of use. He also knew he hadabout half an hour at least before Rhodey would finish his physio and wheel orstagger his way in here to use it.

Andhey, Tony could always take a shower after the call, if he needed to scrubhimself clean. Win/win.

“Tony?”

Thatwas…Yeah, okay, that was definitely Steve’s voice. But also not Steve’s voice.In that Tony had never heard Steve sound like that. Not even in Tony’sScarlett-Witchy hallucination where the guy was dying. Steve had just soundedaccusing, then. Angry. Of course, that hadn’t been reality, just Tony’s ownfucked-up brain playing pretend. Not that things had ended up particularlydifferently in reality, really. Other than nobody dying.

Notfor lack of tying, Tony’s brain couldn’t help pointing out. He knewhe needed to stop doing that.

But,Steve. Specifically his voice. Tony had never heard Steve sound that badbefore. Steve sounded terrible. Not just tired, though if hewas still in Wakanda it was going on 1:00 AM. No, Steve sounded like he was atthe end of his rope, but there wasn’t enough slack to tie a knot. And therewere hungry wolves circling in the ravine.

LikeTony had felt in the missile silo, watching Steve pick up his friend and walkaway.

“Yeah,it’s me,” Tony said, heart pounding. Normally he might’ve added somethinglike, ‘What’s up, Capsicle?’, go for bravado when inwardly he was quailing. ButSteve sounded like death and he’d never appreciated Tony’s pretense anyway. SoTony went for honesty instead. “You sound terrible. What’s wrong?”

“Ithink….” Steve took a breath that sounded like he he’d been crying.“I think Bucky’s dead.”

Tonynearly dropped his phone. As it was, if it’d been anything other than aStarkphone his white-knuckled grip might’ve cracked the screen. “Oh myGod,” he said, hushed with sudden, aching fear. “What do you mean,you think he’s dead? What happened?” A million scenarios were alreadyswarming like hornets through Tony’s mind: Bucky vanished in the Wakandanwilderness; Bucky abducted by Ross, or Hydra, or taken by one of the manycountries where Hydra had unleashed him; Bucky trapped in his broken Wakandan cryochamber, entombed like a bug in amber; Bucky in a coma, succumbing to poison orillness or (Dear God, please no) the unforeseen effects ofthe damage Tony inflicted on him.

“Was…wasit me? What I did?” Tony asked, small-voiced with terror. It was horriblyselfish, disgustingly self-centered of him to even ask. But Tony couldn’t not.If Bucky died, part of Steve would die with him. Tony didn’t think he couldhandle finding Bucky only to lose him again. But if Bucky died and it was Tony’s fault….

Therewould be no hope for reconciliation, no hope for the Avengers ever again. Tonywould have gained a nemesis worse than anything he could every imagine. Otherthan himself.

“Wedon’t know,” Steve said, and maybe it was the lack of certainty, but ithit like a fist to Tony’s solar plexus. A metal fist to his reactor and God he needed to fucking stop.“Shuri said…” Stevepaused, obviously steeling himself. “She said it was possible. That…that theshock of his arm being destroyed like that might’ve caused some neurologicaldamage. And then there was the kick to the head.”

Tonyclosed his eyes, clutching the phone to his ear so he wouldn’t slam it into theshower wall. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice thick and rough and gratingin his ears. “Steve. I—”

“Isaid we don’t know, Tony,” Steve cut him off, as ifthat was supposed to make him feel better. “Shuri said it was possible.But, Winter said it didn’t make a difference.”

Tonyhad spoken to Shuri, before. She’d assumed Steve and Bucky would want to comeback to the U.S. at some point, so as a courtesy she’d sent Tony the specs forBucky’s new arm. It was a sleek, beautiful thing he was privileged to be ableto understand. Shuri was still a child, but her intellect already shone like asun.

Hedidn’t know Winter, but it was a terrible relief to have someone say whateverhappened wasn’t Tony’s fault. Except it was hard to imagine Shuri being wrongabout anything. “Is Winter a neurologist?”

Hecould practically hear Steve’s confusion. “No,” he said.“Winter’s Bucky.”

Tonywaited a beat, then another. It still didn’t make any sense. “I don’tunderstand,” he said, though something in Steve’s voice had a cold, quietdread creeping up Tony’s spine.

“Winter’sBucky,” Steve said, as if it would be more comprehensible with repetition.His sigh sounded as heavy as the ice that buried him. “The doctorswho…accessed him said it’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” He madea sound that had almost nothing to do with laughing. “I didn’t even know thatwas a thing that could happen to people. But, yeah. Bucky isn't…Bucky anymore.He calls himself ‘Winter’. He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve addedquickly, “He hasn’t done anything like what happened in Berlin. He hasn’thurt anyone at all. He’s just….” Steve pulled in another breath thatshuddered. “He’s not Bucky.”

Tonyhadn’t even been thinking about the terrifying, snarling juggernaut who’d beatthe shit out of him in Berlin, but that didn’t stop ice flooding his guts whenSteve reminded him. Tony knew Shuri had removed the trigger words from Bucky’shead. But, yeah. Nice to hear Steve’s bestie hadn’t shoved him through anotherwall.

“Why?”Tony asked, still trying to wrap his head around Dissociative IdentityDisorder and Steve calling him for anything. “Whathappened?”

“Idon’t know.” Steve swallowed. “Winter said he needed to protectBucky. After…after what happened. So he wasn't…he wasn’t gonna let him outanymore. And. And I tried to talk to Bucky, but Winter wouldn’t let me. And…andwhat if he’s dead? What if he’s not, not even there anymorebecause it’s just Winter now? What if Bucky’s gone, and, andI—”

Stevestarted sobbing. Great, wracking gulps of air, each one followed by ashuddering gasp like cracking bone. “What if he’s dead,Tony? Oh, God. Oh, my God. What do I do? What am I going to do?”

“Whoa,whoa. Shh. It’s okay. Nobody’s dead, Steve,” Tony tried. Then,“Bucky’s not dead!” Forcefully, when Steve just made a broken noiseof negation. “That’s not how it works! It doesn’t work like that. Honest.I’m no expert, but, it doesn’t work like that. None of the identities die,okay? They’re just…in the background. Or something. I’m not sure about thatpart. But I promise you, Bucky is not dead.”

“Really?”Steve sniffled. He sounded so desperate for hope that Tony, who had troublewith other peoples’ emotions at the best of times, nearly broke down himself.“You’re sure? He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Yeah,well, you said Winter was protecting him, right? So, he’s probably in his happyplace. I wouldn’t want to come out either.” Tony winced, wondering ifSteve would think that sounded as much like bullshit as Tony did. He stood andleft the shower stall, then strode into the hallway with his phone mashed tohis ear. He knew appallingly little about psychology, considering how manydisorders he’d been diagnosed with over the years. It was about an eight hourflight to Wakanda in a Quinjet; plenty of time to read up on the subject.

Notthat he had any idea what he’d do about it, once he gotthere. But, Steve had called him for a reason. And even if that was tomore-or-less accuse Tony of making Bucky mentally ill, Tony couldn’t listen toSteve crying his guts out and just do nothing. “I’m heading to the landingpad right now. I can be at the palace in eight hours. Do you want me to bringanything? Anyone?” he asked, thinking as he moved. “Wanda’s offsomewhere with Vision, but she’s got that hand-wavy telepathy stuff. Icould—”

“Winterwanted to talk to you,” Steve said. “He didn’t say why, exactly. But itsounded like he wants assurance you’re not going to try to kill him anymore.”

Tonystopped moving so fast he practically gave himself whiplash in the corridor.His first reaction was a blood-hot flare of rage. “You sure as fuck neverpull your punches, do you?”

Therewas a second of stunned silence. “I don’t understand,” Steve said atlast. “I just meant, Winter doesn’t want Bucky to come out. And, he reallywanted to talk to you. So I thought…maybe if you can promise you won't…attackhim again, it’ll help?”

Tonyforced back the anger he knew wasn’t really aimed at Steve. “I don’t getit, though. Why would that help? I mean, I won’t attack him again.” Itfelt important to say it out loud. “But, it’s not like I’m a threat to himwithout my armor. When I tried to fight him in Berlin he kicked my ass.”

“Thatwas the Winter Soldier,” Steve said. “The trigger words compelled himto come out.”

“Oh.”There wasn’t much else he could say to that. It made sense, considering howBucky had seemed more lethal before the silo. Which, honestly, only made Tonyfeel that much worse. He rubbed his forehead. “You really think Winter’staken over for Bucky because of me?”

“Idon’t know,” Steve repeated bleakly. “But…you really hurt him, whenyou blasted his arm. And I think you would’ve killed him if I hadn’t stoppedyou.” He hesitated, maybe waiting for Tony to deny it. Tony couldn’t.“So,” Steve went on a too-long moment later, “maybe that’s whatWinter was thinking about. When he took over. That this way you couldn’t hurt Buckyanymore.”

“Fuck,”Tony muttered. Like he didn’t already feel badly enough about this whole mess. “Look.Steve? I…” He gritted his teeth. No time like the excruciating present,right? “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I am so, so fucking sorry for whathappened. I know the Accords ended up a fucking trash fire, but I’d really….Fuck,” he said on an exhale. “I was counting on you, okay? I thoughtthat you, of all people, would understand why no one with super powers shouldbe running around without any kind of control. After Ultron I really thoughtyou’d agree with me about that. But not only did you not agree, you wereperfectly happy to fuck me over, as well as everything I’d been trying toaccomplish, to go on a field trip with your fugitive buddy—”

“Buckyshould never have been a fugitive,” Steve snapped. “And you know whywe went to Siberia. I wasn’t happy to ‘fuck you over’, Tony! I never wanted togo against you! I wanted your help! But you’d already signed the Accords. Ourhands were tied just as much as yours.”

“Idid help you!” Tony said. “I lied to Ross and went to find you. Iwanted to help.”

“Iknow,” Steve said. “And when you arrived, I was grateful. I thought…Ithought we could start mending fences. Trust each other again. But we know howit turned out.”

“Youlied to me,” Tony said. “You’re talking about trust, but you lied by omission, and then you lied to myface.”

“Andthen you tried to kill my best friend!” Steve shot back. “The oneperson who hadn’t done anything wrong. Even T'Challa could see that. Whycouldn’t you?”

“Idon’t know!” That was, ironically, a lie. Tony did know. He absolutelyknew why he’d lost all reason and self control and had almost done somethingunforgivable to a man he actually admired. He took a couple breaths through histeeth, forced himself to keep going. “I wanted to hurt you,” he saidat last. There was an awful, sickly relief in finally admitting it. “You’dbetrayed me by not signing the Accords. With your fucking perfect teeth andperfect morality.“—Tony wondered if Steve’s perfect hearing caught thefinger quotes—"You had to be so Goddamn self-righteous you couldn’t even consider my point of view. And I was trying! I was trying sodamn hard to do the right thing. To protect everyone. To make all the damagewe’d done mean something. But you wouldn’t even consider it.”

“Iread the Accords, Tony,” Steve said. “And I found—”

“Youcould have tried!” Tony shouted over him. “Youcould have tried, but you didn’t. And it hurt. I can admit it. It hurt likehell.” It still hurt: This was years’ worth of pain he couldn’t hold backanymore. It felt like when Obie had torn the reactor out. “And then I gotto see the Winter Soldier killing my parents. And you knew. You knew he’d done it, but you chose your friend overme. So you betrayed me again. First by lying by omission, then by lying to myface. “And I just….

“Ilost it, okay?” Tony said. “I just fucking lost it. I wanted to hurthim, for what he did. And I really wanted to hurt you. Iwanted you to feel the way I felt.”

Hecould hear Steve swallow in the silence on the other end of the line.“Bucky didn’t deserve that,” Steve said quietly. “Maybe…maybe Idid. But Bucky didn’t.”

“Iknow,” Tony said. “And I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I had a reallybad couple days and a fucking truckload of daddy issues, and I took it out onhim. And I will never forgive myself for that.” He gave a sharp, unhappysmirk, “That was actually what I’d intended to lead with, when I startedtalking a minute ago. Kind of lost the train there.”

“You’reright,” Steve said, and Tony gasped. “I should’ve tried harder to seeyour side with the Accords, not just what I didn’t like about it. I could havetried to get them amended, come up with something we all could agree on. I’mused to acting with minimal oversight, but I also used to work on behalf ofS.H.I.E.L.D., and before that it was the S.S.R. I do understand the necessityof checks and balances. But I was scared of our hands being tied when peopleneeded us the most.

“AndI never should’ve lied to you, Tony,” Steve said. “I was a coward. Itold myself I was doing it for you, but I was doing it for myself. For Bucky. Icouldn’t bear the idea of you hating him. But I can’t help thinking that if I’djust, grown a fucking spine, the video wouldn’t have been…so hard to take. Forany of us. I was a lousy friend, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh,”Tony said again, just as lost for words as before. “Thank you.” He didn’tknow if he could forgive Steve for what he’d done. Tony had been flayed alive.The fact that what Tony had done in retaliation was worsedidn't—couldn't—change that. “I, um, would’ve helped Bucky anyway.”

Heowed Bucky so much more than that. It was the least he could do to begin tomake things right.

“Iknow,” Steve said, and Tony’s shriveled, shrunken heart unfurled a bit,like an underfed flower reaching for the light. “I know you would. Thankyou. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“Thendon’t,” Tony said, all breeze and bravado. “Don’t worry about it. Seeyou on the flipside.”

Hehung up, then asked F.R.I.D.A.Y. to tell Rhodey where he was going, and to havehis armor meet him at the Quinjet, just in case. Not that Tony was expectingtrouble, but, better safe than sorry. And he hadn’t been feeling all that safethese days. Amazing how that happened, being alone.

Onephone call couldn’t change that, but….

ButTony’s heart had something to reach for. It was a start.

Read the rest on AO3!

#winteriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #winter soldier #steve rogers #shuri #civil war fix-it #angst #happy ending #prompts #taste is sweet

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canadiangeekgirl · 5 years

Link

Meghan Markle's name hasn't left the news since her engagement to Prince Harry was announced last year, and now that the two are married and expecting, the rumor mill is in full swing. Whether from "palace sources" or Meghan's own loose-lipped family members, it seems like no time was wasted in painting the incoming duchess as a "demanding" workaholic (how American!) with little respect or regard for royal protocol (I've seen the phrase "ripping up the rulebook" used quite a bit). It feels like every day there's a new story about Meghan not quite fitting in — and with each emerging rumor, it becomes easier for black women everywhere to read between the lines.

There are reports that Meghan made crazy requests for her wedding — though, honestly, I've heard crazier from my own engaged friends — and that she and sister-in-law Kate Middleton got into it after Meghan "berated" a member of Kate's staff. It's also been said that Meghan, a 37-year-old college graduate, philanthropist, and former actress, has such high standards and such clear visions for her royal agenda that it's become a problem. She's too used to working in a "Hollywood environment." She has too much "West Coast energy" (whatever that is). She has too many ideas, and she sends work-related texts and emails at 5 a.m. (OK, girl — if true, then that is pretty annoying). It was revealed in early November that Meghan's assistant, Melissa Touabti, left the job "in tears" after six months and, most recently, that her and Harry's (temporary) private secretary, Samantha Cohen, announced her plans to leave her (temporary) gig after the birth of their first child next Spring. This turnover is ostensibly due to Meghan's many "stressful" demands, which make her hard to work with.

I'm not exactly sure when having high standards became a bad thing in the royal family, but there's one word pervading these rumors that has me side-eyeing them all: "difficult." Like Meghan, I am a black woman from America with an abundance of "West Coast energy" who has lived and worked in mostly white spaces — and it's a descriptor that I've become all too familiar with hearing about myself.

I've spent the better part of 2018 trying to find ways to compare myself to and learn from Meghan Markle. She has inspired me to be more involved in the causes I care about, to remain outspoken about the injustices I see, and not to be afraid of busting into a room (or a constitutional monarchy) and shaking sh*t up. But as a black woman, it's not easy to take those actions without being perceived as "demanding" or "difficult." I learned at a particularly early age that people would assume my personality traits based on the color of my skin and their own unconscious biases. I understood sooner than most that I would "intimidate" people immediately upon walking into a room or sitting down in a meeting. Even now, I have to remind myself to keep resting b*tch face in check and to be careful with my words and tone because there's a chance they'll be considered "abrasive" even before they leave my mouth. I won't even get on the subject of my walking into a high-end store, eating at a nice restaurant, or staying at a luxury hotel.

The racism and sexism that Meghan has faced since her engagement was announced have been well documented, but even the palace's stern warning couldn't stop a relative from wearing this brooch in front of her or keep some jerk from mailing her a suspicious package. The latter incident was considered by authorities to be racially motivated and is just one part of Meghan's new life that she's had to get used to — when she's not being judged for her racial background by the public, she's being picked apart in the press by her family, most frequently her own father.

Black women aren't always afforded bad days or missteps, and that thing our parents tell us about having to "work twice as hard to get half as far" isn't based on a myth. It can be utterly exhausting to be black in America, and my sources tell me it isn't exactly a picnic across the pond, either. Although Meghan's "ethnically ambiguous" look — lighter skin, straight hair, freckles — does give her inherent privilege, she is most certainly still considered black to most of the world, and especially to most white people.

It's upsetting to think that someone so seemingly hardworking and dedicated to a new job — especially in the face of constant judgment based on her race — could be called "difficult" for diving into her royal duties. And listen, maybe Meghan truly did come in hot at Kensington and palace aides just weren't ready for early morning emails, incessant work requests, and that distinct type of "I need to be busy at all times and I'll sleep when I'm dead" energy that you can really only find in an American. But based on my own experience as a woman of color, I think it's more likely that Meghan's blackness walked into the room before she did; that she was assumed to be "demanding" before she even made any demands, and she was considered to be "difficult" to work with even before anyone worked with her.

Unfortunately, along with having to work twice as hard as our white counterparts, black women are doubly punished for exhibiting the traits that come from having such a relentless work ethic. Having ambition and drive make us "overbearing;" being assertive makes us "angry;" showing authority makes us "hostile;" and suggesting change makes us "rude," "demanding," or, even worse, "ungrateful." When people crystallize those biases in their minds before even meeting you, it feels like it doesn't matter what you say or how you say it. On top of everything else, you then feel the need to work even harder to change minds, to prove you're not a stereotype, and to clean up a reputation you didn't even know you earned.

Is it possible that Meghan Markle asked for air fresheners to hide the "musty smell" of Windsor Castle ahead of her royal wedding? Sure it is. But is it possible that this tidbit wouldn't be half as big of a deal if it were a demand from Kate Middleton? Also yes. Don't get me wrong; Kate Middleton is under an insane amount of pressure as the future Queen of England, and for that reason, I have to assume that she made her own crazy requests when planning her royal wedding, renovating her home, or choosing staff and caretakers for her children. What's interesting to note, though, is that there was no giant burst of dramatic headlines referring to Kate as a "difficult" new duchess or calling out how many of her aides quit their jobs. And even in the reports of rifts between Kate and Meghan, Meghan happens to be the aggressor, the "rude" black woman who came in with her newfangled ideas and bossy behavior. The undertones — that Meghan should feel lucky to be included, not bold enough to bring change — aren't hard to spot, either.

In a sad way, it really doesn't surprise me that the "difficult duchess" rumors have emerged. Meghan being an actress, born and raised in Los Angeles with a bevy of famous friendships and a marriage already under her belt, was already enough to elicit speculation about what kind of wacky American duchess she would be. Once you throw in her blackness and audacity not to hide it, it's easy to see how prejudgments were formed. When it comes to stereotyping black women as being angry and difficult — while subsequently expecting us to be strong and sassy for entertainment value — well, that train is never late.

#meghan markle #suits #meghan sussex #british royal family #racism

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queen-of-the-sock-goblins-blog · 5 years

Text

Omegle

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: real?

You: Last time I checked.

You: Sadly

Stranger: damn

Stranger: going into the heavy shit right out of the gate

Stranger: what's up?

You: Nothin' much

You: Hbu?

Stranger: same

Stranger: had a pretty low-key day

You: Same

Stranger: you okay?

You: Yeah, why?

Stranger: with the whole "wishing you weren't real" thing, I mean

You: I didn't necessarily say I wished I wasn't real.

You: I just implied it.

You: What even is real?

Stranger: I mean, really....

You: I'm fine, just having a bit of an existential crisis.

Stranger: I'm sorry

You: Nah, it

You: is fine

Stranger: okay,I guess

Stranger: so how may this stranger on the internet enrich your brief time on this earth?

You: You got happiness in the shape of a carton of ice cream?

Stranger: ...I don't know how to do emojis on this thing...

You: I wasn't referring to emoji's. Real happiness comes in the form of ice cream

You: Sorry that took forever

You: I'm freaking out

Stranger: oh, I'm sorry

Stranger: I thought you said "cartoon ice cream"

Stranger: read it wrong

You: Something keeps whacking the side of my house and freaking me out.

Stranger: ...is it windy right now?

You: Yeah, I'm still on edge though

You: I am paranoid af

Stranger: is it daylight right now where you are?

You: Not quite.

You: Why?

Stranger: could you just go out and check what it is?

You: HECK NO

You: It is 2 30 in the morning and I am home alone

You: this scared bitch ass ain't walking out side that late in -30 degrees weather

You: I have weird neighbors

Stranger: ...are you saying one of your neighbors might be knocking on the side of your house?

You: No... i am saying that I wou;dn't put it past one of them to do it. Especially if they knew it would freak me tf out and I was home by myself

You: It's is pretty windy, though, too.

Stranger: it's probably just the wind, tbh

You: Oh, I know it's the wind.

You: But whenever I get scared, or even nervous, my brain pulls the scariest shit from the depths of my brain just for the fun of it I guess.

Stranger: where are you, anyway?

You: Iowa

Stranger: oh, cool

You: Where are you at?

Stranger: California

You: Cool

Stranger: um... I can't really help you...

Stranger: with whatever's going on outside, I mean

You: It's just nerves

You: So... age?

Stranger: 24

Stranger: you?

You: 15

Stranger: m or f?

Stranger: (just curious)

You: f

Stranger: I kinda figured

Stranger: (doesn't want to talk about sex stuff ==> PROBABLY a teenage girl...)

You: Trust me, I hear enough about sex during the day.

You: I just realized how creepy that sounded.

You: I am so sorry'

Stranger: O_O

Stranger: Do you need me to call child protective services?!

You: I live with my older sister and three brothers.

Stranger: (also I just realized that response went to the wrong person)

Stranger: (I have 2 different Omegle windows open at once)

Stranger: (the other person I'm talking to opened the convo with "NO SEX STUFF;" I got you confused)

You: Cool, I used to do that when I had a perfectly functioning memory

You: Anyways, they are very vocal on their sex lives at any chance they get.

You: Not vocal as in...

Stranger: ah...

You: Nvrmind

Stranger: I get the idea, yeah

Stranger: they brag

You: My sister doesn't brag, she just sucks on her boyfriends face

Stranger: it's gonna come off some day if she's not careful...

You: And when she's not found doing that, she'll be found in the kitchen talking as loud as she can

You: Hopefully

You: Maybe then I won't have to see that moron

Stranger: XD

Stranger: or maybe you'll just have a guy without a face hanging around

Stranger: which would be... worse...?

You: Well, if he didn't have a face, I wouldn't be able to hear him speak

You: BUT, if he wasn't around, then I wouldn't have to see the sorry excuse of dick always lounging around our house

You: Tbh, idk what would be better. It would be absolute torture for him to not talk about himself all day

Stranger: oh no

Stranger: he's one of THOSE...

You: Mhm

Stranger: ...I kind of want details, lol...

You: get this, when he's drunk, he's actually really nice and quiet for the most part.

Stranger: HAHAHA

You: He asked me the other day how you cut a banana

Stranger: -_-

Stranger: I hate to be the one to tell you this...

You: I had to teach him how to make kool-aid, season chicken, and cook pasta

Stranger: ...but your sister might be dating a moron.

You: fold towels

You: Tell me something I don't know

Stranger: ...how did she even find this man?

You: I think the only reason she does it, is because she is either blinded by love or stupidity

You: He lives next door

You: close family friend for years

Stranger: SHE'S FUCKIN' THE NEIGHBOR BOY?!

Stranger: oh good god...

You: Yeah, I know right?

You: Fun fact: He graduated last year and always hangs around our housse

You: how he didn't know how to season chicken is a crime

Stranger: you... you put seasoning... on chicken...

Stranger: there's... nothing... to... figure... outt...

You: Especially since his father is the professional grill artist of this side of the culdesac

Stranger: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

You: He covers them completely

You: Like actually douses them in spices and throws em in a pan

Stranger: ...

Stranger: okay, so what you need to do

Stranger: is get your sister a chastity belt

You: THAT'S THE WAY TO GO

Stranger: this guy's privileges are revoked

You: AHHHHH

You: they don't exist though...

You: I wrote a book this Christmas.

You: It's called, "How to Survive Planet Earth When You're Name is Cael and Can't Function Properly"

You: Inside, I wrote VERY detailed basic things and adult-ish human should know how to do.

Stranger: you could sell it

Stranger: no matter what's in the book, you could absolutely sell a book with that title

You: You think?

Stranger: I ACTUALLY laughed out loud when I read that XD

You: It has full coverage from folding laundry, cleaning a house-and this rate

You: Changikng Diapers

Stranger: (congrats on writing a book, btw)

Stranger: (that's not easy, even if it's just a gag gif for your sister's idiot bf)

You: Aww, thanks

You: I think it ended up being about thirty thousand words.

You: He'll still be reading it around next Christmas

Stranger: well, at least he can read...

Stranger: ...that's a start...

You: That itself is a big accomplishment, so I have to give him that.

Stranger: XD

Stranger: Do you write a lot?

You: yeah

You: I love writing

Stranger: GOOD.

Stranger: What kind of stuff do you write?

You: I like writing fantasy, fiction, non-fiction

You: Anything, I just love writing

You: I also right stupid do-it-yourself books for people with an IQ lower than a duckling

Stranger: I dunno

Stranger: I've met some pretty smart ducks...

You: I have not

Stranger: Do you like comics at all?

You: there's this one duck that the people own across the street. her name is Greta the Great (idk why that name), she likes to climb onto cars somehow and sits on them. She does not move and when you try to move her physically, she go all murder duck on you

You: yeah

Stranger: (I promise these questions are going somewhere)

You: I am literally reading ms marvel comics right now

Stranger: YESS

Stranger: I MET G. WILLOW WILSON ONCE

You: REALLY???

Stranger: SHE IS THE SWEETEST HUMAN BEING ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH

You: HOW WAS SHE?

You: WAS SHE MAGICAL?

You: SHE SEEMS LIKE SHE'D BE MAGICAL

You: LIKE, JUST BY HER PRESNENCE

Stranger: THE SUN SHINES OUT OF HER HIJAB

You: AHHHHHHHHHH

You: I KNEW IT

Stranger: (I am a big fancy California person so I get to go to Comic Con hahaha)

You: My parents won't let me

You: YoU'rE tOo YoUnG

You: No I'm NoT GoInG tO gO wItH yOu

Stranger: also tickets are a couple hundred bucks

You: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

You: nope to that shit

Stranger: I am a big fancy california person who also has enough industry ties that he can get in on a free professional guest pass XD

You: HOW

You: I MUST KNOW KIND SIR

Stranger: My dad worked on some of the official Marvel character encyclopedias

You: LUCKY

Stranger: YUSS :3

You: Do you know which ones>

You: ?

Stranger: those big leather-bound ones they used to have in Barnes & Noble...

Stranger: "Marvel: The Characters and Their Universe"

You: DE FANCY ONES

You: That's cool. Those are normally the types of books I just read in store

Stranger: yeah, cause they're $75

You: Yup

You: I almost bought one once, but if I bought it, I wouldn't have been able to go to camp

You: So I put it off

You: It was only because it was marked down for like 54.99

Stranger: you can get them for, like, $25 now

You: Really? I haven't been to a Barnes and Noble for like three months

Stranger: I mean... if you were to send me the money, my dad would PROBABLY sign one for you XD

You: That would be cool...

You: Although it wouldn't be wise to send money to a stranger across the internet

Stranger: yeah, I was gonna say...

Stranger: might be kind of hard to explain...

You: and I don't make enough in a day babysitting the snotty nosed demon down the street

Stranger: "HEY DAD, I NEED YOU TO DO A FAVOR FOR THIS TEENAGE GIRL I MET ON THE INTERNET"

You: I can see why he might be concerned

Stranger: yeah, lol

Stranger: anyway

Stranger: LOOOONG roundabout point I was trying to get to

Stranger: there's a new comic publisher called "AHOY Comics"

Stranger: that prints short prose stories in the back of each issue

Stranger: and anyone can submit one

Stranger: and it pays

Stranger: so if you can do a quirky horror/fantasy story in about 1,000 words

Stranger: it might be worth looking into

You: You don't have to draw?

You: Or anything like that?

Stranger: no, it's a prose story

You: Oh, duh

Stranger: you should probably check out one of their issues first, if you get the chance

You: That sounds interesting, I'll have to check it out

Stranger: They already bought two stories from me :)

You: awesome

You: So is that how people get like "discovered"?

Stranger: I hope so! XD

Stranger: Mine haven't actually been published yet

Stranger: so I don't know how it works after that

You: So do they publish them after they buy them? Just raw, like after no tweaking or changes? Or do you have to do rough drafts upon rough drafts before they release it?

You: Or would you know?

Stranger: they tweak a little

You: I can actually understand why. I mean publishing something that's probably never reached professional editing doesn't really sound like a wise idea to me.

Stranger: the biggest change they made to mine was just shortening it

Stranger: 600 words is the optimum length, even though they accept up to 1,000

You: That is actually a genius program. I wonder how many creators they have?

Stranger: a lot...

Stranger: have you looked them up

You: Yeah, I've been scrolling through their website.

You: Most of their comics look like something I'd read

Stranger: The prose story in the first issue they ever published was by Grant Morrison.

You: have you ever heard of line webtoon?

Stranger: And now they're publishing me.

Stranger: In the same space

Stranger: as Grant

Stranger: Fucking

Stranger: Morrison

Stranger: Yeah, I actually have a webcomic on Line Webtoon too...

You: He wrote that one comic about the asylum right?

You: Really?

You: Which one?

Stranger: ...TWO, actually...

Stranger: One's about a gay penguin, and the other's just stream-of-consciousness, usually R-rated doodles

You: Oh cool, so like the slice of life/ comedy?

You: Oh, have you read Backstory?

You: that's one of my favorites/

Stranger: I haven't, no

Stranger: what is it?

You: One of the creators is Stan Lee

You: May he rest in peace.

Stranger: *crosses heart*

You: not, back story

You: Backchannel

You: Sorry

You: On the surface, Tom Tanner is having an average high school life - struggling to stay on the lacrosse team, hiding his affections for his friend Sally, and trying to keep his head down and grades up. What his father, an LA police detective, and friends don’t know is that Tom is an engineering prodigy and is being recruited by BACKCHANNEL, a decentralized hactivist group causing havoc at prisons across the U.S.

You: There's the description that was on the webtoons page

Stranger: ooohh...

Stranger: Here's mine, if you're interested...

Stranger: https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/i-think-im-a-penguin/list?title_no=194476

Stranger: (I really need to update this thing again...)

You: OKKKKKKKKKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

You: Ima be right back

You: Thud downstairs

You: fam might be home

You: ima fetch a vacuum hose

You: brb

Stranger: vacuum hose...?

Stranger: Also where were they?

You: OH MY LORD AND SAVIOR

You: My sister, her boyfriend, and parents are with my cousin who was pregnant and having difficulty delivering, they were staying until friday

You: One went with while the other is at his dorm in Iowa City

You: And that leaves the little shi-thead, Ethan

You: He was supposed to be at a sleepover.

You: He comes home at almost four in the morning when it is -50 degrees outside and covered head to foot in snow. Banging on the front door, because he forgot to grab his stupid fourth controler for playstation.

Stranger: -_-

You: He left with a muffin

Stranger: ....

Stranger: ...

Stranger: ..

Stranger: .

You: He also left with the little warm air left in this house too

Stranger: ...

You: So there's that.

You: HEY!

You: WHAT IF THOSE THUMPS WERE HIM AND HIS TWAT FRIENDS

You: THE ONES I WAS HEARING EARLIER

Stranger: I was about to ask about that, lol

You: Okay, I'm technically not home alone. I've got ninja. Our small bean of a cat who believes she is a lion.

You: She likes to attack strangers

You: Maybe I should have sicced him on the little shit

Stranger: I approve of everything about your cat

You: Thanks

You: She is sitting with me, growling at the window

You: I am now annoyed knowing that my brother and his friends have nothing better to do than sit outside in -50 and stare at me through the window.

You: I hope their parents are proud

Stranger: I mean... your brother's parents are also your parents, so...

You: Yeah, they are real proud of his accomplishments in life

You: *sarcasm

Stranger: WAS IT REALLY HIM?!

You: Thumping on the window?

You: Walls and such?

You: I have no idea

You: And I don't think he'll come near me for a few days until he knows I won't rip out his intestines

Stranger: you should do it anyway

Stranger: just to show him

You: I just know, I saw four figures waddle back down the street

You: Little shits

You: Ima tell their mommas

Stranger: ALL FOUR OF THEM CAME?!

You: They'll whoop their ass

You: They didn't come in

Stranger: Just... just stay and play video games at your house!

You: (thankfully)

Stranger: They already made the damn trek!

You: I can't

Stranger: god dammit

You: Oh.

You: they are petty and have nothing to do with their lives

You: I'll gove them this pleasure

You: give*

You: Besides

You: that is waaaaay too much testosterone for this house. Plus, I don't have a door on my room and I won't get any sleep at all, let alone with like the two and a half hours I have to do so.

Stranger: ...do I need to let you sleep?

You: Nah, who needs sleep when you have a blanket fort and enough coffee for four thousand vikings

Stranger: And idiot siblings who would've woken you up anyway!

You: Exactly

You: The only reason i'm up this early, is because I never get me time.

You: This is my time to shine baby

Stranger: SAME

You: I'm listening to thirteen reason why, eating waffle crunch, sipping on mostly sugar induced coffee, and on omegle. making friends and bonding over comics and douch brothers and boyfriends

You: Besides, my parents aren't here. I could be like a normal teenage girl and throw a party

You: but why would I do that when I could invite the best person on planet earth.

You: ME AND ONLY ME

You: It is a strictly me party.

You: That's probably why his friends didn't come in...

You: I am tying all sorts of strings together tonight

Stranger: not everyone's a party person

You: I LOOK LIKE A FREKIN MARSHMALLOW MAN RN

Stranger: embrace it

Stranger: BE the marshmallow

You: I have on: tights, spandex, leggings, yoga pants, and sweatpants. two long sleeve shirts and a sweatshirt, four pairs of socks and a beanie

You: Oh, and leg warmers I found under my bed a few weeks ago

You: I also have the heater shooting lava temp air into my pillow/blanket fort

Stranger: Perfect.

You: Ikr?

You: At least I won't freeze to death, even if the power goes out

Stranger: haha, that's good

Stranger: freezing to death should be avoided

Stranger: (I REALLY feel the thing about needing to stay up late to get "me time," btw)

Stranger: (It's 2:17 AM here)

You: Ah, 4;17

You: lol, most the time, this neighbor girl named abi?

You: She comes over and pretends she's part of the family because shes a lonely only child

You: Gotta love her though

Stranger: Not as bad as your brothers or sister's bf?

You: Nah.

You: I can tell her to leave me alone and she listens

You: That's the difference

Stranger: KEEP HER

You: IKR! XD

You: You know that stupid NUN movie?

You: The horror?

Stranger: I know of it, I haven't seen it.

You: Neither have I nor will I ever...

You: An ad just played for it and I think i just had a mini chest pain there at the end

Stranger: I haven't seen the ad, I don't think...

You: At least the devils hour is over. I don't have to worry about stuff like that

You: I've only seen it once before, although it was months ago. I don't know why it'd be playing now.

You: brb

You: THEY CAME BACK FOR THE MUFFINS!

Stranger: MOTHERFUCKERS

You: GOD DANG IT, THEY'RE ALL GONE

You: Oh wait

You: They left a single chocolate chip in the bottom

You: at least they have common decency

Stranger: i suppose it's better than nothing

Stranger: ...but not by much...

You: Yeah...

You: There is literally nothing sweet in this house.

You: i could make something, but I don't want to leave my fort

Stranger: WHY ARE THEY VENTURING OUT INTO FREEZING SNOW

Stranger: FOR MUFFINS?!?!?!?!

You: Who knows

You: HEY, THEY ORDERED PIZZA

You: WHY DON'T THEY EAT THEIR OWN FOOD

Stranger: tell their parents

You: oh they most definitely will hear of this

Stranger: tell their parents that their children are out wandering the streets at 4 AM in the middle of a blizzard

You: Funny thing

You: My cousin?

You: The pregnant one that is giving birth three states away?

Stranger: yeah?

You: that's her mom

You: She's gone

Stranger: what?

You: Brother is staying at cousin's house down the street

Stranger: OH

You: I locked the door

Stranger: lol

You: they ain't getting my heater

You: if they come back, that's probs be what they go for.

Stranger: well, it kind of sounds like you need that to... you know... LIVE...

You: well, unless the furnace doesn't kicks off i'll be fine

You: besides i've got ninja

You: a very irritable portable heater

Stranger: *tapes cat to face*

Stranger: "I'm good!"

You: No...

You: .

You: kitt-ing

You: haha

Stranger: -_-

You: I have no friends

Stranger: I'm sorry

Stranger: I'm a 24 year old man who still lives with his parents, and spends his evenings socializing online with total strangers who--not always but USUALLY--turn out to be teenage girls.

Stranger: ...so you might still be ahead of the curve on this one...

You: I don't know about that one

Stranger: (nothing wrong with being a teenage girl, obviously)

Stranger: (just... maybe not the demographic I should be socializing with the most...?)

You: I'm a socially awkward fifteen year old gorl who has severe anxiety and when tries to speak to anyone that's not related to or known for at least five years, cannot speak to in person without screaming on the inside. If not found caressing my refrigerator or at the back of my public library, I will be found on youtube, tumblr, pinterest, or just staring outside at the field of cows across the street.

Stranger: (the person in my other Omegle window called me out on it and now I'm feeling self-conscious)

You: haha

Stranger: yeah, I have anxiety problems too

Stranger: and I'm starting to dip towards being more comfortable interacting with people online than I am in person

Stranger: which scares me a little

You: Oh, I'm homeschooled too, so... there goes anything that has to do with people

Stranger: cause, you know... real life... is... goof

Stranger: *good

Stranger: OH GOD

Stranger: Okay

Stranger: yeah

Stranger: I'm sorry

Stranger: homeschooling is bad

You: Not necessarily.

Stranger: I mean, it can be really hard on your social life

Stranger: (and yeah, the regular education system is pretty bad too, soo...)

You: I don't have to ding fucks that call themselves teenagers. I can stay at home in my jam-jams all day

You: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

You: WHAT SOCIAL LIFE?

Stranger: ...

Stranger: I don't even know what advice to give you on that one...

Stranger: Most of my friends who need to get out more are, you know... adults... who can leave the house without needing permission and drive and shit.

You: Ok, I will admit. If I put my mind to it and really focus and stuff, I can form a coherent sentence without looking like a mentally sick and deranged horse.\

Stranger: And I do have SOME friends my own age. Lol.

Stranger: ...

You: I do have one friend.

Stranger: Is it Abi?

You: Nah, she's family

You: his names Levi

You: He is nine and his favorite animal is parrot

Stranger: ah

Stranger: is this the "demon you babysit" you mentioned earlier?

You: HOW DID YOU KNOW

Stranger: ...because you mentioned babysitting a demon earlier...?

You: That is some serious string tying, sir

Stranger: > person says they never interact with other people

Stranger: > person mentions one other person they interact with

Stranger: > person mentions interacting with someone recently

Stranger: QED: person they interacted with is probably one person they mentioned

Stranger: ...

Stranger: okay that actually made me more confused...

You: YOU'VE BEEN TALKING WITH ME FOR TOO LONG

You: YOU'RE DEVELOPING A TERRIBLE MEMORY

Stranger: ALSO IT'S ALMOST 3:00 IN THE MORNING HERE

Stranger: SO I MIGHT BE A LITTLE SPACY

You: that might be my excuse as well

You: I am dreading to admit I have a dentist appointment at 8:30

Stranger: FUCK

You: its five

You: fml

Stranger: ...

Stranger: I can't really judge anyone else's life choices

Stranger: especially when it comes to spending too much time on this site...

Stranger: ...but you should not have spent a couple hours talking to me

Stranger: :P

You: Nah, it's fine.

You: I should probably get a little sleep, though

Stranger: yeah...

You: so i don't fall asleep at the dentists office

Stranger: hope this bite-sized glimpse of socializing gave you what you needed...

You: Maybe

Stranger: ...i don't even know what I'm saying anymore I'm tired...

You: probably not

You: good night

Stranger: hang in there

You: actually, good morning

Stranger: it gets better

You: does it really?

Stranger: adult responsibilities really aren't that much harder than teenage responsibilities

Stranger: but you get the freedom of being an adult

You: adulting sounds pretty difficult

You: are you sure?

Stranger: to, like... leave the house whenever you want, and pick your own schedule and shit

Stranger: you've managed to keep yourself alive while your parents were out of town, yes?

You: .

You: barely

You: almost murdered four teenage boys, that's for sure

Stranger: it seems hard when you're not doing it

Stranger: then you just kinda... start doing it, without even realizing it

Stranger: adulting, I mean

Stranger: not murdering teenagers

You: I was gonna say...

You: I was so confused after that first statement

Stranger: lol

Stranger: okay, I'm out of wisdom

Stranger: go get some sleep

Stranger: and... try to... find friends? In the real world?

You: That was real encouraging

Stranger: sorry

You: Go and... find friends

You: Nah it's cool

Stranger: wherever you get your comics

Stranger: see if they hold D&D tournaments or something?

Stranger: or Magic?

You: okie dokie

Stranger: okay

Stranger: good night

You: night'

You have disconnected.

2 notes · View notes

clawfootpress · 3 years

Text

Dear Mr. Met:

The other day I was riding my bike and I blew right through a stop sign. Didn’t even slow down. Didn’t even see it. I blame the Mets, partly. I was listening to a Mets game on my phone and they were winning but the Orioles had the bases loaded in the eighth and I was getting nervous. It was only my second day as a dog walker, so the part of my brain that wasn’t worried about the Mets was worried that I’d left a dog outside or a door unlocked or maybe the owners thought my notes were weird and they didn’t want me walking their dog again. With my brain full of such thoughts and feelings, I blew right through the stop sign.

I don’t mean I saw the stop sign, slowed down, looked both ways, and rolled on through without coming to a full stop. I do that all the time. No, I’m talking about blowing right through it, not even knowing it was there.

I don’t normally listen to my phone when I’m out biking, running, or walking. I don’t like things in my ears, for one, and I genuinely like hearing the sounds of the city. I thought I might be okay listening to the game since I wasn’t wearing ear buds. I had the phone mounted on my handlebars, the volume turned all the way up. It worked right up until the bases were loaded and I got nervous and blew right through the stop sign.

A guy in a truck honked at me and called me an asshole. It could have been worse, he could have also been distracted, maybe also by the Mets. Who knows? It’s a big city in a big world. Maybe it was his second to last day on the job. Maybe it had been too many days since his last day on the job. Maybe his daughter was in the hospital. Maybe his daughter wasn’t talking to him. Maybe his daughter finally called him that morning after twenty-eight years. Maybe his boyfriend broke up with him. The multiplicity of possibilities boggles the mind.

The point is, the guy could have also been distracted and blown right through the stop sign and then I really would have been in a jackpot. I still didn’t like being called an asshole, though, so I hit my brakes and turned around.

Oh, he said, yeah?

Yeah, I said, and rode right back at him.

You know how there’s this idea that if we put energy out into the world our desires can manifest? I believe that to be true. I’m not sure exactly how it works, I just know it works because I’ve seen it work. Rather, I’ve seen the inverse work. The energy I put out disintegrates the objects of my desire, which Buddhists say is good, I think, but I don’t know. I find it to be frustrating more than anything.

It makes sense when you think about it. If there is a law of attraction, then there has to be a law of repulsion. No light without dark. No day without night. No hot without cold. No pleasure without pain. No sweet without salty. No joy without sorrow. No life without death. No attraction without repulsion. Imagine someone out there setting an intention for something. As the thing is moving toward them, it has to be moving away from someone else. In order for them to attract, someone else must repel. That’s physics.

Even the great Jacob deGrom is not immune. In a game against the Rockies, he struck out nine batters in a row. Ten, as you know, is the record, held by the greatest Met of all, The Franchise, Tom Seaver. deGrom looked untouchable. He looked inevitable. I got excited. I texted my friends. The next batter got a hit.

Boy, was the guy in the truck mad. Understandably. I broke the law and put myself and others in danger, including him. He honked and yelled at me, which was freedom of expression at its finest. I stopped and turned back toward him and rode right back at him. I did that because he called me an asshole. I was wrong to blow through the stop sign, but I’m too proud to let someone call me an asshole.

God and Ben Franklin gave that man every right to shoot me dead in the street (Freedom of Worship), but he didn’t shoot me, even though I charged at him like a wild beast.

Instead of shooting me, he said, Oh, yeah?

Instead of apologizing, I said, Yeah. You don’t get to call me names.

I said this because I’m a man and deserve to be treated as such, even when I fuck up. I dared to look the man in the pickup truck in the eye and demand he treat me with basic dignity. To which he responded, You’re right. I was wrong about that.

Organized religion is dying but religiosity is alive and well. Prayers of Confession are all the rage.

Everybody wants confession, everybody wants some cathartic narrative for it. The guilty especially. I’m watching True Detective, Season One.

Look: Ellie Kemper should not have been in that Veiled Prophet debutant ball mostly because debutant balls are dumb, but raking her over the Twitter-coals until she apologized did nothing good. She was nineteen. At nineteen she was just as much a Victim of the Patriarchy as a Perpetrator of White Supremacy, but the crowd demanded atonement. Atonement for what? For being born into and participating in the life of a particular place with particular people at a particular time?

Maybe you never had to navigate growing up with racists. Maybe you never had to navigate the complexity of loving racists. Or being loved by racists. Maybe you never had to do the emotional labor of depending on racists to drive you to the hospital. Of knowing racists are more than their racism. Knowing they are capable of great acts of love, which make them beautifully human, but makes their racism more stark, more deliberate, more sinful, awful, frustrating, heartbreaking. Of having to choose as a child, then as an adolescent, between participating or feeling completely alone. In a time and a place where there were no counselors, or the counselors were also racist. Maybe you’ve never had to parse out different subcategories of racism as you try to discern which relationships are worth it, whatever that might mean, and which are completely irredeemable, and then finding the courage to act accordingly. If you haven’t, you’re lucky. Privileged, even.

Twitter got its confession, but neither you, nor I, nor Ellie Kemper, nor America is any less racist for it. I submit that Twitter only got its confession because Ellie Kemper was already prone to introspection, has been introspecting most of her life, and has done more introspecting than the average Twitter-activist. She didn’t change her mind, she was forced to dig up her past shit and lay it on the table to be picked over by people who only just took a seat. The new arrivals took a look at the shit and said, Boy that stinks. Then they felt better, and Ellie Kemper felt worse, and nothing else changed and that’s called progress.

My tension and adrenaline drained away. I saw his face, his particular face. He wasn’t a Man In a Pickup Truck, representative of everyman in a pickup truck; he was who he was. He had a round nose and bags under his eyes. Two or three days of stubble on his cheeks and chin. I wonder if he has grandchildren who complain about how scratchy it is? He looked scared, like a tired man who’d almost hit a careless cyclist. He didn’t to kill anyone and he was angry that I almost caused him to kill someone. I didn’t want this man to kill anyone, and I certainly didn’t want him to kill me.

It was then that I apologized for blowing right through the stop sign. Well, I was wrong about that.

He looked a little confused. It was a confusing situation. So, he said, we’re good then?

I felt a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to keep yelling?

We’re good then, I said.

His last words to me were either, I love that, or I love you. I’m 99% sure he said, I love that, but isn’t it pretty to think that he said, I love you?

Listen: it’s not that I’m anti-confession, but I’m wary and increasingly wary of proforma Prayers of Confession, especially when they are religiously proscribed by a demographic that claims to be Not Religious. (In the words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Ask them a question and you are told the answer is to repeat a mantra.) Public confessions do, for better or worse, what religion does, for better or worse: tell us a story, give us a sense of control, shape our experience, and help us think we’re actually doing something – Look what we did, we extracted a confession! Private confessions don’t provide narrative, characters, or catharsis. All they offer is humanity, complexity, intimacy, vulnerability, and, occasionally, transformation.

I’m working on non-attachment, and, accordingly, on non-judgment, judgement being a form of attachment to the story we tell ourselves about how things should be.

It’s difficult. I remain attached to the story that thirteen-year-old boys should be allowed to grow up, no matter how much they fuck up when they are thirteen-years-old, therefore I judge the officer who killed Adam Toledo. I judge the adult who gave the boy a gun and showed him how to shoot. I judge the people who made the gun and all the hands that carried the gun to the boy. I judge people who love guns more than they love thirteen-year-old boys.

I ‘preciate you, I said, clipping the first syllable like I was someone I’m not. If this was fiction, I’d strike that dialogue as sounding untrue, not in character, but real life is messier, real people are inconsistent, and that’s really what I said.

I’m not great at talking to people. I was kind of hoping to get this one job with a delivery company because it was closer to home and paid more. The interviewer asked how I’d heard of their company. I said a friend had used them to move a large machine. I should have stopped there, but there is a word-gremlin inside me that likes to blow through stop signs. I said I’d moved that machine before and boy was I glad I didn’t have to move it again. I said that to the guy interviewing me about moving machines.

So I’m walking dogs.

What I want to do is write stories. I desire to never sit through another interview. I want my stories to be my interview and you, the reader, the one who says, You’re hired, you can start immediately, you’ll never have to move machines or walk dogs ever again.

I hesitate to say this too loud, lest the Inverse Laws of Attraction hear me. I also say this with an acute awareness that what writing does, for better or worse, is tell a story, give me a sense of control, shape my experience, and help me think I’m actually doing something. The obligation I have, then, is to tell good stories, to the best of my ability, populated with characters full of humanity, complexity, intimacy, vulnerability, who, at their best, offer the possibility of transformation. No cartoon villains.

Unless I’m writing a cartoon. And there are villains.

Is it possible for me (or anyone) to privately apologize for something I say or write, but publicly defend the right – and even the necessity – of saying it? It is. Is it possible for each to be equally true? It is.

Fully human/fully divine. Very well then, I contradict myself.

In the meantime, the world keeps shouting. It’s really difficult to talk when people are shouting all the time, especially when they are shouting the same thing over and over again, which is, BANG BANG BANG!

I don’t know what to do with that. It feels like I either have to shout or ignore it. Shouting makes me tired but ignoring it feels as reckless as blowing right through a stop sign. So I work on my stories and let them try to make sense of this absurd world.

Speaking of absurd, just when I thought I had this letter all buttoned up and ready to send out the door, my wife was in a car accident. Another driver blew right through a stop sign and slammed into the driver’s side of our car. My wife is okay; our car is not. The woman who hit her was not distracted by the Mets because the Mets were rained out that day. I don’t know much about her other than she was driving on a suspended license without insurance. God and Ben Franklin gave her that right (No Quarter Without Consent). Who are you or I to tell her how to live?

Equally, my wife could have shot her right between the eyes (Redress of Grievances) and of course that would have solved everything, except my wife doesn’t carry a gun. She probably never will. Can you believe that?

The guy in the pickup truck nodded and drove away. Such things can happen, even in America, depending on the characters, and when they don’t the story seems more stark, more deliberate, more sinful, awful, frustrating, heartbreaking.

#LFGM,

Matt Lang

PS –While I was naming and claiming my desire to watch Jacob deGrom strike out ten batters in a row, in another part of space-time Aaron Nola struck out nine batters in a row, and he looked untouchable, he looked inevitable. Someone got excited, someone texted their friends. On June 25th Aaron Nola, pitching for the Phillies, against the Mets, in New York, struck out ten Mets in a row, tying the record held by the greatest Met of all, The Franchise, Tom Seaver. I listened to all ten while riding my bike.

Be careful what you wish for.

0 notes

safarikalamari · 6 years

Text

Strong Enough

Summary: The five times Blink and Mush get into a fight and the one time they don’t

Rating: T

Genre: Canon Era, Emotions, Angst, Fluff, Established Relationship

Words: 4744

A/N: o wow i did not expect that many words.... uh hey blush is amazing did u know (edit: special thanks to @sarahjacobss for this prompt!!)

AO3

When Blink shows up with a fresh black eye, a cheeky grin to match, Mush can only roll his eyes.

“What happened today?” Mush asks, picking at splinters on the wall he’s leaned up against.

“Okay, so you know how…” Blink immediately jumps in, regaling a tale of bravery and triumph.

By the time he’s finished, his chest is puffed out proudly and Mush can only laugh.

“Was it worth it?”

With a grin, Blink shrugs and leans in close to Mush. “If you liked the story, then yes.”

Mush bites on his lip, pretending to think it over as Blink waits with bated breath.

“Sure, it was–” but Mush’s words are cut off by a small peck on his lips.

“Just for you, darlin’.” Blink’s grin widens when he pulls away and Mush swats at him.

Blink always loves a good scuffle, that much Mush is sure of, but now he’s wondering if some of these are started on purpose. Just to make Mush worried.

“Take care of that eye, you hear?” Mush calls as Blink heads over to the sinks to wash up his face.

With only a wave as a response, Mush frowns a little before getting up to follow Blink. At one sink, Mush grabs a hand towel, wetting it as Blink splashes water on his face. He holds it out without a word and Blink, with a moment’s stare, accepts the offer before a grin spreads across his face.

“You’re too good to me,” Blink teases, holding the towel to his eye. “Oh no, I can’t see you. Help me, Mush.”

Mush can’t help bursting out in laughter at this and guides Blink to his bed, the two holding onto each other as they giggle the whole way there.

“All right, you got me,” Mush smiles, placing a kiss on Blink’s cheek.

Pulling the hand towel down, Blink’s gaze shines with something other than the blossoming bruise and Mush’s face heats up as their eye contact never breaks.

“Lay with me, will you?” Blink asks, a hand reaching out towards Mush.

With a nod, Mush doesn’t hesitate to join Blink on the bed, the two adjusting until they’re laying comfortably with each other. The sun hasn’t even set yet, but Mush thinks a quick nap wouldn’t hurt either of them. After all, Blink had quite the adventurous day and with all his worries, Mush is glad to just relax in the arms of the wild boy he fell in love with.

II.

The line between territories is thin, but Mush thinks he’s welcome here. At least, most Bowry newsies never paid him much mind and he treads carefully down the street.

“Hey, look. Manhattan’s here,” a voice catches his attention and Mush touches his cap in greeting.

“Hey fellas.”

Mush hasn’t seen these boys before and his stomach churns with trepidation. There’s three of them, but they’re not much bigger than Mush himself and he knows how to make a quick get-away.

“Didn’t know you had selling privileges here,” another cuts in and Mush rolls his tongue around in his mouth.

“I don’t really sell here. Just visiting really. Twine never cared much.”

The boys close in on Mush and he grips tight to his papers as he takes a step away.

“Yeah, well Twine ain’t our leader.”

Glancing between the three, it comes to Mush’s realization that none of them are Bowry newsies.

“Why do you care that I’m here?” Mush stands tall. “This ain’t your turf and it ain’t mine, but the Bowry welcomes us all the same.”

“Cause as far as we know, we was here first.”

The shoving begins then and Mush pushes back, able to keep himself steady despite being surrounded all sides. A knock to his shoulder sends his papers flying, but Mush throws a fist back, his aim landing true. Blows to his face and stomach throw him off but just as Mush is about to charge, a few familiar faces join his side.

“Leave now. Before Twine gets here,” a girl points at the three newsies.

There is a moment where it looks as things might get worse and Mush wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth, steadying his breaths. With a scowl, the leader of the three boys marches away and the two trail behind him. The Bowry newsies watch them go, one handing a handkerchief out to Mush, until the boys cross the invisible line.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Needle - Mush believes her name to be - turns to him. “Other newsies been giving us some troubles lately, but we thought they’d been talked to.”

“It’s okay,” Mush shakes his head as he wipes at his knuckles and face. “Didn’t mean to start a ruckus.”

The Bowry newsies laugh a little at this, giving Mush reassuring claps on the back.

“Did the dirty work for us, my friend. We’ll put in a good word with Twine,” a boy answers and Needle smiles in agreement.

Cracking a smile, Mush hands back the handkerchief and looks at his dusty papers on the ground. He didn’t have many left to sell, but he had hoped to come back to the lodging house with a few more coins.

“Here.”

In a wave of agreement, the Bowry newsies dig out a few extra coins for Mush, but he holds his hand out to refuse.

“Please,” Needle says in a pointed voice. “Just for today.”

With a sigh, Mush allows the coins to be dropped onto his palm, each one feeling heavier than the last. By the time the allotment is done, Mush has more than he could’ve made for the day and he purses his lips.

“We’ll walk you to your street,” Needle pushes a little at Mush’s back and he complies.

Giving them all a grateful smile, he heads back towards Manhattan with a troupe of Bowry newsies, each getting caught up in the excitement of Mush’s fight. When they reach where they must depart, Mush nods his goodbye and the newsies head their separate ways with small waves.

As he walks through Manhattan, Mush runs into his friends and it’s Blink who notices the broken lip first.

“Who did this?” His eyebrows furrow, the other newsies’ faces painted in concern, and Mush jumps in to calm the tension.

“I–I don’t know, but Twine’s newsies took care of me. I’m okay,” he reassures, but Blink’s face doesn’t soften. “Blink, really. I can handle myself.”

Blink sighs, his hands holding onto Mush’s arms. “I know you can, but I still don’t like seeing you beat up and all.”

Mush can’t help smile a little at this, his hand going up to rub his nose. “Well, I’ll stick to Manhattan for a while, okay?”

Mush is sure he’ll be back on the boundaries within a few days, but Blink’s shoulders relax and he squeezes Mush’s arms.

“Okay.”

Turning his attention to the rest of the group, Mush is thankful for Race’s and Boots’ questioning though he lets his hand brush against Blink’s as they walk down the street.

If anything, it’s good to know how much Blink cares. That, should he need, Blink will always be a shoulder to lean on. For now, Mush keeps his greater worries to himself and instead embraces the gentleness that sweeps over him as Blink’s pinky latches onto his own.

III.

Blink knows better.

After months, years, of the Delanceys, the insults had become nothing more than jokes among the Manhattan newsies. They’d shrug off any personal jabs, pointing how it was just a truth they weren’t going to deny.

Yet, when Blink hears the mumbled words, the ones that strike him to his core, Blink sees no other option than wiping those grins off the brothers’ faces.

By the time he’s pulled off of Morris, Blink is screaming, his face red with fury, and it takes all of Jack’s strength to push him against the wall farthest from where the fight had started.

Blink’s breaths are ragged, his knuckles turning white, but with Jack’s warning stare, he inhales sharply through his nose. Even with bloody faces, the Delanceys look proud and it only makes matters worse for Blink.

“They’ll get what’s coming to them,” Jack mutters, leading Blink away until it’s just them walking down the street.

“I...I’m sorry,” Blink shakes his head, a raging calm taking over the muted anger. “They just...they got no right to say that. To act like...we’re freaks.”

Jack nods, his lips tight together as he watches Blink and hands him his papers. It’s not an uncomfortable stare, but Blink shifts his papers anyway, hoping that’ll take the attention off of him.

“God, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” Blink sighs. He’s tired, but there’s still a full day of selling, not to mention his usual meeting with Mush.

Again, Jack remains quiet, but Blink can see him deep in thought. None of them have had it easy, Blink can say that much.

“Thanks. For everything,” Blink nudges Jack as they approach the corner.

They’ll separate from here, taking their own spots as they sell in the city. Along the way, Blink will find Mush. Then, it’s all a new adventure from there. Blink wonders where Jack’s feet will take him and he waits expectantly for any response.

“You joining the card game tonight?” Jack asks, eyes on the sky.

Blink shrugs, taking a moment to jostle the change in his pocket. “Maybe. You think you’ll be lucky tonight?”

Jack smiles at this, turning back to Blink. “Why not? Sky’s blue, Delanceys are beat-up, I’d say you and me got some good chances.”

Blink laughs, loud and clear as he claps Jack on the back. “If you say so, Kelly.”

The two wave to each other as they take their paths, Blink whistling a little as he walks along. He’ll figure things out later, learn how to ignore the taunts. For now, he’s feeling just a bit better and he hangs onto that just so he’ll be able to pass on some big smiles as the day goes on.

IV.

“Did you hear what you just said?” Mush furrows his eyebrows.

He had only been half-listening to Skittery, giving enough verbal replies for him to keep going, but this isn’t right.

He eyes his fellow newsie warily, waiting for his response.

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that,” Skittery sighs, scratching the back of his head.

Mush raises his head, his gaze even with Skittery’s and he watches him shift under his stare. “So, what did you mean?” Mush tests, an edge to his words.

Stuttering out a response, Skittery tries for vagueness, but Mush doesn’t back down.

“Okay, all right, I’m sorry,” Skittery rushes, stubbing out his cigarette. “I’ll watch what I says next time.”

“Good,” Mush nods, turning his attention back to the newspaper in his hands.

He likes Skittery, he really does, but sometimes, Skittery just talks. Talks and talks until he falls into a hole. Usually, it’s others that correct Skittery first, but since Mush had been the only one listening, it’s up to him to question Skittery’s phrasing. The first few times were honest mistakes, but Mush wasn’t going to let this one slide.

“I don’t get what was so bad ‘bout that,” Dutchy has to pipe up and Mush rolls his eyes, setting down his newspaper.

“It’s rude,” Mush starts, trying to keep his voice calm. “Insulting. Think about if someone said something like that to you. About you being German and all.”

Of course, they wouldn’t understand. They had never been in that situation. Time after time Mush has tried to sympathize, but his patience wears thin.

“Look,” Mush’s voice shakes, his anger betraying him. “We all got it bad, but you gotta think what that means to someone.” His voice is rising and Mush can’t stop himself. “Just think for a goddamn second!”

His emotions have taken over, bitter memories swarming in his mind, and he just wants to scream. Wants everyone to hurt like he has. Pay for what they did to his mother.

He knocks off the hand that falls on his shoulder and turns to shove the offender, his vision red. Nothing makes sense, his fists flying as someone tries to block him. He hits something, hearing a thick crack and he freezes.

Mush’s arms are pinned to his sides, arms wrapped around him, as he stumbles, his rationality coming back bit by bit.

Blinking through his tears, Mush stares at the blood dripping from Dutchy’s nose and he crumbles in Skittery’s hold.

“I’m sorry...Dutchy, I–I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay, Mush,” Skittery’s voice is calm, almost soothing, and Dutchy shakes his head.

“I had it coming,” Dutchy smiles a little, wiping the blood away.

Skittery’s arms remain firm as Mush catches his breath, the two sinking to the floor as Mush’s legs give out. It’s only then that Skittery drops his hold, gently urging Mush’s head forward until he rests it on his curled up knees.

Dutchy sits on the other side of Mush, his hand reaching out, but hovering. “Is it okay if we touch your back?” Dutchy asks softly and Mush nods.

The hands of Skittery and Dutchy are warm, his tears falling as the two rub his back in reassurance. Mumbled apologies spill from Mush’s mouth and his fellow newsies respond with their own.

“We shoulda...well, we’ll work on it. Try real hard, we promise,” Dutchy rambles and Mush can’t help cracking a smile at this.

Lifting his head, he looks at his friends, the sincerity in their eyes comforting. He knows they’re all still learning, working at who they are. He’s not an exception and he’s just grateful to have their support in this moment.

“Thanks, Mush,” Skittery nods, his voice serious. “ For knocking some sense into us.”

Mush laughs a little, shaking his head. “I’ll try not to make you bleed next time.”

Skittery and Dutchy raise their eyebrows at this, but their nods are all Mush needs. It’ll never be easy, but if Mush can make it better for some, see the changes his friends make, then he thinks he can keep on trying to make his little corner of the world the best it can be.

Blink doesn’t know what calls him to Brooklyn today.

He and Mush have finished selling the last of their papers, but they still have time to entertain themselves before the sun sets. Egging Mush on, Blink brings them across the bridge, hoping Spot won’t mind too much. After all, they’re good friends of Race’s. Maybe they’ll be another exception to Brooklyn’s hardened rules.

As they walk down the street, Mush starts to enjoy himself, the two taking in the unfamiliar sights and speculating just how different the lives are here. There’s a few rougher looking individuals than what Blink is used to, but he keeps his head high and keeps his pace even with Mush’s.

A man whistles as Blink and Mush walk by him, but Blink does his best to ignore it, gauging Mush’s face.

“Well, looky here.”

Blink’s stomach drops and he takes a step closer to Mush. The two of them could easily handle this man, but Blink had hoped to avoid any sort of scuffle in unfamiliar territory. The two quicken their pace, Blink glancing over his shoulder to see the man following. He doesn’t know where to go and he follows Mush’s lead down a random street.

Steps thunder behind them and Blink urges Mush to run, panic rising in his chest. Taking more turns, the two find themselves trapped at the docks, crates upon crates blocking their way. Whipping around, Blink readies himself as does Mush and the man lunges at the two of them. It’s easy to duck out of his way, but the man’s fist hits Mush square in the jaw.

In a fit of rage, Blink charges at the man, his punches flying as Mush tries to throw the man off balance. Blink is knocked one way, Mush another, and out of the corner of his eye, Blink can see the man honing in on him. Pushing up from the ground, Blink motions at Mush to run, but Mush chooses instead to jump on the man’s back. His arm is wrapped around the man’s neck and Blink takes that as his chance, only to have a kick knock his leg out. Mush is swung into the crates, Blink unable to see him as another kick hits him in the face.

Then, the man is shouting in pain, and Blink hears triumphant yells. Boys and girls swarm around him, the bigger ones attacking the man until he’s fleeing from the docks.

“Send a warning to your friends!” A familiar voice shouts and Blink shields his eye from the sun to see Spot standing over him.

“Spot!” Blink laughs, wincing through his pain to jump up and hug him.

Spot doesn’t hug back, but Blink doesn’t mind. His mind fusses over Mush and Blink rushes behind Spot to where a few newsies are helping Mush sit up. Blink grabs onto Mush’s face unable to stop his grin when Mush gives him a bloody smile.

“Ain’t you pretty?” Blink can’t help say and Mush laughs.

“All right, you two,” Spot looms over them. “Let’s get you cleaned up ‘fore Kelly has my head.”

Nodding, Blink puts Mush’s arm around his shoulders before standing the two of them up. His leg hurts, but he’d rather be the one to take care of Mush. Not that he doesn’t trust Spot’s newsies. It’s just personal.

Spot doesn’t question it, leading the two back to the lodging house as the rest of the Brooklyn newsies clamber behind.

Blink breathes out a sigh of relief by the time he and Mush are able to sit down, stretching his leg out while Spot attends to Mush’s injuries.

“Keep off that leg if you can.”

Spot isn’t even looking at him and Blink purses his lips. Of course, Spot has eyes on the back of his head.

After a few bandages, Mush is looking a little bit better and Spot turns to Blink. Blink thought Race had been lying about Spot’s stare, but now with his full attention, Blink can’t bring himself to meet Spot’s eyes.

“Eye’s getting a little yellow,” Spot nods before grabbing a polished stick from the wall that Blink hadn’t noticed.

“I know you won’t listen to a word I say, but at least use this when you walk,” Spot holds out the stick as Mush snickers into his hand. “Maybe put something cold on your eye when you get back to Manhattan.” Turning to Mush, Spot gives him a pointed look and Mush salutes.

“Thanks, Spot,” Blink says, sitting up a little.

The sun is beginning to set and Blink thinks it’s time they start heading back.

“Stay,” Spot holds out a hand, his glare sending a shiver down Blink’s spine as he stands. “We’ll get you across the bridge soon.”

With a nod, Spot leaves the room and Blink spares a glance at Mush.

“How’re you feeling?” Blink asks, noting how swelled Mush’s lip still is.

“Fine,” Mush shrugs. “I’m more worried about you.”

Blink waves it off with a smile. “I’m good. Great. Never better.”

“Course you are,” Mush rolls his eyes, but he returns the smile, taking Blink’s hand in his own. “I’m glad Spot showed up when he did.”

Breathing out, Blink rubs his thumb on the top of Mush’s hand. They were lucky this time and Blink only hopes they won’t have to test that line again. Sitting in comfortable silence, Blink’s beating heart calms, his nerves finally coming to a rest as he and Mush hold onto each other.

Blink’s not sure how much time has passed by the time the room is painted in an orange glow, but he sits up a little, waiting for Spot’s reappearance. He doesn’t want to get back to Manhattan after dark.

“Blink, Mush!”

Both heads snapping up, Blink and Mush stare wide-eyed as Racetrack comes running over, throwing his arms around them.

“God, I’m so happy you’re all right,” Race embellishes, his acting terrible as ever and Blink gives him a small shove. “Aw, c’mon, I mean it.”

Race laughs a little, Blink and Mush joining in as Spot comes back into the room.

“You can go back now,” Spot crosses his arms, glancing at the three of them.

“Thanks for keeping an eye out,” Race beams at Spot and Blink pretends he doesn’t see the blush on Spot’s face.

Race holds out his arms, Blink taking one, Mush the other, and the three friends ready themselves for the walk back to Manhattan.

“Oh, before we go,” Race grins at Spot, wiggling his eyebrows, and Spot grumbles before placing a small kiss on Race’s cheek.

“Get out of here, you three.” Spot refuses to look anyone in the eye, but Blink can see the smile threatening its way onto Spot’s face.

A chorus of goodbyes ring in the Brooklyn lodging house and the three Manhattan newsies head towards the bridge.

“I almost didn’t go to Sheepshead today,” Race shakes his head. “I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

“We’re okay, Race,” Mush reassures, pressing his cheek into Race’s shoulder. “Spot came just in time.”

Blink keeps his eye on the ground, tapping the stick Spot gave him. “He...won’t expect…,” Blink begins, laughing a little at what comes into his mind. “You know. An eye for an eye or something.”

Race and Mush’s laughter sputter out and Race looks up at the sky. “I hope not. You only got one left.”

Blink shrugs, thinking about the other boroughs he’s visited as he counts the stones on the cobblestone street. “Just wanted to check.”

Nodding his understanding, Race squeezes Blink’s arm. “He’s like that but...not. I know that don’t make much sense…”

“No, it makes sense,” Mush jumps in, exchanging a glance with Blink.

Race grins a little at this and the three friends keep idle conversation as they cross the bridge. The last of the sunlight is beginning to fade when they get to the lodging house and the questions begin almost immediately. Jack doesn’t take too kindly to the injuries, but with enough reassurances, he lets Blink and Mush be.

With a sigh of relief, Blink props his leg up on his bed just as Mush holds out a wet cloth to him.

“Something cold,” Mush reminds and Blink reluctantly takes the cloth. “You wanna sell papes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Blink sighs as he gives Mush a thankful smile.

Further in the bunk room, Blink can hear Race retell their story, overdramatic, adding in little white lies. Blink and Mush look at each other, small laughs exchanged before Blink puts the cold cloth over his injured eye.

Laying back on the bed, he can feel Mush curl up alongside him, the two interlocking their hands. The bustle of the room continues around them and Blink feels himself beginning to drift off with the familiarity of his life as Mush lets out a breath.

VI.

Mush winces as he rolls his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember what he’s done to it. He’s gotten the usual amount of hard knocks and nothing in particular sticks out. From jumping into Blink’s fight with the Delanceys to almost getting run over by a carriage, it’s almost routine to show back up at the lodging house with some new bruise.

Except this one isn’t like the others. The papers are heavy in his hand and he shifts them over to the other side, his body unfamiliar with the new distribution. Biting down on his lip, Mush hopes a good night’s sleep will take care of it.

The next morning, he can barely move his arm.

Shuffling away from any stray glances, Mush does his best to dress himself, the ordeal taking longer than necessary. By the time he’s caught up to the other boys, he stands tall among the pointed stares, buying his papers and sprinting into the street.

He hasn’t even walked a block before his injured arm is grabbed and Mush bites away his pain.

“What’s wrong?” Blink asks, low, and his grip is tight. Too tight.

With a small shake of his head, Mush lets his arm dangle like dead weight as he and Blink walk slowly down the street.

Blink pulls at his arm again and Mush’s eyes well up.

“Mush,” Blink’s voice is warning, but Mush keeps his mouth shut.

With a sigh, Blink drags them into the nearest alley and Mush can’t stand the pain. Hot tears spill from his eyes, but he doesn’t have the chance to wipe them away as Blink spins to face him.

“Mush?” Blink lets go of Mush’s arm and grabs his face, the worry on his face almost as painful as Mush’s shoulder.

“It’s...it’s nothing,” Mush sniffs, wishing to be elsewhere, willing his tears to dry up.

“This ain’t nothing,” Blink grits. “Why’re you crying? DId I hurt you?”

Mush’s breath catches in his throat and he doesn’t want to say anything. He looks away from Blink’s searching eye, stiffening as Blink’s hand trails to his shoulder. Blink gives it a small squeeze and Mush can’t stop his shiver as the pain shoots through his body.

“Damn, I shouldn’t’ve grabbed you like that,” Blink mutters, setting his papers to the side before his hands work at the buttons of Mush’s shirt. “Just wanna see it,” Blink reassures when Mush’s eyes go wide.

Nodding his understanding, Mush’s stance relaxes just a little as Blink slides the fabric off his shoulder. Another mumbled swear and Mush waits for the reprimandation.

“We should show Kloppman,” Blink pulls Mush’s clothes back into place.

Mush looks up, his ears surely fooling him. “You...you’re not gonna yell at me?”

“Why would I yell at you?” Blink’s eyebrows furrowed, his hand cupping Mush’s face. “This ain’t like that. But, you gotta tell me when you’re hurting, okay?”

Mush doesn’t rush to reply and he can see the flicker in Blink’s eye. He doesn’t know how to explain it. That his own pain will always come second. It’s not fear of weakness or carelessness that holds Mush down but the possibility that anyone must fuss over him, put their concerns where they’re not needed.

“Mush,” Blink pulls his attention back. “I don’t want to fight about this. You don’t gotta be perfect, but I want to know when you need help. I’m here for you.”

It’s then Mush can’t help himself and he pulls Blink into a hug with his good arm. He buries his face into Blink’s shoulder, a small, ragged breath leaving him. Blink holds him, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

“Should make a sling for you,” Blink comments, tracing circles on Mush’s back. “I’ll help you with selling today, sound good?”

Mush nods, letting Blink drop their embrace to tug the papers from Mush’s arm. Collecting papers in one hand, Blink takes Mush’s good arm in his own and the two head back to the lodging house, avoiding as many newsies as they can along the way.

A strained shoulder is Kloppman’s diagnosis and before long, Mush is back on the streets with Blink, his arm in a cloth sling.

“Thank you,” Mush says softly, making sure his and Blink’s fingers brush together as they walk. “I ain’t...I just get stuck in my head.”

His explanation isn’t much, but Mush hopes Blink will accept it for now. With a nod, Blink nudges Mush a little, a small smile on his face.

“Happens sometimes. I know,” Blink reassures, his arm moving up to wrap around Mush’s shoulders.

He stays mindful of Mush’s injured one, keeping his touch light as they walk down the street. “I got you. You got me. We’ll get better together.”

Mush gazes at Blink, wondering where this serious attitude came from. It takes all his strength to not kiss Blink right then and there, but he tucks the thought away for later, when the lights go out at the lodging house.

For now, it’s enough to have Blink’s understanding, to have this moment where Mush thinks maybe opening himself up isn’t such a bad thing. He’s done so much alone, perhaps it’s time he takes Blink’s hand and let himself fall.

#blush newsies #kid blink #mush meyers #safarikalamari makes newsies stuff #sarahjacobss #marvinjuana #(heyyo if u want to be tagged in these things lmk)

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aprilrichardson · 6 years

Text

I Know It’s Over

There are people to whom music doesn't matter. I often envy these people. My mom is one of them -- she's not really concerned with music, poetry, movies, or anything in popular culture. She considers herself a whole, satisfied person without these things in her life, free from any aesthetic crutches. I am not one of those people. I needed music. I need music. From a very early age, I needed music to tell me I was okay. I needed it to tell me I was normal, I needed it to tell me I was weird, I needed it to confirm that I'd be fine either way. I needed it in a dramatic way. I needed it in a mundane way, playing all the time in the background like wallpaper with a pattern you've stopped noticing. I needed to identify with it, I needed it to make me feel complicated emotions I'd never felt before; it could comfort me or repulse me, soothe me or force me to look outward, echo my own sentiments or expand my mind to fit new ones. Music (and the bands/people who made it) served as my mentor, my older sibling, my voice of reason and, at times, bad influence. When you're an only child from a fractured family, you spend a lot of time in your room. Your hobbies can become your closest friends. Music became my savior and my most time-consuming, all-encompassing, money-draining pursuit. My savings account would be at least triple its current amount had I not been so obsessed with seeing bands and collecting their records. Perhaps I would have created more things of my own if I'd not spent so much time fawning over the creations of others. My personality would have been entirely different if, early on in my youth, I had not blatantly lifted the clothes and mannerisms and styles of those I looked up to or had not read the books and watched the movies they had championed. For better or worse, art -- this specific form of art, music -- has been and continues to be a transformative force in my life. At the very center of this were two bands, R.E.M. and The Smiths, and specifically two people: Michael Stipe and Morrissey. My first two real heroes, with now only the former still on the pedestal I built when I was around 11 or 12. I moved to a new neighborhood and school district when I was in second grade, and became fast friends with a boy my age who lived one street over. Nathan and I shared a lot of the same interests, and as we started middle school, a deep obsession with those two aforementioned bands and frontmen (and, also, Depeche Mode and Dave Gahan). Nathan was gay before either one of us knew what that meant, and was often mocked for this -- I was made fun of, too, but for reasons far less difficult for me than coming to terms with my sexuality as an adolescent. But, for our own reasons, we were outcasts, seeking comfort in our chosen art. This was conservative Georgia in the late '80s/early '90s, a time well before the Internet, before easily accessible media, when role models were fought for tooth and nail, with plans having to be made on how to save enough allowance for cassette tapes, older friends or siblings bribed to purchase things with "parental advisory" labels we'd smuggle into our rooms later. I can barely put into words what hearing (and seeing!) Morrissey for the first time did to us -- did FOR us! For Nathan, in such an environment, Morrissey became a blueprint for queerness, the very first peek into the very POSSIBILITY of life as a grown man who wasn't either an alpha male jock, like all the ones at our school, or stern businessman with a briefcase, like all of our (step)dads. He was the first person to, with his mannerisms and his very existence, communicate to Nathan that it was perfectly fine (and cool even!) to, in the words of the bullies, "act like a girl." And the magical thing is, he somehow simultaneously did the exact opposite for me! As a masculine tomboy, I saw in him a person so easily blurring the lines of both! He made me feel better about the qualities I had so often been told "weren't ladylike." We talked about him constantly. We dressed like him. It goes without saying that his music was playing in the background nearly every time we hung out. I remember my mom allowing me to stay up late to watch Johnny Carson the night Morrissey was on -- I was 12, and I absolutely remember my mom getting angry, watching alongside me as Morrissey fans screamed over Bill Cosby (gulp) as he tried to talk. The next year, Morrissey was on Saturday Night Live, and my mom let me go over to Nathan's house to watch it (our parents became very close friends as well). He taped it on their VCR as we watched, and we immediately played it back. We watched it probably every day for months. We didn't have the money to buy all of his back catalog, so an older kid in my youth group at church let me borrow his Smiths CDs, and I dubbed copies on my tape deck for us. I sat and hand-wrote the lyrics down on notebook paper, carefully transcribing from the liner notes as the tape recorded. It's difficult for me to be eloquent here, and I always find it hard to convey these feelings to people who are, well, normal, who can hear a song and go, "That's nice!" and not have to immediately know its backstory, who wrote it, why they wrote it, what inspires them, what books they read, etc. Who don't feel their insides twist into knots when a turn of phrase meets a melody and the combination makes them feel understood in a way they never have, sets them at ease in a way that even the kind words of the closest relative couldn't do. That is absolutely how I felt the first time I heard The Smiths. When you're 12, at least when I was 12, the last people you feel like you can talk to about your feelings are your parents; and for Nathan, doubly so, as I don't think he could even articulate his until Morrissey's lyrics shed some light on what he'd been going through. So, for us, this guy was so far from "just a singer" -- he was a beacon, a mentor, he told us it was okay to be effeminate and okay to be masculine and okay that you didn't get invited to the parties because staying in your room reading books was more glamorous anyway. The world wasn't made for people like us and that should be worn as a badge of honor, not shame. Such a message was REVELATORY for a girl whose every male role model had let her down or left entirely and a boy who didn't want to play football or shoot guns. The obsession continued and deepened, and in high school, became full on reliance. Who better to help me navigate the emotional minefield that is the teen years than Morrissey? I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, I didn't do drugs, I didn't "party," I didn't even so much as hold a boy's hand until I was a couple weeks shy of 16 years old -- all of the things that kids considered fun and did on a regular basis were so foreign to me, until I got home to my bedroom and was soothed by the voice of a guy who also did not participate in any of the above. I didn't really know anyone in real life who seemed to understand my plight more than the man whose voice was blasting out of my speakers. To me, Morrissey was always absolutely the voice of the underdogs. The weirdos. The outcasts. The disenfranchised. Anyone who felt left out, let down, misunderstood, too sensitive, too sad. He was there to comfort us, understanding and empathetic to our needs while giving the finger to the system and the people therein who were keeping us down, shoving us into lockers, ripping the glasses off our faces and stomping on them in front of their domineering friends. When someone writes songs as seemingly personal as Morrissey's, you tend to think you know them. And in my case, having read so many books about him (and now some BY him), I felt that way, to a degree. I like to think of myself as a rational person (perhaps after reading this far, you disagree), but I definitely felt a bit like I "knew" him in the sense that I'd picked up on words he'd frequently used ("vulgar" and "vile" were personal favorites), had working knowledge of the causes that were important to him, and certainly knew his favorite bands and movies and authors. I'd even been lucky enough to meet him quite a few times, especially after moving to Los Angeles, where I'd see him at restaurants and shows, and he was always cordial (if not downright sweet) to me every time we spoke. Of course I'd heard stories about him "being a dick," but that never bothered me, truly, only because I think that's kind of relative, and perhaps a lack of manners or catching someone on a bad day is a bummer, and the "temperamental artist" archetype exists for a reason. Sure, it's ideal that someone you admire is nice to you should you ever interact, but a surly encounter would not cause me to write someone off completely. So, because of this, well, perhaps delusion, I was able to explain away certain statements, such as calling Chinese people a "subspecies" while addressing animal rights, because I knew of his history of exaggeration when trying to get his point across about that subject in particular, the one perhaps dearest to his heart. (And I won't pretend that white privilege didn't play a part; it's undoubtedly and shamefully easier to conveniently ignore something when you aren't the target.) This person's main place in my life thus far was almost as a therapist, so the possibility of him having anything other than the best of intentions seemed so unlikely. But the words became harder to parse, excuses harder to make. Playing the contrarian for the sake of it isn't helpful (or even entertaining) in times like these. You aren't at the Algonquin Round Table. You're courting Stormfronters. It's not funny or charming. I don't expect every artist I look up to (or even every friend or acquaintance in my life) to share my exact same views, but when your band wears T-shirts supporting the Black Panthers yet you voice your support for the likes of Nigel Farage, how does the cognitive dissonance not paralyze you? You change lyrics to songs to slam Trump, yet you basically share his views on immigration? You imply that a gay teenager -- arguably the demographic most deeply affected by your art -- is at fault for the predatory behavior of an adult? You've told anyone who will listen that you were raised on feminist literature, yet you claim the female victims of Harvey Weinstein -- a man who hired fuckin' BLACK OPS to spy on his accusers to make sure they never came forward, so calculated were his plans -- were just "disappointed" that their RAPES didn't result in career advancement?! WHO ARE YOU. Who is this person saying this? The very person who gave me the strength to stand against the establishment has become the establishment! The person whose voice soothed with empathy and compassion for outsiders like me has become someone I would have crossed the street to avoid. The bullied has become the bully. He has, for years now, exhibited the very closemindedness I thought he was trying to free us from. Is it just an inevitability that the spoils of success will change a person? If you isolate yourself and invite no one into your circle who will ever question you, is this the result? Contempt for the very people who supported you for so long? A quality I used to admire in Morrissey was his obstinance, but I've found as I've aged myself, standing by opinions for the sake of it, refusing to allow yourself to grow and change as more information becomes available, to never soften your heart and swallow your pride and apologize when you've realized you might have been wrong about something -- that's not admirable, that's cowardice. I appreciate it more when people admit they don't know enough about a subject to comment on it instead of making a statement just for attention. My heart is broken. The man I looked to as an oasis of sensitivity in a desert of toxicity seems, well, just plain mean and vengeful now. I refuse to be cynical, and I refuse to be someone who says, "That's what you get for having heroes." Perhaps the lesson here is just knowing when to let go. And that it was indeed the songs that saved my life, not the man.

Fifteen-year-old me in my bedroom.

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robin-smith · 4 years

Text

Remembering personal privilege

With some of the things I’ve talked about over the years you would think that I felt like someone who had really struggled through life and had little going for me. Some points have been this way, but I am still afforded great advantage others are not. I find it’s good to recognize that even at the highest of high points and especially at the lowest of lows, because sometimes even the most well-intentioned of us can easily lose sight of this and put out potentially harmful messages.

I’d like to point out a specific example of someone doing something like this, but I want to make it clear now that firstly, I won’t be using any specific names just situations. Secondly the people I mention here are perfectly good and fine creative people putting out wonderful things that I am totally behind.

To a good extent that is OK because this can apply to many creators I am sure and as such makes it worthwhile as a message for us all to keep track of our personal messages, privilege, and position in any community. It leaves a message that no matter what the situation we can easily fall into the trap of making statements that can be inadvertently negative. Or if not negative, somewhat thoughtless.

The person I want to reference was someone I followed on a social media platform, they were smart, talented, furiously creative, and driven by a desire to make something good. One would never suggest that they didn’t work hard to create the things they did in their personal creative field. While I don’t know them in a close personal way I know enough about their years prior to their success to know that they came from a comfortable if working class background, both parents were around had jobs, and they had pretty much a comfortable childhood.

That life wasn’t perfect, they had history with mental health issues they overcame as many of the people who work in and around the communities they work in and around did growing up, and they had challenges and bad times they had to get through, as we all do. I want in no way to imply that they had life easy. Yet it could be argued they still had it easier than many.

I remember two occasions standing out to me on social media. Two times when they put out a message that they had intended to be encouraging but where they couldn’t see the possible false and damaging message they could also simultaneously be putting out.

The first time was while they were working at a big industry website. They had worked for a few years in retail and also had used equipment they had bought or been gifted to get a start with their own indie website before getting an opportunity at the place they happened to be a fan of. They would be in the websites’ forum a lot and fostered a relationship with the websites staff. As such an opportunity arose, and they got what many would call a dream job.

I have no doubt that this was something they absolutely appreciated, that they understood for the most part that they were lucky in ways others were not, they had gotten a spot many more people were now not going to have the chance at.

In this new role for the big website they worked hard and made good things, eventually opening up an opportunity to create a passion project. It was video content on a subject that mattered to them, and it showed. Very quickly the community gave the work and them the praise they deserved.

Then it happened, a simple post on social media. While I do not remember the exact wording it's more or less said. “I’m glad to have made this, but I’m nothing special, all I did was travel to a place and interview some people. If you want to make something, you can, just make it!”

Innocuous a statement as can be you would think, and made in the hope it would encourage others. Yet I read it and felt somewhat saddened. This message that was intended to give people the little push to try, was easily going to make those who couldn’t feel like failures before getting out of the starting blocks.

I felt that what this statement failed to take into account that for many people this simple option was and may always be an impossibility. That this impossibility would cause people who were unable, feel deeply inadequate.

I responded to this original statement with a question. “Where did you get the camera to film this video?”

Maybe it was a little crewel or unintentionally rude, but I know (or a hope so) that my intended message got through. In the instant they had posted this message, they had forgotten that they we’re doing it at a big website, using its equipment for free, possibly travelling to places other couldn’t afford to, probably with money the website gave them to cover expenses for travel. So many factors had been forgotten in an attempt to encourage. Then came another unintended statement of privilege “Seiibutsu has a point. But I bought my first camera and THEN paid for it doing side work recording events with it”

At that moment I realized that while a good person, that they would always have a little gap where they were never FULLY AWARE of the privilege they had. I cannot speak from anyone else’s point of view, but at the time I could not even begin to dream of owning ANY video camera. Let alone buying one for one thousand pounds or so and then just, paying for it later. The initial hurdle was always going to be there. Even now I have never been further north than Stockport. Let alone pay for a train ticket as far as they had travelled, carrying a camera that cost more than a month’s wages and having a PC good enough to edit and store the footage on. They still had an inability to see that people like myself existed at the time. Let alone people even worse off.

The second time this came up was a few years later. They had stayed with the big company a while and had been enough of a success that the American wing of the website eventually hired them to work permanently overseas. They worked there several years and made even more great work. Yet eventually they became, unhappy. Not in life I don’t think, but instead with the freedoms they had. They wanted more creativity and control.

As such after working over half a decade in their dream job they left the website and went out on their own.

They would do what many people do now and create a Patreon to find funding for their work. This was a well deserved success and even today they have the support of over 4000* people creating video and audio content that is wonderful, fun, and informative.

(* for reference that’s 4000 people plus paying about £3.00, the lowest supporter tier, each equalling around £12,000 plus per month today. Also, for reference my pay is under £7.00 ph, about £10,000 per year at 37 hours a week. It is important to note there are differences in currency, taxes, business costs and rent, among other things but even factoring in these things that’s quite the difference. It’s important that's as of today 11th October 2020 after the dips many have seen and may continue to see due to the ongoing effects of COVID-19)

I remember it was after the initial week they had found their starting success that they once again posted something intended to encourage others, yet utterly forgot the position they were in before venturing out on their own.

“It goes to show, it’s possible for anyone can do this and create a new business un-beholden to big sponsors “

Here’s the thing though, clearly that’s very wrong. It’s well intended yes, but very wrong and damaging. This person had started already on a better foot than many, had work their literal dream job for several years and had made connections to people on two sides of an industry, let alone communicated with many fans of their work. Fans they had found and work they had shared because a larger website had a big platform to share it. Friends and well-wishers inside and around the industry reblogged and shared their project, as did fans. Many from both groups even supported. This wasn’t a starting from ground zero situation and it was never going to be. Yet they still were unable to see this when sharing this message of success. An almost guaranteed success.

I don’t doubt that this person, like many others think they are doing a good thing sharing their personal story of success. I also have no doubt that they worked super hard to get the chances they had. I just worry that there’s still the distance between perception of their hard work and the understanding that someone else who dreams the same dreams and has the same wonderful ideas and drive, has to work ten times a shard to even get close to as successful. Many will never get there. I wonder how those people will feel after having been told anyone can do it, only to work twice as hard and be left with nothing at the end of the day.

It’s good to encourage others, to share resources, and to foster talent. This has to be done with cautious optimism and less frivolous a nature. One day giving someone false expectations could cause them to reach too far too soon and do them literal real harm in the long term.

If you like this post or anything else I share or make, feel free to share it with others

Or you can support me via Patreon — https://www.patreon.com/SEiiBUTSU (don’t worry, the irony is not lost on me)

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clonerightsagenda · 6 years

Text

Dashed this off at the last minute, and now I have two obstacles left on my Quest. Don’t think I’ll be able to knock those out with this month’s prompts, though.

tuesjade prompt: suit

"Well, this is it," you say, leading Jade into your room. "The whole closet of a pampered former heiress. It's all yours."

Jade takes it in. Considering her mission, maybe you should have color coded everything first, but that would be more effort than you really want to expend. "You own so many clothes!"

"Oh, I don't know." You shrug. "I don't think I'm that far past the average hoard for a girl of my station. You have to look your best, especially if you have paparazzi and assassins after you in equal numbers. Imagine the shame for the whole company if I was taken out wearing something tacky."

"I guess I wouldn't know... I had to make things last, myself." She laughs. "Before we got alchemization tech, almost everything I owned had patches."

"Then you should be good at quilting, shouldn't you?" That's what has brought you here. Jade and Kanaya have decided they want to stitch together a quilt. It's a project your older self is all in favor of - that kind of arts and crafts does strike you as grandmotherly. The sketches they've put together look nice, you have to admit, and now they're hunting for fabric. Some of your old clothes don't fit anymore, and so you've volunteered to let Jade look through your closet for anything you don't mind her tearing apart.

Now, you lean in and start pushing your way through outfits you haven't looked at since before SBURB. You have a selection of everyday wear and a whole section of formal apparel. As the heiress to Crockercorp, you had to make appearances. Your father read guides on dressing for tv and bought you a whole host of simple pastels, although that didn't stop tabloids from commenting on your weight or your hair on the days you wore it natural. You told him you didn't mind and sent the articles to Roxy to make fun of or Dirk to apply critical media theory to until they didn't sting. The worst offenders in here were for really fancy occasions - the atrocious puffy nightmare you had to wear to the cupcake ball, or the form-fitting near-leotard "Betty Crocker" sent you and insisted you wear. Alternian Heiress fashion, you recognize it as now. "You can definitely use this," you say, pulling that off the rail. There's a flash of bright color from behind it, and you freeze.

Jade waits, hand outstretched, until it's clear you won't move to give her the outfit. "Are you ok?"

"What? Oh, yes. Sorry. Something took me by surprise." You hand the leotard over and reach back into the closet. Don't be silly, Jane. It won't bite. "Look at this old rag. What a laugh."

"I don't know, it's kind of nice." Jade takes this new offering - a suit, tailored to your measurements for once - and rubs the fabric between her fingers. "It's made of good material. A lot of modern clothes feel so disposable."

"It's the color I'm not too keen on." You take it back when she offers it, even though you'd rather not touch it.

"It's /very/ red."

"I hadn't even realized how much I had in that shade. Branding and all, I suppose, even if the color's frowned upon on television. It... bleeds." That statement sounds much more ominous now. You toss the suit onto your bed and start pulling everything else Crocker-red into your arms. "Take it all."

Jade watches your increasingly speedy attempts to rip down offending outfits, eyebrows rising. "I'm not sure the quilt needs this much of one color."

"You can make another one, then. I mean, how many people can you really fit under a single quilt? That's poor planning for a household our size."

"It was meant to be decorative." She lifts a few shirts off the growing pile in your arms, which you appreciate. Your elbows were starting to buckle. "Are you sure you want to be this indiscriminate?"

"Red is no longer welcome in my wardrobe." Jake still flinches when you surprise him coming into a room or if you raise your voice. If you actually wore the colors of your corrupted God Tier again, he'd probably faint dead away. You don't want to associate yourself with that episode. It's bad enough knowing the Empress only had to uncover what was already there.

"Oh." Her ears go back. "Because of..."

"Yes, because of. Meaningful pause and all. Isn't it handy that we have that shared vocabulary?" You dump what you've collected onto your bed and sink down next to it. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to dredge this all up again today." She settles down on the other side of the pile and lets out a breath, slow and steady. Maybe she just hides it better, but Jade doesn't seem to carry the same guilt you do. She killed someone. Oh, sure, you held the weapon, but it was on her orders. You know it, she knows it, and Karkat knows it too, which is nice, since it means he doesn't get jumpy when you're around. Maybe you shouldn't, but you wish that was the worst you had done. At this point, death is more of a slap on the wrist than anything else. What you did to Jake... even if you never followed through on any of your threats, they hang over both of your heads, and you can never fully take them back. They feel worse than killing.

"The company sent me that suit for the rebranding event," you say. You don't want Jade to decide the silence needs to be filled with "talking about it" or something else equally painful. "I was supposed to make an appearance, say a few words to commemorate the moment. A week or so in advance they told me there'd been a change of plans and they wouldn't be needing me after all. It was all a farce, of course. She must have already known I'd be entering the game and waltzing right into her clutches."

"It must have been exciting being on tv," Jade says. You almost laugh at the banality. Maybe that's her intention.

"Terrifying, at first. After a few times, though, it gets tiresome. I'd always have reporters breathing down my neck ready to leap on the slightest gaffe. I tried to stick to the script and not do anything silly, but then in their reports I was terse or surly." There is no way to be acceptable in the public eye. Someone will always find fault with you. "Dirk and Roxy said I became quite the controversial historical figure after I disappeared. That worried them until they worked out I'd vanished because of the game, but of course no one else knew that. Some people thought the Empress had taken me out to avoid competition, or because I'd tried to stop her when she conquered the human race, and I became a martyr for the cause. Other people thought I would've been more of the same, and some rebel had gotten off a lucky shot. Good riddance, thinning out the herd of despots." You sigh and kick your foot against the edge of your bed. "I wonder which one of them would have been right."

"Maybe you would've taken the third option and defeated her," Jade suggests. "Like you did in real life."

"Maybe. But I was so resistant to the idea that something was wrong with my cozy, privileged life and the company I stood to inherit. It's like the story of the frog in the pot of water. Would I notice it was getting too hot?"

"You would have." She reaches over the pile of clothes and pats your hand, which you've been pinwheeling frenetically through the air. "Remember, what we did, it was us, but it was her too. We were keeping it in, because we knew it was wrong."

"I suppose." You breathe out and try to mimic the way she did it, long and slow. "The guilt comes and goes. I'll be alright."

She tugs the suit out from underneath the pile. "This is pretty nice. And the color's not too bad. Do you think maybe you shouldn't let her ruin it for you?"

You shake your head. "Even if I didn't mind, I'm not going to do that to Jake, or anyone else who might not want to be reminded of my little moment. Besides, red was never my color. It was always hers." You fold her hands over the suit. "Like I said, take it. Cut this up. Make red into something beautiful again."

"Ok," she promises. "We'll make something good out of it."

#tuesjade #kat writes fic

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fire-emblem-heroes-supports · 7 years

Text

Roderick/Titania C-A Support

Written by airlock

C SUPPORT

Roderick: … I see! So if you light it that way, the fire will burn for longer and more safely. You know some interesting tricks.

Titania: Anyone who spends enough time in as a knight will eventually pick up on details like these. After all, setting up camp becomes less dull if you’re taking the chance to learn something while you’re at it.

Roderick: Hmm. Personally, I’d rather just do these tasks properly, so they won’t trouble me for longer than they need to.

Titania: That’s a fine mindset to have. Still, we might be waiting on the enemy for a while yet… At times like these, any moments you gain might end up as dull as each step would have been.

Roderick: I can always find another task to care of. Keeping watch, learning my way around the local grounds…

Titania: Taking care of yourself is an important task, too. We’d all collapse if we could never stop for a more relaxing activity – like sitting by the fire and sharing a story or two with a comrade-in-arms. Speaking of…

Roderick: Very well. We do have the watch covered for now.

Titania: Thank you. So, Roderick, was it? Tell me something, just so we have something to begin with: are you enjoying this strange world we find ourselves in?

Roderick: What’s there to enjoy about it? I’m not all that fond of fighting, least of all for a cause not my own. Sure, the Order of Heroes isn’t so bad, but…

Titania: I see. For my own part, I’m just glad to be doing meaningful work. But I suppose that, for mercenaries like me, serving a new master every once in a while is only-

Roderick: Hold it. Didn’t you say you were a knight?

Titania: Did I, now? It’s true that I was a knight in the past, but I’ve since gone down a different path.

Roderick: Gone down… a different path?

Titania: Hm? Oh, seems it’s my turn to take over the watch. I’ll have to be off. Perhaps we’ll enjoy another chat if this expedition goes on longer. I’ll be looking forward to it.

Roderick: Alright. Good luck out there.

Roderick: … Hmph! As if anyone ought to just pass up steady work that only few can ever have the privilege of doing, for the sake of doing filthy and dangerous work. That doesn’t seem like the whole story to me. You’d have to be either a fool, or… discharged dishonorably.

[Roderick and Titania have reached support rank C.]

B SUPPORT

Roderick: … And those were the proud general’s last words. He doubled over and succumbed to his wounds… It was an explosive sight, if I had to think of one word for it.

Titania: That’s awful. I can think of less honorable ways to be ended than giving your life to a good cause, but even so…

Roderick: And that’s how it gets worse. Thanks to him, the children were safe and sound, but as soon as we got to them… Some officer from the empire showed up to take them away again. It seems that my lord, Prince Marth, couldn’t do anything to stop him at that time.

Titania: Oh, no!

Roderick: In the end, someone else was able to save them, thank goodness. Still, to go through all that fighting and death and not even accomplish the objective…

Titania: Not every fight will have the outcome we were hoping for, certainly. As warriors, we’ll always come to regret how some battles end. At least, if we choose to fight only for the best of reasons, we won’t have the beginnings to regret as well.

Roderick: Speaking of reasons… I’ve told you a story, so now it’s your turn. I have to admit that there’s something I’ve been curious about.

Titania: Oh? That would certainly be easier than having me choose one out of my many stories.

Roderick: You said you were a knight once, and then you became a mercenary, right? How did that happen?

Titania: Hmm, you don’t beat around the bush, do you. … I’ll tell you what I can, but forgive me if I can’t bring myself to tell it end to end. It’s brings up some painful memories, you see.

Roderick: Hmmm. Well, I’d still like to hear as much as possible.

Titania: I’d say it all began in an officer exchange program. Many of us, young and proud lieutenants, were sent to a foreign land. And in that place, there was a swordsman… Not one of us could so much as scratch that man’s blade. It was downright terrifying. I tried to take him on nonetheless, but, like the others, I was down on the ground before I could even raise my weapon. And then… I asked him to train me.

Roderick: … Is that a tear in your eye?

Titania: That swordsman is… no longer among us. But he was a great man. A great mercenary, a great leader, a great father to his children… and the best friend I’ve ever had.

Roderick: I ought to say the proper condolences, but I see our allies’ signal… I have to hurry to take over the watch. My apologies. … And thank you for telling me what that was all about.

Titania: Very well. Have a good outing, friend.

Titania: Hmmmm. “What that was all about”…? Was this truly bothering him that much?

[Roderick and Titania have reached support rank B.]

A SUPPORT

Titania: Long campaign, eh? Seems we’ll be sharing camp once again.

Roderick: I’m glad to see you again. I’ve been meaning to apologize.

Titania: Hm? What for?

Roderick: When you first told me about becoming a mercenary after being a knight, I’d thought little of your reasons for doing so. I thought you might have been some reckless simpleton, chasing silly dreams unaware of the hardships… or, worse, I thought you might have been branded a criminal. I couldn’t think of a good reason why anyone would choose all that deadly, unsteady work when they could be doing something much nicer instead, until you’ve told me about yours. I shouldn’t have judged you, and for that, I apologize.

Titania: You choose to be honest, even when it would have been more convenient not to say anything. That’s a good instinct. I accept and appreciate your apologies.

Roderick: Thank you.

Titania: There’s something I hope you can understand, anyway. Regardless of the reasons why we choose our paths in life – we’re all needed. A mercenary can accomplish things that a knight cannot, just as the contrary is true. And, of course, none of us would be anywhere without every cowherd, fisherman, and farmhand out there…

Roderick: Come to think of it… the man who saved those children when we couldn’t… he was a mercenary, like you. Maybe he was able to step in and help them because, unlike us knights, his actions weren’t bogged down by all the politics.

Titania: That seems to be the case. I’m glad you understand. And besides, it always gladdens me to hear of mercenaries who choose do the right thing. After all, that’s where you knights get the better deal – your loyalty can be counted on so long as your liege lord’s heart is in the right place, but as for a mercenary… let’s just say I’ve seen one of my own colleagues sell his bow to the enemy, and I’m very lucky I’ve not seen such a thing more often.

Roderick: That must be rough. Although… even as a knight, I’ve had to fight one of my own allies, once. But that’s a long story, and I think that’s our signal again.

Titania: That’s a different signal from the usual one. Looks like it’s finally time for the offensive. Are you ready?

Roderick: More than ever. After all, being here feels like less of a waste now.

[Roderick and Titania have reached support rank A.]

#fire emblem path of radiance #fire emblem radiant dawn #fire emblem mystery of the emblem #male and female heroes #roderick #titania #roderick x titania #submission

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skaihedaofthe100 · 7 years

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"Xenos" series

Chapter 3. Rescueing friends

description: "Xenos" from the Ancient Greek "stranger, foreigner". Xenia Kane and the other 99 delinquents are strangers for everyone who managed to survive on the Earth. Her story has just started. Enjoy

-We will continue walking when you give us your bracelets,- Bellamy addresses to me and Clarke. Damn, he and Murphy are so good at getting on my nerves, they should get a reward for it. -The Ark will know that we're dead only when we really are,- the blonde snaps at him -And what do we say to death? -Not today,- I add smirking. Yeah, this is one of my favorite quotes and I'd like everyone to remember it. -Brave Princess and brave Commander, - the older Blake tells us not seeming to have a proper answer

-Hey, think about your own nicknames!- suddenly there is Finn appearing from nowhere, he didn't join our rescue party when it was leaving the camp.-Nia, Clarke, come with me. -My savior! - I name him chuckling and leave the other trio behind. Then there is me near the lake waiting for my friends to stop playing in the water and continue searching for Jasper. To be honest, I'd like to have some fun in the water too but maybe another time when I'll finally calm down after yesterday's story. -Guys, I think I've found something that you'd like to see,- I inform them looking at the drops of blood on the rock that I saw while exploring the near surroundings. -We should go this way,- now serious Finn points to my right. Three years of tracking lessons, no one argues with him. Looking around I see Well's figure in the bushes and call the boys. We are now walking together suddenly hearing a groan and see my friend tied to the tree in the distance

-That's Jasper,- I gasp taking off to him with Clarke following me -Girls, wait!- Finn warns us but I'm already in the middle of my way to Googles. Reaching the tree I hear a scream behind me and turn around. Wow, me and Clarke have been running a few inches away and she is the one who managed to fall in the hole with peaks. There is Bellamy holding her arm seeming to be not so willing to pull her up and does it only after Finn shouts. I turn back to Jasper, Clarke will be okay but he is in the worse state. -Does someone have a knife here?- I ask regretting not making one from the piece of the dropship back at our camp. Murphy gives his not saying anything and I climb on the tree calling for Collins to follow me. Cutting the rope on Jasper's wrists I notice some movement in the grass near us. -Guys, you better watch out,- is my warning -What are you talking ab...,- Bellamy doesn't finish his question because of a loud growl. The moment later a large black panther appears in front of him. -Bellamy, your gun!- Clarke shouts but Blake can't find it. That's called "too much boasting", my friends. "Thanks God I'm in some kind of safety on the tree",- I think to myself and then hear several gunshots. That's Wells, wow. Unfortunately, it doesn't help that much 'cause the animal continues having its way to the others, only limping this time. Finn just ended cutting the ropes so I quickly grab the knife from his hand and without a backup thought through it at the predator. Maybe I'll be lucky and it hits it, at least I have to try. And guess what? It really does! Damn, I'm SO good. The knife hurts some of life-important organs and the animal fells eventually killed on the ground. -Now she sees you,- Bellamy tells the dark skinned boy and when his eyes meet mine nods. On "cool kids'" language it means "Thanks". I saved his damned life and that's all I get? "Huh, he wants to play a "cool boy"?Then I'll be a "cool girl", "-I decide in my thoughts and don't even nod him back that means "You're welcome" on this language. Do you realize how far can I go? My feet touch the ground after the jump from the tree and I move in the way of the camp being accompanied with the delinquents' still shocked looks. -Get Clarke everything she needs,- Bellamy orders his "dogs" while the blonde hurries to the dropship, Finn and Wells carrying Jasper after her. I follow them to the second level and greet Monty and Octavia who look really worried. -Clarke, what should I do?- is my question -Help the boys to hold him still,- she answers pointing on the Googles.

I do as Griffin says and shut my eyes knowing I won't like the sight of what is going to happen. Hearing Jasper's screams is terrifying so after we can leave ours spots I decide to breath some fresh air outside. There is Bellamy entering the dropship and by how he looks I can understand he is not going to support my injured friend. -Bellamy, we didn't risk our own lives just to let him die now,- I remind him.- And you don't have the right to take his away. -Yeah, but I have the guts to do it,- he snaps and it makes me turn away from the older Blake quickly and head outside. What he's just told me was disgusting! How can some people be so selfish? Leaving the dropship I hear people starting to cheer looking at me. Guess who is their local hero now? -Make sure you've pulled all the bullets and Murphy's knife out!- I order thinking how strange these teen are. Just yesterday they were calling Clarke and me "privileged", not wanting to have any authorities and now Bellamy is their beloved leader and I'm associated with a "Commander". -You did good today,- suddenly there is Finn near me grinning. - I'm proud I have a friend like you,- he adds causing me to blush and look at the ground. -Stop! No,you know, carry on,- I chuckle and then add seriously.- How is he? -Clarke says there is hope but Bellamy... I interrupt Spacewalker shaking my head: -No, don't speak with me about him or I'll going to puke. Better call for the blondie to eat with us,- is my advice Three minutes later we are already standing near the line of delinquents who are giving up the bracelets for meat that we've brought them. What a stupid idea. It definitely was Blake's. -I guess I can have some meat for free,- I say to Murphy while taking one stick and smiling "innocently" -Hey, the rule says tha...,-he tries to stop me but gets interrupted by Collins -And I thought there were no rules,- my friend snaps at him and heroically takes one stick for himself and one for Clarke Looking at Murphy's surprised face I can't hold my laugh back. -I, I w-wish you saw your expression right, right now,- I try to tell him but find it really hard because of my endless giggles and everyone's wide smiles around me. -What so funny, Kane?-suddenly there is a voice behind. Great. Here he is.

-None of your damn business, Blake,- I retort turning to the guy with a serious look and leave noticing how his arms fell. Well, it was his fault. The next morning after my sleep (well, if you can call laying with your eyes closed listening to Jasper's groans "sleep"), I am sitting near the dropship making some knives for myself and my friends 'cause I FUCKING CARE about them, what you can't say abou... -Nia, we're going hunting, you are with us!-Bellamy calls me. -Speak of the devil...,- I retort and leave my spot. Yes, I'm still mad at him for what he said yesterday but I if stay in a camp a little longer listening to the Googles I'll loose my shit. The older Blake ignores my words and hands me a knife. -Uh, no, thanks, already have one. Or five, to be exact,- I refuse and show him my "collection". The boy seems impressed, don't doubt it.-Hey, Miller, I think? Please, take these 4 knives straight to Finn, you got this?- I ask a random guy who seems surprised but accepts them eventually. -Can we go now?-I hear Murphy's "pleads" and hurry to the haunting party deciding not to get in trouble. -No, Nia, you can't keep it! Give it back!- Bellamy orders me -But whyyy, you mean nothing to me and I don't follow your orders!- I retort stepping away from him. We are already back from hunting and are standing practically in the center of the camp with all the teens staring at us.

-I said give it to me,-he continues.- This creature will be a dinner for three people in the camp. -Then I'll give up my three dinners, okay?-I ask the older Blake and I swear, I see a look of worry in his eyes for a second. -As you wish,- he gives up turning away from me and leaving. Now I'm standing as a winner of the argument with this, as Bellamy called it, "creature". Why do guys think that if they say such a cute word "bunny", their masculinity will fade a way? Yes, you understood right, I petted a bunny. At first I was going to kill it, to be honest, but then I just looked at the animal carefully and decided not to. Moreover, I've already did really good on the hunt, they all should be thankful. The bunny is so soft due to his light brown fur that I even bring it to my face. My eyes meet Murphy's and he seems not to agree with Bellamy letting me keep it. I quickly look away not paying attention to his threatening look and head to the dropship. -Monty, hi, do you have a box or something?- I ask my friend on the second level. Monty is sitting next to Jasper and even doesn't turn his face to me when I enter. Of course, he has a reason for that, his best friend is in a really bad state. Who wouldn't be worried?

-Um, yeah, look in the corner,- he answers What corner? Huh, this information didn't help me at all but my decision is not to bother him right now so I just silently search for a place where to put my new friend. Finally, Roger is in his new "house". Yes,this is how I named my bunny. Don't ask why, I don't know myself, it was the first name I thought of. -Look after Roger for me, please?- I ask Monty.- His box would be here. -Yeah, yeah, okay,- he retorts still not turning to look at me. -Where do you think you are going?-Bellamy asks me when I almost reach the exit of the camp -UGHH, to get some fresh grass for Roger, why do you even care?- I snap at him sighing. -It is unsafe out there. And who on Earth is Roger?- our leader wonders -My bunny. Any more questions?- is my answer. -Yes, would you mind coming with me and teach some people to throw knives? That shocked me. Since when I'm asked to help with things like this? I totally like it, you know, so I agree and run out in the woods. AGAIN. Why do I always end up there and can't rest my ass in the some sort of safety of the camp?

#the 100 #the 100 imagine #bellamy x reader #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake #bellamy the 100 #Bellamy blake imagine #John myrphy #john murphy x reader #john murphy imagine

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thelanternlight · 4 years

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Why Are Millennials So Anxious And Unhappy?

Source

Here are some of the negative stereotypes of today’s young adults, known as millennials—that is, those born between 1981 and 1996: They’re entitled, shiftless, egocentric, hypersensitive to criticism, and unable to cope with the stresses of real life. But they’re also said to be diverse, open with their emotions, deeply empathetic, and interested in making substantive, important changes in the world they’ve grown into. The truth is, although no one can really agree about the millennial generation, one thing is fairly certain: They’re stressed out. Up to 17 percent of them are depressed, and 14 percent suffer from anxiety. Millennials seek psychotherapy more often than members of Generation X or other, earlier generations.

They may need it, too. Money is one of the most common focal points for millennials’ worries. Many of them have trouble finding jobs, are still living with their parents, or harbor serious concerns about making enough money to start their own lives in earnest. Today’s young people face greater financial difficulties than Americans from previous generations. Almost 30 percent of millennials see themselves as less well-off than they had expected to be, 10 years ago. They’re having trouble saving money, too, because of the 2008 recession, ballooning student-loan debts, and the rising cost of living.

But millennials’ money problems are only a part of the story. More importantly, these worries indicate just how concerned they are about what’s coming next—about making the right choices today in order to ensure a stable future. In truth, decision-making itself may be the number-one reason why millennials are so depressed and anxious, and why they feel the need for psychotherapy. I've previously written that many of my millennial clients are, for the first time, facing big choices that are likely to have lifelong consequences, and that they feel profoundly uncertain about how they should make these decisions. But there are other facets of decision-related anxiety, as well: Some young adults may find that they have too many choices and that trying to distinguish between their options is overwhelming. Others are seized by “analysis paralysis,” having difficulty seeing why one option is better than another, and feeling unable to make a choice at all.

At the age of 25, for instance, a young person is likely to confront most of life’s big decisions in the next 10-to-15 years. Metaphorically speaking, people in this position see their lives as a series of rooms, each of which is lined with doors. Whenever they make a choice, they walk through one door, only to realize that all the others have closed. Then, as they see it, they find themselves in a smaller room, surrounded by fewer doors than in the first. These doors, too, will all close when they walk through one In fact, every door selected leads to a room that is smaller still, until ultimately the people making choices imagine finding themselves in a long hallway, stretching out ahead to the edge of vision, with no doors (and no choices) left to make. This model looks even more dire when you consider the millennials’ realistic, money-related fears: ending up less successful than their parents or failing to support themselves at their current standard of living.

In addition, it’s important to remember to be kind to yourself when you’re going through a stressful time. Not everyone finds the right life partner, creates an artistic masterpiece or founds a successful company before the age of 30. If you’re hard on yourself in this way—expecting too much of yourself and feeling stuck—try to exercise more self-compassion. Don’t expect perfection. You’re allowed to make mistakes. Take careful note of the aspects of your choices that you can control, as well as those you can’t—and don’t blame yourself for not getting everything absolutely right. Rather, when you do make a decision, try to accept and gain comfort with the act of stepping purposefully into the unknown, even as you acknowledge that uncertainty is a part of living. Instead of berating yourself about making the “right decision” every time, just try to make the decision as well as you possibly can, using all of the information and resources available—and then, afterward, live with the outcome as naturally as possible, knowing that your deciding process was a good one.

That's all good and well but I feel like the summation of this article does not address the initial hardships outlined in the beginning. For me, I'm lucky enough to have a job that is 'relatively stable' but that has fluctuating shifts from day-to-day which causes me lack of sleep, anxiety, and interrupts my life significantly. My pay is adequate but not anywhere near (not even in the same ballpark) as what my parents were making at this age and employees at my company have gone without pay increases for a number of years now. Furthermore I'm also aware that coworkers of mine who started before me (particularly ones that started before the 2008 recession) were offered substantially higher wages for the same exact job coming in the door. So immediately there's a devaluation of my time and resources as an employee that separates me from older workers.

Perhaps what bothers me most is the constant dread that I'm going to be let go because the company is constantly striving for automation and reduction in headcount to save money. I have worked this job year after year knowing with complete sincerity that I could be let go at any moment despite how hard I've worked and how much time and effort and energy and sacrifice I've put into my job every day. There is no job security and therefore no real way to plan for the future because those plans get cancelled the minute my source of income is jeopardized. Don't get me wrong, I'm plenty fortunate and privileged. I recognize that and am extremely appreciative of it (which also prevents me from looking for other work because I'm wary of starting something entirely new and beginning again at square one). I don't know if I will ever be able to retire and that scares me a lot too. I literally lose sleep over it because I don't see a way out. A best-case scenario might look like me doing exactly the same thing until the day I die, all because of rising living costs, aging parents with medical needs and their own standard of living, and me trying to keep sane while building my own life. Vacations are very difficult to take because there aren't enough coworkers to cover me (and if there were that would indicate to management that there's a surplus of workers which would lead to firings). Working from home helps a great deal, however, because of travel time and expense and because it's my home where I feel safe. At least there's that (and to me that's a very big benefit that I cherish).

But the reality of things, the overwhelming "oh my god what am I doing and how am I supposed to handle all this" seems to get worse as I get older, not better. The picture isn't becoming more clear, it's becoming more complicated. This isn't the world that Gen X and prior generations know and still expect to be true. And I think that's a huge disconnect between us. I once mentioned this to a family member in her late 50s who said "well that's because you're not doing what you love, you're doing something you -have- to do." That's all good and well, but how many people do what they love? That doesn't seem even remotely like a reasonable goal to which one can aspire. If you fall into something that you enjoy doing then wow, that's awesome. But for the vast majority of us we're just trying to get through each day and it's agonizing. For me I feel robbed of so much time because the alternating shifts and extra hours and the sheer exhaustion of dealing with my work consumes weeks at a time on a constant, unbroken cycle. Working weekends means that I have random single days off during the week, which I accept joyfully don't get me wrong, but who can effectively recuperate from a ten-day stretch of odd hours in one day? My life feels unstable because I have no idea when I'll be working, IF I'll be working, and what I'll be doing from one week to the next. I'm slowly giving more and more of myself to a ship that may be sinking right beneath my feet. And if it does sink, I won't have much to show for it aside from experience but even that's a weakening commodity. We've all seen the memes of employers saying "you need to be fresh out of college with ten years experience", etc.

And all this goes without saying that I'm extremely stressed at work. I give 100% each day and I'm burned completely out. What I do is not something that's ever really been "in my wheelhouse" but I've learned and continued to strive to be the best at it that I can possibly be, despite how out of character it is. I'm frustrated and I'm losing sleep and I don't know how to get out of this situation. And I don't see any better alternative. Except the lottery.

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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What No One Tells You About Having a Baby

http://fashion-trendin.com/what-no-one-tells-you-about-having-a-baby/

What No One Tells You About Having a Baby

Sarah got pregnant in January 2017 and gave birth in October. She’s been shocked by the experience since the very beginning and worries the lack of education, support and dialogue around what it’s like to conceive, give birth to and care for a child does a disservice to women. She wants to speak honestly about what it’s like as much as she can to help reverse that. Below is her as-told-to story. -Haley Nahman

Realizing My Ignorance Early On

My husband and I were married for five years before we decided to start trying for a baby. Just a few months before I got pregnant, a close pregnant friend’s baby died the day she was due. She never found out why, but in doing my own research, I found out that one out of every 160 pregnancies in the U.S. ends in a late-term death of the baby, or stillbirth. In about a fourth of the cases, doctors can’t even find a possible cause. I had heard of people having miscarriages, but I’d previously thought that once you’ve passed four months, you’re pretty much home free.

It made me realize that if I’m an educated adult who lives in New York City and I didn’t know about this statistic, there have to be so many people out there who also have no idea. That she couldn’t find a support group in a fairly large city highlighted how so much of what women experience in pregnancy is left out of the cultural dialogue. So I approached my own pregnancy through that lens. It was always in the back of my mind that I didn’t know anything about having a baby, and that it could happen to me too.

Losing Control of My Body

I was really sick at the beginning of my pregnancy. People talk about morning sickness as a common symptom, but they act like you throw up once in the morning and it ends in four weeks. I was sick all day, every day for 18 weeks. I could not eat, couldn’t function, couldn’t go out to dinner with my husband, couldn’t have lunch with a girlfriend. It was the most alienating, isolating and miserable four months. I would go for three days eating the insides of bagels and little slices of apple because that was the only thing I didn’t puke up. That level of nausea is very hard to describe. My husband really didn’t understand, as wonderful and good as he is.

You can’t tell anyone that you’re pregnant for months, either, so you have to get up and go to work every day. I felt compromised in every possible way. Finally that ended, I started showing and the pregnancy part became a little bit more fun. But there were endless side effects that no one ever told me about, like an intensified sense of smell, horrible breakouts and other changes in my body. On the flip side, I also felt a certain type of euphoria the whole time, which was hormone-related.

The Weightiness of Pregnancy

Pregnancy wasn’t the blissfully happy, magical thing that everyone told me it would be. It’s only nine months, but it seems so much longer. Every day was different. I’d ask myself, “What’s going to change about my body today? Or my mindset? Or my relationship with my husband? Or my sex life? Or my relationship with people in my family?”

There’s a lot going on in your body when you’re pregnant; I felt so emotionally heavy through all of it. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders because every decision I made impacted me and this hopeless little thing that I was building. I also felt immediately so much closer to my mom, who I was already extremely close with. I would cry myself to sleep three nights a week, worried that my mom was going to die before I had the baby. I would try to explain all of this to my husband, and while he’s awesome, I don’t think he had the emotional capacity to understand what any of this would be like.

I can’t speak to the very real decisions people who have depression have to make when they’re pregnant (like if they’re going to continue with antidepressants); I don’t have that type of depression, but I felt emotionally heavy the entire time, and there weren’t a lot of people who I could talk to about it. Even though my friends who don’t have kids are empathetic, amazing people, they had no fucking clue what I was talking about. And my friends who did have kids, who did understand what I was talking about, were busy because they had kids.

Around the five-month mark, I had a real mental breakdown. I was inconsolable for a week. I couldn’t stop crying. On the one hand, I was very grateful that I was able to conceive and that I was making this baby, but I also felt like my choices were suddenly so limited. I felt kind of like my life was ending. My husband didn’t feel that way. But I just kept thinking, Holy shit. Why did I decide to do this? My whole life is about to get turned upside down. What if I didn’t really understand what the implications of that were? Did I really want this? I was questioning everything.

The Process of Giving Birth

I was pregnant all summer and gave birth on October 3rd. The process of giving birth was horrific. Once I got to the hospital, every step of giving birth was a trauma on my body, from the giant IV that they stuck in me to my water not breaking enough for the baby to come out. They had to re-break my water with what looked like a giant knitting needle. It was so gruesome and gross and painful. I was doing that kind of crying where I couldn’t breathe. I was in labor for almost 19 hours.

No one tells you so much of the horror of giving birth. It’s such a disservice to people, especially to people who don’t have access to the kind of care that I do. I had it better than most: I had incredible medical care at the best hospital in New York City. I saw a private doctor who doesn’t accept insurance in New York — it was a very expensive and rare opportunity that only a very lucky and privileged person would have.

I had a friend in Chicago who was pregnant at the same time I was. She had more of your “standard” experience, a standard doctor who took all sorts of insurance. I cannot tell you how different our experiences were. I had a sonogram every single time I went to the doctor; she had a sonogram twice. I went through maybe four types of genetic testing, some of which weren’t even offered to her. There were just so many ways in which her much more accessible medical care was subpar compared to what I got. It just wasn’t right. What’s more is I think that compared to most people, she was in a privileged position. A lot of families have it much worse than she did. Women are making the future of our species, and for most of them, the medical care is so far beneath what they deserve and need.

There Is a Lack of Dialogue

Did you know that you bleed for six to eight weeks after you have a baby? Because I had to wear adult diapers — no one ever told me that. No one ever told me that you look physically pregnant for months afterward. One study showed as many as six out of 10 women have a condition called diastasis recti where their abdominal muscles stretch so much that they separate and their bodies are often not capable of putting them back together without physical therapy. I never heard about that — I never read about that in a biology textbook. Like so many postpartum complications, it is also severely under-researched.

Part of the reason no one told me this stuff is that women forget; your body makes you forget what the experience was like to protect you. But also, people just don’t want to talk about it. This should be the shit you learn about in science class when you’re an eighth-grader! All of this should be normalized because it’s something women have to go through in order for the human species to continue.

I’ve heard people say, “They don’t tell you this stuff because if you knew you wouldn’t have a baby to begin with.” That’s not a reason not to give people medical, scientific information about their own bodies. There’s something inherently misogynist about it that this isn’t common knowledge.

After I had the baby, I had no clue what to do with him. Everyone says, “When they put that baby on your chest, you’re gonna immediately fall in love. It’ll be the best moment of your life!” When they put the baby on my chest, I honestly felt like he was an alien and I did not know what to do next. I didn’t really feel connected to him. It wasn’t a magical fireworks moment at all, and I felt really guilty about that. When I told other mothers that, they said things like, “Yeah, I didn’t love the baby for the first few weeks either.” That was good to know, but I wished I hadn’t spent weeks thinking I was missing a chip.

The Pressures of Motherhood

I am three and a half months postpartum, and my friends say it takes about a year for the hormones to level out. When I say that I don’t feel connected to my child, it’s not that I don’t feel a deep sense of responsibility and respect for this little creature. It’s just that I didn’t fall in love immediately. That glittery version of having a baby wasn’t reality for me. My stomach is still distended, I am bleeding into an adult diaper, I pee in my pants if I jump too fast, I cry all the time, I feel every emotion more deeply and I’m losing my hair because of the drastic change in my estrogen levels. The thought of anything happening to the baby is devastating, but what am I going to do? Sit up all night and stare at him? It’s such a clusterfuck of emotions, and it doesn’t stop.

I was told that I had to breastfeed, but I refused to do it. It was a decision I made that made me feel less tethered and weighed down since I was already feeling a lot of anxiety, pressure and depression about my life changing completely. Deciding not to breastfeed gave me a sense of autonomy and was the right choice for me. But when people hear me say that, they look at me like I have seven heads. You have no idea how many men have asked me about that decision. When I tell them, I feel like they look at me as though I’m a huge asshole for not feeding my baby solely from my body for six straight months.

Women Need More Support

Even though I’m a vocal person, I still feel shame for saying that I have postpartum depression. It’s almost like I think I don’t deserve to say it because other people have it worse. But the fact that it’s hard for me to say is cultural brainwashing. So I’m supposed to accept that this is my reality and that any amount of complaining makes me a bad mom or a bad woman? Or that I’m airing my dirty laundry in public, which is impolite? In reality, that is inaccurate and is why this problem persists. I love my baby, I love my husband and I know that all of this will work out. But I cry every single day. I feel sad and lonely.

We all have our opinions on how it feels to have a baby, but the lack of widely shared scientific, medical information about what happens to your body bothers me. Women are not properly prepared for and supported in motherhood. It makes me so angry. I don’t understand why women aren’t rioting in the streets. We need to make sure women are given proper care and proper help. We need to make sure women are not tricked into doing this, and that if they get pregnant and decide they don’t want the baby, they’re not villainized for having an abortion. I’m in a depression because I don’t see a way for it to get better for women without massive amounts of change. I’m one of the very lucky few — for most people, it’s even worse, and I can’t imagine that. I’ve never felt more militant about women’s rights, abortion rights issues and health care issues than I have after going through a pregnancy.

Photos by Louisiana Mei Gelpi; Art Direction by Emily Zirimis.

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