#and existing in limbo sort of has me trying to mentally run away

[ishades]

.

#hmmm ignore me but I think I might as well talk about it here #less people likely to see it this way! #I always joke about how I want to get divorced but honestly? #not a joke. I don’t think marriage is for me #i don’t think anyone can ever sincerely love me I’ve loved a lot of different people over the years but never anyone who loved me back #like even in actual relationships it wasn’t love or even ‘like’ #i think it’s a self destruction thing partially? maybe I don’t have the words to describe it because otherwise I’d be laid TOO bare #i want to relearn liking myself after a harsh breakup and reconstruct myself like I’m made of clay into something #unrecognizable and new but still touched by the hands that shaped me… but I get to be me #i want someone to look at me and know I’ve never been more beautiful than before things ended #and even if they want me again perhaps for the first time in ages… that they’ll know I slipped away and they’ll never have me again #i think this desire could even be born out of watching the women in my life irl drive themselves into the ground #and develop the worst self esteem issues and be suicidal while trapped in marriages where the spark isn’t there #maybe I want to divorce someone because they never will #maybe I would rather entertain thoughts of divorce in my future then think about the now #i feel very unwanted in every aspect of life but especially in the romance department #like… unfulfilled I guess? i think I take clear cut rejection better than anything else #and existing in limbo sort of has me trying to mentally run away #it DOESNT help that I feel like the other shoe is going to drop any minute #i feel like something big is coming bigger than god and maybe it’ll destroy me #so I’d rather think about having a massive romantic falling out with a stranger #than deal with anything irl that’s going on… especially when everything’s just so… immutable #i understand and empathize with anyone who is a child of divorce so I try to keep jokes to a minimum #but I wonder if divorce just means different things to different people? #anyways I want to become a divorced ILF without any kids tangled in the divorce #digital digital i wanna get digital

[abraxos-the-phantom]

Scum Disciple Deleted

-scenes. Here you go @vodkassassin. Unformatted and mostly unedited save for some awkward phrasing I fixed as I skimmed through it. I have a habit of merely taking out scenes rather than straight deleting them when I don't think they work out so if you see it on the fic shhh I probably just found a better place for it, but for the most part I think these are unused

TLJ + MF; Flashback/Illusion

[Log: File:Save_??-???.?.????.log]

“You know, for a man so keen on maintaining the preference of a dignified cultivator, you are fairly quick to disband such things as you see fit,” Tianlang-jun mused.

Ming Fan threw a dirty look to the former Overlord of the Demonic Realm over his bowl of beef stir fry lily bulbs. It was a specialty in this region, boasting a sweet lily bulb due to the length of time the farmers around the area spent cultivating the plant. In other words, it was delicious and a welcome change to the guilt trip galore that was eating Lou Binghe’s cooking.

Oh to eat that delicious snow congee without feeling the compulsion to throw it all back up-

Well, no use dwelling on such things.

“Most of anything could be considered vulgar when in close proximity to you,” Ming Fan quipped, taking a generous helping of the stir-fry between his chopsticks. “If you had as much sensibility as you had sensuality, I guarantee that people would be more fond of you. Unfortunately, it is too late for me.”

“Hoh? Is that so?” Tianlang-jun’s lips curled in a smirk in spite of the fact that Ming Fan had no interest looking his way, regardless of the other demon happened to do. Some odd five or so years have taught Ming Fan that there were times when the best move for dealing with the other was simply ignoring him.

Ming Fan maintained his bland tone as he briefly paused to speak, “Yes.”

Tianlang-jun shook his head, “Honestly. Are all disciples of Cang Qiong like you, or are you just the special one.”

Said disciple only gave Tianlang-jun a significant dirty look, “You’d have to actually behave yourself to get to know another disciple of Cang Qiong.”

“Eh,” the Heavenly Demon leaned back against his chair with his hands crossed behind his head. “Too boring.”

Ming Fan made a noncommitting sound as he finally ate the last of his order, letting out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back in his seat.

“Ming Fan, a question if you are so gracious enough to grant me such a thing.”

Ming Fan only raised a brow, “You may ask, whether I answer is not on the table.”

“Why?” Tianlang-jun paused as he attempted to think about his question. “Why do you maintain this relationship of ours? It’s not as if you’re on any obligation to maintain basic relations for a political reason, and you hardly ask me anything so you aren’t after my wisdom. With Lou Binghe going in and out Cang Qiong Sect, it’s not as if I can threaten your Sect any more than I could try and fight with my son.”

Ming Fan crossed his arms, humming for a moment tilting his head just enough to convey thoughtfulness he turned to look the demon lord in the eye, “If you were to be confronted with a former enemy of a war without meaning, what would you do?”

Tianlang-jun hummed, “I wouldn’t care.”

“Exactly,” Ming Fan pointed out. “Now what would you do if you discovered you were on the wrong side of that war?”

“…I still wouldn’t care.”

“Would you?” Ming Fan hummed, “Well, that’s your choice.”

“So is that all? You pity me?”

“Not quite,” Ming Fan shrugged, idly arranging the finish plate on the table. “More like my recompense of sorts.”

Tianlang-jun’s expression was unreadable as he stared, quietly adding, “You realize that I’ve killed hundreds of cultivators like you. Your age, younger- older. It didn’t matter, they were obstacles in my path and I removed them.”

“Of that I do not doubt, but these days- the line between righteous and mad is thin,” Ming Fan snorted. “I stand at the meager in-between myself. But what else can I do? I am but a mere mortal, attempting to right his wrongs.”

Ming Fan took a final sip at his tea, “Sometimes, that is all one can do without going well and truly mad.”

Tianlang-jun chuckled, “I suppose that’s true.”

The hours seemed endless after that, a moment in time felt like hundreds upon billions as the two simply- existed.

“So,” Tianlang-jun said after an eternity’s moment. “What are you doing here Little Cultivator?”

Ming Fan blinked, “Is this not one amongst our many meetings?”

The world seem to blur around him like ink amongst a pool of water. Fading into implied images as the sky and trees distorted. The sounds of the earth quieted to a hushed whisper. Ming Fan’s eyes casted around in confusion as the lively village dulled into a dead silence.

“It isn’t,” Tianlang-jun leaned back, smirking. “You’ve spent so long with me that I am now here with you- in limbo. I’m flattered Fan-er.”

Ming Fan narrowed his eyes, scowling, before looking away, “Definitely. Tianlang-jun never called me that to my face.”

Ming Fan twisted away from the…demon for some time to think.

TLJ + MF - Actual Flashback

“You look like you went a round and three more with a golem,” Tianlang-jun tsked at him.

“Are you going to lecture me about coming out while I look like I lost against said golem or are you going to sit your ass down and have some tea like we agreed?” Ming Fan snapped, wincing as he sat.

Tianlang-jun whistled wolfishly. “Why, I never took that War God to be the kinky type.”

“Don’t be so obscene,” Ming Fan rolled his eyes. “He landed me flat on my ass almost a dozen times. Of course sitting down would be a pain.”

“You know there’s this flower that-“

“No.”

“But I hurt just looking at you,” Tianlang-jun whined like a particularly annoying brat. “One tiny little adventure to look for a flower that heals bruises instantly, it’s a Lotus of a blue hue, I hear those people from the far West have been using it for some time.”

“And then Liu Qingge will have me spar against him, again, and this hellish circle will repeat itself. I am only saved by the fact that my cultivation is not as advanced as one of a Peak Lords, otherwise I would be healed by the end of the week and my pain begins anew,” Ming Fan shook his head. “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but no.”

“Aww, well since you’re being so polite about it…” Tianlang-jun sighed and sipped from the tea. “Mn- this is good. Where did you get it?”

“Shang-shishu taught me how to prepare lemon tea before the fruits go out of season, apparently there is a sweetened-cold version of this as well, but he has yet to refine the technicalities of the ingredients. I worry for him, he always seems so busy.”

“He looks like a rodent who accidentally ate a pepper, though I suppose in this case it would be a block of ice what with Mobei-jun being his lover and all.”

“I did wonder how that happened, and worried a brief time. An Ding Peak’s disciples had said that their master would occasionally come home bruised and barely able to walk, they were rearing to go to war with the Northern Demons far before everything else happened.” Ming Fan sighed, “Well, it isn’t any of my business. I’m sure they’re dealing with the situation in their own way.”

“True that, those An Ding Peak children…physically they are weak, but it is always the weaker ones that surprise you the most. Especially when angry,” Tianlang-jun smiled as he mused. “Afterall, hornets don’t seem like much at first glance. That Mobei-jun has his work cut out for him, ah, speaking of. What of those two? Surely the boy is tip-toeing these days.”

“He tends to keep to the bamboo house, and we tend to stay far away from the bamboo house, especially at night.” Ming Fan raised his hand to drink. “That is all I will say of the matter.”

Ming Fan sighed, rubbing a hand against his eyes, “I am getting far too old for this.”

“Oh please, you’re not even a century old.”

“Hm, and yet somehow I am still significantly more mature than you. Have you reached the regression stage of life Tianlang-jun? I must say, I’m rather peeved that it’s a mental deterioration rather than a physical one for you demons.”

“Hoh?” Tianlang-jun leaned forward, smirking. “Wish to test how youthful I can be Little Cultivator?”

Ming Fan raised a hand idly pointing at the silks of Tianlang-jun’s clothes, startling the heavenly demon as he wondered just what the other had found on his clothes.

Then Ming Fan flicked up, hitting the former Demon Lord up the lip and under the nose, causing Tianlang-jun to recoil, sputtering from the unjust attack. The audacity.

“I’m sure you’d at least warm the bed,” He deadpanned, sipping at his tea without a care as Tianlang-jun sputtered indignantly.

NMJ/MF - Original Re-meeting for ch 52; added here for my convenience (cus i don't wanna make another post)

“Gather everyone who can fight!” One voice called. “Sect Leader Nie is being surrounded by a pack of hell hounds! They need help.”

Ming Fan was out and running before anyone could even blink- with only Liu Qingge and Tianlang-jun holding enough time to react by following him.

-

“Shit-“ Mingjue cursed, swinging around Bàxià to hurl one attacking hound over to the side. “Meng Yao- you alright?!”

“Could use-” Meng Yao grimaced as he had to back off to avoid the snapping jaws of another hound. “Some help.”

“Reinforcements should be on the way!” Mei Lin cursed venomously under her breath. “Just where the hell did all these damned dogs come from?!”

“We’re being overrun!” Lang Fengyi yelped as he narrowly avoided claws.

“Fuck-“ Mingjue gathered his energy, willing it to fill him once more. “Get ready to run! I should be able to distract them long enough to-“

“Don’t worry about that.”

The disciples of Nie turned to find a man arrogantly walking through the field, the hounds yipping in fear and running from him, as well as another man clad in white and silver who eyed the hounds back.

Tianlang-jun stood before the disciples of Qinghe Nie with a bright smile, “Relax now, everything will be fine.”

Liu Qingge huffed, drawing his sword, “Says you. We have to make sure he’s not overworking himself remember?”

There was a distant rumbling- an ominous presence that washed over them to the point where all the hounds began to shudder and shake in fear as they too yipped around fearfully.

Descend with great speed. Swift and merciless. Run my enemies. Leave none left alive. May death greet you well.

Formation formed.

Ming Fan dropped his sword with militaristic precision, tilting all the swords generated by his power towards the ground in varying angles.

Heavenly Wrath Formation.

Tianlang-jun looked up in the surprise, “Don’t tell me that’s-“

“It is,” Liu Qingge scowled.

“Who-“ Nie Mingjue began- before all hell broke loose.

Liu Qingge’s expression was thunderous as he swept past rows of demonic hounds, tilting on hand and waiting-

Another man dropped from the sky not a second later, catching Liu Qingge’s robes and righting him before swinging his legs on the man’s waist to get around and jab another hound in the back- Tianlang-jun was swift to join the fray, allowing the shorter cultivator to move around him to get at all the lucky hounds who managed to move away from Ming Fan’s deadly aim fast enough.

While Tianlang-jun added to the deadly partnership with his own flare, it was the pair of Ming Fan and Liu Qingge that showed the obvious years of partnership between them- for the two had years of spars and night hunts to guide their blades where they need be.

Heads flew, limbs joining them as the immortals of Cang Qiong Sect and Tianlang-jun of the Heavenly Demon Line slaughtered the feared and the rowdy- leaving those of Qinghe Nie in awe.

“..Wei…” Meng Yao said, knees beginning to grow weak. “Wei Fan?!”

The man abruptly froze, glancing towards their direction before seeming to move on instinct- the War God sensing the sudden change and using his arm to propel him outward, allowing the man to fly across the air and land his sword true through the skull of the hell hound that was just about to take a chunk from Nie Mingjue’s side.

Ming Fan, not upset as he was, barked at them venomously, “Just what do you think you’re doing?! Fucking move! You’re in a battle field! Fight damn you! Are you not of Qinghe Nie?!”

“Teacher Wei!” Mei Lin cried- openly actually, crying.

“Oh for the love of-“ Ming Fan cursed. “I’ll take your crying and yelling and cursing later, lift your sabres and fight!”

“Xiao-Fan!”

Ming Fan turned, grunting as he launched his sword in the Heavenly Demon’s direction and skewering the hound. “What?!”

“Lower your blood pressure!”

Ming Fan felt his blood pressure rise out of sheer spite. “Fuck you!”

“A-Fan,” Liu Qingge growled. “You just performed one of the most powerful formations while silent. Calm down.”

“I can’t!” Ming Fan caught himself with a scowl. “But I’m not upset!”

“For the love of-“ Liu Qingge turned to Tianlang-jun. “Can you handle the rest?”

“Yeah I got it,” Tianlang-jun batted away a hound with his bare fist. “Just take care of our pissed off little horse first.”

Liu Qingge wasted no time, grabbing the now fuming Ming Fan, his nose beginning to trickle with a line of blood and generally causing the already shocked disciples of Qinghe Nie to panic.

“Hey,” Liu Qingge’s voice was soft as it was firm. “Calm down. Calm. That’s not a request.”

“I’m trying,” Ming Fan hissed. “You try doing this in the middle of battle.”

“Alright back up plan,” Liu Qingge turned to the still shocked Nie Mingjue. “You. Make yourself useful. He needs a distraction.”

“Wha-“

Liu Qingge shoved Ming Fan into Nie Mingjue, the taller man abruptly catching the man by the waist to steady him before something else caused him to loose balance.

Forgot one: Deleted Extra feat. Yang Yixuan + MF; written with it's og formatting since notes preserved my italics somehow

Cold wind swept past the ravine.

Shaking trees and rustling branches provided the background noise for the twittering creatures who lived in the back mountains. Within this quiet land was a surrounding of high elevation mountains spanning all around the mountain side.

There, Ming Fan sat quietly. Watching the creatures bellow- there were no humans for miles save for those few people within the Ancient Sect, and they were hardly just human anymore.

“So, you’ve finally decided to get off your ass.”

Ming Fan stiffened.

Yang Yixuan’s arms were cross across his breast, idly looking down from the view of Qing JIng Peak.

The landscape had changed much since Ming Fan had last come here, it was greener. With the trees far taller than when Ming Fan had last seen them, the older trees cut down by the ravages of war and time- but new ones taking their place. The silence too, was new. With no disciples Cang Qiong Mountain was a far quieter place than it had been during the height of its Sect Years. Some ascended, some peacefully settling into their next life, and some sticking around. Going to and fro the place carrying out errands and enacting a firm hand where the average Cultivator could not handle. The war had put a damper on such things, what with their stance of neutrality, bu it was no less somewhat of a sobering surprise that those of Cang Qiong Mountain had seen what was happening and judged it would be better to remain quiet.

He knew why of course, it was more practical in the long run for a mythical Sect, they were not here to force the future into their own hands- merely to counter the monsters of the yester years. Still. He wondered.

“You’re thinking so loud I could practically here it,” the former head disciple of Bai Zhan peak, the former Peak Lord himself, continued with a raised brow. “You’re normally quick to empty your mind and dump it onto others.”

Ming Fan scoffed softly, “Normal is a poor basis to use to pass judgement at the moment, even a Bai Zhan Peak buffoon like you should realize such.”

“…”

Ming Fan pursed his lip, anger simmering.

Settle.

Settle.

Settle.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” He said softly, allowing his fist to slack from their death-like grip.

“You just lost your brohter,” Yang Yixuan said bluntly. “You were a raving asshole when Liu-shifu dragged you here. Pretty much spat at Luo Binghe’s feet and insulted just about everyone.”

Ming Fan restrained the urge to flinch at every word.

“I’d be more than a little troubled if you didn’t act like that after losing your brother.” Yang Yixuan continued with a shake of his head. “It’s good to know that our illustrous Ming Fan is still a human.”

“Have I not proven that time and time again?”

“Dunno,” Ming Fan turned his head, the Bai Zhan Peak’s former sole disciple’s voice turning uncharacteristically soft. “You were doing a pretty good impression of acting like an immortal before.”

#Scum Disciple's Adventures Into the Unknown World #SDAUW #BTS I guess #Are there actually behind the scenes for writing idk #I'll see if I have time to write one since I do have a lot of notes from when i planned this fic #and maybe some bits of the history referenced in SDAUW #MDZS x SVSSS Fanfic #One that is tbh really out there in terms of concept ngl lol #Scum Disciple BTS

[r0h1rr1m]

rambly inception thoughts p.3

bc it got too big in this post i’m gonna start another one of these, ostensibly about my unified theory on what will or won’t fly in dreamshare, tho i’m almost guaranteed to go a little off-topic

the movie says the tech was originally developed as a training tool for the armed forces, and i don’t want to pretend any real knowledge of the american military but i’ve always thought that there’s no way they were there from the beginning unless the very genesis of the idea was already intertwined w the notion of eventually using it to train soldiers. and the tech is so outlandish in premise and would take so much time (even by accelerated movie standards) to become viable and like, there’s an easier way. in the history of dreamshare that i js made up right now, there are 3 main eras. pre-military, where the scientists figured out how not to send ppl directly to limbo immediately upon putting them under (we’ll get there), military, where a lot of the roles/frameworks were discovered and solidified (i will explain what i mean by this, too), and post-military

the last thing i want to add before diving in is a disclaimer. the precise details of how exactly dreamshare works are almost entirely irrelevant to understanding the movie, and so they weren’t included! which means that the beginnings of this will be based in canon, but as i go on, the logic of my worldbuilding increasingly depends on context i js.... made up. so if u wanna go on, js buy into it and bear with me if u like worldbuilding i hope it’s worth it

so i said that before anyone had the genius idea of using dreamshare to let soldiers kill each other over and over and over, it had to exist. which like, duh, but the reason i bring this up is tied into my thoughts abt what limbo is, why it’s possible to go more than one level down in a dream, and why dying would wake u up. come yell at me for refusing to learn anything about lucid dreaming/sleep science, but i’m gonna say that limbo as dreamsharers kno it is the closest a pasiv will get u to natural dreams. “unconstructed dreamspace,” pure subconscious. and it seems like the movie was treating it as an actual place? that would be the same for every dreamer? and u could access it and alter it like a public minecraft server. here my thoughts diverge a little bit into 2 possible scenarios

scenario A) Minecraft Server Limbo: it is an actual, internally consistent entity and not dependent upon each dreamer. which means that the pasiv technology for accessing it isn’t even about shared or lucid dreaming at all, but accessing another sort of other plane/dimension beyond the physical. think cognitive realm a la cosmere, if that reference means anything to you (if not, i’d love to hear what ur analogy would be). this idea is a lot of fun, but doesn’t rly allow for the levels between waking and limbo, or explain why those have to be created new every time.

scenario B) Actually the Subconscious: the way i think about limbo kind of begins w the ideas in this fic, where limbo is unique to everyone. i’m gonna start here in era 1 of my history of dreamshare, by saying that the first experiments w whatever prototype eventually became the pasiv went v poorly bc scientists were js immediately chucking ppl into limbo. like, that’s the default state of dreams w the pasiv, and all the rest came later. so. in a natural dream, ur brain rationalizes anything, and u get the most vividly detailed backstories and explanations for stuff that makes so much sense until u wake up, which is all also true for limbo. this is the reason limbo is so dangerous, is because ur brain’s working overtime to make u forget u’re dreaming and dying to wake up doesn’t work unless u’re absolutely sure u’re dreaming. so the 1st major breakthrough in dreamshare was being able to remember that u were dreaming when u went under.

the first thing the scientists figured out how to do was hold a setting in their head as they were going under so that they could go there in the dream. at this point, they don’t distinguish between settings out of memory and completely original settings bc it hasn’t occurred to them yet. they just knew that trying to imagine a place instead of diving right under puts limits on the dream that help to keep u from getting dragged under and away by ur own subconscious.

to some ppl, the natural thing to do is access a memory. this does interesting things to the makeup of the dream, because memories of places, depending on the person, are constructed from a bunch of different combinations of sounds, smells, visuals, and indefinable ‘feel’ of the dream. to other ppl, the natural (most interesting) thing to do was invent an imaginary setting--mbe a place from a book/movie/tv show (if u don’t watch them closely u js get star trek all the time. so much star trek) if they’re a little creative, or a brand-new fantasyland if they’re a lot creative. these dreams tend to be mostly visual in makeup, since their inspiration is mostly visual. it takes a lot more effort to add details like sounds and smells bc those aren’t instinctively/automatically part of the way the dreamers are used to experiencing, say, the bridge of the enterprise. It’s harder to make imaginary settings feel real, and this is why it’s comparatively more dangerous to dream from memory. the problem is that the way ur brain interprets and stores select information about a place is more concerned with gathering a coherent narrative of the place than with retaining any objective details. recalling this narrative is a subconscious act/uses ur instinctive mental processes while building a new scenario requires ur higher functions. letting ur subconscious run the show instead of staying consciously in charge urself runs the risk of lapsing into natural-dreaming confusion and falling into limbo.

this is the early days of the technology, where scientists didn’t have the expertise to make dreams stable, and the somnacin formula was still crude enough that u could drop from a structured dream into limbo pretty easily, no sedation required. dying in a dream, for example, had about a 50/50 chance of waking u up or sending u to limbo. the brain has no frame of reference for how to experience dying, so it’s completely disruptive to the plot of the dream--it has to end. so depending on how much the subconscious--as opposed to active cognition--was in charge of the dream, either u wake up or ur subconscious takes over completely to smooth over the confusion and u’re lost in limbo. dying wasn’t the only thing disruptive enough to destabilize a dream in those days either, tho. shock--ranging from injury to just surprise at something bizarre--and high emotion could also do it. this happened a lot bc those early dreams were still p close to natural dreams and rly weird shit happened all the time.

as somnacin got more sophisticated, it got better at suppressing the rampant subconscious and putting the rational mind in charge. constructed dreams left some of the psychedelic weirdness behind and started playing by logical rules, but that was still the given value of ‘logical’ that meant whatever the dreamers understood to be true, regardless of how that matched up w real-world physics. also, dying became the only thing disruptive enough to throw u out of a dream, because the somnacin, by reassigning the lion’s share of the mental processing work to the slower, more effortful systems of reasoning, dampened emotional responses a little. it forced the mind to extrapolate how the situation--usually an injury or smth--would play out instead of js panicking and slamming the eject button. the last major effect of the new somnacin was that waking up was now almost the guaranteed effect of dying, and u only went into limbo if waking up wasn’t an option. almost guaranteed, bc it wasn’t perfect yet, and how could it ever be when it comes to messing around w brain chemistry. but almost was enough for the military and they offered funding and soldiers as test subjects in return for use of the technology as a training tool.

this is the end of era 1! and the post is getting big enough and it’s been in my drafts long enough that i want to end this here. i’ll finish later, probably by reblogging this instead of making a new p.4 post, so check the notes!

#i find conditional tense to be disproportionately annoying #so the disclaimer is the last i act like i'm anything less than god handing down gospel lol #so sorry abt that but i'm so interested in what anyone else might think! #i'm dying to expand on dreamshare as a worldbuilding element even if u conceptualize it totally different #also i can't believe i've written so much on this by now but bram set me off and i can't find my chill #inception #yes absolutely #running my mouth #arthur #ariadne #dom cobb #eames

[hereliesbitches--me]

04:  A memory that your character cherishes

Send me a number to develop my muse! ( Still Accepting!)

      With a life riddled by tragedy, it's easy to figure that finding a single sweet, cherished memory would be the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack within Rosie’s muddles, disconnected mind -- or rather, in this case, a strand of hay within a mountain of needles.If you’d ask her to pick one, she’d swim through a sea before finding one suitable ; There were plenty of  obvious choices that would be sensible to bring up, what would be expected : Her time with Rocky before he was gone. Time with her kids, those pivotal moments where they said their first words or took their first steps.When they were a family of four , when Rosie had the stability in Rocky to be the best woman she could ever hope to be. 

Cherished memories of the woman who existed now, formed from the ashes of a girl long forgotten. No one cared for the past -- no one allowed the past to be any sort of shield or blanket to give reason to all the problems and habits she has carried into the now. People didn’t take excuses. But to dig deeper into the enigma of coils that hid her every secret she hoped had burned, it brings to question just that : What did she cherish in those keystone moments of childhood? Was there anything left in the smoldering remains of the past that could be saved? 

No one cared about the past, but that didn’t mean she ever forgot any of it. If you ask a child anything they remember, one of the first things they may answer would be a memory of their parents. 

     Parents.. She was a parent now, she didn’t need to think of her own, after more than half of her life has been without them. Yet she often did ; she used them as reference for herself. What to be and not to be.To think of her parents in memory were the needles she dug her hands through in search of the single straw in the pile, for like the rest of her life, even her childhood was melancholy and disconnected and full of longing. It didn’t mean, however, that she didn’t have some good memories of them.. To be asked to pick a memory, Rosie searches for something not a soul but herself has heard of. Her cherished memories are a seared reel held together just enough to still be recounted.

Her mother.. She’d think of her mother. The face she still sees when she looks in the mirror, when she reasons the source of her every habit and mental instability. But she was the woman that made her understand what it meant to be a parent. Her namesake, a flower before her, albeit it riddled with serrated leaves and decayed petals. Rosie’s memories of Camellia Hidalgo come in flashes, broken up by the seared reels in her mind, purposely ruined for her own safety. Her mother was strong willed, sick but refused to believe it. Abrasive but hard working. She loved, but the flower which she was named after left her fated to a life of longing and mistakes made in the pursuit of that love.

 Camellia loved strangely, crookedly, in a fashion warped by her unstable sickness in the brain. But she loved her children, even when it was in the wrong way. Even if, Rosie understood now, she didn’t love herself.She loved in the only way she knew how, and Rosie clutched the faded memory with all that she was --  the only good thing she could cherish  in the time she spent with a woman who spent almost every waking moment trying to keep herself together. It plays like a film behind her eyes 

----

They lived in a small apartment then, after her father left. After all the fighting seemed to come to a point, the scar on Rosie’s little forehead was just too much of an unbearable mark to look at. They seemed to lose it all after he left, and now they had to downgrade to something fit for two. Within her mother’s small pay range budget. Just the two of them, she’d like to think. The world, unfortunately, was not easy for a woman. Especially not a Spanish woman without family. It shaped everything that made Camellia who she is, and formed the image that Rosie immortalized her in, despite all the pain. In the passing months and years, everything had changed. 

When the door slammed shut well into the night, the shouting having died down and yet another boyfriend shoved out the front door, little Rosie hid behind her door and listened to the spray of curses and Spanish until their house grew quiet with only their two souls. The kitten sat in the darkness of her small bedroom, cradling a worn, faded pooh bear as she huddled into a ball and closed her eyes. 

She should be sleeping.. She knows. 

Her mama would be upset to catch her awake, but her sensitive ears wouldn’t let her sleep with the shouting.. Internally, her body trembled by instinct and her muscles ached with weakening fear. But at least he was gone.. 

As an audible sigh bleeds loudly through the thin dry walls, Camellia’s footsteps ring loudly as they trailed.. Then stopped. Old wood groaned under weight. The distinct sound embedded in Rosie’s mind.. When her mother was tired, she sat in her favorite chair by the window. When she sat there, it meant she’d be calm.

    Hesitantly, she crawled on her knees til she reached the door and used it as leverage to pull her little body up. The ancient hinges squeaked loudly as she tried her best to quietly open it, as best as a 7 year old could do before timidly peeking out to the hallway. Rosie can remember vividly even now, the unique smell of her childhood apartment. The scent of aged walls and wallpaper dating back for much longer than she’s been alive -- damp and musty with time and water damage no one cares to fix. A warm sort of scent that filled the space, unpleasant in a way, but it made home home. The little kitten listened for any motion. When she found none, Rosie sucked a breath, held her pooh bear tighter, and padded out into the hallway on her tiptoes to dampen the sound of her own steps. The ugly linoleum flooring was cold under her feet.

 Down the long way, she stopped at the edge of the living room just before it came to the open space. Their apartment was nothing more than a hallway, two bedrooms, and one big open space that made the living room and the kitchen ; Only thing that divided the space between the kitchen and the living room was the counter top bar, but even then you could look directly into the kitchen. She was always too small to see through it, the chairs too hard for her chubby body to climb. 

  The only light that filtered through was the dim yellow lamp that stood in the corner, just by the chair. From her corner, she can hear the crooning of the old wooden rocking chair as her mother sat by the window and swayed herself idly to the sound of nothing. Rosie sat there briefly, uncertain, then curiosity got the better of her. She peeked out from the shadow the hallway provided, wide eyed and one ear perked up, straining to see. Few things had been tipped over.. Some broken glass from empty bottles that dropped, the table side stand fell sideways and her nurse cap lay among the rubble. Camellia, transfixed in her rocking and staring into the night, seemed too tired to care. She was still dressed in her nurse uniform, just off her shift, and at this rate Rosie didn’t expect her to change into sleeping clothes. Her mother hardly ever did.. Especially when she came home and fought with a drunk. Rosie’s ears folded back.

“ Rosita, is that you?” 

Her stomach turned suddenly and Rosie pressed  closer against the wall, ears flattening against her skull. From her place, she can hear Camellia’s slow and haggard breathing, a sniffle, then her mother turned to look at her. For a moment, Rosie did debate running back to her room to avoid a scolding, but the heavy, puffy eyes of her mother drew her in. Camellia reached a single arm out towards her, “ Ven aqui, come here mi gatita..” 

Rosie moved without question.

With bare feet, she scrutinized the floor and maneuvered carefully around the shards to make her way rather eagerly into Camellia’s open arms. She paused for a minute to try to pick up the fallen side table, but her mother hissed and took hold of Rosie’s little arm, “ Leave it alone.”

Camellia was not intentionally mean, nor did Rosie ever believe her mama wanted to hurt her.. She was just too tired to think about her strength. Her hold was bruising, the hold she used before scolding her in a barrage of English and Spanish, but when she yanked Rosie towards herself, it was merely rough handling. She pulled the chubby little girl into her arms and cradled her tightly like she held her for dear life. Like a child holds her stuffed bear for security.It was up close, Rosie could see the purple bruising blossoming on her mother’s arms and the wet gloss of tears that had stained her cheeks. For a while , she didn’t really look at Rosie. She simply held her and returned to her rocking.

     It’s these rare, gentle moments that remained vivid in the deepest parts of Rosie’s memory.. The peace between mania and depression.. The limbo, just before the deep downward spiral into a depressive episode, Rosie understood. The very symptoms she carried in herself now.

In her mama’s arms, not even a night shift at the hospital can wash away the vanilla scent that lingered on Camellia’s skin. In her mind’s eye, she can picture vividly and recall the beautiful shade of her mama’s eyes and the soft texture of her curly hair as the ends brushed up on Rosie’s cheek.. The little kitten curled inward and basked in the security of her mother’s arms and scent -- in a routine fashion, her mother stroked her hair and hummed softly into the warm air of their apartment.

 “ Mi Gatita gorda.. You know I love you, right? ”  her mama never did look down often.

“ Mhm.. I love you too..” That was the answer Rosie always gave. 

Rosie knew better than to look up, pressing her ear to the woman’s chest to listen to the slow beating of her heart. Above her, she felt Camellia shift and turn downward to stare at her with empty, distant eyes. To her bones, Rosie shudders to this day when she looked in the mirror and saw those same glassy eyes. The small child was obedient to wordless demands and met her eyes with her own wide, nervous stare. 

“ I’m not crazy, Rosita.. You know that..” 

Rosie simply nodded. She closed her eyes as Camellia’s hand trailed away from her hair and traced a claw around Rosie’s puffy little cheeks. All Rosie ever longed for was that touch… 

“ You won’t leave me.. And I'll take care of you..Just the two of us..” 

Her words echoed, like talking to no one at all. Camellia’s finger swirled around a brown curl, then traced the edge of Rosie’s little nubby ears. Rosie trembled slightly and let her pooh slip away as she took hold of her mother’s hand.

“ I won’t leave, Mama..I promise..” 

In the blankness, suddenly Camellia’s lips curled in a small, eye crinkling smile. 

“ Pinky promise, my Rosita? ” 

Her mama extended a thin pinky out from her hold. Rosie quickly stuck out a tubby finger and wrapped it as best as she could around the much larger finger with an eager nod, 

“ I promise Mama.. I always be here..” she mumbled, whimpering as her little voice edged on a plea in search of approval. 

Life sparked and danced behind her mother’s golden eyes for a fleeting moment, a satisfied look as if she got exactly what she had wanted. Camellia exhaled softly through her nostrils, closed her eyes, then cradled her daughter closely to her chest. The mother purred deeply, and through the purr she sang a soft melody to rock her baby to sleep.. 

You are my sunshine..

       My only sunshine..

          You make me happy~

 When skies are grey..

You’ll never know, Dear~

  How much I love you..

     Please dont take... my sunshine away..

----

“ My mother used to hold me a lot as a kid.. When it was only the two of us. Before my brother, Alexander, was born ”

From the depths of her memories, at last she’s pulled from the roots back to the surface, conscious enough to answer. Even as, inwardly, she sucked in deep and uneven breaths. Even now she would not tell the whole truth, for lying was the safest route than spilling out your heart to a stranger. No one needed to know the wound that still bleeds and the tears that still threaten to fall when she forces what should have been forgotten to the surface. Rosie tries to smile nonetheless, a strained and painful smile as she holds the edges of a bittersweet memory like a delicate photograph withering slowly. 

She tries not to let it get the better of her, to not let the stinging in her eyes give way to tears. 

“ Back when it was only us.. She’d hug me like a teddy bear, and we’d sit in one of those rocking chairs that old ladies sit on. Then she’d pet me and sing to me.”

The lullaby she sings now, still ringing in her ears in a phantom voice. Taking a quivering breath, Rosie shrugs her shoulders and offers a humorless chuckle,

“ Don’t have a lot of good memories.. But that was a good one. Ya know, before shit hits the fan and everything changed on me like it always does. I liked when things were simple as a kid.. It's better when you didn’t understand anything at all.”

#:answered: #:v: iniquitous essence: #blucspidcr #drabbles #Thanks for the ask dude!! #This was super fun to explore and write

[lovemesomerafael]

Others Like Me                             Chapter 12:  New York

          Chapters 1 - 10    Chapter 11   Read It On AO3

It’s easily the worst experience Bucky’s ever had.  It hurts like hell, for one thing, and for another, he feels like he’s in the spin cycle of a wash machine for what seems like hours.  Then, at the end, it’s like getting spit out through a ring of fire and falling a few stories to land with a sickening series of snaps and cracks.  His left arm is useless and he can’t feel it, which is probably good since it appears to be smoking.  He takes inventory of his injuries.  Left lower leg, definitely broken.  Fairly significant head injury.  Right wrist sprained, probably not broken, but elbow dislocated. So no meaningful use of either arm. And definitely some serious internal injuries.  

Fucking hell.  

So apparently he didn’t die, but he ain’t doing too good, either.  He makes a mental note that, whenever he does die, he needs to find Tony Stark and kick the shit out of him.  

The pressing question is, what the hell happened?  Where is he? Of all the possible outcomes of flipping that damn switch, it never occurred to him that he might end up beat to shit. Dead, sure.  But if he’s alive with all these injuries, and still in the Avengers Compound in his own universe, Bucky is going to have to invent a new language made up entirely of pissed off, offensive words.

But he isn’t still in the Avengers Compound, and he isn’t in his own universe.  He knows this because when he opens his eyes, he’s looking at the Marina Bay Sands resort in Singapore.  Or what’s left of it.  The iconic three 57-story towers, which used to be topped by a huge, ship-shaped platform lined with trees and featuring pools, shops, and restaurants, are in ruins.  

In Bucky’s universe, that would’ve made the news.

The North tower is half-destroyed, its top now a jagged stump.  The central tower is simply gone.  And the South tower, while mostly still present, leans ominously toward the space where the central tower once stood.  Chunks of the platform, which had been a massive building in itself, can be seen tumbled among the debris of the towers.  But the largest piece, at least five hundred feet long, is what had formerly been the “prow” of the ship.  This part of the platform had cantilevered 220 feet off the edge of the North tower. Now, the point of the “prow” is embedded in the ground to the side of that tower, and the rest of the section leans crazily against the tower’s remains.  

Bucky can’t imagine what caused that.  Especially when he looks behind him at the skyscrapers of the city, and sees that they are all intact. But he doesn’t have much time to ponder the mystery, because he hears the unmistakable sound of emergency vehicles approaching.  He doesn’t bother to worry about what will happen when they reach him, because there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it.  Not in this condition.  He closes his eyes and waits.  

He must pass out for at least a few minutes, because when he comes to, there is a pleasant Asian face inches from his, yelling at him in English.  Although Bucky speaks all four of the most widely-spoken languages in Singapore, it makes sense that, with his Western features, they’d start with English. For some reason - maybe just to be a dick, he’s not sure – Bucky answers in Malay.  

The man, who is a cop, rears back in surprise at this bule, with his flawless accent.  Huh.  Must have been raised here.  He doesn’t waste time trying to figure it out, though, because the guy is clearly badly hurt. He tells Bucky that an ambulance is minutes away, and then asks him what happened.  

“Hit by a car,” Bucky lies, figuring the cop won’t question such a run-of-the-mill explanation, and he doesn’t.  Given the extent of his injuries, Bucky is spared any further questions beyond his name. He barely coughs out “James,” and the cop is satisfied with that, since it’s so obviously difficult for Bucky to talk. He lets himself pass out again until the ambulance arrives, because that’s when the trouble will start.  As soon as the paramedics start to examine him and find his metal arm, things will get interesting.  

He’s not wrong.  He regains consciousness when the excited shrieks start and they begin jerking his arm around.  The good news is, the arm must be resetting itself, because he feels it. The bad news is, he feels it.  He indulges in a Tony Stark-worthy eyeroll before he opens his eyes.  That distracts the cops and paramedics for a moment as they remember he’s an actual person, who is significantly fucked up at the moment.  

“What is this?”  One of the cops asks, once again yanking at his metal arm.  Bucky yanks it away from him, noting that he can now move it, and it’s no longer smoking. Yay, Wakanda.

“Research…”  Bucky gasps, deliberately exaggerating his difficulty speaking, although not by much, because yeah.  He feels like he’s been danced on by horses.  Maybe buffalo.  “Experiment. Prototype.”

The paramedics, too, are shocked by his Malay.  They’re not satisfied with his answer about his arm – nobody makes a prosthesis like that – but now that they’ve at least gotten some explanation out of him, they’re content to shove the cops out of the way and stake their primary claim to their patient.  Like it always goes when Bucky finds himself in this situation.

Bucky has been hurt many, many times before.  He knows the drill.  It’s his first time in a Singaporean hospital, but that’s about all that’s new for him. He’s immensely relieved when they put his dislocated elbow back in place; it hurts like a motherfucker, but once it’s over, he’s fine.  Which is a low bar when you’re the Winter Soldier, but he detests hospitals and doctors. For seventy years’ worth of reasons. All he needs now is for them to set and cast his leg, and he’ll be on his way.  Not that they’ll be willing to let him leave, but he’s not planning to ask for permission.  

They get pretty excited about the damage to his internal organs.  He doesn’t.  None of it is anything he hasn’t had before, and he knows he’ll heal without the emergency surgery they’re suddenly shouting about.  When he refuses it, there’s a stunned, disbelieving silence before the doctor who appears to be in charge explains, in language suitable for a toddler, that he will die without it.  

No, buddy, I actually won’t.  Never did before, and I’ve been busted up way worse than this.  Hydra never bothered with surgery, and it’s probably the only point on which we ever agreed.  

Bucky says no again, and the doctor switches to amusingly dumbed-down English to say the same things.  Another refusal.  It’s all Bucky can do not to laugh when the poor guy tries Chinese.  So Bucky politely and firmly refuses in Chinese, too. He takes pity on the doctor and tells him it’s a religious thing, and that seems to at least shut him up, although it’s clear he’s frustrated with this idiot who thinks God is going to sew up the big-ass laceration in his liver.  

Bucky does agree to a hefty slug of morphine, and enjoys a nice nap while they finally set and cast his leg.  The Trauma Unit staff are a little bummed that they’re not going to get to learn more about his arm, which they’re all drooling over.  But since he’s going to die anyway, they ship him up to a regular room - not even ICU, because why waste the bed on a walking corpse?   That’s good news for Bucky, because it means he gets to sleep through the night.  Early the next morning, by the time the small herd of attending and resident doctors come to do their rounds on him, he’s already been gone for an hour.  

He doesn’t have any money, but he’s Bucky Barnes.  He doesn’t like to steal, but his life sometimes makes it unavoidable.  He always just hopes his mother can’t look down from Heaven and see him.  Half an hour after he wheels himself out of the hospital in a stolen wheelchair, he’s also stolen enough Singapore dollars to check into a mid-range hotel.  For this, he uses his fake American passport and credit card, although he could also have chosen the French, Russian, or South African ones he’s brought.  He’s made the right choice, too, because as expected, the staff definitely gives him and his wheelchair some looks.  He goes Ugly American and the front desk staff speed things up, after which it takes no time for him to be wheeled into his room by a porter just to get his annoying ass out of sight of other guests.  Works every time.  He tips the porter handsomely and then collapses onto the bed.

For the next week, he sleeps almost continuously and lives on room service.  Thanks to his performance on check-in and his generous tips, he’s left alone unless he wants something.  Hydra used to extract him from wherever he was when he completed a mission, no matter what shape he was in, but he’s recuperated this way before, too. The first and most difficult time was after the Battle of the Triskelion, but there have been others.  By now, he doesn’t really have to think too hard to plan his next steps.  

In fact, he hasn’t really thought much about anything since he arrived here.  He’s in a strange sort of limbo, just existing.  It’s maybe a little bit too much like being the Winter Soldier, but it’s more like other times, after that, but before he ended up in Bucharest.  There was no Steve then.  At that time, he’d begun to have momentary flashes of memory, but he hadn’t yet begun to try in earnest to remember.  Hadn’t been to the Smithsonian.  Hadn’t started his notebook.  He holds onto that association, paying attention to those similarities because he hadn’t felt anything then, and he doesn’t want to feel anything now.  

Steve, his Steve, has never existed in this universe.  There is probably a Steve Rogers, and Bucky will probably have to find him in order to find Marya, but he isn’t Bucky’s Steve.  Bucky’s Steve is irretrievably gone, in another time and, now, in another universe.  Somehow, that makes Bucky feel safer.  Gives his heart permission to take a few days off from grieving the son of a bitch.

When he’s healed enough, he orders a steak from room service and uses the knife to cut the cast from his leg.  No easy task, that, but he’s had to do it before.  He makes a note to steal a Ka-bar at the first opportunity.  He had agonized over the decision whether to be armed when he flipped the switch.   With no idea where he might land if it worked, he couldn’t know whether it would be necessary to defend himself, or an unnecessary complication to have to explain a bunch of weapons.  As it turned out, he had guessed correctly.  But now he wants some motherfucking knives.  And a gun or four.  

At the moment, he does not need the complications that would come with trying to purchase weapons legally in Singapore with foreign documents.  Really foreign, he reminds himself, with the first grin he’s cracked in this new universe.  

He finds himself a cautiously excited, now that he’s pretty much healed.  During his week of recovery, he realized that, since he is here, that means there’s a good chance that Marya is alive and here, too.  With any luck, he’ll be seeing her again soon.  

That thought makes him feel a strange, pleasant but almost scary, sensation that he knows he’s felt before, but can’t put a name to.  Although Bucky’s forgotten hope, Steve apparently didn’t completely destroy his capacity for it when he left Bucky for the past and Peggy Carter.  He just crushed it so badly that it stayed dead until now.  

He needs some more money. That means he needs to go to the Orchard Road area.  Bucky isn’t going to steal from any of the real Singaporeans, the ones who work for a living.  But he doesn’t need to.  Singapore being an over-the-top shopping mecca, he can have his pick of targets who have more money that he needs in the cushions of their couches.  Smug, self-congratulatory tourists and bored trophy wives, none of whom ever worry about pickpockets.  And none of whom ever consider, when they realize they’ve been robbed, that the robber might have been the charming, handsome, blue-eyed man they’d briefly chatted with.

Bucky has some guesses as to why Hydra taught him that particular skill, but he’ll never know for sure.  What he does know is that he’s a master at it.  Within three hours, he’s accumulated more cash than he really expects to need. The hardest part is disengaging himself from his targets once he’s lifted their wallets.  Steve is right, he thinks.  He really is too charming for his own good.

Then again, fuck Steve.

Bucky hates airports. Hates everything about them.  He’s going to miss private air travel.  There are so many security cameras, so many checkpoints, so many damn eyes that airports have always seemed to be a place someone like him had best avoid.  In this particular case, he needs to be especially careful, because he has no idea who Bucky Barnes is in this universe.  His luck hasn’t been that great recently, and he really doesn’t want to find himself in the universe where Marya is, only to spend the rest of his life in prison because his alter-ego is an international jewel thief or some shit.  Or worse, live only a week because his ass gets shot by some jealous husband.  He has to look like his ID, though, which means he has to take the chance of wearing his own face.  He’ll just have to hope for the best.  

He shows up at the airport five hours early for the flight to New York.  In part, he because he has nowhere else to go.  But mostly because he knows his arm is going to be a big fucking problem.  He’s never tried to get through airport security with it before.  Never had to.  At least he’s thought ahead.  He spent a week in his universe creating reams of fake documentation showing that he lost his arm in a train accident and is part of a clinical trial of this new, highly advanced prosthesis.  

He’s shocked to find that no one at the airport gives a shit.  Not like medical professionals, who know that no one makes prosthetics like his.  Security workers just want to know that it isn’t a weapon (he grins for the second time in this universe when he hears that).  No?  Then move on, buddy.  There’s a long line behind you.  

The first thing he does when he’s through security is purchase a computer tablet.  He’s always wondered who would buy electronics from one of those vending machines at airports; now he knows.  He wanted one the whole time he was recuperating, but thought it would be too odd to ask a hotel employee to purchase one for him.  He needs to know the differences between this universe and his.  

Bucky sits down under a mounted television that is permanently tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel and continues the process he began at the hotel while he was recuperating.  He slept a lot during that time, but he usually had the news channel on.  

Thus far, he hasn’t found many differences.  Apparently, terrorism is more of a problem here, because he learned pretty quickly that’s what happened to the Marina Bay Sands resort.  It’s part of why he was so nervous about getting through airport security, and part of why he’s so surprised that it was so easy.  

Another difference is that he’s seen no media coverage of the Avengers or Captain America at all.  That’s one of the big reasons he’s been so anxious to get a computer.  He Googles himself first, and gets a surprise.  He doesn’t exist.  He can find nothing online about himself, no matter how many permutations of his name he enters.  He tries “Winter Soldier”.  Nothing again.  Huh? Did none of that happen in this universe?  He frowns.  

Then he bites the bullet and Googles Steve.  Nothing again.  Now that is really weird.  Steve isn’t Captain America?  Bucky tries Googling “Captain America.”  He’s relieved to get some hits; he was starting to wonder whether any of it had happened in this universe.  What he learns is that, in this universe, Captain America was a commercial character, created to sell war bonds.  He was never real, and he ceased to be relevant when World War II ended.  Bucky can find no information about the name of the man who “played” Captain America during the war.  

I wonder what Stevie would have to say about that.

As far as Bucky can tell, the war happened the way it happened in his universe.  There was just no Hydra.  Can’t say that breaks my heart, he thinks.

Next, he Googles Tony Stark. For his purposes, that’s really the only thing that matters.  If Marya came here, she would have tried to find Tony Stark.  He has a momentarily heart-stopping fear that Tony won’t exist here, either, in which case Bucky will be well and truly fucked.  How is he supposed to find a woman with no surname, no relatives, nothing but a first name, a face, and a distinctive blonde patch in her hair?  

His heart starts again when he sees that Tony, at least, exists here.  And how.  Tony’s escapades in this universe dwarf those in Bucky’s own.  Here, Stark Industries never stopped making weapons.  Here, Tony was apparently never taken hostage in Afghanistan, and there appears to be no Ironman.  Instead of designing Ironman suits and equipment for a team of superheroes, he’s apparently spent his time having truly mind-boggling amounts of sex. The description of Tony Stark as a “genius billionaire playboy philanthropist” doesn’t appear to fit in this universe. If he’s a genius, he’s not using it much.  Stark Industries doesn’t appear to have come up with a new weapon since the Jericho Missile. Billionaire playboy?  He’s a multi-multi-billionaire Olympic-level sexual athlete.  That appears to be all he does: collect interest on his incalculable wealth and fuck everything that holds still long enough. Well, there are drugs, too, with terrifying levels of documentation.  The philanthropy seems to be a little pro forma.  The Tony in Bucky’s universe did a hell of a lot more, with less money.  Jeez, Bucky thinks, I never expected to think of Tony Stark as someone who economizes.  

Bucky can’t help himself; he clicks on some of the more lurid links.  Shit, he really hopes this Tony has a good doctor and can tolerate antibiotics.  Because damn.  This guy gets around.  Some of the stories are so Tony, Bucky feels a stab of nostalgia.  Suddenly, he has to swallow around a lump in his throat.  He’s missed Tony, but it hasn’t hit him this hard in a long time.  Bucky’s glad Tony’s still alive in this universe – which is actually a little bit surprising, given some of his escapades - and he hopes he gets to meet him. He clicks on a link about Tony being arrested for indecent exposure at an art gallery gala.

And that’s where he sees it.

There are plenty of pictures of Tony, handcuffed and clearly shouting at the top of his lungs, being escorted from a glitzy hotel by a group of police officers, both uniformed and plainclothes.  But there is one, smaller and less prominent than the more entertaining ones, of a nicely-tuxedoed Tony wearing sunglasses (after dark, Tony, you’re a douche in any universe) on a red carpet.  He’s smiling like a fool and waving to a cheering crowd.  On his arm is a beautiful woman in a stunning blue gown that fits her lithe body like a second skin, but features a transparent blue overskirt that flutters gracefully around her.  The strapless bodice shows off her toned arms and shoulders, and does very nice things for her breasts.  She’s not smiling; the look on her face is more of an amused smirk, like she knew this event was going to be nuts, but still can’t believe the foolishness she’s seeing. And her massive abundance of hair is twisted behind her in a chignon of sorts that looks simpler than Bucky knows it probably is.  The simplicity sets off the striking, prominent, white-blonde patch of hair on the right side of her head.

Marya.  

He’s found her.  She’s here.  His heart lurches in his chest and he actually has to cough to jump-start his lungs into breathing again.  Bucky is thunderstruck.  If seeing Tony’s picture made him nostalgic, seeing Marya’s picture takes him all the way back to the day she died.  Or… didn’t. Whatever.  He’s full-on smiling, with tears running down his face.  He doesn’t realize it until a grandmotherly Chinese woman next to him actually hands him a tissue and pats him reassuringly on the arm.

The article says nothing about her, doesn’t mention her at all.  But there is no doubt it’s her.  Suddenly, his flight can’t begin soon enough.  

*****

The hours at the Singapore airport and his research on the plane have prepared him, at least a little, for life in New York.  The shape of life seems to be the same in this universe, but many of the details aren’t. He didn’t notice it so much in Singapore, because he’d only been to Singapore a few times, and always on Hydra missions that he’ll never remember well.  But he grew up in New York, and he lived here once he broke free of his Hydra conditioning.  The details are more obvious to him here.  Here, the increased level of terrorism in the world is more glaring.  

There are armed security police in the airport.  They’re not airport security, or NYPD, or State Patrol, and they’re not National Guard. They’re something else.  Something Bucky’s universe doesn’t have.  He can already tell he’s going to be spending as much time on Google in this universe as he did when he first emerged from Hydra captivity into the present.  Hopefully, there won’t be quite that much to catch up on here.  

Bucky finds a kiosk and exchanges all his Singapore dollars for American ones.  He’s shocked at the exchange rate, and glad that it’s in his favor. Did the terror attack in Singapore have some affect on its economy that caused that?  More Google homework.  

He gets a cab and his eyes are glued to the window all the way from the airport to Manhattan.  The cabbie notices, and asks if it’s his first time in New York, to which Bucky answers yes.  It is, after all, his first time in this New York.  He doesn’t go to the Tower right away.  He’s got errands to run first.

A few hours later, Bucky walks down the street toward Stark Tower.  Not Avengers Tower, of course, because Tony never became Ironman in this universe.  It’s the same building, though, or it appears to be.  He feels about a hundred things right now.  He might be about to see Tony Stark alive again.  Maybe Natasha, too.  He may see Clint for the first time since Tony’s funeral.  And he may come face to face with Steve, and with himself. That would be some shit.  Most importantly, he might be about to learn where Marya is.  Of course, he also might be about to get the door slammed in his face, which is more likely on this first attempt, but there’s always the possibility.

Things get strange the moment he steps into the building, and he knows right away that, however he thought this might go, it ain’t gonna happen like that.

He gets double-takes from a few of the people in the lobby, a couple of whom sort of shyly greet him as though he’s – what?  They’re doing this weird tight-smile thing, and having trouble meeting his eyes, but not in a “oh, fuck, it’s the Zimniy Soldat, please, God, let him be in a good mood and not feed me my pancreas” way.  He knows that look.  And then something really odd happens.

“Sergeant Barnes?”  A tall, dark-skinned black man with a shiny shaved head calls to him from behind a marble and brushed nickel reception desk with the Stark logo embedded in the front.  The man is wearing the typical blazer-tie-slacks uniform of a receptionist-cum-security guard, but he looks like he was chiseled out of obsidian by a very gay, very horny, military-obsessed sculptor.  The dude is seriously built.

Bucky’s been in plenty of situations that call for icewater in your veins, and he recognizes this as one of them.  He’s glad he has a few weapons now.  He knows he needs to brazen it out, but all the same, it’s a little bit of a mindfuck to be brazenly pretending to be yourself.

“Yeah,” Bucky grins, ambling loosely over to the desk.  “How’s it goin’?”

“Sir, did you lose your key card or something?  Would you like me to get you into the private elevator?”  The guy is looking around like he’s going to get caught at something.  What the fuck?

“Stark in yet?”  Bucky asks, like it’s any random day and of course he’s here in Stark Tower because of course he’s here.

“I don’t –  I mean, he’s here, yes.  I’m not aware that he left?”  Yeah, Reception Dude is definitely having some sort of poorly-contained freakout.  

“OK.  Yeah, if you’d get me into the elevator, that’d be great.”

Apparently, that’s the correct answer, because Reception Dude looks like someone just pulled the ramrod out of his ass.  He’s actually got a little line of sweat beads going and Bucky definitely heard an exhale of relief.  MMMmmmkaaaay.

If this Stark tower is like Bucky’s Avengers tower, there will be only one button in this elevator. When the doors open, he steps in to see that’s the case, and Reception Dude pushes it.  

“You have a good day, now, Sergeant.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, trying to sound preoccupied because he has no idea what Reception Dude’s name is. “You, too.”

Reception Dude walks away as the doors close, but at the last second, Bucky sees him give a troubled backward glance.  It’s going to be real interesting when these doors open again, he thinks.

It actually isn’t very interesting right away.  The elevator lobby up here in the residences looks like it always did.  Through the doors, the Common Room looks about the same, too.  Furniture’s different, but only in details, not in overall style.  The room still feels like this could be a high-end prep school for gifted nerds.

The first person Bucky sees is Natasha.  Holy shit.  Bucky’s been so focused on seeing Tony and Marya again, and of course on the possibility of seeing Steve, that he hasn’t given nearly enough thought to seeing Nat alive again.  She’s curled up in a chair that’s about twice her size, reading a magazine.  If this universe is like his, it’ll either be a high-end fashion magazine, or Guns & Ammo.  

“Barnes,” she croons from her chair, not looking up.  

He decides to go with a noncommittal grunt and keeps moving.  Before they discover that he’s the wrong him, he’s hoping he can get to Tony.  Through the Common Room is the huge eat-in kitchen, where his Avengers always seemed to gather when they wanted to hang out together.  The Common Room was always more for quiet chilling and for more serious conversations.  Apparently, that’s true here, as well.  

What Bucky is hoping to do is get through the kitchen into the hallway beyond, where there are a few of the residential apartments and, most important, the elevator to Tony’s lab. Tony has a private elevator to his lab and penthouse, of course, but if you’re not Tony, this is the route you have to take.  

He doesn’t make it.  

Bucky is about ten steps from the archway into the hallway he’s headed for when he hears the unmistakable snick of a safety being flipped and a hand racking the slide of a pistol. From the sound of it, a Beretta.  He freezes.  

“Turn around, asshole. I don’t particularly want to shoot you in the back.”

Bucky finds it very, very disconcerting to be threatened in his own voice.  

“I’d kind of prefer that you don’t shoot me at all.”

The man behind him gives a noncommittal hum.  Bucky turns around.

Not only are their faces identical, but the expressions on them probably are, too.  But where Bucky’s hair is shoulder-length these days, and he wears a full beard, the man facing him has short hair and just a few days’ worth of scruff.  

“Fuck me,” he breathes.  

“We could do that, but it’d be weird.  It’s actually a little weird even to contemplate, so can I request a different expression of surprise?”  Bucky replies.

That earns Bucky perhaps the most complex look he’s ever received.  Is his face that expressive?  He’s going to have to re-think Poker night.  

“The fuck are you?”

“I’m definitely not a threat, which is the first issue.  Why don’t you take your gun off me, huh?  I’ll tell you who I am.”

The gun stays where it is. “Talk.”

Bucky starts to object, but as he does, he hears the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him. Someone walking slowly and being careful where they plant their feet, which in the circumstances means it’s someone aiming a weapon.  

“Hey, Barnes?”  Clint’s voice comes from directly behind Bucky.  “Why are there two of you?”

“He’s just about to explain that,” Bucky’s double says.  His voice is cold, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s having as much of a freakout as Reception Dude did, he’s just better at hiding it.  

“You might’ve guessed my name.  I’m James Buchanan Barnes.  I go by Bucky.”  

Now that gets a full expression from the Bucky with the gun.  “Bucky?  You can’t be serious.”

Clint is laughing out loud behind him.  “Oh, that is so gonna stick.”  

“The hell is wrong with Bucky?”  He asks, offended and surprised.  He doesn’t go by Bucky here?  Another difference between his universe and this one.

“Who are you?  What are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you.  I got no problem telling you.  I actually came here to tell Tony Stark.”

There’s a whoosh and a loud thump that reverberates through the floor.

“So tell me,” Tony’s voice says from behind Bucky and to his left, where there’s a bank of windows. One of them has slid open without a sound, and Tony is standing there, having just flown through it wearing full Ironman armor.

Huh?  So Tony did become Ironman in this universe?   Fucker must take vitamins or something, because he has a lot going on here.

“My name is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says to Ironman.  “I came here using a device that you created.  A switch.  It’s in my pocket, but I’m guessing reaching for it would be a bad move right about now.”

“’Bad’ doesn’t quite cover it, Yanni.  Keep ‘em where we can see ‘em.  Go on.”

“I’m from an alternate universe.  The same universe Marya came from.”

If Bucky had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have been quite so blunt, or mentioned Marya right away. Because he can feel all three of them flinch at that, and they’re all three still holding weapons on him, ready to fire.  

“How the hell…  Who are you?”  Bucky demanded.  Well, no, his name isn’t Bucky here.  Barnes demanded.  The other one.  Whatever.

“I just told you that. Now, can we please put down the weapons? Or at least aim them somewhere else? I’ve been looking forward to seeing Marya again, and I’d prefer not to be bleeding when I do.”

For a tense moment or two, nothing happens.  Then Ironman flips up his visor, and the other Barnes looks over at him.  Bucky moves a little so that he can see Clint, at least out of the corner of his eye.  Clint seems to be OK with that, because he moves enough toward Tony that all four of them can see each other now.  He pointedly doesn’t un-nock his arrow, or aim his bow elsewhere, though he does look at Tony just as the other Barnes is doing.  

“Shit, Barnes, he does look like you.  Except for the whole Hagrid thing he’s got goin’.”

Bucky throws a dirty look at Clint.  He still misses a good fifty per cent of modern references, but he knows who Hagrid is. “Fuck you,” he mutters, but it’s kind of affectionate.  It’s good to see Clint.  When he went back to Iowa with his family after Tony’s funeral, it had been permanent. They’d all known it would be.  

“Screw it,” Tony says. “You armed, Bucky?”  There’s a definite laugh in the way he says the name.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers simply.  

“Let’s have ‘em,” Tony orders, holding out his gauntlets and making a beckoning motion with his fingers. “Soon as you disarm, we’ll stand down.”

Bucky very reluctantly removes both of his guns, and all but one of his knives.  He sets them on the large kitchen table, slowly and carefully. “That’s it,” he says dejectedly, when he’s done.

“Not if you’re me, it isn’t.  You got at least one more.”

Bucky looks at his counterpart and smiles.  He reaches to the small of his back and pulls out the Ka-bar.  Setting it on the table next to the others, he holds out his hands. “Frisk me if you want.”

The other Barnes holsters his weapon and does just that.  Neither of them seem surprised to see that the other has a metal left arm. He finds the switch in the right front pocket of Bucky’s black jeans, and takes it out.  

When Barnes is satisfied that Bucky’s unarmed, Clint relaxes and drops his arrow back in the quiver over his shoulder.  He collapses his bow into an impossibly small rectangular block, then sets it on the table. Tony pushes a button and his Ironman armor retracts, seemingly into nothing.  The other Barnes hands the switch to Tony, who doesn’t entirely hide his shock at seeing it.

“Don’t flip that switch if you like this universe,” Bucky warns.  

Tony holds up the device and, with a cocky sneer, flips the switch.  

Bucky gasps.  “What the hell?”  

“Even if you were telling the truth, there’s no way a device like that would work more than once.”

Huh.  Tony’s files hadn’t mentioned that.

“Come on,” Clint says, elbowing Bucky to walk in front of them toward the Common Room.  

Upon entering, Bucky sees that Natasha hasn’t moved from her chair.  “Hello again,” she greets him pleasantly.

Now that he comes around the chair, Bucky sees that she has a matched pair of Glock 26s in her lap. She’s also still reading a glossy fashion magazine.

Bucky can’t help it. He smiles to see Natasha, superior, snarkily amused, and very much alive.  He realizes that he has already smiled more in this universe than he smiled during the last year in his own.  And he hasn’t even seen Marya yet.

They sit him down across from Natasha, and Clint perches – possessively, Bucky thinks – on the arm of her chair.  Tony remains standing to the left of Natasha, arms folded.  The other Barnes stands right next to Bucky, looming over him, coiled so tightly Bucky imagines he can hear the man vibrating, and glowering at him like he’s still considering shooting him.  

The other Barnes addresses Natasha.  “He says he’s James Buchanan Barnes, from Marya’s universe.”

Clint smirks.  “He goes by Bucky.”

Natasha’s mouth stretches into a disapproving line.  “I can tell you right now I will not be calling you Bucky.”

“That’s my name, you assholes.  How about a little respect?”

“If you’re really Barnes from another universe, you know you’ve come to the wrong place for that,” Natasha deadpans.

“Why isn’t there anything about you on the internet?”  Bucky asks. “I Googled you, and nobody’s ever heard of the Avengers, or Ironman, or…”

Bucky sees all four of them stiffen.  Tony, especially, looks disturbed.  Bucky sees him sneak a look at the switch he’s still holding in his hand.  Their reactions would probably have been entirely invisible to most people, but Bucky knows these four – hell, one of them is him - and he’s been trained for a lifetime to see the smallest details.

“We’re asking the questions here,” Barnes growls.  

That’s when the elevator opens.  Their faces tell Bucky that all four apparently know who’s on that elevator, and don’t want them coming in.  Clint jumps from the arm of the couch and tries to reach the door, but he’s still two steps short of it when it opens.

And Marya steps into the room.

#The Avengers #endgame fix it #Bucky Barnes #The Winter Soldier #Captain America #Natasha Romanoff #Tony Stark #Robert Downey Jr. #Ironman #Clint Barton

[engagemachine]

Been wanting to write this post for a while now, just haven’t the energy to do it. 

These past couple of months have taken their toll on me in regards to my workload at my job. The manager of my unit who hired me (who, afterwards, ended up becoming a very close friend of mine, someone I look up to as a second mom) ended up stepping down few months ago, and since that time, many other staff have left with her/have relocated elsewhere, which has taken a massive toll on our staffing. Most of us are picking up extra shifts, working overtime, doing everything we can to make ends meet and help each other out. Nightshift has been hit the hardest, but we feel it everywhere, in all departments. In fact, I think the whole hospital is undergoing some major upheavals. I know of several other units that struggle with staffing as well. We’re all tired, overworked, and the patients getting admitted to our unit just seem to be getting progressively worse/harder to deal with, or perhaps that’s just my patience that’s become worn so thin. 

I love what I do. I really, really do. In fact, when I first took this job, it’s mostly because I thought I had to--most nurses start off working in a medical/surgical unit because you learn and see so much. It’s kind of expected that medsurg is where you start when you’re fresh out of nursing school. But as the weeks wore on, I realized that I loved the floor, the ability to plan out my day, getting to spend a full twelve hours with my patients and their families and having the time to really bond with them in a way that is so impactful and sometimes even life changing. Medical/surgical nursing can a great foundation/stepping stone, if that’s how you choose to use it. You get to do a little bit of everything and feel around for what you really like--what you want to specialize in--whether that’s emergency room nursing, burn/wound nursing, critical care/ICU nursing, dialysis, pediatrics, cardiopulmonary, oncology, the list goes on and on. I have learned so much in so many specialized fields--it feels great to know a little bit about everything. I love educating my patients in that regard, answering questions, etc. 

Bedside nursing, though, has absolutely taken its toll on me, as I am about to broach my second year of nursing. My preceptor and I had a conversation a few months back, where she said she doesn’t know how nurses are able to do bedside nursing for more than two years--and given the unit we work on, how high stress it is, that statement makes a lot of sense and has really resonated with me. One of my coworkers who I became good friends with left our unit a few months ago, now working outside of the hospital entirely, and we had a conversation that was very enlightening to me and filled me with such relief, knowing that someone was struggling in the exact same ways I was. We talked about how we feared we were starting to lose our compassion, how worn down we felt, running ourselves ragged, always going above and beyond to meet the needs of our patients, finishing up the extra work the previous shift was too lazy to do, fixing mistakes, really taking the time to be with our patients and get to know them, to care for them, console them, make them comfortable, put them at ease, answer their questions, control their pain, assist them with bathing and eating and ambulating and making sure they got home safely and had the support system/supplies they need in able to function properly at home. Really advocating for them even if meant butting heads with physicians or case management or other members of the interdisciplinary team. 

This work is exhausting. Whether you’re working three days a week or four or even five, it is mentally and physically excruciating at times, and I’ve felt it more now than I ever did before. I’m used to the twelve/thirteen hour shifts now, and thankfully when you’re busy, the day tends to move fast, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I feel so worn down all the time. When I’m home, it’s hard to truly unwind and enjoy myself, either because I’m too tired to do the things I enjoy, or because I am preemptively stressing about the coming work week. I’ve attempted hobbies that distract from the stress I feel at work, stuff I’ve used in the past to help decompress and relax, but lately I’ve been too tired to fully commit/engage in them. I have these little spurts of manic energy now and then, where I feel almost high, I’m so happy, but I never know how long they’re going to last or when they’ll come. It frustrates me that I can’t be more in control of my emotions, get a better handle on things. 

I feel like friends I used to lean on don’t really understand, and there’s a certain exhaustion in talking about work and trying to explain it to someone who doesn’t know what it’s like, and for some reason that’s stressful, too. In some ways I feel like I’m back where I was when I was going through nursing school, where nobody understood and friendships just kind of began to slip through the cracks of my fingers, and I didn’t really notice the absence until I had closed my fists and felt they were no longer there. It’s scary and a little frightening. I don’t want that to happen again, even if I have made peace with the friends that slipped away as I was navigating through school. 

I know that a certain level of stress can and should be anticipated in any job. Mine’s not special. But the constant weight of holding another human being’s life in my hands--while simultaneously jugging four or five others, all the at the same time--has started to become extremely taxing, especially when, as stated before, it is coupled with our chronic low staffing, and the general acuity/higher demands of the patients who are typically admitted to our floor. 

So the question here suddenly becomes, what do I do? Where do I go from here? I don’t want to do bedside nursing for the rest of my life. Like I said, most nurses use unit this as a stepping stone for where they really want to go. Because of our staffing issues, we have several agency (travel) nurses on our floor currently, and I’ve been chatting with several of them about what it’s like to be a travel nurse, what to expect, and I’ve received a lot of tips about it. It sounds fascinating. I love to travel and I’m filled with such a sense of acute desperation/longing to explore more of the world. But travel nursing also terrifies me, the idea of picking up and relocating every thirteen weeks, all the paperwork, the stress of finding a new place, finding my way around a new town, new job orientations (holy hell, NEW JOB ORIENTATION EVERY THIRTEEN WEEKS!). Despite my love for seeing new places, I am such a homebody, I really enjoy being at home and relaxing and puttering around the house. I am comforted by my belongings, even though I try to make the effort to not become too attached to these worldly possessions. So you can imagine how the idea of relocating every thirteen weeks is slightly terrifying if not just downright stress inducing. 

Last year, my family sold my childhood home during what was an incredibly tense/stressful time for all of us. My parents did not want to sell our home, but due to a long and ongoing financial crisis, that was our only option. It was hard and devastating. I drove back home for the move to help my mom and dad sort through their possessions (as we’d been doing for the past four, five years) but there was still so much to go through. Long story short, I no longer have a “forever” home as my parent’s current housing situation is temporary. This makes me feel as though I am in limbo, that, if I did decide I was going to become a travel nurse, I would either have to sell the majority of my belongings and make due with the essentials that could fit in my car, or find some kind of storage facility where I’d dump all of my belongings and just not have them as I moved across the country every several months. A nomad existence excites me, but not having a home base to fall back on really scares me, too. Nothing in my life feels grounded anymore. I didn’t realize what a safe haven my home was until it was gone. So strange to think of another family inhabiting that space now, some child living in my bedroom, opening my closet doors, looking out my windows. Some mother that isn’t mine cooking in our kitchen, using our stove, putting meals on our counter. 

When I was little I imagined we would always have that house, that when I was older and married, I’d come home for Christmas and show my spouse all the secret places where I used to hide things, the creek where I used to play in the woods, that spot in my closet where I used to curl up and close the doors when I wanted to be alone and cry, or that one door where my best friend and I used to mark our heights over a period of six years, how you could see that one spring where I shot up and suddenly towered over her even though she was two years older. All these sacred spaces now suddenly possessed by someone else. 

I guess I just really feel at a crossroads. I know what I need to do, I know work is killing me, my spirit, my drive, I know I need to get away, but I’m scared and anxious about what my next steps should be. I have an ultimate end goal in mind, but I’m not sure what roads to take to get there--or if I am even ready for it at this time. 

I feel like I function at half capacity on my off days. I am on at work, I have to be, for my patients, but when I’ve clocked out, when I’m home, it’s like my body just shuts down, all my energy, my drive, it just turns off. I’m incapacitated suddenly. 

The solution probably seems simple--apply for another job!--and I did, a few months ago. It’s the first job I’ve applied for where I just haven’t heard anything back from the employer--no “yes”, no “no”, not even a date for an interview--even despite my several attempts at follow-through and my persistence in getting my resume looked over by HR. 

One thing I do know for certain is that I don’t want to work in a hospital again (the bureaucracy of it all, and all the patient satisfaction survey bullshit is enough to make you lose your mind) and I don’t want to be relegated to a doctor’s office where I’m sitting on my ass all day or handing tissues to toddlers who haven’t learned yet how to blow their own nose. So this severely limits my options. 

So many uncertainties in my life. I don’t know whether to dive head first into the unknown, or continue to tread cautiously and wait for change. In my heart I know that something more proactive must be done, but I’m caught in a rut and I feel like I don’t even have the energy to get out. 

#text #very very long post #don't really expect anyone to read this #just needed get this out

[ghostbustermelanieking]

encephalon (2/2)

part one

s7 au: je souhaite, requiem part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: AU where Mulder tells Scully that he is dying in season 7 and the situation is dealt with accordingly.

In the weeks following the incident in the hotel room in Nebraska, the appointment where Mulder goes onto the treatment plan, he and Scully avoid the topic of his illness. It's not hard; they're experts at avoiding hard topics. And it's gotten to where it's too painful to talk about. But Scully continues to stay in his apartment and Mulder continues to take it easy. Some sort of unspoken promises. They're trying not to hurt each other.

He goes in dutifully for his treatments every two weeks. His symptoms are at somewhat of a limbo; some times are worse than others, but there comes a week in September where, by the end, he's experienced no headaches or nausea or dizziness. He feels perfectly fine, although he doesn't exactly expect it to last. Scully seems relieved; the strange tension that originated not from anger or an argument but simply from the stress of the situation has started to fall away. She seems relaxed, even happy at times.

Jay Gilmore contacts Mulder at the end of the week, looking for answers about the apparent disappearance of his mouth. An unusual X-File that doesn't sound too risky: no crime or murderer or kidnapper, only strange occurrences to chase.

Scully doesn't seem very in favor of taking the case—whether it's because of his condition or the fact that technically, no crime has been committed, he isn't sure (although he suspects a mixture of both). But he manages to convince her to take it. They fly out to Missouri the next morning.

The recurring factor seems to be a dark-haired woman—first appearing in the trailer of Anson Stokes (the supposed perpetrator of the missing mouth), and then in a picture they find in the storage locker where Gilmore lost his mouth. The photo is unmistakably at least twenty years old, but the woman looks completely unaged. A theory starts to build inside Mulder's mind.

An invisible body shows up, an apparent invisible Anson Stokes who has been struck by a truck, and Scully is absolutely delighted, absolutely amazed by it. Mulder can't deny that he feels the same way. It's proof positive of the paranormal, right in front of them, and Scully can't even deny it. And on top of that, it more or less confirms his theory that the woman is a jinniyah. Leslie Stokes, Anson’s brother, more or less confirms his theory, and although the container he gives Mulder has no attachment to the genie, he finds pictures of the woman in various areas of history. In a video of Richard Nixon and a photo of Mussolini. Scully seems skeptical, but she's so focused on the invisible body that she doesn't even argue with him very much. She can't stop talking about it, even when they get back to the hotel that night. Mulder indulges her happily, mostly because it's not every day that Scully is so gung-ho about something seemingly impossible, but also because it's been so long since he's seen her this happy.

In the morning, to Scully's extraordinary embarrassment, it's gone.

Scully is mortified, already denying that it ever happened. Mulder tries to offer some minimal comfort by telling her that the body definitely existed, and likely disappeared due to Leslie taking control of the genie. That doesn't seem to comfort her. He manages to convince her to go and talk to Leslie, but as soon as they arrive, the trailer explodes in a fiery ball that sends them both crashing to the ground.

They find the woman, the jinniyah, rolled up inside a rug. Perfectly fine.

In interviewing the genie—Jenn—she reveals her history, how she was once a mortal who wished for long life and great power and was trapped as a genie. And since Mulder was the one to unroll the rug, he is technically owed three wishes.

Some strange sort of excitement arises in Mulder's stomach, excitement and wonder and nervous anticipation (maybe this is his chance, maybe this is how he avoids death). But Scully looks astonished; unbelieving even. (And maybe a bit of mild jealousy underneath.) Like she doesn't know how the hell to take it. And contemplating it all, Mulder can't blame her.

---

Jenn ends up flying back to DC with them, because what the hell else is she supposed to do? She can't leave, according to the rules she explains. Scully seems to think that's a load of horseshit. They're all quiet during the flight, mostly because it's sort of an uncomfortable situation, and when they get back to Virginia, she says she's going to go back to her apartment for a couple of days. “It's probably a mess,” she says awkwardly. “And I need to… get some things.” Mulder doesn't argue, if only because he doesn't want to keep her from her home and because he can understand why she'd want to get out of this situation.

He takes Jenn home from a lack of anything else to do. “Uh, make yourself at home, I guess,” he says awkwardly as he unlocks the door. Jenn steps inside, her face suggesting she is unimpressed. She surveys the apartment, crossing the living room to examine the fish tank as Mulder sheds his jacket and tosses his keys on the counter.

“So your partner left the airport rather quickly,” she says, kneeling to look at the fish. “And I don't think she likes me very much.”

“Oh, I don't think she knows what to make of you,” he says, watching her with his arms crossed over his chest. “I don't think I do either, really.” He makes a mental note to call Scully later.

“Well, you could always give up your three wishes,” says Jenn, moving on to fiddling with stuff on his desk. “I'll disappear, no hard feelings.”

He shifts back and forth awkwardly in lieu of an answer. This feels weird, keeping someone around and expecting them to grant your wishes, but what is he supposed to do? A part of him doesn't want to let this opportunity go. Jenn smirks knowingly at him. “I didn't think so.” She looks back down at the paper she's got in her hands, offers casually, “So what's your first wish?”

Mulder hesitates slightly. A part of him feels awkward, asking for something for him right off the bat. If she's granted the wishes of people like Mussolini and Nixon, then what must she think of him? “Well…” he starts, chuckling a little. “What would your wish be if you were in my place?”

She shakes her head, says, “I'm not you. It doesn't matter.”

“No, but, I just... you know, I'd like to know.”

Jenn hesitates for a moment before  beginning. “I'd… wish that I'd never heard the word "wish" before. I'd wish that I could live my life moment by moment... enjoying it for what it is instead of... instead of worrying about what it isn't. I'd... sit down somewhere with a great cup of coffee and I'd watch the world go by.” She pauses, looking at him, and he nods a little bit in understanding. “But then again, I'm not you,” she adds, a little bitterly. “So I doubt that's your wish.”

“You know, I think I'm beginning to see the problem here,” he says. “You say that most people make the wrong wishes, right?”

“Without fail. It's like giving a chimpanzee a revolver.”

“This is because they make their wishes solely for personal gain.”

“Could be,” she says offhandedly.

“So the trick would be to make a wish that's totally altruistic, that's for everyone,” he says, too confident and a little excited. One wish for him, two wishes for the greater good. Why not? Jenn is staring at him, but he keeps going, his mind going to the best thing he could possibly think of. “So, um… I wish for peace on Earth.”

She smacks her lips contemplatively. “Peace on Earth. That's it?”

“What the hell’s wrong with that?” he asks, not understanding the aversion. “You can't do it?”

“No,” she says. “I can.” She pauses briefly before adding, “It's done.”

Mulder grins with satisfaction before he realizes: silence. He can't hear anything anymore, no traffic from outside. Nothing but the buzz of electricity and the burbling of his fish tank. He looks back at Jenn, who raises her eyebrows. “Oh, crap,” he says, realizing. He goes to the window and pulls down the blinds. Nothing. Cars stopped in the middle of the street with no one driving, no one walking along, none of it. He turns and barrels out of the apartment, looking for any signs of life.

The hallways, the other streets he runs through, all are just as empty. Everyone has vanished; it's like a ghost town. “I guess I should have seen this coming!” he shouts, because Jenn can probably hear him, she's fucking magic and there's nothing else to drown him out. He should have just wished for the brain disease to go away, first thing. It may be selfish but it's not just for him, Scully wants him to live as much as he…

“Scully,” he mutters, realizing. If everyone else in the world is gone, than she must be gone, too.

---

Jenn catches up with him at the FBI building, and he wishes for the reverse of his wish, embarrasses himself in front of his boss. He retreats to his office to contemplate; what the hell is he supposed to do now? The problem is specificity, and he's already wasted two wishes. He could always just try making a third, more specific wish that benefits all of mankind, but what about his brain disease? He'd planned to have a wish set aside for that, and by this point, it would just be ridiculous not to use it. Selfish not to, even; after everything Scully's been through, he can't put her through his death as well. But then again. Leslie and Anson Stokes made wishes for themselves, and the owner of the storage locker, and Nixon, and Mussolini…

“Having some trouble?” Jenn says, leaning over his shoulder.

He looks up at her with some irritation. (Then again, if he wishes to be cured, how does he know all sorts of bullshit stuff won't happen?) “Just trying to figure out how to do this in a way that won't end in disaster,” he says. “In the end of the world, or-or in everyone's eyes growing on stalks.”

“Oh, geez,” Jenn says dryly. “And I was so looking forward to that.” She stalks across the office, arms crossed over her chest. “You know, I kind of thought your last wish would be obvious.”

Mulder swivels in his chair, turning to face her. “And what the hell does that mean?”

The door opens and he turns back around in time to see Scully enter. Her eyes slide over the room, from him to where Jenn is walking towards the glass partition, and she licks her lips, coming to a stop in the middle of the room. “Skinner called me, Mulder,” she says. “Is everything all right?”

“You don't remember disappearing off the face of the earth for about an hour this morning?” he asks.

“No,” she says, her tone as skeptical as he would've expected.

“Well, I guess everything's okay.”

Scully sighs, starts, “Mul…” before trailing off. She turns, irritably, towards Jenn and asks, “Could you give us a minute, please?”

“Sure,” Jenn says cheerfully, but makes no move to leave.

Scully turns away, annoyed, and steps closer to his desk before snapping, “Like today?” and turning to find she's disappeared again. Mulder watches as she goes to investigate, finding nothing. “Where the hell did she go?”

“Boink,” he responds.

“No… It's got to be hypnotism or mesmerism or… something,” she says.

“Scully, it is what is is. You examined an invisible body, remember?”

“I thought I did!” she protests sadly.

“Oh,” he groans lengthily.

“Mulder, all right, say… say that you're right. Say this is what it is. Then-then what you're doing is extraordinarily dangerous. I mean, you even said that yourself.”

“No, the trick is to be specific,” he explains. “To make the wish perfect.” Although whether or not that's curing himself, he doesn't know. What if something worse happens? He goes with his world peace idea as an example, adding, “That way, everyone is going to benefit. It's going to be a safer world, a happier world. There's going to be food for everyone, freedom for everyone, the end of the tyranny of the powerful over the weak.” She looks sad, sad enough that he wonders if he made the wrong choice. If she doesn't believe, then why does she care what he spends his wish on? “A-Am I leaving anything out?” he tries.

“It sounds wonderful,” she says quietly. Wistfully.

“Then what's the problem?” he asks, his voice going soft at the end. If you want me to ask for my health, Scully, than tell me.

“Maybe it's the whole point of our lives here, Mulder—to achieve that. Maybe it's a process that one man shouldn't try and circumvent with a single wish.”

He doesn't reply because he doesn't know what to say. He sighs a little because now he really doesn't know what to do. If world peace is selfish and curing himself is selfish, than what is left? Or maybe curing himself isn't selfish. Maybe curing himself is what Scully wants. But then again, she doesn't believe in genies. So where does that leave him?

Scully shrugs a little, turns and leaves. He doesn't follow. His mind is racing; he looks down at his desk, chewing at his lower lip. The trick is to be specific and not make a wish for yourself. But also not to make a wish too monumental for any one person or genie. So what can he…

“You ready?” He turns to see that Jenn has appeared behind him.

He decides in a split second. “Yeah, I'm ready,” he says, turning in his chair. Jenn is watching him expectantly; he takes a deep breath before saying, “I wish that you weren't a genie anymore.”

She blinks in surprise. “What?”

Maybe it's too much like a Disney movie, but he keeps going, maybe stupidly noble, but it's all he can think of. “I wish for your freedom,” he says. “You know. What you said earlier. That's what I want.”

“You've got to be kidding me.” Jenn crosses her arms over her chest. She's much more disapproving than he'd expected. “Still trying to be selfless?”

“This is what you wanted, isn't it?” he protests.

“Well, sure, but what about you? You're the one who's dying.” She raises her eyebrows in an incredulous matter. “God, you're dumber than the Stokes brothers. And I didn't think that was possible.”

“How the hell do you know that I'm…” He still has trouble getting the words out, all these months later; he swallows dryly.

Jenn jabs a thumb at the desk. “Medical records right there. So. Are you still trying to show off? Or do you really not want to live?” Mulder doesn't answer, his chest tight; Jenn shakes her head and adds, “I guess you are showing off. But it's not impressing anyone. I'd figure you'd at least want to live for that jealous partner of yours.”

“I said I wasn't going to make a wish for me,” he says determinedly, even if the guilt is building in his throat like bile. Don't fucking make me think about Scully right now. “And I meant it. I want to free you. You've been held captive for long enough. And I'd… be afraid of what would happen to me or Scully if I wasn't… specific enough.”

Jenn fidgets, seemingly contemplating. “What if we made a deal?” she offers. “Some way to do both?”

Now it's Mulder's turn to blink in surprise. “What?”

“If this is what you want, then we could figure out a way,” she says. “You'd just have to be… specific. And then you live and I live free and you don't leave your girlfriend alone.”

“She's my partner,” says Mulder automatically.

“She's your girlfriend.” Jenn raises her eyebrows. “So. What do you say?”

---

He calls Scully when he gets home and asks if she wants to come back. “We could… watch a movie,” he says in a not-at-all suggestive tone. (Well. Not completely.)

“What about your… friend?” Scully replies in a tone that could not be called warm by any definition.

“She's gone.” Left willingly in a taxi, waving cheerfully as she went.

“Oh.” Scully's tone warms a few degrees. “Be over in an hour.”

They put on Caddyshack and crack open a couple beers on his couch. After companionably clinking their bottles together, Mulder offers gingerly, “I don't know if you noticed, but, um, I never made the world a happier place.”

“Well, I'm fairly happy,” Scully offers, to his surprise, and as loaded of a statement as that is right now, she says it with all the sincerity in the world. “That's something.” She smiles at him, just a little, and he smiles back a little. He's hoping that they can stay that way.

“So, what was your final wish, anyway?” Scully adds.

He looks away, towards the TV, pressing his lips together in an indicative way as the movie starts. They sit in silence for a few beats before she prods him, gently, “Mulder?”

“We made a deal,” he says, and takes her hand. He doesn't want to elaborate further. He hopes she understands what he means.

Later, when they're falling asleep tangled together on the couch, minimal clothing on them both, he lets himself hope that it might actually have worked.

---

His headaches return. His headaches return and he has another bout of nausea and vomiting one night on a weekend, spent crouching on the tile with Scully sitting by his side with a cold washcloth and a glass of water. (She cries that night and tries to hide it, and he pretends he doesn't notice to preserve her dignity.) Another night it's nosebleeds, and Scully's face is white as a sheet when she sees him holding the bloody tissues up to his nose. He cries that night, too, because nosebleeds are too much like when Scully was dying and how the hell did they get back here. How the fucking hell did they get here. It wasn't supposed to happen this way; they were supposed to stop getting hurt at some point. His fucking wish to a fucking genie was supposed to fix this all.

The worst is when he ends up on the floor in the kitchen, having apparently passed out, and he can't remember a thing after he comes to. Scully actually makes him to to the hospital that night, but they only end up waiting in the emergency room for hours to have a doctor tell them that he's as fine as he can be at the moment. There's nothing they can do.

Scully is saving her vacation time so she can stay home with him if an emergency arises, so they go into work despite it all, but they don't take cases. Mulder feels fine half the time and shitty the other half. Scully is tense, stressed to the point of nearly snapping. At one point, he gets a nausea-inducing headache at work (he only throws up once, but still) and Scully ends up running to the toilet in the next stall just as he finishes retching. Mulder quivers on the tile, white-knuckling the toilet bowl when he hears her own vomiting sounds; this is horrifying, seeing Scully in such horrible shape for no reason other than him. He's worried about her. If he has to leave, then he's determined not to take her with him.

He scrapes himself off of the floor and goes to the stall next door, rasping, “Scully?”

She's bent over the toilet, her hair hanging over her face. “I'm okay, Mulder,” she says quietly, reaching up to flush the toilet. “I'm just tired.”

He sits on the floor beside her, wiping his mouth before putting a hand against the small of her back. “You're working yourself too hard,” he says softly. “Scully, I don't want you killing yourself trying to keep me alive.”

“I'm okay,” Scully snaps. She sits up, wiping at her face, and starts to turn around, but her complexion is entirely too pale, white as salt. He wraps his arms around her and she goes willingly, curling in his arms in a too-cramped bathroom stall.

“I think we should go home,” he says. “You need to rest.”

Scully nods, miserable. He can feel her tears dotting his shirt. He swallows back the bitter taste in his mouth, tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. “This is all going to be over soon,” she says into his chest. “The treatment is going to work. It has to. This will all be over soon.”

Mulder nods, but he’s barely heard her. He's thinking about a few weeks ago, Jenn's deal. He wonders. He wonders if he wasn't specific enough.

Another horrible pain shoots through his skull and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out. He doesn't want to die.

---

Nothing happens for two weeks.

It sounds more dramatic than it is, but his symptoms really do recede, amazingly drawing back after those few hellish weeks of horrible symptoms. Outside of a few headaches that gradually fade in pain intensity, and Mulder's practically used to them by now, anyway. No vomiting, no collapsing, no memory loss. It's not enough to make him hope for improvement, but it's enough to convince Scully to let him back in the field, on the condition that he step back and take a break if he starts feeling poorly. He can't tell if she agrees out of sympathy or because she misses the field, too. But still. Whatever the reason, they investigate an annual disappearance of (probably drunk, says Scully) teenagers in a cornfield every Halloween, simply because it doesn't sound overly strenuous. Being back on a case, on familiar territory with a familiar repertoire between them, makes Mulder feel normal again. They spend the early hours of November 1 eating mini candy bars out of a plastic pumpkin and teasing each other in a way that makes Mulder forget everything. Scully seems more carefree than she has in months, giggly and tipsy off of champagne from the minibar. She falls asleep around four a.m. with her head in his lap. Mulder sits with his back against the headboard, stroking her silk-fine hair as he watches Dracula on the TV. Scully snuffles a little in her sleep and rolls closer, burrowing her face into his stomach. Mulder smiles a little wistfully. He doesn't want to leave her. He will never voluntarily leave her, ever.

He told her once two years ago, November of 1998, and now he wants to tell her again. He whispers, “I love you, Scully.”

Candy wrappers crinkle under Scully as she rolls closer, still asleep, snoring a little. She doesn't answer, likely because she didn't hear. He strokes her hair again and again, letting his head fall back against the pillows and his eyes slip closed.

---

His symptoms continue to recede, his headaches losing quality and losing frequency. A few a day go to a few a week go to a near rarity. He doesn't let himself hope for too much; his symptoms have been irregular anyway. But the tentative happy state that he and Scully have allowed themselves to fall into is almost blissful at this point. He hopes that nothing will break it.

In November, they find themselves under scrutiny by those that are above them. Scheduled for evaluation of their budget and whether or not it's worth the expense. The same shit they've experienced again and again.

Mulder is fucking infuriated by the entire thing. All They've taken away from them, his mother and his sister and any chance at him being a father and his health, and now this? The files are one of the few things he has left and he won't lose them if he can avoid it. But it's starting to look like he can't, like he really is going to lose everything.

The agent in charge of his evaluation pulls out the report on his sister's death, turns his words around on him, saying that now that he knows what's happened to Samantha, there is no reason to keep looking. He suggests that Mulder should move his work to an office, narrow his search to save expense, despite the fact that they've solved maybe five cases since the goddamn summer. Mulder has to clench his jaw to keep from shouting at him. He wants to punch somebody. He wants to scream.

He goes to the bathroom to cool off and returns to the office to find Scully staring at the poster. “Think I'm in big trouble,” he says.

She turns to look at him, offering sympathetically, “Oh, Mulder, how many times have they tried to shut us down?”

“Yeah, but I never actually assaulted an auditor before,” he says, crossing the room to her.

Scully stares at him, a little impressed, asks, “Did you hurt him?”

“I reduced his vision a little bit,” says Mulder, reaching up to rub at his forehead.

The phone rings, and Mulder reaches over and puts it on speakerphone. It's Billy Miles, a throwback over seven years deep, offering up cryptic stories of alien abduction in Bellefluer. It's happening again, he says, but not to him. And then he hangs up.

Mulder turns to Scully, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “More alien abductions, Scully.”

She's chewing at her lower lip nervously. “Oh, Mulder, I don't know. As much as I'd like to… waste money with you… I don't want you to overexert yourself.”

“Scully, I'm fine, really,” he says, reaching out to touch her elbow. “It hasn't been that bad lately, has it? I've been doing better. Less symptoms, it's cooled off. And I was fine on that case on Halloween.”

Scully sighs, her eyes shifted reluctantly to the ground. “I don't know how we could possibly justify the expense,” she mumbles.

He nudges her side encouragingly. “We'd probably turn up nothing,” he says suggestively.

Her eyes shift shyly up from the ground. “Let's go waste some money,” she says quietly.

Mulder grins, squeezing her elbow. She smiles a little, tentatively, and they move out of the office together. They go the airport without pause, and though Scully seems worried about him, she doesn't say a word.

---

Billy Miles is all grown up, a cop who is a lot more welcoming than Officer Miles Sr. They take Mulder and Scully to the site where the deputy disappeared, and then to the deputy's wife's house, where they find Teresa Nemmen (now Hoese), also all grown up and with a baby. Scully holds her baby with a wistful sort of pining on her face that seems to melt away when she's playing with the baby. Mulder feels like his heart is going to split in two; everything they've been through and he'll never be able to give her this. They'd talked about adoption last year after the IVF failed, briefly, but it had been too soon and now it will never happen. Because he's dying and she can't have a baby and they don't get happy endings. He wants to be a father, though, and he wants to be a parent with her. He'd never realized how much until last year, but he does. Losing his entire family seemed to put things into perspective, and he doesn't want to die without the chance to rebuild it all.

Scully is singing goofily to the baby, and Mulder watches, the sadness choking his chest. He wants this for her. He wants this for himself. He doesn't know what to do.

They go back to the hotel after Teresa Hoese’s house. They've gotten two hotel rooms (as per Scully's rules, even if they don't use them), but Mulder is a little surprised that Scully actually opts to use hers. He guesses Teresa's baby shook her up, too, because her face is white and she's been withdrawn ever since they left. He doesn't argue, because he would guess that Scully probably needs some time to herself anyway, seeing as how she is spending every night at his apartment. He kisses her goodnight on the cheek and goes into his room alone, settles on the bed to look at the photos of Deputy Hoese that Teresa gave him.

An hour into going through the photos, there is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” he calls, just to make sure—he doesn't really expect it to be Scully after she asked for time to herself.

But yet. Her answer of, “It's me,” comes through the door.

Mulder climbs off of the bed and goes to open the door. Scully is on the other side, pale and quivering, just a little bit but enough that he can tell she's feeling poorly. “What's wrong, Scully? You look sick.”

“I don't know what's wrong,” she says.

“Come in,” he says, drawing her into the room.

Scully heads straight for the edge of the bed, sitting down, still quivering. Mulder sits across from her, touching the top of her hand with his fingertips. “I, um…” she begins to explain. “I was starting to get ready for bed and I started to feel really dizzy—vertigo or something—and then I just… I started to get chills.”

“You want me to call the doctor?” asks Mulder, already pulling back the sheets and the comforter on the bed.

“No, I just… I just want to get warm.” She crawls towards the head of the bed, his hand moving over her back, and she pauses long enough for him to take off her shoes before lying down and pulling the covers around her. They shove the blankets away before he lies down behind her, back to her chest, arm around her. “Thank you,” says Scully, something of a sheepish laugh in her tone.

He tucks his face in closer to her, resting his nose on her shoulder briefly before readjusting and murmuring into her ear, “It's not worth it, Scully.”

She tenses in his arms, briefly; maybe she thinks he's talking about his disease. “What?” she says finally after a few beats of silence.

Clarifying, he says, “I want you to go home.”

She chuckles briefly (as if to poke light at the fact of him trying to protect her when he's the one who…) “Mulder, I'm gonna be fine,” she says lightly, but the sniff accompanying it at the end shows her cards.

“No, I've been thinking about it,” he says. “Looking at you tonight, holding that baby… knowing everything that's been taken away from you.” She says nothing, so he continues gently: “A chance for motherhood and your health and that baby. I think that... I don't know, maybe they're right.”

“Who's right?” she asks, still sniffling a little.

“The FBI,” he says softly. “Maybe what they say is true, though for all the wrong reasons. It's the personal costs that are too high.”

Scully sniffles like she is holding back tears; he can see the struggle not to cry from his vantage point and he can tell what she's thinking of. He keeps going, soothingly in her ear. “There so much more you need to do with your life. There's so much more than this.” And he's telling her these things because he's leaving her, because he doesn't want her to stay and invest her life in a cause that's taken everything away from her, in a cause that just might get her killed someday. She has a life to live, things to do, and he wants to make sure she does them. He has to stop being selfish. He has to let her go as much as she will have to let him go.

(And maybe Jenn was right and he's going to live, or maybe he wasn't specific enough and he's doomed to die or meet some other horrible fate. He wishes that he, too, had never heard the word wish. He wishes that none of this had ever happened, that he has back everything he's lost. Maybe that's what he should've wished for.)

Scully still hasn't said anything. He strokes her forehead briefly with her fingertips. Whispers, “There has to be an end, Scully,” and kisses her cheek gently before drawing back. He lays his cheek flat against her shoulder.

Scully sniffles again, grabbing his hand and pulling it to rest her mouth against it. “You're just saying this because you're sick,” she says quietly. “And because you want me to… be okay after you're…” She can't finish. Her fingers tighten around his.

“Maybe I am,” he says softly. “But Scully, I'd be saying it anyway.” He has to believe that. “You've given too much of your life to this,” he says, and then adds gingerly, “And so have I.”

Scully grips his hand hard. She's still sniffling; he feels a warm drop of water hit his hand and trail down his knuckle.

He kisses her shoulder gently, sweetly. “There has to be an end,” he says, and he never thought he'd be saying this about himself, but he is. “Or at the very least, a limit. I don't want to waste my life.” Or what I have left of it, he adds silently, maybe bitterly. “And I don't want you wasting yours.”

Scully snuggles into him, still shivering despite the warmth of him and the blankets. “You don't know that it isn't working,” she whispers. “The treatment. Mulder, you don't know that you won't be just fine. You don't know you won't be perfectly well tomorrow.”

She's willing to believe for him, to keep him alive. Tears well into Mulder’s eyes and he presses her face into his shoulder; maybe she's always been willing to believe for him and he never saw it. “I just want to be prepared for the possibilities,” he says, and his voice cracks. And they're both crying, they're holding each other and crying in a bed in Bellefluer, Oregon. Something between them seven years deep, like all things between them. He loves her, he loves her fiercely.

And then Scully says something so quietly he thinks he might have imagined it. “I love you,” she says, and sniffles. “I want you to know that… no matter what happens, I want you to know that.”

And now Mulder can't hold back his tears. He hides them against her shoulder, kisses her hair, her cheek, and tries not to sob. They're both crying in this bed in Bellefluer, and he regrets every moment they've spent together if only because of where it got her. She could've been happy. And who knows where he would be, but Scully… Scully could have been happy. He holds onto her and they both cry softly until they fall asleep in a tearstained tangle of arms and legs.

---

Teresa Hoese is gone in the morning. They go to her house to find her abducted, patches of burned carpet that echo green, sizzling blood to Mulder. He remembers a version of his sister once who bled green, and shudders. He walks outside and finds a kid who claims his friend was abducted.

The kid takes Mulder and Scully to the site in the woods. He shows Mulder where his friend disappeared and where he dropped the flashlight, and it's only then that Mulder realizes that Scully is gone.

“Scully?” he calls out. He heads further into the woods, towards the spot where the kid indicated that his friend disappeared. “Scully?” he says again just as he sees her, sprawled out on her back on the ground. “Scully,” he murmurs, going to kneel by her side. She's conscious, looking up at him, but she's clearly exhausted, all the energy drained from her. “You want some water?” he asks, his hand going to touch the side of her neck.

“What happened to her?” the kid asks.

“Could you just get her some water?” Mulder says, his attention focused on Scully.

Scully is panting. “I just… I just…” she tries as he pulls her gently up into his arms. “I just hit the ground.” Her head lolls against his chest.

“Here, lie still,” he says, his arms supporting her shoulders. And out of nowhere, a horrible thought occurs to him: what if her getting sick last night wasn't an isolated incident? What if it's too late for her to leave without further consequence?

He can't think about that. The thought of it makes him want to throw up.

“Why is this happening to me?” Scully whispers, her eyes lolling somewhere between opened and closed.

“It's okay,” says Mulder. “It's okay.” He reaches up to smooth hair off of her face.

“What the hell’s going on, Mulder?” she asks breathlessly.

“I don't know.” His mind is racing at a million miles a minute; he's probably just being paranoid, but he considers something: the fact that everyone who has been taken is an abductee. And Scully is… “But these aren't just random abductions, Scully. We've got to warn Billy Miles of that.” This is the fear, that they aren't random and they're here for a reason and that Scully isn't well but that she's sick or destined to be abducted again…

“Warm him of what?” Scully asks. Her cheek rocks against his chest again.

“These abductees aren't just systematically being taken,” he says. He reaches up to stroke hair out of her face again. “They're not coming back.”

This is it, some version of what he feared: Scully is sick, Scully will be taken, he can't save her or himself. He doesn't know what to do for her. He holds her close until she declares herself okay to get up, getting shakily to her feet and balancing herself on a tree until she can stand on her own. “I’m fine, Mulder,” she says when she sees him looking at her, their positions reversed from before he told her he was sick, and all he can think is he wishes he believes her.

They go to Billy Miles’ house to find him and find nothing. Exactly the type of thing he'd expect by now.

---

They go home that night. Scully repeatedly says that she is fine, and all evidence aside from a little dizziness when they land. By all appearances, they both seem fine. But the scene in the woods doesn't leave Mulder's head. First the dizziness and then outright collapsing? He is worried about her.

Two days later, Skinner shows up in his office with Krycek and Marita. They're claiming that the UFO is in the Oregon woods, hidden. They want Mulder to find it.

In Mulder's mind, there is no question. This is his chance to save the X-Files, to ruin the dying smoker's plans. But there is also no question about whether or not Scully will go. They're taking abductees. He's not going to lose her, not again. If a few months is all he has left, then he is going to spend that time trying to fix things. Trying to make sure she's okay.

The Gunmen come to the Bureau and show Mulder and Scully where the UFO is, jammed in Skinner's office along with Skinner, Marita, and Krycek. It's certainly one of the more awkward gatherings Mulder has been to; he can tell Scully is less than happy. Scully actually leaves the room at one point, and Mulder follows on her heel out into the hall. “Mulder, if any of this is true…” she says to him.

“If it is, or if it isn't I want you to forget about it, Scully,” he says firmly.

She gapes at him in surprise. “Forget about it?”

“You're not going back out there. I'm not going to let you go back out there,” he continues, unyielding.

“What are you talking about?”

“It has to end sometime. That time is now.” He's ready, if only because she has become so much more to him than his partner. And he wants more for her than this.

“Mulder…” she says tremulously.

“Scully, you have to understand that they're taking abductees. You're an abductee. I'm not going to risk…” His words stick in his throat; he swallows gingerly before finishing as unsteadily as her, “… losing you.”

Her face is unreadable, a sad sort of unreadable; she steps closer to him slowly, wrapping her arms around his neck. He holds her close, his hands trembling against her back. Her hand is on the back of her neck, her cheek against his neck. “Mulder…” she says softly. “I don't know… how I could let you go out there any more than you could let me. You're… sick.”

He rubs circles on her back gently, not particularly caring who sees. “If you don't want me to go, Scully, I won't,” he says softly, and means it. He'd do about anything for her right now. “I won't. But I haven't had any episodes in weeks and I'm not an abductee. I think I'd be okay.”

Scully is quiet for a minute, long enough that he thinks she's going to say she doesn't want him to go. But instead she says, “I won't let you go alone.”

---

Skinner and Mulder go to the airport the next day. He'd been surprised when Skinner volunteered, but all things considered, he won't complain. Skinner has more experience with this kind of stuff than the Gunmen, and he certainly would pick Skinner over Krycek or Marita.

Scully is quiet when he says goodbye, subdued enough that he considers staying there with her. But he doesn't have the courage to bring it up, ridiculous as it is. He feels like opting out would scare her, make her think he's feeling poorly, when in actuality he's worried about her. He kisses her at the doorway and she takes his hand, uncurling hers and letting a cool slip of metal fall into his palm. “I want you to take this,” she says quietly.

Mulder raises his hand to see her cross necklace curled there, and closes his fingers over it instinctively. When he looks up, Scully is looking at the ground as if embarrassed. “It's silly,” she says quietly, “but…”

“It's not silly,” he says in a voice rough with emotion, and kisses her again.

She shivers against him in a way that makes him want to change his mind, but when he pulls away, she leans forward to kiss his cheek briefly and says, “I'll see you when you get back.”

He takes her hand in his and squeezes it. “I'll call you,” he says.

She nods. He turns, guilt curdling in his stomach, and goes down the hall. “Be safe,” Scully calls sternly after him, and he replies silently, I will.

Waiting at the airport with Skinner is quiet and the flight to Oregon is even quieter. Aside from the fact that Mulder can't shake the feeling that Scully should be the one beside him, he can't think of one single thing he'd like to talk about. His mind is too muddled between UFOs and brain diseases and alien abductions.

When they're at baggage claim at the Oregon airport, Mulder's phone begins to ring. He reaches for it immediately, thinking it might be Scully. He answers, “Mulder,” in a half-distracted tone, clutching his bag while he watches Skinner search for his.

“Mr. Mulder?” Scully's friend's voice is on the other side of the phone. “I tried calling Dana to give her the news, but she didn't pick up. Is this a good time for you?”

Mulder lets his bag drop, turns away from Skinner. “News? What do you mean?” he says, near stammering. His heart is pounding so hard that he can feel it everywhere, his hands sweating. He sees his reflection in the airport window, slightly panicked eyes, slightly hopeful…

“Mr. Mulder, your most recent scans came back clear,” Isabel says. “As far as we can tell, you're not dying. We'd like you here for a follow-up, but it certainly looks like you're going to be fine.”

Mulder lets out a breath in a huff, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. He's not dying. Oh fuck, he's not dying. He laughs a little, almost bent in half with relief. “They came back clear? It's okay? I'm not…”

“It's fine. There's signs of clear improvement instead of decline. Your brain is getting stronger now.”

Mulder wipes his mouth, hands quivering; he's smiling so hard his face hurts. He's not dying. He's going to live. Fuck, he has to tell Scully. “I… thank you. Thank you for… calling. Y-you said you told Scully already?”

“No, I'm afraid she's not answering her phone,” says Isabel. “You're not with her?”

“No, I'm on a case… Thank you, Isabel, I'll follow up with you.” His head is rushing, his fingers cold; he has to tell Scully, he has to call her right away. He should go back to DC, this is face-to-face news, somehow. He hangs up the phone and turns around to see Skinner watching him questioningly, holding the aforementioned suitcase. “Sir, I have to go back to DC,” he says, practically stammering.

“Agent Mulder, what's going on?’ Skinner asks carefully.

“I've just gotten some… important medical news, and I need to go home.” His finger brushes against Scully's cross from where it rests against his collarbone, and he almost smiles again.

Skinner blinks in surprise, but not in total shock. “Does this have anything to do with your decline in working cases over the past couple months?” he says, a little knowingly.

“Yeah,” Mulder says, a little impatiently; he suspected Scully might have mentioned something to Skinner even though he asked her not to, but it doesn't matter now. “It is, and I need to get back.” He needs to tell Scully in person and he needs to tell her right away; that's how she told him about her remission, as miraculous as this, and the fact that he didn't tell her for the first few weeks makes it all the more necessary. (He wonders, briefly, why Scully isn't answering her phone, but he chalks it up to busyness.) “I need to go back,” he mutters under his breath. He shouldn't have left in the first place, not with Scully sick; when she refused to let him go alone, it should have been a sign. “Sir, can you…”

Skinner waves his hand impatiently. “Yes, go on, Agent. You might be able to catch a flight back if you go right now.”

Mulder picks up his luggage, gripping it hard and turns and walks away, his mind racing. I'm not dying, he thinks, and catches himself smiling. He lets himself hope that things will be okay.

He gets on a flight back to DC within the hour with a last-minute ticket. He tries Scully a couple of times when he is waiting for the plane, but she doesn't pick up, and then his flight is called and he has to turn his phone off. For the majority of the flight, he remains jittery; he tries to read or to distract himself with an in-flight movie, but nothing works. He just wants to see Scully. None of it seems to matter in his mind: not the X-Files closing, not the UFO, none of it. She's safe, she hasn't been abducted, and he's not dying. After everything she's done for him, he wants to tell her that it worked. That she saved him.

When he leaves the airport, dragging his bag through the parking lot to find his car, he remembers and turns his phone back on. It beeps alarmingly as a series of missed calls show up, all from the Lone Gunmen.

Nervousness curdles in the pit of his stomach as he calls back, unlocking his car to drop his bag in. The phone answers, bypassing the tape, and it's Langly's voice saying, “Mulder, is that you?” frantically on the other end.

“Yeah, Langly, it's me. What the hell is going on?” he asks thinly.

“Don’t go to the UFO site! You're in danger, Scully found it, the other abductees had strange brain activity the way you did. If you go to the site, they're going to take you!”

“Whoa, Langly, slow down.” His head is spinning; he leans hard against the car. “I'm not at the UFO site. I'm not even in Oregon, I'm back here in DC.”

Langly sighs with relief on the other end. “Oh, jeez,” he says. “Oh, thank shit. You're back in DC?”

“Yeah, I'm headed back right now. Tell Scully I'm headed back.” He inserts the key, turning it in the lock.

Langly doesn't say anything for a moment. And then he says, “Dude, you've got to go to the hospital.”

Mulder almost drops the phone. “The hospital?” he repeats numbly.

Langly's voice is thick with apology. “Scully collapsed at the FBI, right after we figured out that you were in trouble,” he says solemnly. “We took her to the closest hospital, Frohike and Byers stayed with her while I tried to get in touch with you…”

Nausea rolls briefly through his stomach as he remembers: her nausea in Oregon, the way she collapsed. And all he can think of is Jenn and his wish: he wasn't specific enough, he will survive but Scully… Scully will… “Is she sick?” he stammers. “Is she hurt, Ringo, do you know?”

“They're still checking her out, I think. Just… just go to the hospital, man.”

Mulder hangs up and gets into the car frantically. He speeds out of the airport, hands quivering all the way. He feels like he is going to throw up. This can't be happening. All this time, all the effort she went through to save him and now… he can't lose her. He won't lose her.

The feeling of ease, of excitement gone, he drives to the hospital, the dread hanging over him feeling more natural than anything.

He can't find Byers and Frohike, but he finds a nurse. The admissions nurse directs him to a private room; he lies and says that he's the husband because goddamnit, he wants to see her and he’s the closest thing to a husband she has. He walks down the hall, shoes clicking on the tile; he reaches up and closes his hand around her cross. When he gets to her room, his breath catches in his throat; she's sitting in the hospital bed wearing a blue gown, covers pulled over her lap. She's looking away from the door, a look of incredible sadness on her face. He takes a deep breath and taps on the door before entering.

When she looks up at him, a look that can only be described as relief comes over her face. “Mulder,” she says, climbing out of bed. He holds up his hand in an attempt to keep her in bed, drawing closer, but she has her arms tight around him before he can bother. He pulls her against him, arms tight around her, tangled together as he sits down on the side of the bed. Scully has her face buried fully in his neck. “Byers and Frohike… said that they hadn't heard from Langly, that they didn't know if he'd gotten ahold of you, I thought…” she chokes out, her hands clutching at his jacket. “Oh my god, Mulder, I'm so glad you're okay. You're here.”

He nods, pressing his lip to the top of her head. “I'm here,” he whispers. “I'm sorry I left.”

Scully sniffles, tugging on his shirt as she pulls away to look at him. Her eyes are red as if she's been crying. “Why… why did you come back?” she asks thickly. “What happened?”

He wants to ask what's happening with her, what's wrong, but he supposes he can give her the good news first. He wants her to know it's okay. “Well, uh…” he says, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Scully, I got a call from Isabel.” Her face shifts, her hand clutching his shirt; she's nervous and trying to hide it, excited and trying to hide it. He strokes her hair back gently and says, “Scully, I'm fine. The scans came back showing improvement. They want a follow-up appointment, but they said I'm not dying. I'm going to be fine.”

Her face shifts again, some sort of elated sadness. “Oh my god,” she says, sniffling. Tears are rolling down her face, but she's smiling. “You're okay? You're not dying?”

“No, I'm okay. I'm just fine. You saved me, Scully.” He feels like he himself is on the verge of tears; he's still so scared about what she's going to tell him, if she's the one dying now, but he tries to smile. “If I hadn't told you, if you hadn't brought your friend on…”

Scully hugs him again, a shaky, relieved, clinging kind of hug. She's almost rocking him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her face pressed into the crook of his shoulder. Her shoulders are quivering like she's crying.

Mulder kisses the side of her face gently. “Scully,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Scully, I don't want to… ruin this, but… I need to know. Are you sick? Is that why…”

She chokes out what might be a laugh into his shoulder. “Oh, Mulder,” she mumbles. “No, I'm not sick. My MRI came back clear.”

Relief shoots through him in a frantic mess. “Scully,” he gasps out. “Oh my god.”

She laughs again and he laughs, too, and they're rocking back and forth on the bed. She's not dying and he is not dying and neither of them were abducted. They're okay, they're really okay. He kisses her face, her neck, the curve of her shoulder.

“So, what…” he asks finally, leaning back to look at her. She wipes her eyes, smiling tremulously up at him. “What was wrong, Scully?” he asks gently. “Langly told me that you passed out… and everything in Oregon… what's wrong?”

Scully laughs again, thumbing her cheeks. “You're not going to believe this,  Mulder,” she says, scooting off of his lap and sitting on the edge of the bed to face him. “I'm having a hard time believing it myself. Or explaining it. But, um…” She smiles a little, tucking hair behind her ear and looking at the ground briefly. Mulder waits, trying to be patient, trying not to be nervous. She looks up at him and she looks scared, just a little bit, but she also looks happy, so nervous and happy that he can't believe it. And then she says, “I'm pregnant.”

He almost can't believe what he's hearing at first. It takes his brain a few minutes to process it. “Y-you’re pregnant?”

She nods, chin trembling a little. She touches the side of his face gently. “It's true. I don't know how, but it is.”

He thought it was impossible. He thought it was impossible, like so many things Scully has said are impossible, but here they are. And he believes because he has to. “I can't believe this…” he says hushedly. “Scully, this is incredible.”

She nods, tears welling in her eyes, smiling hugely through the tears. He gathers her up in his arms, clinging hard to her, tears dripping down his face. Within a day, their entire life is shifted. They aren't dying or abducted, but they are suddenly parents. Suddenly, impossibly; so many impossible things in such a short time. They operate with impossibilities.

“I love you,” he mumbles into her shoulder, and she laughs weepily against his neck, confirms that she feels the same way in a trembly voice. They hold each other on the bed.

Just a year ago, she asked him to be a father with him. Just a year ago, they cried together as they found out it wasn't happening. Just a few months ago, he learned he was dying. And now…

There has to be an end, he said not three days ago. And now there is, but it's nothing like what they expected. It's not the ending he was anticipating, but he's more than fine with that. He is going to live, and he is going to live for them.

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

[brynwrites]

Asks and Things.

First off, I greatly apologize for not being around very much this past week or so. It’s been rough, and I’ve put a lot more focus onto my editing in order to maintain some mental stability. I’ll try to answer some longer asks this upcoming week, but I can’t guarantee anything yet. 

If you want to send some character related asks, there’s a higher chance I’ll get through those. Otherwise, stay tuned for a post about my nano novella in the next week!

Ask topics covered:

Worldbuilding with sensitive topics. 

Sticking with a story.

Solitary heroes.

As well as a few kind anons <3

Worldbuilding with sensitive topics.

Anon asked: Do you have any advice on how to worldbuild sensitive topics, and how to figure out if you've struck the right balance between creativity and respecting the those readers who might be affected by that topic?

I would love to give you a list of steps or rules to follow, but in all honesty, there isn’t one. The only way you can truly write a book that doesn’t run the risk of offending someone is to not write about any* sensitive topic. Of course, we don’t want to do that, because it’s both cowardly and disrespectful in and of itself. 

So do research ahead of time, and then get sensitivity readers.

If you tried your best not to be offensive, there will be plenty of readers who’d love to double check your work and make sure you didn’t miss anything. 

* There are definitely some sensitive topics which you should leave for ownvoice writers. If you’re worried your worldbuilding might cause an issue, go ask the people you think it might offend, and if they tell you it’s out of place, then listen to them. 

Happy day!

Anon asked: If you receive this, you make someone happy! Go on anonymous and send this to ten of your followers who make you happy or some that you think need cheering up. If you get some back even better.💖

Aw, thank you :)

Sticking with a story.

Anon asked: Okay, so I love writing, but the problem is I have ADHD and it's insanely hard to stick to one story. I will literally start one story and then half a page later I have another idea, and I HAVE to start that other story. I got like 20+ unfinished story's on my Docs. And I guess my question is, how do you focus on finishing your story?

I don’t have ADHD, so I can’t give you the most solid advice, but I do know that there are many, many times when my depression or dyslexia or a host of other things makes me want to stop writing the thing I’m working on, and the only real cure for that is just to teach yourself how to push forward. 

It will definitely be hard at first, and there’s no shame in not being able to do it right away, or every time. But if you set small goals (”I know I want to switch to this other story now but I’m going to write the one I was already working on for half a page longer and then switch”) it will eventually build into a habit. 

Other helpful things:

Visualize the scene you’re currently working on. What is really cool about it? Why did you like it in the first place? Can you add something new to it to re-attract your attention?

Find things that motivate you positively. Reward yourself with those things if you achieve the small, reasonable goals you set for yourself. 

Don’t start writing anything the moment inspiration hits you. Inspiration is a lie. ALL good stories are born of writers pushing forward after the inspiration has left, and finding the roots of what makes the story good instead of relying on what their happy feelings tell them is good in the moment.

Solitary heroes.

lunarcanine asked: I need some advice. My character in my book, has been transported into some sort of hell/limbo and is completely alone. No real people will be there and accompany him throughout the journey, only sub-characters who disappear. How could I make it sound less boring, and more interesting and catching with his solo adventures through the land? What’s your take,

I’m not a good person to ask this, as I’m always bored by stories with that plot structure. There are plenty of readers who enjoy them though. (I believe one of the more popular fantasy novels right now has a traveling, solitary hero, and there are countless other examples throughout various genres and mediums).

My advice would be to consume a bunch of books/movies with a similar style plot, and figure out what you enjoy seeing from them. What makes the story interesting to you? What makes you want to follow the solitary main character through their journey? On the other hand, what makes you lose interest? 

I would put specific focus into the development of the main character in these stories and how that plays a part in your enjoyment of it, as well as what aspects of the story create suspense.

<3

Anon said: Your blog is so lovely, I started following you for when I need writing advice but I learnt so much about gender non-binaries and categories I didn't know existed! So thank you~

Thank you so much! That’s what I’m here for <3

#writeblr #ask compilation

[typewriterprince]

Original Fic Fest: Day One

Hello yes, Kody here. Day one of the Original Fic Fest is to introduce your characters! I’m a day late because of work related issues, but I’m quite excited to share my dudes with you. A lot of my characters aren’t terribly fleshed out, as I only just started working on Robot Soul a few weeks ago. I’ll go through my main characters in Robot Soul, but I’ll also mention a couple characters from my second WIP, Jar of Hearts. Thank you all for taking the time to read this!! It means so much to me! (also, since my characters are so un-realized, I don’t have any reference pictures! Many apologies! I only have reference pictures for my two characters in Jar of Hearts.) @originalficfest

Robot Soul

Reahven Navratil is my main character in Robot Soul. She lives in the suburbs of the capital city of Allowen, tauntingly named after the realm of the Old Gods, a place that one might call ‘heaven’ in our terms. She lives on her own as a 25 year old woman, and works a menial job in a robot factory assembly line. She is diagnosed with stage four cancer and is thus hospitalized. She doesn’t have the money for fancy treatments that the rich might use to extend their life, so she essentially has to accept her fate and sit in the hospital until she finally goes. She hates that she’s so powerless in her situation, as she’s someone who must be in control of her situation. When her soul is transferred to the robot body against her will, she is angry. She’d rather be dead than forced to serve under the reign of President Faber. Despite her strong personality, she is unable to defeat the slaving protocols that the government have installed in her robotic body. It is only when a group of rogue mages come to break her out and release her of her slaving protocols that she finally finds a semblance of peace in her existence. Not wanting to risk being caught and enslaved by the government again, Astrid decides that she would rather let her soul be released from its cage and sent to the realm of Allowen that she had always believed in. The story captures the quest to find the mage powerful enough to manipulate souls. 

Alabeth Vedevea is the main supporting character in the story Robot Soul. She is a spunky 20 year old who hasn’t quite outgrown her teenage goth years. She has black hair haphazardly cut, with blue streaks in it. She lives in one of the reservations far from Allowen, where mages and outcasts live. She was born into a rich family, but suffers from severe bipolar disorder, and her family simply drugged her up in hopes of keeping her from acting in a way they didn’t like. The medicines made her so she wasn’t too sad but also not too happy. She was stuck in a limbo of ‘meh’ and she didn’t like living life that way. So she ran away. She was alone for a long while before she stumbled across one of the reservations she had heard about. She’s been there for a few years now. Unmedicated, she has trouble dealing with her mental illness, and struggles with this throughout the book. She becomes Reahven’s closest friend in this ordeal. 

Ra’dair Ansah is a mage in the same reservation that Odette lives in. He is one of the three archmages on the reservation and becomes a sort of overseer to the group that goes to find the soul mage. He is black, tall, and clumsy as a newborn kitten. He may look intimidating, but he’s about as kind a guy as you can be. He’s an ice mage, but with great practice and a large amount of energy, he also has the ability to pause time for a limited amount of time and can teleport at will. I don’t have a huge backstory for him. It’ll be something I’ll work on.

(I have four more main characters in Robot Soul, but to keep the post at a decent size, I’ll just name the rest with a basic description and info about them. I don’t have big backstories for anyone else. It’s something that I have yet to develop.)

Vildira Alinara is age fifteen. She has dark tan skin and black hair with brown eyes. Tall like her teacher, Ra’dair. She’s a fire mage with an explosive temper. Goes along with the group to find the soul mage. 

Duvasis Volt is age 38. He’s white, with brown hair and green eyes. Also tall, but thin. The leading archmage on the reservation, a member of the Council. (the Council being representatives from each reservation that convene to discuss matters between them.) Often travels to other reservations. He’s extremely rule abiding and loves history. He is one of the few mages who knows necromancy, and is otherwise a magician that utilizes electricity. People wonder if that’s why his last name is Volt, or if he decided to learn shock magic because of his name. Nobody really knows because he mostly keeps to himself. Despite this, he does take the time to care for each one of the reservation members, and truly loves them like a sweet little outcast family. Stays back on the reservation while the others go to find the soul mage.

Lauzio Liang is age 18. He looks Chinese, with light tan skin, brown eyes, and black hair. He is a spirit magician under the teachings of Duvasis. He’s as rule abiding as Duvasis, and is constantly engrossed in his studies. He’s asexual and hasn’t really thought of the idea of having a partner, as it is not important to him at the moment. Later on in the book, he finds feelings for Ruslexi. (I’m asexual and I hate the trope where the asexual falls in love and is magically “cured,” so my goal for this romance is to make it so Lauzio remains the same as he always is. I want to normalize the idea that asexuals can still be in relationships and still feel love for people--just not sexual attraction.) Goes with the group to find the soul mage.

Ruslexi Caviano-Desjardins is age 22. He’s white, with white-blonde hair and blue eyes. Tall and willowy. He was not born a magic user, but is trying to learn under the teachings of Ra’dair. He was originally cast out from society because he is a transgender man. I have some ideas for his backstory, but nothing is solidified yet. He’s super gay for Lauzio. Goes along to find the soul mage.

Jar of Hearts

Tatsuo Takahiro (Pictured left. Commission done by the lovely @emoryssketchbook. An old design of Sylvie is pictured on the right.)

Tatuo Takahiro is a young noble in the country of Mircas. Originally born in Dafeld, a place up in the mountains, a place in which is mother and father own, he lives in the lap of luxury his whole life. That is, until the year he turned eighteen. Angry townspeople take out a contract on his parent’s lives and the assassin’s guild comes and kills his parents. His eldest sister Yoko is a part of this plot and she kills the rest of his eight siblings. The only reason he is not killed is because of the quick thinking of his head servant, Nobu. He moves to the Southern Reach, far from the mountains. There he buys a section of Hebury from a bankrupt Lord and he takes control of the elven district of the city. Meanwhile, he ruminates in his desire for revenge on his sister, who had destroyed his whole family and livelihood. When Yoko is sighted in Hebury, he goes to question the innkeeper of the inn she was seen in and comes across Sylvestr Grewenys, someone who had seen Yoko. He recruits the elf’s help, and the two go across the country in search for his sister and to get his revenge. Tatsuo is a pessimist and sees the worst in every situation. He is often very sour, and has a distaste for elves, especially Sylvie. He uses his influence to get around, and tries his hardest to make sure people don’t know about his past. 

Sylvestr Grewenys (commission done by the lovely @illuminest)

Sylvestr (”Sylvie”) is half wood elf that lives in the country of Mircas. He was born Sylvia, and is a ka’shem-al’sen. In our words, he is transgender. He comes from a poor village along the road to Hebury, the capital of the Southern Reach. Many other wood elves live there, as well as some humans. His father was an abusive human who essentially kept Sylvie’s mother as a slave. Also being sexually abusive to Sylvie, he saw Sylvie and his mother as nothing more than animals for him to do his own bidding. Catching a bit of bad luck in their farming, Sylvie’s father sells him to a known prostitution ring that operated in the undercity of Hebury. There, Sylvie is forced to live as a prostitute, unable to get out of that life without risking his own life. That is, until a prickly young Lord by the name of Tatsuo Takahiro infiltrates that prostitution ring and breaks it up, therefore saving Sylvie’s life. It isn’t until later that Sylvie is able to thank him, when he is questioned by Tatsuo on the whereabouts of his sister, who had been seen at the inn that Sylvestr stayed in. He joins Tatsuo in his search for his sister (for the money, of course. Though he also felt he owed Tatsuo for saving his life.) Sylvestr seems overconfident of himself, and is very flirtatious, not caring to use his body to get what he wants. He has a shitload of trauma that he’s forced to get through during the course of  this novel, and seems to find the unlikeliest of friends along their journey across country. 

Other characters in Jar of Hearts: 

Declina, Nadir, and Zenith: Three siblings that join Tatsuo and Sylvie on their trip to find Yoko. 

Haerel: A beautiful androgynous Moon Elf castaway who joins the group while running from a group of hunters, hunting him for his blood, which is said to have healing properties. 

Sorry this went so long, I just get so excited talking about my characters that I tend to ramble. If you made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. If you have any interest in my characters or any suggestions on development, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Thanks again!

#tw: rape mention #trigger warning #original fic fest #writing #characters #writeblr #typewriterprince

[borderline-rat]

BPD and sense of identity

Okay so you all know BPD is a complicated and fucked up illness. But one of the symptoms that has been messing with my head a lot lately is the one making me constantly question my identity.

I am a soon-to-be 23 person. Considering that fact, I am officially an adult everywhere in the world. A full grown-up, supposed to be able to tell who she is and where she’s going.

Except I’m not. I was born a girl, and so far, I always identified as one - whatever that means, considering I never gave a fuck about how a girl is supposed to behave, what she’s supposed to wear or any of that shit, since I always thought those statements were created by a partiarcal and therefore sexist society in which I don’t intend to fit. However, I always accepted the idea of ‘being a girl’. I use feminine pronouns, and I don’t experience any kind of body dysphoria. I’m okay with having a girl body.

But lately, I have been starting to question all this, again and again. I have a girl body and I am fine with it, but I dont’ feel like a ‘girl’ anymore. The more it goes, the more I am lurking in a sort of in-between limbo, constantly balancing between masculine and feminine, and everything in the middle. I don’t know where I am anymore. And I know it happens to just question yourself while growing up, but thing is, I have a mental illness, and that changes everything.

Why? Because it’s not the first time it’s happening. I’m taking gender identity as an example here, but if I look back on my life, I have been through so many phases. Clothing style, music tastes, behaviors, goals in life, spirituality, sexual orientation… During those 23 years of existence, I’ve been moving. I’ve been searching. I’ve been questionning. And I never, ever found an answer. I never found a case where I could fit, I never felt like home in any community, even if I felt more welcomed in some of them than some other.

All of this wondering process leads me to one question. Why do we feel the need to fit somewhere so much? Why the fuck do we have to go through all those phases, to spend all this time questionning ourselves, us borderlines, just to find a place where we belong ?

Because that’s only about it, if we try to be honest. Belonging. We’re lost kids, desperately trying to feel like they have a reason to exist, that they can be home somewhere, that we can be wanted.

During my whole life, I have craved this feeling. Belonging. What a beautiful word! I imagine it, from far away, impossible to touch, just a glimpse through a half-opened door. Feeling that I know who I am.

That is the sad and terrible paradox of our kind. We hate labelling as much as we need it. We don’t want to be only our illness, and at the same time, it’s the only stable thing that defines who we are - putting aside all the ‘i’m probably faking it’ thing because that’s also a thing, but fuck it, we’re VALID, okay?

I am not only a borderline person. I am many other things. I am an artist. I am a good cook. I am bad at math. But for all those things that I know, how many questions are left without any anwser?

I was born a girl, but I feel closer to non-binary today. Will it still be the case tomorrow? In two weeks? In a month?

I, until now, identified as pansexual, but the more it goes, the more I’m wondering if I am just gay. What will it be, then, if someday I happen to fall in love with a boy again? That will be my world crumbling again, because I can’t fucking stop moving from one label to the other.

I was not raised in a religious family, and yet, I recentely started to see my dad again, after 10 years of silence, and he’s jew. And I feel this culture as a part of me, I feel like I want to belong in this community because it’s in my blood, it’s a part of my history and of who I am. But for how long until I change my mind? How long until my brain is bored?

How long until I stop wearing the clothes I wear and suddenly becomes all pink-and-glitters? How long until I have enough of rock music and, out of the blue, start to listen to jazz ? How long until my passion for drawing and writing, that I ALWAYS had, just fades away and leaves me empty, lost, drained?

Who the fuck am I?

I still don’t know. I’ll be 23 in two months, and I still have no clue where I am going. I try so hard to stay still, to give myself some rest, and not to run away whenever I feel like I’m not enough for all the things I do and love.

So, you know what? I’m tired of this. Fuck it.

To all my borderlines mates out there, feeling the same thing, not knowing where you are, who you are, or where you go… I understand. We understand, all of us feeling this emptiness, this constant question mark in our soul and in our head. Guys, honestly. We have to be gentle to ourselves. Who fucking cares if we’re inconsistent? As long as we do what we love - as long as we do everything to make ourselves safe and happy. We have to test ourselves, make mistakes, try things, learn and discover.

Do as you fucking will; harm fucking none.

We’ll get to this place someday. Someday, we’ll belong.

TL;DR Fuck poor sense of identity, it’s terribly difficult to live but at least we’re eager to learn, to move forward and to discover ourselves everyday. My fellow borderlines, I love you all so fucking much.

#bpd #bpd stuff #bpd things #bpd talk #borderline personality disorder #mental illness #mental disorder #cluster b #identity #mental health #sense of identity #questioning #ezra talks

[no-big-bang-blog]

Day 1-  17.7.17.

Ok, so, I decided against using a writing prompt for my first short story, but I did loosely base it on a recent personal experience of mine. It’s not great, and hardly edited, but that’s why I’m doing this! Writing when you’re mentally ill is hard, so I’m proud of myself even if this isn’t amazing. If anyone reads this (thank you!), I’d love to know what you think. Enjoy!

It’s a hot night in July and I’m moving out of the house that I’ve considered home for the last 11 months. I made the mistake of wearing a dress without tights due to the heat, and the resulting friction burn between my thighs burns like hell. I pause for a moment to sit, cross-legged, on my bed, wincing as I run my fingers over the reddened ridges that have formed there. They remind me of mountain ranges, or the sound-waves of someone screaming angrily for me to take a break from all this lifting before my skin erupts into flames. So I sit there, my belongings scattered around the floor in various boxes and bags and crates, and I think to myself ‘How is it, that after 21 years on this earth, everything I own can be contained inside one room? Why is it so painful to think that all my belongings can be picked up and hurled into the back of my boyfriend’s car within minutes?’ I pick the dirt out of my nails to distract myself from the weightless, anxious feeling that comes with moving out, fighting back the urge to vomit.

As I continue sorting through the things I own, I realize that I’ve thrown away almost half of my clothes, along with old photos and letters that once meant the world to me. I try to feel bad about this, willing myself to cry, but I can’t. What’s wrong with me? Only two hours before I spent almost ten minutes deliberating on whether to throw out some old instant noodles and tinned soup, yet here I am hacking away at old memories like it means nothing. I pause from packing once more, panicked breath and hot flushes coming in waves as I consider the possibility that I’m a sociopath- it seems the only feasible explanation for this complete lack of emotion. I spend the next few minutes adjusting my breathing, grounding myself and massaging my aching back in an attempt to push down the nauseating panic that’s been festering in my gut all day.

When my dad moved out he left his books at my mum’s place for eighteen months. Gradually, one by one, they made their way to his new home, accompanied by me or my little brother on our weekend visits. I like to think he deliberately spread his books over the two houses as a way of ensuring we always felt his presence, no matter where we were. He was able to belong in two places at once, meanwhile I never felt entirely at home in either of the two. Deepening the feeling of perpetual limbo I’ve been harbouring for sixteen years now is the knowledge that, from midnight tonight, I am effectively homeless. I could return home to my mum’s house, but the thought of that makes me want to throw up. My only option is to live with my boyfriend and his family for the foreseeable future. They are kind, generous people who make me feel at home in a home that isn’t mine, but knowing that my belongings will be living in their garage for the next four months validates this idea I’ve always had that I’ll never find myself at home anywhere, always moving from one place to the other. I don’t tell anyone, but I leave an old cookbook stashed behind the desk in the corner of my room, an attempt to anchor myself to a place that will continue existing just the same after I’ve left.

It’s almost midnight when my boyfriend arrives, after finishing his shift in a local bar. My back has seized up, making it impossible for me to lift any of the boxes into the back of his car, which I see as a protest against my leaving this place. I watch silently as he meticulously lifts each bundle of items into the back of his car. I wince sharply as I think about the fact that he is holding my whole world in his hands, and the measured, sombre attitude with which he does so makes me think he has been thinking that too. As he slams the boot closed, a triumphant thud signalling a job well done, I attempt to divorce my house key from the other keys nestled on the ring in my palm. Its tag has become tangled, which I interpret as another Sign From God that this shouldn’t be happening right now, but eventually I manage to wrestle it free from its neighbours.

I return my key through a letterbox in the door of an office. A somewhat underwhelming anti-climax that doesn’t do anything to help the feeling that I’m not attaching the right emotion to this experience. I get back in the car and my boyfriend drives off without saying a word. We travel down the long road to the motorway in the dark, each passing yellow flicker of a streetlight overhead indicating the widening distance between myself and my home. After a couple of minutes I notice my boyfriend is crying. I ask him to pull over and I hold him as he sobs into my shoulder, telling me how much he is going to miss that house, and the memories we made there, between each convulsion. I still can’t cry. Instead, I find myself offering him a biscuit from a packet I stashed away in the glove compartment and squeezing his hand as he sets off driving again.

234 streetlights later and we’re on the motorway, heading towards my boyfriend’s parents house. As we drive past deserted petrol stations and a 24 hour McDonalds I find myself willing the car to crash, willing it to catapult into the ditch running parallel with the road, willing its engine to immediately catch fire, killing us both instantly. I stare down at my trainers, angry at myself for thinking this. What I really want is to be back in my home, in my bed, where I feel safe. Despite this sense of dread as a direct result of the uncertainty regarding my future, I am still unable to shed a tear. I google ‘sociopath symptoms’ on my phone.

Something compels me to look up from the page of search results. My eyes fix themselves on the road in front of me for a moment, before I see it. A rabbit. The rabbit runs out into the road, in front of our car. He stops, headlights reflected in his wide eyes, unable to move. I find myself gasping inaudibly, yet unable to scream or tell my boyfriend to swerve around the small creature. To my amazement, he changes course slightly, managing to maneuver the large vehicle away from the animal. I search for him in the rearview mirror, but he has disappeared.

Moments later, as the final stretch of road tapers to a dark dirt track, I am unable to stop thinking about the rabbit caught in the headlights, of the passive acceptance he showed as disaster ploughed towards him. Amazed, I realize how much this reminds me of myself. I am surprised to find myself crying, choking back gut-wrenching sobs. A wave of relief washes over me while a steady stream of tears washes over my cheeks.

#fiction #young writer #short story #female writers #women writers #writing challenge #my writing

[reubln]

An Eating Disorder: Normality.

Everyone has their norm, their snack that they can make ‘in a jiffy’; that one childhood favourite that has been engrained into their developing mind like tying ones shoelaces, or how to read an analogue clock. Having done the round of waiting till 12pm just to eat my two sandwiches, and whatever luxurious snack my mother fitted my packed-lunch with, only to wait another four hours to bite that extra 199 calories to charge my existence till dinner time, and then to the ebs and downs to recovery, binging, running to equate the shame, to the very first time I could eat a bowl of chips and feel good to have their lingering presence deck-out my stomach and intestinal lining for a day or two – I now consider myself fully recovered.

After Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, many report that they don’t feel themselves without their anxiety, or OCD, they have an ever-present void possibly present from birth, but then was filled. People have more mental clarity, more time to think, even less time thinking – all of which are innately puzzling to their existence, their purpose. Maybe their anxiety fuelled their passion, their manners, or social autonomy. Mine has helped me to achieve, to remember, and to consider. So befittingly after recovery from a very similar-in-source condition, after breaking the control, neurological starvation, I find myself in a sort of limbo, possibly like a fox who has been plunged into a cage of hens, no prior thought, or no plan; which one do I go for? Which of the thousands of pre-made meals shall I buy, which ingredients, what should I do with those ingredients?

It used to be black and white, planned, controlled. I have lost that, but regained freedom, freedom to take all, but should I?

I’ve lost a lot of the natural hunger cues that used to walk around with me through my day, I understand that I need to eat – I try to fill myself up, but what with? What food do I like, what is healthy, how do I balance? Being home over Christmas allowed for my food to be given to me, it allowed me to fill myself till I felt satisfied, ow I have to choose that food.

I’ve just gotten back from the 24/7 Co-Op; it lives up to it’s purpose even through a pandemic. I thought about writing this on the walk back. It takes five minutes. All of that food, just five minutes away from me, what shall I plan, what snacks shall I have? I’m rather fond of eating on the journey back.

So, I’ve bought a spinach and ricotta pizza, and a San Pellegrino Peach Tea. I thought up the idea of writing this, put the pizza in the fridge, and I guess I’m not hungry anymore.

[hentaihunblog-blog]

Kujira no Kora wa Sajou ni Utau – Episode 8 [Disappear From This World]

New Post has been published on https://hentaihun.com/blog/2017/12/01/kujira-no-kora-wa-sajou-ni-utau-episode-8-disappear-from-this-world/

Kujira no Kora wa Sajou ni Utau – Episode 8 [Disappear From This World]

Lykos becomes enraged at the deaths of her comrades from the Mud Whale, and she runs up to the bald commander, intending to slash him with her small knife. However Ouni appears out of nowhere to grab said commander from behind and hold his blade to the guy’s throat, drawing a small amount of blood to show that he’s serious. When Chakuro arrives, he and Lykos run off towards the nous together while Ouni  keeps the Skylos soldiers in a sort of limbo. That is until the blue-haired commander arrives and shoots Ouni in the leg.

Back at the doors to the chamber, Ginshu, Nibi and one other SDF member are forced to hide as they come under fire from a barrage of Skylos soldiers. Except… where is Nibi??

Outside in the midst of the sand storm, Emma is riding atop her creature and singing another song. This time she appears to be summoning thin, transparent hands to… touch the people left on the Mud Whale? Are they meant to escort the souls of the dead to the other side? Heal those who are injured? I didn’t quite understand their importance, so if I missed something feel free to fill me in with a comment.

Meanwhile as he watches Liodari and the Guard Captain fight, Suou also sees the little white hands. He’s holding an injured child in his arms, and the hands cover the child almost completely. Suou also sees a vision of Nelli, and in his mind he sees a slice of Liodari’s past.

We’re treated to a flashback of Liodari as a child in the hospital. He’s unable to keep his emotions under control because, if I understood the scene correctly, the nous wouldn’t accept them. So this poor child, likely slightly psychopathic even by this point, is overwhelmed with emotions he doesn’t understand nor can he control. The adults around him (including some family members) keep him isolated as they don’t know what to do with someone who has emotions as wild and unpredictable as his. Maybe Liodari was already mentally unstable from the time he was a small child, or maybe being kept away from others is what triggered his psychosis. Regardless, this flashback shows that even as a child Liodari was really screwed up.

As Liodari continues to fight the Guard Captain, he’s tripped by Suou, who tells the pink-haired boy that he was able to see his heart. Suou offers to let Liodari stay on the Mud Whale like Lykos, but the Guard Captain doesn’t like this idea and uses the opportunity to kick Liodari across the field. The Guard Captain makes a comment about Falaina being “uneasy” and how the boundaries between the nous’ world and the physical world are shifting (thanks to Emma’s song). The Guard Captain uses his thymia to slash Liodari’s torso with a sword, but Suou prevents the captain from killing the kid.

No matter, Liodari soons meets his end as he crawls away and encounters a small group of Mud Whale children, who shoot him with a couple of arrows. Mortally wounded, Liodari falls off the edge of the Mud Whale and into the sand ocean. [ silently cheers ]

Up in their little hiding place, Ouni’s friends are taking cover along with the Skylos soldier they captured. Two twins who seem to be part of their circle of pals appear and criticize Ouni for going along with what Suou directed him to do. Kicha angrily tells Shikon and Shikoku that Ouni participated in the attack of Skylos because he wanted to go, not because Suou asked him to.

The final moments of the episode show Ouni bleeding heavily from the gunshot wound in his leg. He’s kicked around by the bald commander he’d held a sword to moments earlier, but then the blue-haired soldier interferes, calling Ouni a “demon of Falaina”. The blue-haired soldier cuts Ouni’s face with a sword, and tells him that he’ll kill Ouni because of who he is and where he comes from. He hints that there are reasons why the Marked live short lives, but said reason is not revealed in this conversation (although I’m super curious now!).

My thoughts: How horrible. To be killed because your existence has been deemed meaningless? To die because someone in power sees no purpose behind your way of life?  It’s all so pointless. What a waste of life.

I really wish that characters were named somehow when they are first introduced into a series. I don’t care if it’s through conversations with other characters or if they just wear a flipping nametag. As a reviewer it is frustrating as all hell to try to find multiple descriptors for characters who have no names. >:/

Going by the preview for the next episode, I’m guessing that Nibi decides to try to help Ouni and will pay for his decision with his life. How sad.  ;~;   Hopefully I’m wrong but I guess we’ll see next week.

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[popofventi]

Mental Yoga Sunday / 5 Favorite Long Form Reads This Week / Issue No. 20

"See, I was nine years old when I saw Elvis on 'Ed Sullivan', and I had to get a guitar the next day. I stood in front of my mirror with that guitar on...and I knew then that's what has been missing."  -- Bruce Sprinsteen

I like the world but I hate the noise of it all, and sometimes clarity comes in the form of a quiet day and words on a page. This Sunday's edition we're doing a little Mental Yoga stretching our thoughts around things like Bruce on Broadway, Germany's definition of success and happiness, the originator of the hot chicken craze, Puerto Rico's dire straits and its fight for statehood and the great Kate McKinnon really not wanting to discuss her personal life. Embrace the muzzling of all the chatter.

1

 Bruce Springsteen on Broadway: The Boss on His ‘First Real Job’ (The New York Times)

"It started at the White House. On Jan. 12, in the last weeks of the Obama administration, Mr. Springsteen played an acoustic concert in the East Room as the Obama family’s parting gift for about 250 staffers. For Mr. Springsteen, who takes every performance seriously, it was a moment of reckoning. He carefully assembled a set list spanning his career; he illuminated the songs with spoken stories and memories echoing “Born to Run,” the autobiography he published in 2016.

“There was a lot of storytelling, which goes back to our early days at the Bottom Line when you were in front of a couple of hundred people,” Mr. Springsteen said in an interview at his home studio in Colts Neck, N.J., recalling the Greenwich Village club where his shows in summer 1975became a sensation. “It worked in a very, very intimate setting.”

Heading home from Washington, Mr. Springsteen and his wife, Patti Scialfa, and his manager, Jon Landau, thought more people should experience a performance like that. “The way he combines the spoken words with the songs he’s chosen to do sounds like a very simple thing,” Mr. Landau said. “But it’s a real piece of performance art.”" - Read Full Story

2

The secret to Germany’s happiness and success: Its values are the opposite of Silicon Valley’s (Quartz)

"If Silicon Valley ever formed a political party, it might look a lot like the current iteration of Germany’s Free Democrats, or FDP. In the 2017 election cycle, the FDP offered a platform that reads like what Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg would come up with if they decided to disrupt Rand Paul. Its primary aspirations include creating a startup-friendly economy, digitizing Germany’s monolithic reams of bureaucratic paperwork (no small feat), and, yes, radically reduce income taxes, which currently top off at 45% for the highest earners.

The platform has propelled the party back from the dead. Having been kicked out of the Germany’s parliament, or Bundestag, in 2013, the FDP came roaring back with 10% of the vote in Sunday’s election.

To some, this might suggest that a cultural shift is afoot in Germany. After all, the FDP’s leader, a magnetic 38-year-old named Christian Lindner, has openly expressed a desire to shake things up. In an August interview with the Economist, in which he called Germany’s economy “a prosperity hallucination,” Lindner also explained that in his country, “entrepreneurship has long been undervalued … and societies that are prepared to be more daring and have efficient capital markets have overtaken us on this.” Germans could be “world leaders” in the new economy, he said, “but we have to want it.

But that’s the thing: The vast majority of Germans don’t want it. For progressive and even centrist Germans, the startup-style definition of Erfolg (or “success”) is utterly incompatible with their values—which do not center on individual wealth, recognition, or even careers. Though the FDP’s showing was meteoric compared with recent years, Germany’s cultural mores—which include a vehement defense of the country’s robust social safety net, largely credited for the relatively quick recovery from last decade’s recession—mean it is largely inoculated from the bootstrap fever that has long gripped the US." - Read Full Story

3 

After Irma, Puerto Rico's Case For Statehood Gains Newfound Urgency (Pacific Standard)

"The deepening humanitarian crisis in Puerto Rico reveals a disaster response that is categorically different from the actions taken in the wake of hurricanes that struck the continental U.S. recently. While Fuentes praised the efforts of the president, the U.S. Federal Emergency Management Agency, and Florida Senator Marco Rubio, he outlined several needs that may not be in the offing.

"Short term—like, tomorrow—Puerto Rico needs a waiver on the Jones Act, so we can start bringing stuff in without the imposition of the Jones Act," Fuentes said on Tuesday, before the Department of Homeland Security delivered a no verdict. "Hospitals are running with generators. Frozen-food warehouses are running on generators. They need to get diesel if we want to keep that food."

Next, Congress will take up the issue of a hurricane relief package for Puerto Rico. Or maybe not: Politico reports that a formal funding request is still weeks away, as the devastation in Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands is so widespread that an assessment cannot be made. Still, Congress passed a major hurricane relief package just six days after Hurricane Harvey struck Texas. And the government relaxed the Jones Act to deal with the Exxon Valdez oil spill—an ecological tragedy, but far from a humanitarian catastrophe.

Puerto Rico will have no real say in whatever decision Congress makes. The stakes could not be higher: One estimate pegs hurricane damages at more than $72 billion. Maria came just a month after Puerto Rico declared a soft bankruptcy in May—following a debt crisis that Fuentes and other critics say was spurred in large part by Puerto Rico's inequitable standing vis-à-vis the rest of the country. It's possible that the damages wrought by Maria could even exceed the debt that ruined the island financially." - Read Full Story

4

The Kate McKinnon Report (Vanity Fair)

"Kate arrives on time to the minute. I’m early, so I have a chance to observe her as she enters. She’s dressed down. Movie stars are typically dressed down for these occasions. (Another reason they’re deceptive: people come costumed as though it’s playtime, not work.) But Kate isn’t dressed movie-star down, i.e., the kind of down that’s flattering to the figure and still involves the application of a not inconsiderable amount of makeup, i.e., a stylist-approved, camera-ready kind of down. Kate’s dressed real-person down, i.e., badly: oversize T-shirt and pants that aren’t quite sweat but close enough; sneakered feet; face cosmetics-free; hair in a ponytail, or, rather, what would be a ponytail if she hadn’t failed to tug the hair all the way through the elastic, leaving it in a sort of ponytail-bun limbo.

As quickly as I’m struck by how un-vain she is, I’m struck by how much she has to be vain about. She’s very pretty: small-bodied and full-lipped with cat eyes—pale blue and almond-shaped and slanting—tawny skin and hair, dimples she can twitch into existence without even smiling. She’s 33 but appears younger, a few years out of college. I’d watched hours of footage of her in preparation for this encounter yet had somehow missed her great good looks. Not that she photographs poorly. It’s just that in most scenes she’s impersonating a woman far, far older than she (Debette Goldry, legend of the silver screen, a fictional creation) or a woman far older (the all-too-real Betsy DeVos) or a man (Robert Durst) or a boy-man (Justin Bieber). And her face is rarely in repose. She’s often stretching it in some crazy, rubbery way, thrusting out her jaw, baring her teeth." - Read Full Story

5

Burned Out (Eater.com)

"The first time I went to Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack, I was 12 years old, and I didn’t even eat the chicken. My dad, though, ordered his “hot” — one of six heat levels spicy enough to force beads of sweat from one’s brow onto the table, one soft drop at a time. While he ate, he remarked that the heat radiating from the plate didn’t just linger in the air or settle on your lips, it sat with you for days afterward. As the old ceiling fans helicoptered above, I sat silently in the pew-like booth, flirting with some fries that had absorbed a whisper of heat from sharing the same cast-iron skillet as the chicken, but never mustering the courage to take a bite.

My dad, undeterred, took me and my sister back again and again over the years. Eventually, we learned to sweat together, and I saw that the world was much bigger than home: Prince’s was a visit to “the other side of the tracks,” 30 minutes from the mostly white suburb where I grew up. My hometown, just north of Nashville, was the kind of place where the most thrilling food was a cheese-smothered appetizer at O’Charley’s and where, when I’d try to explain hot chicken to friends at school, they would ask with a bewildered look if I meant buffalo chicken. Looking back, I realize now that Prince’s was one of the few places we’d go and see people who looked like us." - Read Full Story

#Long Form Reading #Longreads #The New York Times #Bruce Springsteen #Vanity Fair #Kate McKinnon #Quartz #German Happiness #Pacific Standard #Puerto Rico #Eater.com #Burned Out