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coulsonlives · 1 year

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To the peep in my inbox here ya go, fuck it:

Tldr: an anti posts ship hate in a tag, a trans person tells them to tag it, the anti is offended and bullies them for months, and calls them a transphobe for fictional headcanons the anti also has, and calls them a number of slurs including crazy, cissy, etc, until they leave and possibly commit suicide.

The anti’s name is “Howl” and he’s @eightdoctor.

The victim is Jazz @angerissue @helicarrier.

For Howl, I looked through his blog to see if I could find anything on him, and he lives in the uk or across the pond, based on timezones, and he’s posted a lot of selfies so if you ever come across someone like this, steer fucking clear if you value your mental health. (This is readily accessible public info on his blog fwiw.) I feel sick to my stomach so I’ll just post all the shit I found.

I think it started with this,

Howl posted anti shit in a character tag:

https://eightdoctor.tumblr.com/post/672832902144376832/wait-this-person-is-so-crazy-check-this-shit

He was obviously looking to start shit and annoy people and be a ship policer, but Angerissue pointed this out and she got so much harassment in return.

Howl literally reblogged that ship post over and over again to shit on Angerissue with new little "damning things” he got from her huge HUGE blog that she ran, like did he just sit on her blog for hours to find these tiny things or wtf?? There’s so much stuff on her blog, I can’t even begin to think how he even found what he was posting. What happened to don’t like don’t read:

https://eightdoctor.tumblr.com/post/676090902015524864

After that came this:

https://eightdoctor.tumblr.com/post/676032972316688384/this-person-went-to-the-er-cuz-i-called-them-out

“Haha cissy”

“White savior tendencies”

What the actual fuck?

I looked at Angerissue’s posts and things to see if I could find any white savior narrative and I found literally nothing, not even anything about race at all.

“I wish they’d died in the er actually”

He literally encouraged his posse to bully her off tumblr, a bunch of antis joined in. Someone said Angerissue blocked them and it must have meant she was a homophobe (noo, it couldn’t be because they were harassing her, no way, she must have blocked them because she’s a homophobe, these fucking wankers with no compassion). Someone said “wow she posted all that instead of just apologizing” when nobody asked for an apology or even tried to talk to her, it was all attacks!

https://waxwingsfail.tumblr.com/post/672859227785773056/brooo-are-we-just-gonna-ignore-this

Look at all the checkboxes this guy checks off. He calls Angerissue ableist while being ableist himself (“this person is crazy”), and while Angerissue I’m guessing is disabled because she has migraines! And lots of other things he can’t even substantiate, while he acts hateful about cis people himself and calls her a “cissy”. I’m fucking LIVID.

I guess nobody actually went to Angerissue to talk to her, they just jumped into the mob with their pitchforks.

The only KIND OF questionable thing was “female pronouns” but a lot of people make that mistake and I checked Angerissue’s blog, she had changed it?? And any thing else just seems like bad wording, I don’t see any actual transphobia, she checks out to be an actually good person and her comments on her blog even say she was open to fixing things she does wrong, I just.

All of Angerissue’s phrasing was easily explained by ignorance or just bad wording, and I know someone who gets migraines, sometimes you just fuck up your words (idr what the name for that is) so that’s a possibility too, why attribute such tiny fuckups to malice right out of the gate?!

(Don’t even get me started on Howl’s about page. He’s obviously an anti so this whole thing just reeks of a smear campaign.)

Also Howl has a headcanon of his own about Bruce Banner (the character Angerissue writes and Howls’ special interest) having internalized homophobia too, so why did he say “lol they made them a transphobe with their whole chest” about Angerissue like it was an attack on her as a person?? And say “can we bully her off the website now”?

https://eightdoctor.tumblr.com/post/180778623661/what-are-your-top-10-headcanons-about-bruce

He was shitting on Angerissue and telling people to bully her for literally the same headcanon he has! What a hypocrite.

I also found this joke post a long time back into his blog, but obviously it’s not just a joke for him, it’s something he bullied Angerissue over because he couldn’t accept her own headcanons and he even bullied her over things he had the same headcanon for (but he didn’t mention that of course, because if Angerissue was horrible for having that headcanon it would mean he was too, and he couldn’t have that could he?):

https://eightdoctor.tumblr.com/post/177280551336

Also Howl captured a paragraph where Angerissue explained Bruce Banner’s mental illness started in his childhood then got worse when he met another character (Wanda maximoff), and right below that, even tho the EVIDENCE WAS RIGHT THERE IN THE CAPTURE, Howl accused Angerissue of making that new character cause Bruce Banner’s mental illness instead of it starting in his youth (here, under the reblog with the weird dick comment...)

This went on for months apparently.

The worst part is, Angerissue says she is nonbinary on her blog so I can’t imagine how hard this was for her, imagine being called a transphobe for a headcanon by someone who has the same headcanon.

Edit: Thanks to a comment I just learned that “cissy” is a derogatory slur made towards cis people, so by calling Angerissue “cissy” Howl was implying she wasn’t trans (or nonbinary), but cis. If that isn’t transphobic, idk what is. You can’t take identities away to bully or punish people, holy shit.

Now Angerissue seems to have not been on for months, and she made some very worrying posts about killing herself. I was talking to one of her friends which is how I found about all this, and they haven’t heard from her either, even though they’ve been in good contact for a year. Angerissue put ten years of her life into a passion character, she made gut-wrenchingly beautiful gifs and fics and made a mainstay blog for the roleplay commuity, and this is what she got. This was the kind of person she was. I hope she’s still alive but I don’t know if she is, and I’m horrified and sick and something needs to be done even if that isn’t the case.

THIS ISNT FUNNY, ITS NOT A FUCKING JOKE, STOP BULLYING PEOPLE OVER FUCKING HEADCANONS OR HONEST MISTAKES BECAUSE YOU WANT A TEMPORARY LAUGH ABOUT HOW (NOT) MORALLY SUPERIOR YOU ARE, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKS.

Footnote edit 1: Confirmation directly from Jazz's blog that Howl spent at least 3 hours initially on her blog to dig around for things, then posted more things after a month, and a lot more things that prove Howl's accusations about her were false.

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a-froger-epic · 3 years

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About the Interview

Since I posted the interview with J - a woman who has described herself to me as one of Queen’s first “groupies” - there has naturally been a lot of discussion about the veracity of the interview, the source, and my own motivations in posting it. I fully expected that, and I will say once more that nobody (apart from a small handful of anonymous trolls) has behaved inappropriately in these discussions. I have not received any “hate” because of this. There is no “drama”. Nobody is wrong, or a party-pooper, or attacking me by expressing their doubts. I have seen some awful bile spat at people anonymously recently, and that kind of behaviour has got to stop.

Now, if you don't think I am genuine, there is obviously nothing I can do about that.

However, what I am hoping to do here is add as much transparency as I can in regard to how and why the interview happened, and also share my own full thoughts on it with you.

First things first. No unverified, anonymous source can be seen as definitive proof of anything, ever. That is my stance. I have myself been criticised for so much as suggesting that other anonymous sources tied in with Freddie’s history are not 100% proof of one thing or another. But for me, an anonymous source can never mean more than at best: this seems very likely, but we can’t be 100% certain.

Perhaps I was naive to think that what I considered to be enough of a disclaimer at the beginning of the interview, was enough. My intention was to express that while I, personally, believe J to be a) the person she says she is and b) genuine about what she remembers, that does not mean I believe everything she has told me is fact or happened in that exact way. I thought this was obvious. Perhaps I was unclear, and I apologise for that.

So let me be clear. There is nobody in the world who has perfect, factual recollections of what happened to them almost 50 years ago. Not even J herself claims for one moment that this is the case. She mentions several times that these are old memories from when she was very young, that she indulged in recreational drugs at the time, and that her views - of course - carry a personal bias. All this, I thought, would be enough for readers to know not to take everything they read at face value.

All of the above is why I kept my own thoughts and notes to a minimum within the interview, why I didn’t correct or point out obvious mistakes. I simply assumed that everybody would go away and read the interview against all the sources and information they already have, as I have done myself.

But maybe that was somewhat irresponsible of me, and I should have been the first person to dig into how J’s memories fit in (or don’t) with the information which is already out there, and how to put the two together. While I refrained from sharing all my thoughts alongside the interview (although I have fragmentally done so in response to other people since), others like @quirkysubject (here), @iwilltrytobereasonable (here), @emmaandorlando (here), @sarinataylor and @talkingismylifewrites (here) all had some very good things to say. All of them make excellent points. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES SEND THEM NASTY MESSAGES. I frankly can’t believe I have to say this at all.

I found myself in a difficult position, because as the person who had spoken to J and asked her all these questions, I did not feel as though I could dissect her words as freely as anybody else. She has put a lot of trust in me, and I do not want her to think that I question her honesty and intentions. Because I don’t. If I hadn’t felt as sure as I reasonably can be that she is the person she says she is, and that her story is genuine from her perspective, if I had been in any doubt about that, I would not have made it public.

Here's the thing:

Even if you don't believe J knew the boys, her recollections of the time period alone are still valuable and incredibly interesting, giving us a glimpse of early 1970s London.

But I do believe J. Why?

Before I answer that, let me just say: I fully realise that of course the fact that it was my story J happened across, and me she decided to speak to because of it, makes me more inclined to want to believe her. However, other authors I'm friends with, as well as myself, have received messages from older people several times before. It does trigger nostalgia when a story is very strongly rooted in a time somebody has lived through. There are older people in the fandom. (I recently ran a poll and all age groups were represented even here on Tumblr.)

Now, on to the reasons why my communication with J has felt nothing but authentic to me.

1. She was never in any rush to get in touch with me or relate information to me. It took her a few days to email me after she first spoke to me in the comment section, where I begged her to please get in touch. She then sent me the same email five times, over two days, because she couldn’t quite work my email address out at first.

I ended up asking several questions more than once to get an answer because they were overlooked. The conversation went off on tangents, and we chatted about her weekend at her friend’s house (and I was presented with a beautiful snapshot of the beach), the memory box her daughter made for her, her work and other things. There were stretches of days at a time when J simply didn’t find the time to get back to me. And I may have badgered her with a few too many emails asking her to please remember to answer my questions when she has a moment. In short, it was the opposite of somebody rushing to share their story. I was doing all the rushing. (I realise that I am asking you to take my word for this, but this did not all happen in a vacuum. @plainxte, @quirkysubject, @fingersfallingupwards, @onegoldenglance and @freddieofhearts witnessed the process first-hand, as well as my excitement and some of J’s original emails.)

2. J was very trusting. I know her full name, where she lives and her place of work. She sent me current pictures of herself and her husband unprompted. At no point did she ask me not to reveal her identity, that is a call I made because I did not want to expose her to any possible harassment.

3. There were a few things in her account of what she remembered which were so obviously at odds with what we know to be true - it’s well-known John is a bit taller than Roger, for example, but J remembered him shorter, Queen went to Sydney in ‘85, J remember it as ‘84 - that I couldn’t help but think, if I was somebody who was trying to convince others of a made up story, the first thing I would surely do is make absolutely certain to get the facts which are easily findable right. Instead, J always lead with: this was all a long time ago, I’m sorry, I’m doing my best trying to remember.

I realise that a very clever hoaxer could do all this and convince me. But here the question has to be, to what end? This would be quite an act for someone to arrange, to make it seem quite so naturalistic. Nobody would go through the trouble of doing that for nothing. There’s no monetary gain. Scandal? There is nothing scandalous in the interview. Attention? J is barely an active member of the fandom. She has managed to create a Tumblr though: @since72. There is one post currently.

It also took her a couple of days to get back to me after I posted the interview.

In brief, I have no logical explanation for why somebody would go to these lengths and fool me so cleverly, with such attention to detail, when there seems to be nothing in it for them. Why then did J bother to talk to me at all? What was her motivation? Well, after I thanked her profusely for doing this, she simply said that she felt she owed me as reading my story had brought back so many memories for her.

All of the above is why I strongly feel that J is very much real and genuine. But I completely understand that it all hinges on the fact that in order to believe everything I say is true, you would have to trust me. And I know that as I am just another person on the internet, you have no reason to do that. But I’ll get to me in a moment.

Here are a few more doubts which I have seen come up with regard to J.

Why would she be reading fanfiction about people she knew? That’s weird.

To be perfectly honest, exactly that was my first reaction, too. But then I thought about it and talked to friends about it.

Firstly, J says herself that she was never a close friend. I agree that it would be far weirder to read fanfiction about somebody you knew very well. Having said that, John Deacon’s son has been known to read Queen fanfic about his father (and read it out on his YouTube channel). But I think given that it’s been half a century and J has been watching Queen in the public eye ever since, it isn’t really all that strange to read about fictional versions of them.

Secondly, a friend of mine noticed that it seems as though older people in the fandom find J overall more credible than younger people. I’m 35, and it is true that the older we get, the more we look for the things which remind us of our younger years. There is an urge to remember and re-live. You can trust me on this, or you can ask anyone over the age of 30 or 40. Nostalgia is real, and it only comes to you with age. Why would somebody who had briefly brushed shoulders with people who later became celebrities not take an interest in them later? It seems natural that she would. As J says, she never stopped being a fan of Queen’s music and came across fanfic when she looked up Adam Lambert. Is it really so strange that she would find fanfic about them entertaining? Having given it all this thought, I really don’t think so.

It’s unrealistic that she was so young.

This is something I have to disagree with. Times were different. Pete Townshend entered Ealing Art School at age 16, according to Wikipedia. My mother (currently 62) moved 600km away from home at the age of 15 to study piano at music college. I myself moved out from home at 17 (no tragic reasons whatsoever), but that’s beside the point. I have seen it framed in a way where it was said that “It isn’t realistic that a 16-year-old was hanging out with Queen who were all in their 20s”. I agree, it would be a little strange if the story was that one 16-year-old girl was hanging out with Queen by herself as their good buddy. But that is not the story. (Even though it is well-known that during the 60s and 70s, young teenaged groupies did in fact hang out with rock groups very frequently. Of course, J was not that kind of groupie.) She was simply part of a large circle of friends, by her own admission not a close friend of the band. Personally, I struggle to see how this is unrealistic in any way.

It seems super suspicious that she lost her photos in a flood.

Yes, it does. I agree. J realises that, too.

Like @quirkysubject said in her post, I don’t blame anyone who is too sceptical at this point. But there actually was a pretty bad flood in Australia in 1988.

There are mistakes in J’s story!

Yes, there are! Let me point them out to you. I already mentioned John’s height and Queen being in Australia in ‘85, not ‘84. I also think that her perception that Freddie was taller than Roger in ‘72, but no longer in the 80s, had everything to do with platform shoes. I have to say that I did ask J some questions which I knew were things which are almost impossible to remember about people you weren’t particularly close to. I knew there was no way she would be able to accurately recall their heights, but I still wanted to know what the impression was which she had come away with. I don’t for one moment think she could possibly know why and if Freddie’s nickname was really ‘Freddie Baby’ at EAS well before she went there. But I still wanted to hear what she thought of that. This is why I stated specifically that this entire interview consists of one woman’s subjective opinions and memories. That alone means you can absolutely not take any of it as definitive fact. That just isn’t how memory works.

Kensington Market and the stall:

J’s answers on this one thoroughly confused me. Not only did she say that while she saw Freddie at the market a lot, Roger was hardly ever there, but there was also some Indian man working at the stall during the week (who I don’t think could have been Freddie’s father). She saw Freddie at multiple stalls, a girl named Jill also worked at the stall… and J was under the impression that Roger and Freddie hadn’t even started the stall. None of this made a whole lot of sense to me, until somebody pointed out that the original stall owned by Roger and Freddie must have closed in the second half of 1971. (Sources: Queen in Cornwall & Queen: As it Began)

It is confirmed (same sources as above) that Freddie worked at the market until as late as 1974. I think it is therefore entirely possible that J would have seen him working at Alan’s stall, or helping out at other stalls, and the likelihood that Roger would have come to hang out with him on a weekend is fairly high, in my opinion. Later, reading about Freddie and Roger running a stall, J would have had no reason to think that this wasn’t the same stall she had seen them at. And yes, this is of course only a theory.

The gay pride march:

@rushingheadlong, who has recently done a lot of fantastic research about Tim, confirms that there’s no chance (as far as we know) that Tim could have been at the march. Did any of them really go? Is J misremembering entirely? Could it be that one of them or two of them went, and looking back, J remembers it as all of them (minus John, however) because she was used to mostly seeing them all together? Does she remember them from another protest march and got it mixed up with the gay rights march? I can’t say. The march and who exactly went is a big question mark. Even J herself is only “pretty sure” that they were all there, and I have to say, I can’t tell you who was where exactly when I think back to when I was 16. Certainly not when there was a big group of people around. And that was only 20 years ago for me.

Lastly, I’m going to try and use the guide our awesome local historian @emmaandorlando provided on how to analyse new sources. Of course, I’m not a historian (and I’m also partly the source by being the interviewer, so I can perhaps only do this impertectly), but let’s give it a go.

1. Who wrote this document?

‘Written historical records were created by individuals in a specific historical setting for a particular purpose. Until you know who created the document you have read, you cannot know why it was created or what meanings its author intended to impart by creating it’.

In this case, the answer is two-fold because essentially I wrote the interview, in as far as that I asked the questions, I gave it shape and presented it in the form in which it came, but the answers are J’s. I completely understand that this is already a big stumbling block for many, because not only am I presenting her as an anonymous source, but many of you don’t know anything about me. If you follow me on Tumblr, you will know that I have shared more with the internet than is probably wise. But still, I am somebody you know little about, presenting to you a person you know even less about. Whether you trust me or not is entirely down to your own judgement and instinct, and that will be different for everybody.

(I’ve seen it said that I’m plugging my own work through this interview. If that was my plan, I’m afraid it’s failed miserably. I looked, and DoA has gained a whopping 2 or 3 kudos.)

2. Who is the intended audience?

‘The relationship between author and audience is one of the most basic elements of communication and one that will tell you much about the purpose of the document. Think of the difference between the audience for a novel and that for a diary, or for a law and for a secret treaty. Knowing the audience allows you to begin to ask important questions, such as; “Should I believe what I am being told?”’

The intended audience is the Queen fandom on Tumblr and AO3. I have no interest in sharing this anywhere else because I’m not familiar with the other fan communities (Facebook? Instagram?) and wouldn’t know how to go about it. For J, the intended audience was mostly me, an author she likes who was very interested in her memories.

3. Why was this document written?

‘Everything is written for a reason. Understanding the purpose of a historical document is critical to analysing the strategies that the author employs within it. A document intended to convince will employ logic; a document intended to entertain will employ fancy; a document attempting to motivate will employ emotional appeals. In order to find these strategies, you must know what purpose the document was intended to serve.’

I got really, really excited. That is the reason. When J got in touch with me, I had a decision to make. I could ask her all the questions I wanted privately and share her answers only with my "inner circle” of fandom friends, or I could share everything with the fandom spaces where I’ve been very active in the last two years. I wanted to share the excitement and decided to do the latter.

I also wanted to present the interview in a way where it would be an engaging, well-structured read and not simply all of her emails to me dumped here with a quick ‘there you go’. So I tried to wrap it in a beautiful “package”, which is why I asked her for her art, for example.

4. What type of document is this?

‘The form of a document is vital to its purpose. The form or genre in which a document appears is always carefully chosen. Genre contains its own conventions, which fulfil the expectations of author and audience.’

An interview, written by somebody who has never interviewed anyone before.

5. Can I believe this document?

‘To be successful, a document designed to persuade, to recount events, or to motivate people to action must be believable to its audience. For the critical historical reader, it is that very believability that must be examined. Every author has a point of view, and exposing the assumptions of the document is an essential task for the reader.

You must treat all claims sceptically (even while admiring audacity, rhetorical tricks, and clever comparisons). One question you certainly want to ask is, “is this a likely story?” Testing the credibility of a document means looking at it from the other side.’

This is for all of you to decide for yourselves, and that was always the case. Far be it from me to be upset with anyone who straight up doesn’t believe a word I say, doesn’t believe J is real or any other scepticism. I’ll say it again, DO NOT harass anyone for expressing their opinions on this! It is NOT WRONG to discuss a new source! It’s wonderful that people are doing it!

And so, we come to that last question: Is this a likely story?

Personally, I can firmly answer that with: Yes. In my personal opinion, it is. I find J’s story very likely and there is close to nothing that makes me question that these are indeed her real memories. But given the nature of human memory, they are just as imperfect as anybody else’s and do not, and should not, supersede any factual, verified information we already have.

With that, I hope to have provided a bit more clarity and transparency, and leave you - as before - to make up your own minds.

#the interview #my thoughts #others have had their say so here is mine #in detail #long post

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rachelthompsonauthor · 3 years

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What is social proof? It’s a marketing concept that we are all inadvertently, unknowingly contributing to every time we click on, retweet, like, reply or comment, and share any kind of social media, article, or blog post on the net. Technically, social proof, as defined by Sprout Social is:

The concept that people will follow the actions of the masses. The idea is that since so many other people behave in a certain way, it must be the correct behavior.

Social Proof and Me

As an author, social media is a hugely important part of my author platform, as it is for any writer or blogger. This is how we connect with readers now, even before the pandemic. Virtual, online events are now the norm. Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube Live video discussions are the new book signings. Twitter chats are weekly on any number of topics; I have two of my own, in fact, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est.

All important for visibility, branding, and most importantly, connection.

However…there’s a limit. I reached my limit over the course of this past year. It didn’t come all at once. It came, little by little, reaching a peak this past month or so.

Why? How? Me, the so-called social media expert?

Access. Like many people, I have issues with the incredible level of access Facebook gives people once we friend them without our consent. PMs (private messages) are automatic, now with the ability for people to call, voice, and video message us, with no option to shut these options to OFF unless we unfriend the person (we can, however, mute a specific conversation). Technically, we do give them consent in the legal mumbo jumbo we all agreed to when we joined back in the 2010s.

I am not okay with this. And Facebook doesn’t care. Nobody cares. You’re probably thinking, “Geez, Karen. Shut up, already. Stop your whining, white lady.” I get it. I do. First-world problems.

I counter with: I hear you. It’s also part of my business. A huge part. Here’s why:

As someone who manages over 70+ various social media accounts as part of my BadRedhead Media business, plus my own accounts as well, Facebook requires I have a personal account in order to manage all those other Pages. I do understand why, particularly with all the ridiculousness of the past four years with the abundance of fake accounts, fake news, and such.

As a survivor of sexual abuse and stalking, this is ultra-concerning to me. So, what happened this past month or so? Suffice it to say, one person repeatedly tried calling me. I never pick up Facebook calls, especially if I don’t know you. Another left me a few voice messages saying they were offended by something.

Yet another left me another message in ALL SHOUTY CAPS that she didn’t find what I posted inspirational enough and she expected better from someone who is “supposedly on the side of authors.”

Oh, and there is the one lady who started replying on ALL my posts to the kind people who did comment that she didn’t think I replied often enough or to her satisfaction.

Well. I’ve been criticized before. You should read some of my 1-star reviews. There’s plenty!

But, for whatever reason, this struck a chord. I got up in my feels. I cried. I talked with one of them and we worked it out because we like and respect each other’s work in the mental health space. The others I blocked. It’s darn frustrating to donate hours of my time each week to helping writers solely because I want to, only to be told it’s not enough. Like, seriously? Fuck off.

My blood raged. My heart sank. Understandable, right?

But what really made me angry is that I put myself in that position by being available. I accepted that ‘it is what it is.’ This is what the social media platforms have given us, so that’s what I have to work within.

I’m too available. It’s too easy to leave me shitty messages. This is why people hire people like me – to handle this crap for them! So they don’t have to read these ridiculous criticisms from judgy people who apparently have nothing better to do or are having a bad day.

And I get bad days. It’s a damn pandemic. We’re all struggling. Where’s the damn compassion for one another?

I have a dislike/hate relationship with Facebook anyway, since about ten or so years ago when I discovered that a past love had died by suicide by going to his personal profile and seeing, “RIP dude,” messages there. We had spoken early that day. It still haunts me.

So…what to do? I’m claiming my time. I’m not posting to my personal Facebook profile right now. I’m ignoring it. I am checking my Pages and of course, my client Pages. When I feel like I can face it again, I will cull my ‘friends’ down from *checks real quick* 4385 people to maybe, I don’t know, the few hundred in my groups, many of whom I do know and treasure.

Social Proof and You

If you’re a writer, social proof matters. This is the world we live in. Publishing is not only writing.

You need to be ‘findable,’ not only on Google, but also on each individual social platform, so your readers can learn more about you and hopefully, buy your books. If you go the traditional route, publishers and agents want to know how many followers you have (easily upped by buying fake followers or likes from Fiverr or wherever). I suggest not doing that, because:

1) fake followers don’t buy books

2) it’s usually pretty obvious when you have fake followers because they’re all foreign names, have questionable bios, and no tweets

3) do you really want to start your publishing career with a lie?

They also want to know what you post, how often, and what your branding is. If you’re an indie author, honestly, the same applies. Social proof is about connection, building relationships, and authenticity. I’ve believed that since I started my business and writing career way back in 2011, and I stand by it now. Start slow, grow slow. It’s not a race.

I’m the furthest thing you’ll even find from a conspiracy theorist – I don’t believe in chemtrails, pizza parlor cabals, or that the earth is flat. However, I am a realist. Watch The Social Dilemma sometime. These huge tech companies share our data without our knowledge or consent (Cambridge Analytics, anyone?). Younger generations are so used to this, they don’t really care – ask them.

(My kids think having a chip implanted in their hands with all their data is a fabulous idea. “So much easier than having to talk and repeat everything over and over. Just scan me and be done with it,” says my daughter Anya (21). “Agree,” grunts my son, Lukas (15). Buy stuff, go to the doctor, whatever. Scan and go. Talk with any GenZ kid, you’ll likely get a similar answer. They’ve been tracked since birth everywhere. They don’t know life without a computer, tablet, or phone in their hands.)

Know that whatever we do, it’s all part of each platforms’ AI, and they share data, which is why that darling pair of shoes you just saw on Amazon is now showing up on Google, Facebook, Twitter, and every website you visit going forward. It’s all about the money, and they all get a piece of that affiliate link.

Every bit of every click is recorded, even when you’re watching videos on YouTube, or a subscription service like Netflix, or perusing goods on Amazon. It’s all connected. I’m not shocked or surprised by any of this, are you?

It’s Not Personal

What people say to us and about us is ultimately incredibly revealing about them. We know this, at an intellectual, psychological, and emotional level. Still, when people say mean things, it hurts. We’re human.

Does it matter in the overall scope of our lives? Who can say. It matters at that moment. It can matter when it comes to overall visibility when you’re marketing your book(s) or trying to get that book contract or interview. Only you can say if it matters to you.

Already a longtime fan of THE FOUR AGREEMENTS by Don Miguel Ruiz, I took a moment to reorient myself with this one agreement: Don’t take anything personally. I also stumbled across an excellent short and entertaining TEDTalk by Frederick Imbo. His main message to stop taking things personally is two-fold;

It’s not about me. Look at the other person’s intention and

It IS about me. Give yourself some empathy. Speak up. Ask questions. Pay attention to how you feel and be vulnerable with your needs.

I’m glad I was able to, inadvertently, employ point #2 and work out some issues with one of the people by telling him what he said made me cry. He apologized. I apologized. We talked it through and we’re still friends.

Ultimately, social media is what we contribute to it. What we make it. How much we allow of it into our lives. Social proof is going along with the tide. I’ve been in this space since 2008. Being connected to others is a big part of the work I do to help and support not only other writers, but also other childhood sexual abuse survivors. However, I’ve reached that point. I knew it was coming.

I’m not shutting my doors. I’m just adding a screen. With a strong lock.

***

Read more about Rachel’s experiences in the award-winning book, Broken Pieces.

She goes into more detail about living with PTSD and realizing the effects of how being a survivor affected her life in

Broken Places, available in print everywhere!

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apparitionism · 5 years

Text

Mercury 10

Here’s some more Mercury. I’ll keep this short: there were previous parts—nine of them, in fact!—and they are easily findable on my tumblr. In the story so far, stuff happened, and people said words. Obviously I lied about part 9 being the penultimate part, as you’ll see from the “TBC” at the end of this one. Turns out I wanted people (in particular, two people) to say more words (mostly to each other) than I had originally planned. What a surprise.

Mercury 10

“This is very very bad,” Pete reaffirmed. “The thing works! So why didn’t neutralizing it do anything? People believe what you say through it, so it’s obviously artifacty, and it got that way because people believed what Orson Welles said through it. Right? What’s the problem?”

Helena’s eyes widened, her shoulders fell, and she tilted her head—clearly struck by something consequential. She drew in a huge breath, and her exhale was “But Pete!” Myka had never heard her say his name with that much enthusiasm. “They didn’t believe it. They didn’t. The press exaggerated—even, one might say, invented—the supposed panic. Charles said it, that in England no one imagined that the Americans would be so foolish as to fall for such a thing, and haven’t they ever heard of Halloween, because people know there isn’t a ghost. They believe it, but only for fun.”

Myka couldn’t hold back an eye-widened head-tilt of her own. “Wait—Charles said it?”

“I may have...” Helena cleared her throat. “I may have done a bit of research. Regarding myself.” She flicked her gaze to Ida, who closed her eyes and whispered “laudanum.” Helena cleared her throat again. “Myself, who of course was not myself as myself, but rather myself as represented by Charles. In this salient case, during a radio interview in which he participated with Mr. Orson Welles. “

“Egomaniac!” Pete coughed.

“My ego notwithstanding, he is—was—my brother. Hearing his voice. Ghosts... for some reason, I didn’t expect ‘H.G. Wells’ to sound like him, yet... it was Charles.” She shook herself. “But listen to me, Pete: the microphone works as it does, with whatever downside it has, but there must be another component. Most people didn’t believe in the invasion. But they believed that others believed in the invasion.”

“You’re making my head hurt,” he complained.

“I read about that,” Myka said. “There really couldn’t have been any kind of huge panic, because almost everybody in the country was listening to the Chase and Sanborn Hour that night, not the Mercury Theatre.”

“About which I’m somewhat offended,” Helena said, but her tone was warm.

Myka smiled. “You would be. Anyway, right, there was a lot of sensationalist newspaper coverage of the supposed panic, but it was really just a good story.”

“Oh, now you think it’s a good story?” Still warm. Affectionate.

“The story of the panic, not aliens with the flu,” Myka said, and that she could respond to that tone with these familiar teases was also movement in the right direction. “People like it when other people get overexcited. It makes them feel superior. ‘I didn’t panic, but the gullible people did.’”

Pete said, “I don’t feel superior right now. I thought I had it. I mean, I believe that you believe that there’s another part to the thing, but what would it be?”

“Something press-related?” Helena tried. “Newspaper-related? The papers sold the story to the public.”

Now Pete was the one with widening eyes. “Wait. Really? Press, newspapers, Orson Welles. Seriously?”

“I’m speculating, but yes, I’m serious—”

“Ohmygodohmygod!” he exclaimed, then yelped at Ida, “Tell me, tell me, tell me! It’s gotta be here. I’ll bet a zillion dollars that it’s here. And I’m right, so don’t take that bet!”

“Don’t take what bet? What’s here?” Ida asked.

“Imagine me in a snow globe.” Then he said, low and slow, “Rosebud.”

“Oh,” Ida said. “I see. And that’s ironic, what with all that not-seeing, earlier.”

“Spielberg loaned it to ya, didn’t he? For the centennial, didn’t he? Good old Orson’s hundredth birthday. Rosebud!” His face was barely wide enough for his grin, and it occurred to Myka that this really was close to being Pete’s dream case. All it needed now was a few comic books and a stripper... a Pete-voice in her head said, “That’s what every case needs.”

Outside Myka’s head, Helena said a confused, “A flower?”

“No,” Pete said, “no, no no!” His clear glee at being able to make this reveal stopped Myka from jumping it to do it. “Not a flower. A sled!” Helena’s expression indicated that she didn’t find the reveal very revealing. “Citizen Kane, Hearst, newspapers!” he shouted. “You’re five thousand percent right! Ida, what’s the key to everything in the movie?”

Ida nodded. “Rosebud.”

“Unlocking some next-level microphone mojo, I bet,” Pete said, and Myka had to admit that it made a certain amount of sense, at least from the usual inside-out-pretzel perspective demanded by artifacts, which, if he was right, really did get together for canasta parties, or their equally-arcane-rules-equivalent, after all. “That’s what we gotta bag,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”

“Of course I do,” Ida said. “The Welles exhibit at the museum.”

“Then off we go!” He was gesturing with the Farnsworth, waving his other arm too, a windmill of excitement—obviously he wanted to see the prop even more than he wanted to bag it in any sort of artifactual sense.

Helena caught his flailing Farnsworth hand. “Wait. Before we do. As there’s been this... delay. I must ask a favor. Disconnect the Farnsworth.”

“That’s a favor to me too,” Claudia said from it, “because I’m getting seasick from the view.”

Pete said, “I was gonna hang up anyway, but if you want it to be as a favor, I—”

“That is not the favor,” Helena said, and she’d lost all her animation of moments before. She’d also formalized her voice, and that difference make Myka’s hands and feet chill with worry, even as fight-or-flight agitation heated her gut.

Pete closed the Farnsworth and raised his eyebrows at Helena. “So what’s the favor?”

“You used the artifact,” she said, and Pete gave her his “duh” head-shake. “Thus the first use does not result in some desperate desire to disappear.”

“Here’s looking at me, kid,” Pete agreed, and Helena gave him her... well, whatever the opposite of a “duh” head-shake was. “Sign you up for a seminar on everything Hollywood, check. So?”

“So,” Helena said, “I would like to. Also. Myself. Use it.”

Of all the things Myka might have expected to hear... “Use it?” she asked. “Why?”

Helena kept her eyes on Pete. “To resolve. A situation.”

“A situation...” he began, but then he snapped his fingers. “Got it. The bad kind of leading-ladies tension.”

“I refuse to let anybody say anything else to me through that thing,” Myka declared.

Now Helena did slide her gaze at Myka. “I don’t want to use it on you. I want to use it on her.”

“Me?” Ida said. It was the first time Myka had heard her sound genuinely alarmed. “Is it because I asked for the leading-lady distraction? I didn’t mean—”

“No, no,” Pete said. “Another her. I get it for real now. It’s an ex-girlfriend thing. Sort of. Somebody else’s girlfriend, when you really think about—”

“Not for personal gain,” Myka muttered, but that wasn’t even true. Pete played with artifacts all the time, and if that wasn’t—

“Now you don’t get it,” Pete said. “I’m pretty sure this is H.G. trying to be a standup guy, letting her down easy.”

“Seems like that would be for Helena’s benefit too.” Now Myka was the one actively not looking at Helena.

Pete said, “It really isn’t. Or if it is, the Warehouse probably knows it owes her. Owes them both.” What about what it owes me, Myka wanted to say, but Pete was busy telling Helena, “My only problem with doing you this favor, which really isn’t even a favor, is the logistics. We don’t even know if she’s here at the fair anymore.”

“Or we do,” Helena said, with an apologetic wince at Myka.

The wince gave Myka impetus: “No matter what the Warehouse owes anybody, it isn’t ethical and you know it. You’d be doing to her exactly what they did to you.”

“It is in no way what they did to me. This would be to give her peace, not to punish her.”

“It’s you taking away her agency. Thinking you know what’s best for her. If that’s okay, why shouldn’t I use it on you instead?” That earned her the opposite-of-duh head-shake. “To give you peace. Turn you back into pure, sainted Emily Lake, because that would make both of them, Emily Lake and her girlfriend, feel a lot more peaceful. And you could go and be her. You wanted us to kill you anyway, and let her live.”

She shouldn’t have said that, and she knew it, viscerally, when Helena’s jaw froze. “You acquiesced to that plan,” she said, at her most cold, “and with only a token protest. Don’t blame me for that.”

And Myka hadn’t known how ready she was, how she had for some time been so very ready, to say cutting words about martyrdom and people who melodramatically wanted the last thing they saw to be the sky, but Pete broke her train of thought with a musing, “We do convince people that they did mushrooms all the time. We think we know that’s what’s best for them.”

“She deserves peace,” Helena pressed, her jaw still tense. “The punishment was never meant to be hers. It was mine.”

“Ours,” Myka threw, thinking of the sky and the martyrdom and what had and hadn’t seemed possible. Only a token protest... Helena wasn’t wrong. Myka had let herself be persuaded, and the memory of it haunted her, as did the thought that she’d given in as she had because Helena had been only a hologram. Only an idea. But that wasn’t good enough, because people took drastic steps to protect ideas all the time. Why hadn’t she taken such steps instead of offering her token protest? Burning down a library with a friend inside... as if the library were just as important as the friend... as if her use of the mealy, insufficient word “friend” hadn’t itself been cowardly.

“Ours,” Helena echoed, looking remarkably like her ready-to-be-martyred self. With that same nod, same set of lip, she continued, “I could eliminate your punishment as well. Make you forget anything you’ve ever felt for me. The ultimate pardon.”

“I don’t deserve it.” I believed in you and I was right, she had insisted, but she was a hypocrite. I believed in you until I couldn’t touch you anymore. Only a token protest. As if ghosts—all of them—weren’t real. “And what is it you’d tell me to make all that forgetting happen? What would I have to believe? What do you intend to tell her?”

“I intend to tell her what she would have, given the chance. The chance she was not given.”

“You don’t know what Emily Lake would have told her.” And then Myka braced herself for another apologetic wince from Helena, an admission of “Or I do.” It didn’t come. Myka, hugely relieved, said, “Besides, what if it wears off? And remember, Ida figured out the rabbits weren’t real. We don’t know how the coin really worked, and we don’t know how this does either. So it’s the easy, and maybe even temporary, way out: for her heart, but also for your conscience.”

Helena stiffened again at the word “conscience.” “My feelings are not material. How was she to know what she was letting herself in for, falling for a Wyoming schoolteacher, one so... unpolluted? One who nevertheless looked like me?”

“How’s anybody supposed to know?” Myka asked. A rhetorical question if ever there was one... “We fall how we fall, we get from that what we get; sometimes we keep it, sometimes we don’t. I didn’t think I’d ever get you back.”

“That’s the question, then: if you hadn’t, would you have wanted to remember it differently? Or, better, not at all?”

That wasn’t rhetorical, so Myka said the most explanatory thing that came to her: “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind made me literally ill.”

Helena’s face relaxed into puzzlement, and she began a slight smile, as if being baffled represented a reprieve. “I can make no sense of that utterance other than I know it ends with you in fact retching, because you are careful with language.”

“It’s a movie,” Pete said. “Myka’s talking about a movie.”

“There’s no need to be condescending. How was I to know that?” Helena asked.

“I’m not condescending to you, I’m condescending to her.”

“I have talked about movies before,” Myka told him.

“Never when I could hear you.”

“Our tastes don’t align, Pete.” She turned to Helena. “It’s about erasing memories. Felt like a twisted horror-movie version of the way my brain works—or I guess I mean the horror I’d feel if my brain ever stopped working the way it does. The idea that I might volunteer for it? I didn’t sleep for three days because I was terrified I’d dream about it and wake up screaming.”

Pete tapped her shoulder. When she looked at him, he crossed his eyes. “It’s about love, you dope. Toldya you didn’t know the difference between horror movies and soap operas.”

“Anyway,” she said, and she was tempted to cross her eyes back at him, but her father had always said that was dangerous, and now that she thought about it, maybe he’d been talking through the Welles microphone at her since she was born, “how was I supposed to know it was some kind of nightmarish foreshadowing instead.”

“Retching included?” Helena asked. Rueful: now her tone said We should not be fighting; we had stopped fighting, but here we are again, where we should not be.

“I don’t want to find out. Don’t make me.” And Myka hoped her own tone said You’re right. She tried to keep it that way as she continued, “How did you leave it with her yesterday? Never mind the artifact; you clearly aren’t done.”

“I don’t know what ‘done’ could mean in such a context. I listened far more than I spoke, and I left it, we both left it, as a situation of not knowing. One with an unknowable outcome.”

“Well, that sounds familiar.”

“Are you forbidding me to use the microphone?”

“Like that’d work. What I’m saying is I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Do you have a better one? I could simply disappear, as she did.”

Yes please, was Myka’s immediate thought. But she said, “That seems like cheating. Also mean. And you’re a lot of things, but I don’t think you’re mean.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fix everything with a wave of your hand,” Myka said. “Because honestly, I’m human.”

Helena smiled: large, calm. “I did ask,” she said. “All right, what do you think I should do? Because, also honestly, I’m every ounce as human as you are, and this is about the two of us as well.”

What did Myka think H.G. Wells should do, in an impossible situation? She resisted a slightly hysterical urge to joke, Come down with a case of the flu. “I think you should tell her you’re sorry,” she said first, and slowly, “because I think that’s true—I think you regret that something you did helped to create the whole situation. I think you also should apologize for the cat being imposed on her.” That was edging the wrong way. She stopped, regrouped. “But I think you should do all of it as you, because you are you, and you shouldn’t presume to speak for Emily Lake. Because no matter how much you look like her, Emily Lake isn’t here.” She wanted to get this part right, and she probably wasn’t going to, but: “Everybody else’s body makes them who they are. They can rely on that; it’s basic and real. But the Warehouse stole that reality from you. Twice. First with bronzing, then with the coin. I think you should take it back and be yourself. That’s what I think you should do.”

Helena’s calm smile had dissolved as Myka spoke, replaced by an even softer aspect. Her eyes usually glittered like cut gems, their sparkle crafted, if not calculated. In this minute, however, they offered the random, gentle glints of sunlight on water. “All right,” she said.

And so Myka found herself—accompanied by Pete and Ida, because Pete had proclaimed, “If we don’t go with you, you’ll lurk,” and he was probably wrong, but the sliver of doubt Myka herself felt made him just enough right—delivering Helena into the company of Emily Lake’s girlfriend. Girlfriend, or more? Myka was still desperate to know the specifics, even though at the same time she did, in fact, feel the appeal of Eternal-Sunshining, or Welles-microphoning, herself free of the very idea of her, of them, of all of it. Hypocrite, she accused herself again.

She and Helena spotted the girlfriend, still some distance from them, at the same time. The girlfriend then spotted them, and she raised her hand—a vague gesture, but clearly intended for Helena. Not for Emily: in that case, the wave would have been surer. Like the chin-poke, Myka thought, shaking jealous salt into her wounds, even while knowing it for a stupid self-provocation.

Helena touched Myka’s arm and said, “Do you want to kiss me?”

Was Helena reading her covetous mind? “What? Why? Didn’t you get your PDA fix at the pie palace?” Pushing the covetousness onto Helena. Nice, Bering.

“To demonstrate ownership,” Helena said. She was matter-of-fact.

Myka tried to match her: “I’m not demonstrative.”

“But I am,” Helena said, and now there was something else there, something Myka couldn’t quite get her hands around.

“You’re the one who wanted to unpunish her,” Myka said. “Don’t twist the knife instead.” But then a possible “something else” hit her: “Unless this is like the hotel room last night? Something you need? Something it would be selfish of me not to let you have?”

“I meant it for you. Because she knows that I am—no, that she was. Demonstrative. So if I can demonstrate, in front of her, in this circumstance, that I would direct at you the same, or rather, more—”

“That isn’t what I need,” Myka said, and she meant it. Whoever Emily Lake’s girlfriend was, she wasn’t someone Myka needed to perform for, or to make Helena perform for. Yesterday, maybe; probably even this morning. Not now. “I’ll tell you what I need. Or I’ll try to.”

“So will I?” That was easy for Myka to get her hands around: it meant I did try, and it didn’t work.

“I’ll try to listen better when you do,” Myka said. “I promise. Now go be a standup guy.”

Helena gave her that soft sunlight gaze again. Then she walked away, toward Emily Lake’s girlfriend... toward a past, regardless of bodies, that was not her own.

Pete knuckled Myka between the shoulderblades. A big-brother gesture.

Ida didn’t touch Myka. But she did say, “I don’t understand exactly what’s happening, and I understand that I shouldn’t understand. But I do know you shouldn’t let it distract you. I lost my husband three years ago.”

A jolt. “I’m so sorry,” Myka said.

“We weren’t like Paul and Ginny—we had friction. Strife. I think you might know what I mean.”

“I apologize for not being able to keep it to ourselves. Our... strife.”

“I think I would have known anyway. Or maybe I’ve just convinced myself that I’m observant.”

That was either an obvious request for praise or totally unjustified self-deprecation. It didn’t matter which; Myka said, “You’re so observant that if I could personally offer you a job, I would.”

“I’m happily retired,” Ida said. But she smiled, practically Pete-wide.

“Someday I hope I get to say those words,” Myka told her. “Sincerely. Because right now, nothing makes anything else any easier.”

“Would you accept a piece of advice?”

“Faster than Pete would accept a piece of pie.”

“Doubtful,” Pete said.

“It’s really just another observation. The temptation to say you’ve had enough... it’s tempting.”

Myka nodded. “It is. I try to, but it doesn’t take.” She sighed. “In fact I keep volunteering for more instead.”

Ida sighed too, a lovely, knowing sound. “That’s my show,” she said. Now she did touch Myka: she took her by the shoulders and turned her so that she faced away from Helena and Emily Lake’s girlfriend. Myka couldn’t help smiling, but Ida then turned businesslike. “I have to leave you two for a little while—putting my own judge hat on.”

This perked Pete up. “Really? Is it something exciting? Something like food?”

“Something exactly like food. Fruit spreads: jams, jellies, marmalades, preserves, conserves, and butters.”

“I could be very helpful with that,” Pete told her. “If you needed any help.”

“Tell me the difference between preserves and conserves,” Ida challenged him.

He thought for a moment, then said, “One starts with pre-, and one starts with con-,” with a flourish, like he’d just solved the Riddle of the Sphinx.

When Ida didn’t respond immediately, Myka said, “You have to give it to him, on some level. He isn’t wrong.”

“I don’t think the spread-makers would appreciate that level,” Ida said. “But because of the spreads, I can’t take you to the museum now. You won’t go without me?”

“No way,” Pete assured her. “I don’t know why I thought we could just up and go; we gotta be sneaky. Wait till they close.”

“That won’t be till much later. Can you restrain tall, dark, and less-broody-than-she-was-this-morning by yourself for a few hours?”

Pete said, cheerfully, “Not a prayer. But I think she’s good. You good?”

“Define ‘good,’” Myka said. She kicked a rock, mostly for show.

Pete nodded. “She’s good.”

Once Ida had gone, Pete said to Myka, “So what’s the difference?”

“Preserves and conserves? How am I supposed to know? And don’t say ‘because you’re a girl,’ or I’ll—”

“I was gonna say ‘because you know everything’”—at that, Myka snorted—”but fine, I’ll look it up,” he said, and to Myka’s astonishment, he was in an instant reading aloud from his phone: “Conserves are a combination of fruits, usually citrus fruits and nuts, and sometimes raisins or coconut, with a consistency like jam. Traditional fruit preserves consist of small, whole fruits and uniformly sized pieces of larger fruits in a very thick sugar syrup and slightly jellied juice. Very thin slices of lemon or lemon juice may have been added.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Myka admitted.

“Then this has been a really educational trip for both of us.”

“I wish that could’ve been the only thing we learned.”

“Don’t get all broody again!” he commanded. “It’s like you keep forgetting we’re at a fair! And don’t say you wish you could forget we’re at a fair, because you can’t, so let’s do some fair stuff. Besides, all that reading was hard work. It made me hungry. Also it was about fruit, so I’m even hungrier.”

So they did fair stuff. Or rather, Pete did fair stuff while Myka watched: primarily, he bought food and ate it, but he also dared Myka to get her face painted “so H.G.’ll call you a savage.” She declined. A while later, he dragged her to a booth that featured a game in which players shot water guns at ducks to drive them around a twisted river of a track; he challenged her with, “If you win, I’ll lay off you and H.G. for, like, a week.” Myka said a flat no, and he wheedled, “I’ll even make sure Claudia knows I’m supposed to give you a really easy time,” which was a slightly attractive kicker, so she asked him what he would win, in the unlikely event that he did. It took him a minute to come up with a decent forfeit, but he settled on, “If I win, you and H.G. have to come with me to the demo derby before we go to the museum!”

She reluctantly took him up on it, not because she really believed he’d knock off the grief even for a day, let alone a week, but because of marksmanship, and hers being objectively better, and she did like to prove it.

An hour later, she was still grumbling that both her water gun and her duck were clearly defective, given that she had never lost a shooting contest in her life, and certainly never to Pete, given that she practiced, unlike some people, such as Helena but also Pete. “It’s a fair,” he said placidly. “Nobody ever said anything about the games being fair.”

“We shouldn’t have to go to the thing with you, though,” Myka said, “if the game wasn’t fair.”

“The bet was fair,” he told her. Then he whooped, “Look! Up in the sky!”

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane. Right?”

Pete took another slurp of a concoction that had been billed as an “Elvis milkshake” as he answered, “Iss th’pocalypse!” He pointed, and Myka looked up. She blinked. Blinked again. Couldn’t think of anything to say. “What?” he demanded. “I’ve always been pretty sure H.G.’s one of your fancy horsemen, plus she’s on the Ferris wheel, eating a corn dog. If that doesn’t say ‘end of the world,’ I don’t know what does.”

Myka sighed. “You have clearly not spent enough time with her when she’s hungry. The things she’ll eat...”

“Do you listen to yourself ever?”

“I gave that up. Nobody else listens to me, so why should I?”

“I’m pretty sure some ex-supervillain just went and did a thing she really didn’t want to do. On your say-so.”

“I can’t make any sense of that,” Myka admitted, her eyes on Helena. “Of anything, really.” The ex-supervillain who inexplicably did things on Myka’s say-so was gazing contemplatively into the distance, over the fairgrounds, as her open cabin crested and then began to descend the wheel’s arc. She was eating a corn dog as if she had never had a nefarious thought in her life. She could have been Emily Lake; she could have been the historical H.G. Wells. At a fair. On a ride. Eating food.

They waited for her—waited for the ride to end—and Myka didn’t really know what to make of the fact that this was what Helena had done, after whatever conversation she had had with Emily Lake’s girlfriend: bought a corn dog and gone for a ride on the Ferris wheel. Myka did, however, find herself absurdly comforted by both the fact and the sight. Discomfited, a little, yet comforted.

Helena disembarked, discarded the corn dog’s stick. Saw Pete. Then saw Myka, whereupon her face lit up... but not fully. “I apologize,” she said.

“For what?” Myka asked, embarrassed at not being able to hide her slight panic at the restraint in Helena’s eyes.

Helena smiled. “I should have waited until you could join me,” she said, and just like that, Myka’s panic dissolved.

Pete mumbled, “Gotta throw this cup away and I think I better walk a little while to a place where they’ve got trash cans that isn’t here.”

Myka watched him jog-trot through the crowd, and she counted the trash cans he passed. She was up to eight when Helena said, “I should have contacted you, and I should have waited.”

“It’s okay,” Myka said. “I’m not a huge fan of corn dogs.”

“That wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I needed sustenance. In a physical sense, hence the food on a stick. But also... something from the distant past. My own basic and real past, much of which is distant.”

“Something like pie judging?”

“Mr. Ferris’s wheel was always similarly slow. Measured.” Helena paused, gave that light-up smile again. “But if I had waited, you could have sat beside me and held my hand. So I should have waited.”

If they had been in private, Myka would have kissed her. Leaned forward, taken that reward. Instead, she let her face relax into what she suspected was a light-up smile of her own. “Okay,” she said.

“And speaking of shoulds,” Helena said, with a set of jaw that wasn’t forbidding but nevertheless conveyed I feel compelled to say this, “I should never have taunted you in the hotel room this morning.”

As if it had been her fault. Myka said, “I deserved it. I should never have acted like you betrayed me. Like you wanted to.”

“Why not? It’s what I do,” Helena said, with a shrug that was not the yes I was a supervillain dismissal she often threw at Pete; this one was more a shouldering of guilt. This one, she offered to Pete only when Kelly was his subtext.

“Not like that,” Myka told her, because even though she’d flung “slept with someone else” at Helena, that was entirely undeserved. “And besides, it’s not what you do, it’s what you did. We shouldn’t forget the past, but it doesn’t have to force us into anything. What happens next isn’t inevitable.” Well. Except. She sighed; she did have to say it sooner or later, and maybe it would help. “Except for we have to go watch cars hit each other in a little while.”

It did help: Helena laughed. “We have to?”

“I lost a bet,” Myka said. Helena grinned, and Myka went on, “But you know you want to.”

“I suspect you want to as well.”

“Maybe a little,” Myka admitted, and for that second, the tuning between them was crystal-clear.

When Pete rejoined them, he asked her a surprisingly quiet, “Better now?”

“Better now,” she agreed. And she knuckled him between his shoulderblades.

TBC

I’m putting minimal tags on this part, in hopes that Tumblr won’t decide to make me invisible again. But what I would want to convey in a tag essay this time around has something to do with the version(s) of history we receive and accept: e.g., the alien-invasion panic ostensibly caused by the Mercury Theatre’s War of the Worlds broadcast. I recommend A. Brad Schwartz’s Broadcast Hysteria: Orson Welles's War of the Worlds and the Art of Fake News for, first, his exhaustive research into the actual-fact contours of the situation, but second, his analysis of the broadcast and the spectrum of responses to it as part of the culture’s way of working out the possibilities, and perceived dangers, of radio as a mass medium. This debate of course recurs with each new information-delivery system... does television have too much power? Are we overly susceptible to the lures and lies of social media?

Obviously, history is intricate, with competing stories and versions of stories and purposes for versions of stories. But I think we’re obligated to work to deepen, rather than to obscure, that complexity.

Also Orson Welles really liked that the supposed panic added to his notoriety and made him seem like even more of a genius. Cui bono? That’s a useful question to ask in a lot of contexts.

P.S. If you want a link to the Welles/Wells radio interview, feel free to message me, but it’s pretty findable on YouTube.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Mercury #part 10

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24hs · 7 years

Text

summary: When Nico dreamed about Maki's wedding she actually didn't imagine her spouse being someone else than her, but that's probably just how life is sometimes.

pairing: nicomaki [ kotomaki ]

words: 2700+

Nico has seen Maki in every situation and probably every clothing.

She can imagine her crying - unhappy - face perfectly when she closes her eyes - red eyes, the crunched nose, the trembling underlip, her glowing skin when tears are wetting her cheeks. She also sees her happy face under her lids. Glistening eyes that pull Nico into something she can’t quite put her finger on, maybe the - temporary - satisfaction Maki is living in that moment. Her gummy smile that is only visible when she beams and her red cheeks. Maki being frustrated shows in frowning and chewing on pens, while she expresses desperation through ruffling her hair and biting her lip. She’s annoyed when she curls her hands into fists and lets out an “tch” sound multiply, deadpanning.

After almost two years being exes, Nico still knows Maki’s wardrobe. She hasn’t been to her flat since then, but Maki rarely goes shopping, she knows. She doubts she has bought anything in those past 22 months.

Of course, there are Maki’s work clothes - white coats with her hospital’s name sewed in. She owns three, a regular one, another when her usual coat is being washed and the last one for emergencies. Maki likes to plan things, Nico remembers. (Even when all strings tear, Maki still won't buy more. She's too stubborn to abandon her plan, no matter how well it's working. Nico used to roll her eyes about that and she still does.)

Then, street wear. Turtlenecks in dull colors, bland red, blue and black. Classical jeans. Some T-shirts and tops as sleepwear. If you searched long enough, you could probably find also some shorts, even though Maki doesn’t like bare skin. (Nico persuaded her into buying before they broke up.) Some bikinis, expensive shoes and unworn hats are findable, too.

Maki has a whole second wardrobe for evening wear. Since she has been attending galas for years - Nico believes her parents started dragging her to them when she was a child -, Maki owns at least two dozen dresses. Everyone who has meet her would have bet their lives that those dresses are visibly similar by color or design, but they aren’t. She’s got a rainbow out of different materials, colors and cut in her wardrobe for any event. Bright, short dresses for weddings and birthdays or any day occasion. Long dresses, their noble hems sneaking on the floor, worn with gloves covering her whole forearm.

Skirts and trousers that cost probably a few thousands of dollars, shoes with the typical red sole, necklaces and bracelets. (Ironically, Maki has never been the type to wear rings.)

Because of Maki’s second, colorful wardrobe, Nico can’t say that she’s surprised when she hears that Maki started dating Kotori after they broke up. Nico and Kotori are definitely more different than alike, starting from appearance. Maki always used to tease Nico about her height, but now she’s the smaller one in the relationship. Kotori’s light, shoulder-long hair and Nico’s almost touches her coccyx after years of growing it out. Black as a raven.

Kotori is soft and gentle, and when she was younger she swallowed her feelings. She has learned how to open up to Maki, though.

Nico is hard and rude and never learned how to do that.

What Maki and her had was rough, in a good - hot - way, of course, but they were always a mess. Like love is when it’s the first one. (For Nico, also the true, the only love she wanted to experience.)

She guesses Maki doesn’t feel quite the same as her when she reads the invitation to her and Kotori’s wedding.

Nico clicks her pen while staring at the invitation. We’re happy to declare our- Ugh. Does she even need to go? Kotori is her friend, but Maki is her ex. That probably outweighs an old friendship. She glares at the picture of them adorning the noble, stiff paper. Maki’s eyes aren’t glistening and her gummy smile isn’t showing. An idea forms in Nico’s head, just to be pushed away by her memory of Maki hating cameras. Maki’s happy. She must be. Nico’s just interpreting things with a misted mind.

Nico sends Kotori a short message - got your invitation, I’m coming - and a second after. Congratulations, by the way.

Nico isn’t sure if she still loves Maki, but lately it has been feeling like she does. When she imagines her in front of the altar with Kotori, she can feel her fingertips turn cold and her heart burning. Or rather, with anyone. Kotori isn’t the problem.

Sometimes, when she has good news, like a raise or a random compliment from someone she isn’t close to, Nico itches to tell Maki until she remembers that she can’t anymore. Her heart falls every time, her eyes get a little bit more dead.

“Are you coming to the wedding?”, Nozomi asks her, hesitantly. “Yeah”, Nico answers, looking rather at her fingernails than at her. “Kotori is my friend. Why shouldn’t I?”

t’s mean, Nico knows. Nozomi is the type to sugarcoat, to rip off the bandaid gently and not at once. Making her to speak out the cold truth - that it’s questionable to visit the wedding since she and Maki were a thing, were together once - is plainly cruel.

“Sorry”, Nico mutters through a pressed jaw. “I’m coming. I just don’t know what to wear yet.”

She really doesn’t. She tried to buy one online, but thoughts like “Oh, Maki’s favorite color”, “I bet Maki would love this” or “Maki wears this designer a lot” suffocated her brain until she wanted to slam her head on the keyboard.

“Do you have an escort?”

“No, I’m going alone. You’re with Eli?”

“Yeah, but we can drive there together, can’t we?”

“Sure.”

The first months before the wedding fade slowly, like gum pulled apart, but when it’s the last week, the days fly away and in the span of a blink, Saturday has come and Nico stands in the shower, getting ready. She’s glad she has a routine - shower, skincare, drying her hair, getting into her brand new red dress, make up - because this way she can distract herself, not having to think about her first - true - love marrying someone else.

Unfortunately, because the marriage takes place in some hall far away and Eli took the wheel, Nico has a lot of time to think about that while staring out of the car’s window, not really seeing the landscape hushing by.

They get greeted immediately by Umi when they arrive. “Hi, Nozomi, Eli”, she says, hugging them, “Nico.” She breathes out.

Nico nods at her. Umi has been a bit cold towards her since she and Maki broke up, which isn’t surprising, given that Umi and Maki have been friends for years and the breakup left Maki broken. (From what Nico heard. After all, she hasn’t seen her in almost two years.)

“Nico, Kotori said she wants to see you”, Umi says politely, “go up the stairs and then the third door left.” Nico blinks. “Alright, see you later.” She walks upstairs, taking every step slowly, clinging to the banister. Why on earth would Kotori want to see her?

“Nico!”, Kotori beams as Nico slowly enters the room. She takes her dress in her hands and hurries towards Nico, at least as fast as it’s possible. “You look… amazing”, Nico gulps, carefully hugging Kotori. She’s afraid to ruin her dress. “Thank you”, Kotori smiles, humble as ever. “So”, Nico mumbles, not sure what to say in the silence that laid upon them, “are you nervous?”

“Not at all. I’m marrying the love of my life”, she chuckles. Nico’s smile is thin.

“Isn’t the ceremony starting soon? Shouldn’t I get downstairs…?”, Nico asks, but Kotori shakes her head and takes her hands.

“I… want to ask you a favor”, she says, biting her lips, “I know you and Maki- parted some time ago, but can you distract her a bit?”

ico can’t help but frown at Kotori’s choice of words. Kotori rips off the bandaid at once, quickly, but with comforting words afterwards. So this emphasis seems off. “Sure”, Nico eventually says, the word rolling off her tongue. “Why not.” She instantly remembers at least a hundred reasons why exactly she shouldn’t.

“For you, Kotori." (That’s what she tells herself.) "See you later.”

Nico knocks on the door which Maki is behind, bracing herself. She hasn’t seen her in almost two years, hasn’t heard that nasal, light voice in almost two years.

“Come in”, Maki says and Nico flinches. Fuck. She brushes the non existent wrinkles on her dress straight, straightens her back and then enters, lowering her head. She doesn’t see Maki until she lifts her head.

She immediately wishes she didn’t.

Maki looks more stunning than ever before, literally, she takes Nico’s breathes away. Nico didn’t realize she stopped breathing until her lungs seem to explode.

“Hi”, she finally croaks, clearing her throat afterwards. Maki was frozen when she saw Nico, but she seems to melt at once.

“What do you want?”, Maki huffs, her chest lowering and rising. Nico sees it with a certain, hard smugness - Maki hasn’t changed, acting cool when her mind is puzzled. “Right now? I’m pretty hungry, so”, Nico shrugs, her hands trembling, “maybe a piece of pizza or something.”

“What do you want here, Yazawa?”, she hisses back, “Is it a hobby of yours to creep on your exes?”

“Kotori wanted me to be here.” Nico leans against the now closed door. “You’re lucky to have someone so chill about your exes.”

It’s a shot into the blue, but a well aimed one. Maki flinches and the coldness in her eyes fades. “Oh my-”, Nico starts laughing because honestly, this is just too funny. She would have never guessed.

“She doesn’t know? Kotori doesn’t know we were in a relationship?”

“Because it wasn’t serious”, Maki blurts out and Nico’s laugh is suddenly suffocated. They’re both silent for a moment. Maki is visibly struggling with herself, not sure if she should take her words back or not. Her pride wins. She remains still.

“So you were lying to me?”, Nico says, falling onto a chair that’s next to Maki. Maki backs off.

“What? I’m not a liar”, she frowns, realizing too late that she went into the trap.

“So you did love me.” Nico wants to say it with a smug expression, but it only comes off empty. Maki turns around, pretending to overdo her make up.

“‘Course I did.” She stops. “We were together for a long time.”

“Then why doesn’t your financée know?”

“I worded it wrongly. It simply doesn’t matter anymore.” Nico hums, overplaying the hole in her chest that keeps ripping bigger with every word Maki spits.

“You know, we never talked about what happened.”

“It’s because we never fucking talked, honey”, Maki laughs, bitterly, and the way she turns the usually lovely name into something that mocks her disgusts Nico.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Not mine.”

“Still lying to yourself, I see.”

“Get lost, Yazawa”, Maki growls.

“Forget it.” Nico changes the position in her chair, crossing her legs. “I like it here. It’s comfy.”

Maki sighs. “Whatever. Just don’t annoy me.”

Nico watches her careful, tiny movements while perfecting her face. (Not that there is room for much improvement, Nico thinks.)

“You know”, Nico starts again, “I never wanted to take that job abroad.” Maki’s hands freeze.

“Then why did you? We broke up over this job.” Her voice is calm, but Maki’s finger tremble. She lays them into her lap and turns around, locking eyes with Nico.

“You…”, Nico bites her lip, “When I first mentioned it, you didn’t seem to care at all. I guess I wanted to see if you did if i left.”

“I did”, Maki simply answers. “I did care about my feelings. That’s why I wanted to quit the long distance relationship.”

“Now I’m here.”

They both freeze. Nico closes her eyes. Shit. “Excuse me?”, Maki narrows her eyes.

What do you mean?”

“I mean”, Nico stands up, collecting her courage, and takes a step forward. Maki stays still, but Nico would bet it’s only her pride holding her back.

“Don’t marry Kotori. Run away with me.”

Yes, Nico knows Maki perfectly well. She has seen her in every situation.

Red eyes, crunched nose, trembling lips.

“Are you”, she breathes in, brows furrowed, “fucking insane, Nico?”

Nico doesn’t answer.

“What are you trying to do?”, she hisses, “ruin my wedding? Playing with my feelings?”

“No, I’m trying to save the rest of your life”, Nico says, taking Maki’s hand. Maki doesn’t pull it back and Nico's courage flutters in her chest. “You’re not happy, Maki, I know you." She bites on her lips when Maki lowers her gaze. “Tell me you want to be with Kotori and I will leave you alone.”

Maki's hand trembles in hers when she lets go. Nico feels like she's been ripped off her.

“Please”, Maki’s voice breaks, “go now, Nico. The wedding is going to start soon.”

Nico wants to sit in the last row, but because her friends are sitting in the first, she falls down on the seat next to Eli. The church is almost full, she's the last one to arrive. (Besides the brides, of course.)

"Is everything okay?", Eli whispers, and for a horrible moment Nico thinks she's talking about Maki and her until she remembers that no one knows and that Eli is referring to her initially checking on Kotori.

"Yes, everything's fine", Nico mumbles back. "Everything's just perfect." Eli doesn't hear the bitter tone in Nico's voice.

"Minami Kotori, will you have Nishikino Maki to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only for her so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." Kotori beams, brushing her thumbs over Maki's hands. They're standing face to face - with her shoes Maki is as tall as her -, and look at each other. Seemingly seeing nothing else.

"And you, Nishikino Maki, will you have Minami Kotori, to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only for her so long as you both shall live?"

Maki's eyes flinch to Nico's direction and back to Kotori so quickly Nico isn't sure if she only imagined it. Maki squeezes Kotori's hands, lightly to the others, but to Nico she seems clinging.

"I will."

Nico has seen Maki in every clothing, but now she's just afraid she won't see it ever again.

Epilogue

"Maki, come back to bed", Kotori purrs, and then changes to pouting at once when Maki shakes her head.

"In a second", she says, "I still need to brush my teeth."

"Hurry!", Maki hears her when she closes the door after her. She shambles in front of the mirror and shuts her eyes.

Married.

To a second love.

She mechanically takes her toothbrush.

Marriage lasts forever.

Maki lowers her gaze when she sees her red eyes, crunched nose so her lip won't start trembling.

They lay in bed, together, but it doesn't feel like they're united.

"Hey, Kotori", Maki breathes, "do you believe in first love?" Kotori blinks.

"Huh? Of course I do. Your my first love."

And, then:" Do you, Maki?"

Maki stares at the ceiling, trying to blink the silhouette that keeps coming up in her mind away. It's not working.

"Yeah, I think I do."

#nicomaki #love live #kotomaki #angst #writing #fun fact the first url I remembered was zweite-liebe which means second love in German #anyway I'm glad I finished this while I'm still home. please suffer well yeorobun juseyo #q

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jessicanjpa · 7 years

Note

What do you think would have happened if Bella really was trying to kill herself in New Moon and Alice saw that (and could see into Bellas future in situations she wouldn't be with the werewolves, because really, why would her entire future disappear?) would Edward have come back to console her?

Absolutely. He said he was already on the verge of his willpower crumbling as it was, and while the soul argument was always his official trump card in their debate, I think the “long and happy, NORMAL human life” was truly the biggest thing for him. Like “I don’t want her to lose what I lost, and certainly not for ME”. That life was what he probably forced himself to picture, every time he wavered in his determination to “save” Bella from both himself and herself- and that’s ultimately the reason he left in NM. I think the momentary danger of the birthday party was the straw that broke the camel’s back and served as his official excuse, but he had obviously been preparing himself to leave all along, so that she would be able to have that life. My guess is that he had fully been expecting her to tire of him and had been planning to slowly fade out of her life when the time came, so that it would only be painful for himself, not for her.

So yeah- I think if he got the phone call that she was seriously trying to end that life, I don’t think he’d hesitate. While on the plane he might start second-guessing other ways to help her besides reentering her life, and he might wonder if maybe he wasn’t the reason for the suicide attempt at all, but when the plane landed I don’t think he would be able to bring himself to risk anything but running straight to her.

In this scenario- and even in canon, really- I would love to see some real fallout from her depression. Like all the other book-endings, the whole awfulness just…. magically goes away? I don’t think it’d have been realistic (considering Bella’s characterization) for her to not take him back instantly, but it would have been better to see her recovery not be so simple and instantaneous, and for both of them to have to face it together.

A while back I read a really moving fic (can’t remember the name, sorry) where Edward noticed, several nights after coming back, that Bella had been cutting. And he saw evidence that it actually hadn’t stopped with his return. So basically it was a much more realistic, painful process that forced Edward to truly face the consequences of his actions. Hopefully that wasn’t really what happened between the pages in canon (because ugh, we have enough of the “girl falls apart without boy” theme already!) BUT I do like the idea of the fallout not being so simple and magical, and I think going through that togther would/could have been healthy for their relationship in a maturing way. Anyway, I think it would be an especially realistic result of the AU you mention.

As to the “why did Bella’s *entire* future disappear” thing… crazy, I know! SM really left the “rules” of Alice’s gift pretty vague so that she could have a lot of leeway depending on the situation. But there also definitely seemed to be an element of growth/training in how Alice was able to compensate for the blindness the wolves/hybrids caused. This was the first time her visions had ever been influenced, so it actually does make sense for the biggest blindness to occur here. (besides being completely convenient and necessary to the plot lol!) Later on, once the element of Alice’s own panic is removed and she’s had some practice, she seems to grow her abilty to see “as much as possible” versus just a yes/no switch. There aren’t a whole lot of “plot points” for my theory, but she does seem to have varying degrees of success in Eclipse of being able to see what she can despite the wolves being involved. She took a step backward when Renesmee first started existing, though I think part of that particular blindness was because Bella’s future *was really uncertain right there. I like to think the headaches were actually a sign of her gift straining against the blindness and therefore being more of a sign of training- like a previously unused muscle being sore from exercise but beginning to hypertrophy. Finally we get to the scene when Charlie comes to the house to see Bella and Renesmee, and Alice can apparently “see around Renesmee” if Bella holds really still. I don’t know if we’re supposed to take that super-literally, like her visions actually include a Renesmee-shaped silhouette of nothingness, but that’s kind of the idea I guess? That she’s refined her gift to the point where she can almost fully compensate for the presence of a blinding force in her visions? And then she can literally “look for” hybrids in South America because the “holes” are so distinct and even “findable” in and of themselves. I have no idea lol. Just a theory, to partially explain the crazy ups and downs in her gift-fuction. I’m sure the real reason is that SM needed those scenes to work out that way so it’s all contrived, But it’s still fun to try and explain these things lol.

#headcanon #alice #gift #visions #depression #new moon #edward #bella #twilight

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inkognito97 · 7 years

Text

Youngster I

Summary:The tall figure shook his head in disgust. If he truly were a Jedi and not a Sith in disguise and in search for his lost apprentice, he would have helped them.

Burning hate was all the tall male could feel for the pathetic lives that were screaming in pain and for his help and mercy. These were the same voices which had previously argued how to steal even more from the poor and unsuspecting people. These were the same voices that had declines every offer the Jedi had made to help them balance their society. And now, now it it were their screams that begged for help. The tall figure shook his head in disgust. If he truly were a Jedi and not a Sith in disguise and in search for his lost apprentice, he would have helped them. Granted, he wouldn’t have arranged their deaths in the first place, but still. Since he wasn’t – a Jedi that is – he would just continue to watch them burn; metaphorically speaking as well as literally.

A lot of people had died during the explosion and die to the poisonous gas, but those who had survived, were trapped inside the tall building, along with hot and all consuming flames. It was a gruesome death, but also fitting for those bastards, who allowed children to starve or to freeze in death.

Again the Sith shook his head. His Master had once taught him to look how a system treated its poorest and neediest and from this information, he would know how rotten a planet really was. And it was true. This planet – he had not even bothered to remember its name – was rotten to the core, but with the death of the leading group, it had gained another chance. It had gained the chance for a brand new start. It was just a shame that it always had to come to such drastic manners in order for giving a system a new chance. It was not like he actually enjoyed the killing – not even if it were such bastards – but more often than not, it was the last and only solution. This was one of the things the Jedi needed to understand. Even though the Sith highly doubted that they ever would. They chose to see the good in the worst systems and they would chose to stand aside and watch instead of act. It had always been this way, but at least there had been a time when the Sith and the Jedi coexisted in some way. This time however, was long over.

Wordlessly and without looking back just once, did the tall man with the long brown hair – that was slowly starting to turn gray – walk towards his shuttle. It was a good thing that his shuttle was quite a distance away from the exploded senate building. This way, the Jedi Council would never connect him with the attack, especially if nobody had seen him. This way he could continue to play the perfect little Jedi. He would just tell the Council that he had not arrived soon enough and that it had been already too late and therefore impossible – even for him – to launch a rescue. They undoubtedly would believe him, they always did.

A quiet chuckle escaped his lips. The Jedi Council was just a bunch of blind old fools in his eyes. Fools, who did not even realize that they had allowed Sith to root and foster among their midst. His Master for an instance, he himself and his lost apprentice... Well, it would remain to be seen if his apprentice had truly been kidnapped by the Jedi, like his usually reliable source had told him. If not, then it was about time that the Sith in disguise found a new source. He doubted that he would need to however. His trust was not placed lightly after all...

-----------------------------

Qui-Gon walked with long and confident strides through the temple corridors. He was heading for the only place in this Jedi-forsaken temple that he actually liked and even enjoyed, namely the Room of a thousand Fountains. He needed the serenity and calmness now, after the dreadful meeting with the Council. At least everything had gone according to plan. The great and wise Council members had believed every single lie he had told, without even thinking twice. They were just so naive and blind, especially Kit Fisto. He was the worst of them all in Qui-Gon’s eyes.

A strange sound caught the disguised Sith’s attention and therefore brought him out of his musing. Almost immediately his curiosity was spiked and with a longing gaze down the corridor that would have led him towards the Room of a thousand Fountains, he walked down the corridor that led in the opposite direction instead. Again a sound – this time louder – could be heard and now Qui-Gon identified it as a pained cry of a young child, which was promptly followed by cruel laughter. The Sith quickened his steps. If there was one thing he truly hated with every single pore and cell of his being, then it was when an innocent child was hurt.

The bearded man stopped dead in his tracks once he rounded the corner. The scene that took place in front of him, let his blood boil and caused the darkness in him to shift violently. Bruck Chun, the Initiate every being in the whole temple knew, was standing a few feet away from the Sith. The boy was almost thirteen years old, which meant that he was about to be send away to the Agri Corps. In all honesty, this did not surprise the long haired man in the slightest. The boy was too rotten to become a Sith and that alone meant something. Therefore it was no surprise that no Jedi wanted him either. The boy needed some manners, otherwise his rotten core would even grow, which was probably happening now, while he and his little friends were standing around another child that was lying on the ground. Qui-Gon could barely make out the shivering back of – what looked like – a young boy. The boy on the ground was whimpering in pain and the disguised Sith soon realised why. The bullies’ knuckles were swollen and red and their clothes spotted a few stains of a substance that suspiciously looked like blood. The long haired Sith did not need to ponder long to figure out what had happened here.

“What in the name of the Force is going on here?” only with a lot of effort was the bearded man able to suppress his darkness. It wouldn’t do anybody any good, if his true nature was revealed by his ire and golden eyes.

Almost as soon as he had spoken the first word, the laughing boys grew silent and visibly tensed. They had heard the dangerous edge in the deep and clearly angry baritone voice. The Sith straightened to his full height out of instinct and gazed down in four upturned faces of the Jedi Order’s worst Initiates.

It almost looked as if Bruck Chun and his rotten friends had lost all their previous courage. One of them was even trembling and another one looked as if he was about to wet himself any minute now. Bruck Chun himself looked up at the older male with wide eyes. Qui-Gon knew that the boy had hoped that he would take the Initiate as his Padawan. Not that the Sith would even consider this apprenticeship in a million years, not even if he hadn’t already an apprentice. Granted, the apprentice was not available and findable at the moment, but Qui-Gon was working on that.

“M...Master Jinn, I... I mean we, I mean I... eh,” Chun was stuttering complete nonsense, obviously trying to find a good lie to escape trouble and punishment.

“Enough!” the Sith Master’s voice thundered, causing the Initiates to jump in shock and fear. He was not in the mood for mindless chat and it probably showed on his bearded face, with the way his mouth was set in a firm line and his brows were furrowed tightly. “You will go to Master Yoda and explain – in detail – what you have done here. If you don’t, then I am personally going to make sure that you not only will be properly disciplined, but also send away and punished in the worst imaginable way. Have I made myself clear?” The deep baritone voice had been calm – almost too calm – yet the Initiates could only nod shakily, before they took off as if the Force itself was after them.

Qui-Gon allowed himself to take a few deep and calming breaths, before he finally turned his attention to the boy – and it was indeed a humanoid boy with coppery hair – who was now curled up in a tied ball on the unforgiving ground. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tall man kneeled down and he carefully reached out. The boy tensed upon the contact, but this did not stop the Sith from reaching out with the Force as well. The moment Qui-Gon’s Force presence touched the boy’s, something warm and all too familiar settled in the Sith’s chest. That and the boy’s shaky and uneven breathing calmed and his muscles relaxed, so that the older male was able to turn him onto his back. The boy whimpered in pain and Qui-Gon hummed in sympathy, before gasping in shock when the most beautiful blue-green eyes in the entire universe meet his own blue ones. The blue-green orbs were suspiciously bright however and these were undoubtedly tearstains on bruised and bloody cheeks. Qui-Gon’s heart clenched painfully at the sight.

“Obi-Wan...” the Sith gasped out surprised. Could it really be?

Surprise was mirrored in the ginger haired male’s eyes. “Master Jinn?” a tiny voice wanted to know. The long haired man could only nod his head, not quite trusting his voice. “How do you know my name?” at least the boy did not sound so scared anymore.

Qui-Gon swallowed the lump that had started to form in his throat. It felt like a great and heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders, only to be replaced by an almost painful pressure in his chest. “I... I must have heard it from one of your crèche Masters,” the lie came quickly to the Master’s lips. There was doubt in the younger male’s eyes, but for now he just accepted the other male’s answer. Qui-Gon could fully understand it.

Obi-Wan shifted slightly and winced in pain. Only then did the Sith come back to the here and now and he quickly scanned the younger male’s visible wounds and injuries.

“We should do something about your injuries, young one.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, “Don’t take me to the healers... please!” he pleaded. The long haired man grimaced, he should have expected this answer.

“If you promise to let me treat you and if you are going to answer ALL my questions truthfully, then I will not take you to the healer wing.” Obi-Wan nodded in agreement, which is why the bearded man gently reached out again and took the light body in his arms, pressing the young child tight against his chest, without hurting him of course. The boy rested his head trustingly against the Master’s chest that was covered by the beige tunics the Jedi always wore. He felt strangely comfortable like this, with his eyes closed and listening to the older man’s steady heartbeat. The Master’s movement helped to soothe the distressed mind and before Obi-Wan realised it, did the pair walk through a door, into a warm and room. Curiously did the young male raise his head and he gazed around the cosy living room, of what he considered the Master’s quarters. A brown leather couch – its colour was lighter than the colour of Qui-Gon’s robe – stood on the middle of the room and a small glass table before it. Countless of plants of different colours and sizes decorated the homely room and Obi-Wan immediately liked it.

The disguised Sith continued to carry his young charge into another room, his bed room. He did not spare the books – actually real books made of paper and quite a lot at that – that lay on the ground, any attention, but gently lowered the ginger haired child on the green blanket that covered his bed. The boy looked around and sometimes his gaze would come to rest on one of the closed boxes that stood in the shelves or on one of the few pictures he had in his room.

“Wait here,” the Master ordered gently and then left to search for a first aid kit in his bathroom, which was just opposite of the bedroom. Thankfully it did not take him long to find all the items he had searched for.

With skilled and practised fingers, did Qui-Gon take care of the blue and swollen bruises, the small fractures and the bleeding nose. Thankfully it had only been a single milk tooth that the ginger haired boy had lost. The broken rib was more complicated however. Qui-Gon had to set it with the use of the Force and despite the pain, Obi-Wan made not a single noise. The Sith was more than impressed by such bravery from one so young. During the whole process, Qui-Gon tickled the wanted answers out of Obi-Wan. Apparently it was quite usual for Bruck Chun and his ‘friend’ to bully other children, they usually were not so brutal however. Apparently Obi-Wan had stood up and protected a few of those children and it had earned him so many painful injuries, and possible, a small trauma.

Only when the child was soundly asleep in the bearded man’s large bed, did Qui-Gon allow himself to sigh in relief. Obi-Wan would sleep for a few hours due to the painkillers and the Sith’s Force suggestion. This would give Qui-Gon enough time to collect his emotions and to talk with his Master. With a last glance towards the sleeping form, did the Sith leave his quarters. He would not need to worry, Obi-Wan would be safe and he would make sure to return before the boy would awake.

---------------------

“Qui-Gon,” the surprised voice of Jard Dooku sounded as he opened the door to his quarters, only to see a familiar figure standing before him, “what brings you here?”

Without answering or offering any way of greeting, the taller male gently moved his former teacher out of his way and stepped inside the quarters before he locked the door.

Dooku was about to repeat his question, when Qui-Gon finally opened his mouth, “I found him.”

“Who?” the older male asked, now more confused than before.

“My apprentice,” Qui-Gon exclaimed and grabbed the other’s elbows, “Obi-Wan... I finally found him.”

Dooku’s eyes first went wide and them something very close to a true smile formed on his face. Dooku – especially when he pretended to be a Jedi – acted as if he was a stoic and unapproachable man, but in reality, he was kind-hearted and like a father to the long haired Sith. He was also something like a grandfather and role-model for Obi-Wan. “These are indeed great news, my former apprentice.” He must have picked up on the younger man’s dimming mood, for he continued, “What is the matter, Qui-Gon? Is he alright? Where exactly is he?”

Hesitantly the older male seated himself on the cushioned seat in the living room, right across Dooku’s couch. The couch held quite a few good memories of Qui-Gon’s apprenticeship. “He is... here, sleeping in my quarters to be exact.”

Dooku’s brows furrowed, “What happened?”

The younger Sith scoffed and avoided the piercing gaze of his former Master, “I found Obi-Wan being bullied by some Initiates... they had beat him to a bloody pulp.” He took a deep breath, “He couldn’t remember anything of... well, of me or of his apprenticeship. He truly believes that he is a Jedi and that he always was and... and he couldn’t even remember me, not even the slightest bit.”

The Sith’s shoulders sacked in defeat and had he looked up, he would have found his position mirrored by Dooku. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Qui-Gon nodded, “Me too... then again, it might be a good opportunity.”

“What are you thinking of?”

The long haired male finally looked up, “I am just saying that it could make everything easier. If we find a way to restore his memories, then I can pretend to take him on as my Padawan when in truth-“

“-you are training him to be a Sith,” Dooku finished the sentence.

A sharp nod, “Exactly.”

“As brilliant as ever,” Dooku gave his younger companion a small smile.

“Only thanks to your teaching, my Master.”

Dooku huffed, “Flattery will not work on me, my young apprentice,” the older Sith had decided to join the slight teasing. It felt right, just like in old times. Then his mood turned serious again. There was still one thing on his mind. “How are you going to restore his memories?”

Again Qui-Gon’s shoulders slightly slumped, but this time, his determined eyes remained locked with Dooku’s. “I have not quite figured it out yet, but I will.”

“Of course you will,” the white haired man stated confidently, “you are MY apprentice after all.”

Qui-Gon took this as a cue to be on his way again. He had a few things to take care of, one of them a young ginger haired boy, who was hopefully still sleeping. The Force suggestion and the sedative should have been enough to force the boy to sleep for a few hours, but with Obi-Wan you could never be too sure. The young Sith had a natural gift in the Force and even without him being conscious, it would purge the unwanted sleepiness out of his bones. Or in short, he was a great apprentice. Qui-Gon barely remembered his first failed attempt. Xanatos had been the boy’s name. He had been too arrogant, too sure of himself. It was quite ironic actually. Xanatos had searched for the power of the dark side, without even realizing, that it was offered to him already.

But Qui-Gon would not complain. Without Xanatos’ miserable attempt to end his life, he would never have met Obi-Wan. The boy, who had not even been reaching the long haired Sith’s hip at the time, had literally jumped in and defeated the dark haired teenager with Qui-Gon’s lightsaber. Of course Qui-Gon would have been able to free himself from the pitiful excuse of a Force inhibitor and he could have easily called his lightsaber back to his hand. But he had settled to lean back and enjoy the show. And he was not disappointed. Quite the opposite in fact, for he had gained a true apprentice so soon after losing some poor excuse. Needless to say the orphan in the dirty rags and with messy red hair had immediately agreed upon Qui-Gon’s offer. He had felt the connection too after all.

-------------------------

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, did Qui-Gon Jinn seat himself on the mattress of his own bed that was currently used by a twelve year old boy. The mattress gave way under his weight, but the sleeping form did not even stir.

Qui-Gon had just pictured the look Dooku would give him, could the old man see his former apprentice now. He was fretting over the resting form of a – more or less – healthy human male. Then again, Dooku would probably understand his fretting. Obi-Wan was a beloved member of their small family after all.

An annoying beeping brought the Sith out of his musing and with great reluctance did he get up again and took the call from his comlink. He shouldn’t have been surprised that it were Mace and Yoda on the other side. They were truly the only two Jedi, who at least possessed a little brain, despite Mace’s other shortcomings. They didn’t even lecture him, because he might have ‘kidnapped’ one of the Initiates, which could very well have been, because he had told them that he would take Obi-Wan Kenobi as his Padawan learner. The gazed they had exchanged said more than a thousand words. There was doubt and even some fear in their eyes.

Of course they were aware of Obi-Wan’s origin and now they worried for ‘Jedi Master Jinn’, who had already lost one apprentice to the dark side. They feared that the potential in Obi-Wan was still very present and it was all very amusing and very ironic in the Sith’s eyes. In the end they gave up, probably because Qui-Gon might have mentioned the bond that had formed between him and the boy. Reformed would be the better word, but it would just raise unwanted questions. And thus was, how Qui-Gon found himself with a Padawan leaner, who did know nothing of his luck yet. Then again, luck was relative. Not that Qui-Gon believed in luck, he solemnly believed in the ways of the Force, but that was beside the point now. The point was however, that he would do everything in his power to bring back HIS sweet little Obi-Wan, his light in the darkest nights, his drop water in the desert heat and his rock in the surf. All of the mentioned things, or you could just say, his son in all but blood.

The sound of bare feet made Qui-Gon turn around, just in time to see a certain ginger haired male walk through the door into the living room. The boy was partly yawning and rubbing his eyes. He had not realized that Qui-Gon was watching him and the Sith in question had no desire to change that yet.

After a few strands of ginger hair were pushed away, did blue-green eyes turn to the tall male, who was standing in the middle of the room, patiently waiting. There was no surprise in the young eyes and Qui-Gon only barely kept himself from smiling. So the imp HAD known that he was being watched.

“Why hello there, young one.” The tall Master eventually broke the silence.

“Hello, Master Jinn,” the boy visibly relaxed and his clever eyes darted through the room, undoubtedly inspecting and analyzing everything that seemed important. The born strategist, at least that is what Dooku had once said.

“How are you feeling?” Qui-Gon wanted to know.

“Alright I guess.” He quickly continued at the raised eyebrow he recieved, “I am still sleepy and it hurts...” he trailed off and avoided the older man’s gaze.

The Sith Master had not expected anything else form his foster son. He knew Obi-Wan better than anybody else, as was the case the other way around. He knew he could trust his little red-haired devil with everything, except his one health. “Are you hungry?” he eventually asked.

Obi-Wan shook his head, “No, sir.”

The older man hummed. This was not unusual after being sedated, even though, his apprentice had the tendency to not eat regularly or very well. He reached up and pulled out the leather tie that held his hair in a braid and out of his face, all the while being watched by blue-green orbs. The older male shook his head, causing his auburn hear to fly around and settle on his shoulders. He was in the process of redoing his braid, when a shy voice asked, “Shall I help you, Master?”

The question had been unexpected and thus was why Qui-Gon froze in mid-movement. Obi-Wan had always enjoyed playing and braiding his hair, even when he was still very young and small. “I would be honoured,” the Sith finally answered, after he realized that the nervous fidgeting was, because he had not given an answer yet.

A small smile appeared on young features and with a mental sigh, did Qui-Gon kneel on the ground right in front of the couch. This way, the younger male could climb atop the cushioned furniture, which the boy immediately did. It didn’t take long for him to start his task and the Sith Master was soon reminded of all the quite evenings he and his young charge had shared, doing nothing, but enjoying the calm and peace. Apparently he was not the only one.

“It’s strange,” Obi-Wan mumbled, after he had combed through the long dark locks.

“What is?” Qui-Gon asked. He couldn’t quite place it, but something deep inside him, something had begun to tingle.

“I feel as if I have done this countless of times already... but it isn’t possible.” The older man’s heart had started to speed up a little bit. Could this be his apprentice remembering who he really was? But before the Master could come up with an answer, something else caught the ginger haired boy’s attention. He hesitated for a moment, but then he gently lifted a thin braid that had rested right under Qui-Gon’s usual thick braid and had therefore been hidden from view. Qui-Gon had forgotten that it was there himself. A single blood red bead was attached to the three strands of hair that had been interwoven. “I know this bead,” Obi-Wan began and unknowingly the older of the two held his breath, “I have gifted it to you, after... after you took me as your apprentice.”

Something changed in the boy and his whole posture tensed. He let go of the bead and his blue-green eyes widened in shook. The larger man turned to face his charge, still on his knees on the floor, and cautiously reached out for his apprentice. “Obi-Wan...”

“Master,” this single word broke the dam. It wasn’t like the Sith in training hadn’t uttered the word before, but this time it held a certain undertone to it.

“My child,” the Master allowed himself to smile at his young companion and without further ado, he had pulled the boy from the couch, onto his lap. Obi-Wan clung onto him like a drowning man. “Oh Obi-Wan, I had been so worried.”

“I am sorry Master!” sobbed the ginger haired boy into the older male’s neck, “If I had been stronger-“ “Hush, young one,” Qui-Gon soothed the distressed male in his arms, while stroking the ginger locks. “If you had been stronger, they would have imprisoned you, or worse, they would have killed you.”

“I am sorry,” the boy repeated.

“Don’t be,” the tall man was surprised how gentle and calm his own voice sounded. But then, he was just glad to have his son back. “I am very proud of you, my imp.”

Neither male knew how long they sat there, with Qui-Gon leaning against the couch and Obi-Wan in his Master’s loving arms. At one point, it became clear that the boy’s exhaustion was taking over and with a grunt, the Sith Master got to his feet and carried his precious cargo into his bedroom. The apprentice was gently lowered onto the bed and tucked in again.

“What is going to happen now, Master?”

Qui-Gon gave his little devil a small smile, “Now you are going to sleep, my imp, and tomorrow... well, tomorrow you are going to help me, move the furniture. Now that I have a Padawan, I have to reorganize my rooms, after all.”

Confusion was plainly written on young features, but not a second later, the furrowed brows smoothed out and a wicked smile appeared on Obi-Wan’s face. Qui-Gon chuckled mentally, leave it to his brat to figure the hidden message between his words out in an instant. “I cannot await it, my Master.”

“Me neither Padawan,” The last word was emphasized mockingly, “but now, rest.” He bent down to leave a kiss on his charge’s forehead, before turning off the light in the room. “Sleep well, my child.”

“Good night, father,” came the drowsy reply and in the next moment, Obi-Wan had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

#Youngster AU #Part 1 #My Fics #sith!obi-wan #sith!qui-gon #Sith AU #sith!dooku #Sith Family

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celebritylive · 4 years

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What It Is: Tracing my Irish ancestry on a “DNA tourism” vacation.

Discovering your family history through DNA testing services like 23 and Me and Ancestry DNA has become increasingly popular, but it only gives you so much information. When I wanted to take my research a step further, I came across a trip that’s designed to bring you face to face with your personal heritage. Ireland’s Aer Lingus airline has created a genealogy-based travel experience called “Discover Your Roots” that allows visitors to trace their roots right down to the exact region and city their Irish ancestors came from.

“The package was created in response to the growing DNA tourism trend in the U.S., where Americans are increasingly booking trips to explore the countries where their families came from,” says Bill Byrne, Aer Lingus Director of Global Sales and VP of North America. “With millions of Americans identifying as Irish, we wanted to make it easy for them to access their homeland and since we fly from fourteen North American gateways direct to Ireland, it just made sense.”

So how does it work? Prices start at $999 for a six-day experience. The package includes roundtrip economy airfare to Dublin, two nights in a Dublin hotel, a 90-minute private consultation with a genealogy expert at the Irish Family History Centre, admission to EPIC the Irish Emigration Museum and the Irish Family History Centre, a four-night car rental and four nights in your choice of B&Bs throughout Ireland.

On a recent trip to Ireland, I put the package to the test by meeting with a genealogist expert at the EPIC Museum to discover exactly where my ancestors came from.

Who Tried It: Colleen Kratofil, Style Editor

Level of Difficulty: 7, depending on how far you’ve assembled your family tree in advance. It took me some time to call relatives to collect as much information as possible to compile my family tree into one concise document.

RELATED: We Tried It: Becoming a ‘Scare-Actor’ at Universal Orlando’s Halloween Horror Nights

What Went Down: As my first name may suggest, I am, in fact, pretty Irish. Each of my great-grandparents on my mother’s side came to America from Ireland in the 1920s, and my family is very connected to our Irish roots and the Irish dance community. (You can see my commitment to celebrating St. Patricks’ Day here.) So already knowing a good bit about my heritage, I wanted to see how much more I could discover about my family tree.

Upon booking, I received a list of items to bring with me to the consultation with the genealogy expert. It suggested writing down the name, birth date, place of birth, religion and any known parents/siblings of each Irish ancestor I was researching. It also asked to provide any death, marriage or church records, boat passenger lists, naturalization records or WWI or WWII draft cards.

After many, many phone calls with my mother, grandmother, aunts and great-uncle, I assembled a family tree that went back four, five and in one instance six generations, by compiling names, birth dates, marriages and parents’ and siblings’ names within my lineage.

Now, I had probably seen too many episodes of Who Do You Think You Are on TLC, because at times my mind ran a little too wild thinking about how far we would get in our consultation. Would the expert discover that I descended from royalty centuries ago? Was there a scandalous story hidden somewhere in my past that I’ve never heard of? In reality, I had to remind myself that this was just a 90-minute consultation and the expert didn’t spend hours and hours researching my tree ahead of time. What really happened was that my genealogy expert at the Irish Family History Centre, Patrick Roycroft, looked at my notes and my makeshift tree just minutes before we sat down together.

RELATED: We Tried It: I Was Shot From a ‘Dangerous Weapon’ on the Set of MTV’s The Challenge: War of the Worlds 2

“Since people are in different phases of discovery of their family roots, the genealogist acts as a guide of where to look along with tips and tools to get through barriers,” explains Martha Rizea, Aer Lingus’ Consumer Sales & Marketing Executive. “Some people are just getting started and only have a little information and others have records, but this session will act as a guide.”

During the meeting, the first thing Roycroft needed to do was make sure the tree I had assembled from my family was in fact, historically correct, because I didn’t have any birth or marriage records from my ancestors in Ireland. A few birth dates within my tree were off by a year, but Roycroft explained that’s quite common. “You have to remember people from this period in the late 1800s and farther back, many of them genuinely did not know when they were born, they’re making a wild guess.”

We sat together in front of a computer and retraced the names on my family tree by finding birth, marriage or baptism records of each member of my family to ensure the names, spellings, birth places and birth dates I acquired were correct — but I quickly learned tracing ancestry in Ireland is not an easy task.

“Irish geography is more difficult than you might think. Not just because of some of the weird names and spellings, and half the stuff might be in Irish,” Roycroft started. “It’s tricky because any individual place or region in Ireland can have maybe eight or nine names associated with it.”

Another issue? Civil registration in Ireland, which is a legal requirement to register a birth, marriage and death with the state (as opposed to having it in a parish record) started for Catholics in Ireland in 1864. Before that, there’s nothing.

RELATED: We Tried It: A Class with Jennifer Lopez’s Pole Dancing Trainer

As we went, Roycroft sent me copies of all the records we found. We used the full 90 minutes and only covered two relatives, out of four, in my family. “We could literally be working on this for the next six hours without any problem,” Roycroft said.

Once the consultation was finished, the package is designed so one can continue researching their family for another day in Dublin, then schedule where they would like to reserve B&Bs to visit some of the places they’ve just learned about.

“The B&B’s are an open voucher system, so based on any newly discovered information, guests will set out to that area to see where their roots come from,” Rizea says. “It’s a completely flexible program of discovery, cultural immersion, Irish hospitality and a vacation all in one.”

Because I already knew each of my great-grandparents hailed from County Mayo (and I’m an over-planner) I knew I’d stay there during my journey. (I chose the Hazelbrook B&B in Westport, which I’d highly recommend.)

The Results: Was it less glamorous than discovering some hidden family secret? Sure. But it was still absolutely fascinating.

We got one layer deeper into my maternal grandmother’s side and my maternal grandfather’s side, and confirmed the birth dates and birth places of family members along both sides of my family.

The whole purpose of the consultation is to truly trace one’s roots — and that’s exactly what Roycroft did. I had known one half of one side of my family came from the town of Balina, County Mayo. But by looking at both county and church records of my relatives, we actually narrowed down the exact, very specific, area within Balina where they lived, even tracing a move the family had made between the border of County Mayo and County Sligo.

Roycroft also explained that I wouldn’t be able to get one more generation back, because of the limitations of Irish records. “The general brick wall for Irish genealogy for Catholics is about 1800. That’s where things really do peter out quite quickly. If you’re very lucky, you can maybe get two generations back. I would probably eat my pen if you actually got three generations back. I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

In the end, we traced the exact areas where two sides of my family came from (Tourmakeady and Kiltimagh) and I was even able to visit cousins that still live in the towns (and in one case, the same property) that my great-grandparents came from (pictured above).

Going back to the exact cities from which my relatives departed Ireland was eye opening. It really made me think about the experience my great-grandparents had leaving their hometowns and the lives they created so far away from home.

Overall, the “Discover Your Roots” package is an amazing experience for those serious about learning about their ancestry and it’s an easy one-stop shop in the vacation-planning process. With airfare, a rental car, and B&B stays booked in one session, it makes planning a breeze and leaves more time to be spent truly digging into your heritage.

What to Know Before a Genealogy Consultation

To prepare for your own experience tracing your roots, I asked Roycroft what people should bring, and the expectations they should have, before meeting with an genealogist. Here are his expert tips:

1. Talk to your elders.

“Get the information from them, get it in a structured format, present that to the genealogists and say, ‘This is what I know from family history. These are the names and the dates and the places.’ And then it’s up to the genealogist to deal with that.”

2. List the names of all known relatives/siblings of your ancestor.

“Listing all the names of brothers and sisters of those you’re researching is brilliant because some of those are more easily findable. Someone may have an unusual name, which is easier to search. What happens quite often is, in the direct line that somebody wants to research, there’s a problem with it for whatever reason, but you can go around it by researching a brother or sister and carry on.”

3. Be mindful of the resources available in Irish records.

“The late and mid-19th century is when there’s a rich trove of records. Early 19th century, not so much. If you’re Roman Catholic before 1864, the parish registers are the things you need to have in order to establish who was born and who married who. You’re absolutely dependent upon specifically which parish in which county your ancestor came from. 1800 is the barrier. The whole west of Ireland is all like that. The east sometimes maybe it’s a bit better.”

4. English relatives may help the search.

“If you were fortunate enough to have English ancestors, their whole preservation is completely different. If one had farming ancestors in England, you can probably get back to the 1700s, even 1600s sometimes from their records. But in Ireland you would have trouble getting past 1800.”

During our interview, Roycroft used an example about President John F. Kennedy to hit the point home. “Hundreds of top genealogists in the world researched his ancestors and they can’t get back more than his great-great grandfather because the records don’t exist. It doesn’t matter if you’re a president.”

RELATED: We Tried It: Cardi B And DJ Khaled’s Wild And Crazy Days Of Summer Cruise

5. Guinness may be the secret.

During a visit to the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin, I discovered that a rich trove of history does exist before the 1800s for all employees who ever worked at Guinness — which began in 1759 — thanks to the Guinness Archive collect. Family members of former Guinness employees can access work files, medical records, artifacts and more through the Guinness Storehouse Archives, which contains over 20,000 individual personnel files, available by appointment only.

For more info on the “Discover Your Roots” package, visit the Aer Lingus Vacation Store website, aerlingusvacationstore.com.

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briefcloudsweets-blog · 7 years

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Web Design & Usability Mastery Assignment

Mastering – Web Design & Usability Course

This in course number 5 of the Internet Marketing Master Science degree at Full Sail University.

We started this course with a new 4.0 platform that confused a few of us and myself. It was hard at the beginning. However, the course ended and I still don't know how to register or to go by signing up for the to go training or live sessions we used to have in previous courses once a week. For this course, in particular, the Web Design & Usability, I did not get to watch not even an archive from previous sessions.

On week one, we were asked to analyze the homepage of our case company and compared it with the company main competitor, in this case, is ProMedia.

As mentioned before, AudioGraph International main competitor is Pro Media. As seen in the above screenshot, Pro Media has the tendency to go dark in the color as well when it comes to its homepage. The difference is that they use the industry hardware such as a console and mixing control systems as background, which I find very assertive.

When it comes to the homepage headlines, none of the websites use headlines as it is known. Instead, both websites (AGI and Pro Media), utilize sliding course banners with concise information about the courses and what they offer. These course banners give movement to the homepage. The Pro Media course banners information is defined and clean, using large size letters written in white. On the other hand, AGI course banners are enclosed in a frame lacking strengths and power. The information shown on both websites go straight to the point without grammar or spelling errors.

In regards to taking advantage of trust indicators, Pro Media does a good job of it by giving the option to click on Reviews on their homepage in the space the visitor can still see it without having to scroll down (Lift Conversions Through Effective Landing Page Design, n.d).

AudioGraph International has that option, but it is “hidden” under the word Alumni in the horizontal menu. AudioGraph International should be taking advantage of its five-star Yelp score. It should be added to its homepage.

The Call-to-Actions should stand out (n.d.). Again, Pro Media takes the lead by showing their Leave-a-Message bottom easy to see and reach. Not only that, but while doing this assignment and browsing Pro Media’s website, I got asked, if I needed any help. It was a live chat with one of the company representative. I really would like to integrate this function in my case company website. I think it is really powerful.

Next is the graph where explains the strengths and weaknesses of AudioGraph International (AGI) home page.

AudioGraph International Homepage Strengths & Weaknesses

Strengths

Weaknesses

Easy to navigate.

The testimonial option is under the Alumni.

Headline information is clear & concise.

Not use of trust indicators like BBB & Yelp.

Color is appropriate for the audio industry

Important information is not easily visible.

Homepage tells people where they are, what we do and what they can do.

The color is dark which makes it not easy to the eye for reading (my opinion).

Free of grammar errors.

Call-to-Action bottom is hidden.

Brief suggestions to improve the AudioGraph International homepage

I propose to add the color white to the background as well as the Santa Monica Bay theme, but with the use of lighter colors that could be easier to the eye and provide a more peaceful and friendly feeling. The purple should continue to be used as it is the one used by Avid (Pro Tools software manufacturer).

Also, AGI homepage needs to relocate the call-to-action bottom (subscribe – apply –call) at the beginning of the page, where the visitor’s eye is able to see it at first glance.

At the present time, AGI homepage shows banners in a slide motion with updated information about the courses. Instead, I would like to recommend the use of video including an invitation from the company’s founder, Jose “Chilitos” Valenzuela, the cornerstone of AudioGraph International and the reason why many students and professionals come to get certified under his expertise from all over the world.

The AGI current platform is Wix which I find bothersome to work with when having to connect it with Google Analytics. According to a research I did, WordPress seems to be more Google Analytics friendly. I am proposing the AGI’s website to be redone in the WordPress platform.

As I mentioned before, AudioGraph International should show in its home page its third-party account, Yelp, where the site scores five stars (the maximum score).

In conclusion, this assignment has been of great value for me. I have learned to identify the little things that mean a lot, like the call-to-action bottoms placed effectively and efficiently. The importance and the meaning of colors and how the combination of them can give the right or the wrong message. And it has helped me to appreciate how through the application of new technology we can implement it into our everyday business life and progress and advance each day more and more.

On week two, we performed a Usability test following the parameters established by Steve Krug.

The test took place at AGI’s studio, with easy access to the Internet. The studio is quiet and sound proof. Even though it was not their typical environment where they usually access the Internet, the participants were relaxed and comfortable.

The following recommendations for the next AudioGraph International

web site usability test are based on the results drew on today’s test:

· To use a larger AGI’s logo on the homepage of the site.

· Use the following as a mega tag, Avid Authorized Training Partner + Pro Audio Courses

and Certifications by the Beach in Santa Monica, CA.

· Integrate lighter colors in the website background. Still, use the

Santa Monica Bay and Pier but instead of the sunset, use the sunrise.

· Place the call-to-action bottom on the homepage where easily seen

at first sight.

On week three, we worked on the concept of Findability, Navigation and Information Scent. The reading for this week emphasized that Findability was very much confused with the Search Engine Optimization, SEO. When Findability is how easy visitors can find a website and SEO is all about algorithms that are driven by a Search Engine. When building, and designing a website Findability is the concept to have present at all times, while SEO planning its part in any good Findability strategy.

Also, we analyzed the Navigation and Information scent of our case companies. Information Scent is basically how the visitors can intuit and predict what is behind a call to action or navigation menu. When clicking on a link and what you find at the other end is what the link inferred, the site has a strong information scent.

The following are the conclusion of the analysis.

In general, AudioGraph International website provides its visitors with a pleasant experience. “It is not difficult to predict what they will find” (Nielsen, 2004).

However, there are some exceptions like the ones mentioned in this paper.

For example, the Alumni link could create confusion as the word Alumni might refer to information and photos of previous students, like the School Year Book type. When visitors click on this link, a dropped-down menu opens offering two categories, Alumni Testimonials, and Video Testimonials. The suggestion is to change the link name to Testimonials.

Furthermore, the Link Calendar is written in italics, and according to this week reading, this style could bring distraction to the reader.

Other than that, the AudioGraph International links are easy to navigate. The links take the users straight to what they are looking for, and if they wonder for something better, the easy-going navigation will take them to the right place (Laja, 2017).

On week four, we were asked to do an in-depth analysis of our case companies page by page.

In the website analysis AudioGraph International is defined as an Avid Authorized Pro School facility, where sound engineers, musicians, producers, and audio professionals attend to become Pro Tools Certified Operators and Experts in music and post production.

The AudioGraph International (AGI) website was created with the intention of the company to have a presence on the Internet and provide the people briefly with the most recent and valid information about our services and products.

AudioGraph International website achieves the objectives of telling people where they are, what we do and what they can do while browsing our site (Nielsen, 2001).

This website plan will identify the AGI’s website strengths and weaknesses in terms of the homepage, navigation, findability, accessibility, SEO, mobile site experience, among others.

During this course, we have been asked to conduct an analysis towards our main competitor and for that I chose ProMedia. The AGI URL is www.audiographintl.com and ProMedia is www.protoolstraining.com.

Overview: Strengths

AudioGraph International homepage is easy to navigate. The horizontal main menu has a

• strong information scent as what visitors could predict what to find when they click on any of the options, they will find what they are expecting to find.

When scrolling down the page there is more important and significant information about the school.

• When the usability test was conducted, the participants assured to have had a nice experience.

Short Term Recommendations:

There are some immediate changes that will be applied to the AGI’s website

• The size of the letters will become larger and the color white.

• The mega tag will be reduced to the number of characters’ advice by The New Scholarship for Women at AGI will be deleted until further notice.

• The call-to-action in the homepage will be moved to where it can be seen

at first sight.

• The course banners will cover the page from left to right instead of being

framed.

The Long-Term Recommendations:

Recommendations to the AudioGraph International website at long term

• To re-design the company website taking in consideration the

suggestions given here.

• Change the site color and use only purple and white.

• Build the AGI website in the WordPress software which is Google friendly.

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apparitionism · 5 years

Text

Sound 7

I haven’t done any public-facing work on this in some time, but I’m still very much in the middle of writing a sequel to Soon. Here’s a piece of it. When last we checked in on our intrepid Russian translator and her beloved violinist (and child), it was 1963, and they were finding their shared life in New York rewarding in many ways, while difficult to negotiate in others—which, I must say, describes my own feelings about this project. Writing is sometimes like pushing an overloaded sled in the weight room: if you can budge it a yard, that’s a victory. This maybe moves Sound along less than a foot, but even so. (No links to the other parts of Sound, or to Soon, but the former are findable here on Tumblr and the latter is both here and, in improved version, on AO3.)

Sound 7

1964

The device is crafted to appear innocuous.

It hides inside a dictating machine, a Philips, the newest model. The machine works just fine, both while concealing the device and not, and Myka has to learn to use it; she has to commit to it, so that its presence in her possession will appear natural. She finds that she likes recording her thoughts this way, though she’s embarrassed by how awful she sounds when she plays it back; even at normal speed, her voice is pitched higher than she ever imagined. Has she heard herself like this before? She’s listened to so many people’s speaking voices on tape—Russian-speaking voices, back in those days—but never her own.

Christina is fascinated by the Philips and begs to dismantle it. Helena wrinkles her nose at its sound quality: she complains of a high hiss and tells Myka she can find her a far better piece of equipment if she is committed to making notes in this way.

Myka has kept from Helena the real reason she has taken up dictation.

She tries a fast translation of a page of the text she’s working on now, Bryusov’s “V zerkale”—“In the Mirror”—by reading Cyrillic on the page, then speaking it in English into the machine. It’s difficult to keep from simply reading the Russian aloud, so she imagines it spoken in someone else’s voice, leaving her to translate simultaneously, UN-style. She tries Helena’s voice... too distracting. Her grandfather’s and grandmother’s are too familiar, and thus untranslatable. Lullabies. Max? He has a lovely voice, but the problem with imagining him speaking is that she senses him also whispering his own translation right along with himself, and that’s no help. She settles on a departmental colleague, a native Russian speaker whom she knows not well but well enough; his quiet, measured tones turn out to be Goldilocks-correct. “He” reads her the Bryusov story, and she tells it to the machine: “I have loved mirrors from my very earliest years...”

She’d been baffled when Abigail first handed her the machine and explained what it contained, for she couldn’t imagine she knew anyone Abigail would possibly have an interest in bugging. Myka doesn’t have that kind of access, and she certainly doesn’t have the expertise needed to secure this thing in place and make sure it works. Or the nerve, she tells herself, but while that might have been true in the past, she isn’t sure it’s true now. She feels a certainty in herself when she goes to Russia now. This reason, this deal she’s made, it defines her. It’s a mission, a discipline. Like Helena practicing her violin, though Myka doesn’t know what the honing of her nerve is preparing her for. What her performance will be.

“You aren’t planting it,” Abigail had told her. “And anyway it’s just a piece. You’re passing it along.”

Myka’s flicker of disappointment at this news frightened her.

She practices taking the Philips apart, removing the device, hiding it on her person, and putting the recorder back together again: quickly, silently. It’s useful to need to keep this activity from Christina, though equating Christina with KGB, even in this little way, makes Myka morally queasy.

Myka knows KGB officers listen to the hotel rooms that she and other foreigners stay in; she knows her movements are tracked; she knows that everyone to whom she speaks might be an informer. She doesn’t know how much time she’ll have when the moment comes to hand over the equipment, and she doesn’t know where it will happen.

“Why can’t I just carry it on me?” she asks Abigail. “The thing itself?”

“This is safer. Trust me.” The don’t ask why wall in Abigail’s voice: whatever she knows about what might happen to Myka—arrest, search, worse?—Myka will need not to know it’s coming. Abigail has told her in the past that an expression of genuine surprise is difficult to fake, and similarly hard for other humans to dismiss.

“Oh,” Abigail also says, offhand but not, “you may run into someone you know. Don’t react.”

Be surprised; don’t be surprised.

****

The session is intended to produce a simple demo.

Helena is in the hallway just outside the booth when she hears the sound engineer take a call. She is about to leave for the day; she has just checked in, on that very telephone, with her booking service, but nothing other than the brief rehearsal she just attended is scheduled—not a surprise, here on this relatively quiet Saturday morning.

“Hey, H.G.!” the engineer calls to her. “Want some more practice?”

She takes the phone from him. The bleary voice of Ben Cone, in whose booth she had lately sat while he produced a song that swiftly hit number three in the nation, tells her that he is supposed to be putting together a demo, but his hangover is too fierce; can she fill in? He knows she knows what to do, he says, and anyway, it’s just a demo. Everybody should be there in a half hour or so, bye. Oh, but she’ll have to find her own singer; his passed out only a couple hours ago, still sleeping it off. In no shape, you know?

She thinks of Rudy Lewis: “I’m your man for demo vocals,” he’d told her, years ago. “Don’t you call nobody else.” His sugar voice. She would have called him; he would have done it. Cruel of fate to hand her this chance, so short a time after... well. She should not dwell on that, not now.

But then she does think about it, when the song’s writer, who shows up to play piano on the track—where’s Ben; hung over; no surprise—hands her the music.

The song is titled “I’ll Pass.” “It’s simple,” he says. “Just a ‘thanks a lot but no thanks’ lyric.”

Helena can’t discern his real intent here, for the lyric strikes her as... multilayered. The verses suggest that the singer’s beloved finds the singer inadequate, inappropriate, in response to which, the singer says in the refrain, “I’ll pass, baby; I’ll pass.” A rejection? Or a sincere, bleak promise to show a different self to the world? Rudy would have sung it with the full range of meanings right there to be heard. But it isn’t Helena’s job to care about the meanings. It’s her job to produce a demo.

She is to do it with this songwriter-pianist, plus a guitarist, a drummer, a bassist... and a young saxophonist. Helena tries to send the latter home, but he says he needs the money. He says also that he would be happy to play anything she wants, if saxophones aren’t her bag, so she hands him a triangle from a box of orphan percussion and regrets to inform that the middle eight will not belong to him after all. He looks at the triangle, looks at her, pronounces this the screwiest session he’s ever seen—how many can he possibly have seen?—and then starts asking about when to ring, when to muffle, how much shimmer, and is there a brass beater anywhere in this studio because everybody knows the sound from stainless is too cold. (Helena takes his name and his number and files them away for the future.)

The musicians run through loose takes, tight takes; Helena likes the loose takes, despite the songwriter hitting an off note or several. It’s just a demo, and the looser renditions give a better sense of the song’s potential. She considers sitting down with them in the studio to add her violin, but there’s no string arrangement, and inventing one, even something simple, would begin to define the song. The demo should suggest no strictures, just a loose sense of what this melody and lyric could become.

She tries calling a few vocalists, but—again no surprise for a Saturday—she can’t find anyone, and no singer she knows well is in the building, so she asks each of the musicians to try a few bars. The guitarist wins the brief talent competition, with a soar of a tenor that Helena can’t believe hasn’t been put on record before. (She is filing him away too.) He says nobody ever asked, that he only ever sang in church—but he never goes to church anymore, which vexes his mama. Further, he notes, “I can’t sing and play at the same time,” and while Helena is outwardly expressing sympathy for his mother, she is also worrying about her ability, even with experienced engineering help, to lay in a vocal right on such a spare arrangement.

Can the now-trianglist take over the guitar part? “No strings, sorry,” he says, and doesn’t that just fit the day.

And indeed it isn’t quite right, in the end, the way the vocal lies against the music. But Helena rationalizes it, intellectualizes it—it’s trying to pass as a right part of the track. “I’ll pass, baby”? Some can. But: for only so long. The length of a pop song, perhaps.

“I was thinking about Rudy today,” she tells Christina when she finally arrives home, far later than she’d imagined, after the lengthy mixdown. “It’s just a demo,” the engineer had complained. “How rough would you be on me if it was a real track?” Which had made Helena think of Phil, but that association, and its implications, were too much for an already overloaded day.

Christina’s reaction to Rudy’s name is a quiet “oh.”

****

It had been an unremarkable day in late May, and Helena and the rest of the musicians who had assembled for a Drifters session were waiting, smoking, and growing a little irritated, for they all had additional bookings, and the more sweet time the singers and production took to arrive, the more likely the musicians were to be late for those other sessions.

Irritation turned to blank incredulity when Bert Berns, who was to produce, and the other men walked in, for Bert said, with no preliminaries, “Rudy died last night.” He added, “Overdose.”

They recorded four tracks that session. Helena could not have said, afterward, what any of them were, save the final one, a song that had been intended for Rudy to sing: a ballad called “I Don’t Want to Go On Without You.” Charlie sang it instead... that he could do so said something about professionalism, or shock, or both of them together.

Who, hearing any of those tracks on the radio, would discern that they were documents of grief? They would seem like the simple pop songs they were, and was that an obscenity, or was it just an extreme version of the work that pop music was designed to do?

“How do I tell Christina?” Helena asked Myka. “What do I tell her?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything. My only thought is ‘the truth.’” Myka said this as if it really was the only thought she had right then, the only thought she knew how to think about anything.

But Myka was right, so the truth was what Helena told Christina: Rudy took too many drugs, and he died. Christina asked why, and Helena thought she was asking a medical question, about what the body could and couldn’t tolerate. “No,” Christina clarified. “Why did he want to?”

Helena did try not to lie to Christina. Shield her, but not lie to her. So she said, “I think”—because she did not, in fact, know—“I think it was because he thought the world had no good place for him. He wanted a place, yet there was no place. I think that at times he wanted to let himself forget all of that. All of what surrounded him.”

Christina said a weary, “Misinformed beliefs,” and Helena could answer only with “That’s right.”

Helena had assumed she would attend the funeral alone, but Christina asked to go, then asked if Myka would go too. But Myka said, “That’s not a picture we should make.” At this, Christina nodded, and Helena could not hold back a small internal push of pride at that knowing assent. While Christina took great satisfaction in being far more American than Helena herself was, she was persistently British in her understanding of appearances.

They went out to buy her a black dress.

“Is it for a very special occasion?” the saleslady asked, because Christina was unsatisfied with the first three she tried.

“Yes and no,” Christina told her. Helena felt the push of pride again. She looked at Myka, who wore a “what is she becoming?” face, and Helena wanted to take her hand and echo “I don’t know—I don’t know anything,” then follow that with “But isn’t it miraculous that we’ll both find out?”

That miracle meant Helena would not need to find her consolation in a needle.

The night after the service, she would have been desperate to hold any woman in the dark, but instead she was lucky enough to hold the woman she loved. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Myka said in that dark, the same words she’d said to Christina in her new black dress, afterward. She’d also said, to Christina, “How was it?”

Christina hadn’t cried at the service, but rather sat, eyes wide, holding Helena’s hand. She hadn’t even spoken until just now, and Helena was certain that only to Myka would she have broken her silence: “They said nice things about him,” Christina responded. Then she’d leaned against Myka, as if to reassure, as if Myka were the one in need of comfort, and said, “Not the right nice things.”

****

Tonight, late at night, Myka clearly expects Helena to be pleased, both about having been asked to produce the track, and about having done it. Instead, Helena says a bitter, “It’s just a demo,” and she doesn’t quite cry about Rudy, how he was not there but should have been, why he was not there to sing a song he should have sung.

“Nothing you do is just anything,” Myka says, kissing the corners of Helena’s almost-wet eyes.

“It was the work of just one afternoon,” Helena says, trying to shake off the sadness, yet also irrationally resentful of how Myka makes her want to shake off the sadness. “I’ll be surprised if I or anyone hears of it again.”

****

Myka’s handoff is easy. Like this: A week into her two-week stay, her two weeks of lecturing and researching, she is reading in Moscow University’s library. She is heavily supervised, of course, and she has already been told that she will be gaining no access to certain authors’ work: “Sorry, not available.” (The “to you” is implied.) The librarians are happy to hand her as many issues of Novy Mir as she wants, however, particularly since she is able to show them that she herself, Myka Bering, translator of many Russian works, was mentioned in a commentary written by its editor, Alexander Tvardovsky, in 1960. She does not point out to them that Novy Mir publishes several of those authors who are considered forbidden.

It is so easy: they do not want her to take notes, so she says, “May I use my dictating machine?” It is such a novelty that all the librarians must come and look at it, speak into it, hear snippets of their own voices. After all that, how can they say no? Myka promises to be quiet with it, but there is really no need. The library is libraryesque only in that books are on offer.

So easy: when a man approaches the table and points at the machine, her first thought is that he, like the librarians, wants to acquaint himself with the dictating technology. Instead he says the correct code word, and Myka answers him in kind. She demonstrates the Philips for him, and he thanks her. He then sits at a table of his own, not far from hers, and proceeds to ignore her completely.

She asks to visit the ladies room, which is of course in an isolated location, and she is given one of “the girls”—women who fetch books from the stacks for the mostly male scholars—as an ostensible guide. Ostensible because no American can be left to roam unattended, yet this particular girl wants only to go outdoors and smoke cigarettes. She doesn’t care in the slightest about Myka, who may be American but is just a woman, and old besides. So Myka goes into the washroom, calmly disassembles the Philips, removes the device, and puts it in the pocket of her suit jacket. She then just as calmly reassembles the machine, collects her watcher (who exhibits far more care in putting out her half-smoked cigarette, to save for later, than for her Myka-watching task), goes back to the reading room, reads and dictates for another hour, then goes to the man at his table. “I forgot to show you,” she says, “that the machine plays back at two speeds.” She hands him the machine and the device at the same time, listens to her own voice weirdly manipulated, and then it is done.

An hour more she reads and dictates, then she prepares to depart. The librarians, and Myka’s heedless escort who likes to smoke outdoors, wave her goodbye. She feels no need to look over her shoulder.

The summertime sidewalks of 1964 Moscow are full and bright. The weather is fine, just right for the young women to wear sundresses, for the young men to sport shirtsleeves. Their conversations are animated. They direct their eyes high, up at billboards, particularly film advertisements, and Myka tries not to read too much into the title of one: Den’ schast’ya, Day of Happiness. A girl in a lime-green shift pulls at the hand of her male companion and directs his attention to an elaborate wooden model train in a shop window; they both laugh. The train cars’ colors are washed out, too long exposed to light in that window, no buyers. While such a sight would have been sad in New York, here, for the young and sundressed and laughing, Myka infers that it’s a mark of all they believe they are leaving behind. The faded past; who needs it?

On these same sidewalks, though, as if they have been imported from that faded past, an older generation walks heavier. Silent. They dress as if they must wear all they own or lose it, no matter the weather. They find no distraction in advertisements, and they don’t bother with window displays. The past is always there; why be reminded?

Myka tries to remind herself, and keep in the front of her mind, that she has more in common with those who walk with weight. She is doing dangerous work. She will become careless if she forgets about risk and consequences. But a sharp lightness has come to attend her time in Russia... she keeps secrets all the time, no matter where she is, but the secret she keeps here, while she is here, is distinct: the threat of its revelation accrues to her and no one else.

The most salient secret she keeps at home is vastly different, in that its discovery would damage Myka, but reverberations from that discovery would very likely destroy Helena and Christina.

Walking down a summertime sidewalk of Moscow, responsible only for her own safety, affords Myka a guilty freedom. That such freedom should be one through which she is constantly followed and watched and listened to should be ironic, but instead it seems like part of a mistaken-identity comedy, one in which Russians have been told to follow and watch and listen to Myka Bering, but they are following and watching and listening to a person who feels free, and that cannot possibly be Myka Bering, so they are following and watching and listening to the wrong person after all. Who do they think she is?

Who does she think she is?

Her final event in Russia, a week later, is a reception for all the university’s visiting American scholars. Myka is one of only three lecturers who have come for these two-weeks; several more have spent the entire now-concluding summer term here in exchange for some Soviets who are probably at similar receptions on U.S. campuses. Different hors d’oeuvres, same receptions. More than a few are scientists, which helps to explain the heavy presence of people at this party who are clearly not academics. Myka meets several American diplomats, most of whom are probably straightforwardly State; some, though, must be CIA under official cover. Similarly, there are some actual Soviet diplomatic eminences, but also, plenty of KGB making their power known.

Myka finds herself chatting with two junior diplomats—or “diplomats”—one American whose name she did not quite catch, and one Russian, his name Nikolai. Nikolai will no doubt be reporting back to his superiors everything about his American interlocutors, regardless, but in this conversation he is just a young man, dark with a softness about his mouth. “What is happening in New York?” he asks her, and his English is all right, nearly full-speed, but she tells him he should feel free to speak Russian with her.

“Want practice,” he demurs. But he flashes her a small smile as he does so. In that soft mouth, his teeth are wolf-white. Nikolai has never skipped out to smoke, outdoors or anywhere else. He is clean.

The American glimpses someone across the room and makes a “come here” motion. Myka looks over to see who is approaching... and she understands why Abigail told her not to react. “Professor Bering,” the American says, “and Nikolai, I’d like to introduce you to Joseph Holden, the famous Olympic wrestler.”

Joseph has received the same instructions Myka has; he shakes her hand and says “A pleasure, professor.” Then he shakes hands with Nikolai. The clean Russian shows his wolf teeth again, more widely.

Myka does not know anything about this, whatever “this” might be. Her fizz of ire at Abigail for not being forthcoming is probably inappropriate and definitely fruitless in this moment, but she feels it. She looks at Joseph, who always seems to make easy situations less so, and she directs that fizz at him, too.

Myka and Joseph have one moment together during which they are unobserved, or at least less closely attended to. “Why are you here?” she asks him, because she can’t stop herself.

He laughs. “Oh, I’m finding Moscow really something,” he says, his voice fully corn-fed, but that is not the end of it. Quick, quiet, he adds, “I’m bait.”

Myka has no time or space to get more from him. Nikolai reappears, and Joseph turns back to him, his charm wide, open.

The burden of risk.

****

Myka returns home from her two weeks in Russia to find... difference. Her own blood is colder, because it always is after Russia, but also because she doesn’t know the contours of the operation she brushed past. She’ll find out soon enough—she won’t let Abigail fail to read her in, not on this—but she is still shivering.

Helena, meanwhile, is hot: her demo version of “I’ll Pass” is charting.

She’d had no idea, she tells Myka, that the demo was being cut for Lester Sill—he’d been Phil’s partner at Philles Records, but their relationship had soured. “As it would,” Helena said, and Myka recognized that little curl of lip. Sill was now at Colpix, hungry for talent... Helena had been told that when the demo was played for him, he’d listened through, then stood up and walked out of his office. “We’re done,” he’d said as he left. “Release it. It’s a hit.” Helena admits to Myka that she imagines—worries?—that all he had heard was some vestige of Phil’s style, some oddity that Helena had unknowingly reproduced. That that was what caught his ear.

“It’s just one hit,” Helena says, as if in apology, and Myka can’t understand why she isn’t thrilled to have done—on her first try!—exactly what she has always intended to do. Then Helena says, “It was an accident.” This gives Myka clarity: Helena doesn’t know how to make it happen again.

After any time in Russia, Myka is always a bit more Russian than she was before. Which is not to say that she will ever understand or feel with fullness what it is to be Russian... but some not-quite-Russian lives inside her, some unschooled child of all these: her grandfather, her grandmother, all the voices she has heard on tapes, all the words on the pages she has translated, KGB, dissidents, victims, perpetrators, even young girls in sundresses. They all wrestle for pride of place within her. Those real Russians never explain themselves, never step up and tell her, never sit her down and bleed into her bones. But those Russians, and even the not-quite-one who doesn’t fill her skin, they all know: there are no accidents.

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Sound #part 7 #Soon sequel #I know it isn't much #and I know it's been forever #plus some passages are still rough #but I do keep trying to make it real #in ways that complicate but also make motivational sense #and I'll keep doing that #because I owe it to these characters #who have moved so far beyond where they began #(anyway JH's significant line has been lying in wait since I started thinking about Sound)#(and so has that song title)#(which I may decide in the end is too heavy-handed)#(but it can deliver its thematic hammer for the time being)

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