#and what the megaphone guy says is on voices-of-hope-county | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fancat-not-fangirl · 4 years

Text

Heart Attack Blues

a/n: Tag to 2x19. Because I like hurting Dean and you can’t just almost have a heart attack without getting away unscathed. At least, not in my opinion.

Heart attacks were not fun.

That much Dean Winchester was certain of.

He had experienced one the previous year when he and Sam had hunted that creature in the basement of some run down house in the middle of nowhere, and had almost died. He could still feel the pain sometimes. The tightness in his chest. The agony lacing through his body like lightning. The inability to breathe.

In short, Dean had never wanted to experience one of those again.

But, because he just happened to be a Winchester, luck was never on his side.

And so of course during their gig at the Green River County Detention Center, the spirit of Nurse Glockner had decided to jump start the memories by giving him another heart attack. Or, at least, beginning to give him one. Just in time, Dean had grabbed the salt and slashed it across her image, both freeing him and dooming Tiny in the process.

The guilt over letting Tiny die weighed heavy across his chest, as did the remaining effects of the almost-heart-attack the nurse had given him. It did not get better over time. Dean had hoped that the pain would have gone away after a few hours, but again, he was a Winchester. And Winchesters never got what they wanted.

So now the job was done and the brothers were sitting side by side in the Impala, mere minutes away from a hotel, and Dean wasn’t feeling any better. They had been on the road for hours and hours, hoping to put as much space as possible between them and the police, who were no doubt tearing apart the countryside looking for them.

It hurt to breathe, and if Dean tried to move, agony stabbed through him. The road blurred in front of him every few minutes, and at times Dean desperately fought the urge to hurl.

Sam had asked multiple times if Dean wanted to let him drive, but every time Dean refused, only to regret his decision minutes later when another bout of pain cut through him like lightning.

It might have helped to tell Sam, but Dean didn’t want to worry his brother. Sam had enough on his plate as it was, what with thinking about his “destiny” and how he could avoid turning evil. Which Dean was sure would not happen. There was no way, none at all, that his little brother was a monster. I mean, the guy would hit a squirrel with his car and mope about for weeks on end. It wasn’t possible that he could turn into a monster. It just wasn’t. Dean was sure of it.

But Sam wasn’t, and that was enough for Dean to keep his injury a secret. There was no need to lay that burden on Sam. He had been through enough.

Turning off the highway, Dean grit his teeth and kept down a gasp of pain as he turned the wheel, sending sharp twinges of pain through his chest and up his arms. Son of a bitch. Dean just crossed his fingers and prayed that Sam didn’t notice.

But Dean was a Winchester after all, and therefore nothing ever went his way.

“Hey man, you good?” Sam’s voice cut through the silence that had occupied the car previously, quiet and hesitant. To Dean, though, it sounded as if Sam had held a megaphone up to his ear and screamed the words.

Wincing, Dean forced his mouth into a grin and his eyes quickly flitted to Sam’s worried face. “I’m A-okay. I guess Deacon just walloped me in the stomach harsher than he had to. I don’t think I hit him back hard enough for that.” Sam didn’t look convinced. “I’m fine, Sammy. No need to worry your pretty princess head.”

“It’s Sam,” His brother grumbled, and Dean chuckled. That was a bad move, because his heart clenched and his chest felt like it was on fire. Crap.

Through the pain, Dean almost missed the sign that pointed to the hotel, swerving at the last second onto the parking lot. Sam gave him a concerned look, but Dean just shrugged it off. The sooner he got some rest, the better.

Sending Sam for the keys to the room, Dean hauled himself out of the car, barely holding back a cry of agony at the movement. Leaning against the car, Dean caught his breath. Why wasn’t it getting better? Back at the prison he had felt fine. Well, mostly fine. There had been a lingering tightness in his chest, but nothing like this.

“Dean? You coming or what?” Sam’s voice broke Dean painfully out of his thoughts, and Dean grunted as he grabbed the bags from the trunk and headed for their room, trying not to stumble.

Entering, Dean squinted his eyes against the brightness of the lights. Dropping the bags onto the floor, he made a beeline towards his bed, not even bothering to undress first.

“Do you want the shower?” Sam called over this shoulder as he untied his shoes.

The words cut through Dean’s head like knives, and Dean made sure his back was turned to his brother as to try to hide the look of pain that crossed his face. “Nah, you go on. I want to hit the hay.”

Sam’s response was lost in the ringing in Dean’s ears, and the older hunter collapsed onto the bed. The darkness took him before he knew it, and Dean knew no more.

<><><><><>

Dean awoke with a need for water.

His throat was parched and sore, not unlike the rest of his body. Dean had hoped that after resting for a few hours he’d feel better, but then again, he was a Winchester. And nothing ever went right for him.

Except that the sounds of running water in the bathroom told Dean that he hadn’t, in fact, rested for a few hours. More like a few minutes. The shower was still on, which meant that Sam was still in there.

At least something was going his way.

Biting back whimpers, Dean pulled himself inch by inch into an upright position. If anything, his heart hurt more now than it did before. As did his head. It felt like it was splitting open, sending waves of dizziness through Dean’s body, making him sway as he got to his feet. And his lungs. Had it always been this hard to breathe? Dean didn’t think so.

What had he wanted again?

Oh, right. Water.

Putting one foot in front of the other proved harder than he had first thought, and through the haze of pain, Dean didn’t realize that the sound of running water from the bathroom had stopped.

He made it across the room and closed his hand around a water bottle sitting on the hotel table. Bringing it to his lips, Dean closed his eyes and drank, savoring the way the cold liquid ran down his throat. It escaped his notice how most of the water had missed his mouth and had ended up dripping onto the floor.

Content with the amount of water that had made it into his mouth, Dean turned on his heel, ready to go back to bed.

That had been the wrong thing to do, as he lost his balance and staggered, ramming chest-first into the edge of the table.

The reaction was immediate. Heart seizing, the air seemed to leave Dean’s body all at once, leaving him gasping for it. Falling to his hands and knees, Dean barely had the strength to support himself with one arm, as the other was busy clawing at his chest. The pain spread through his body like wildfire, burning everything in its path. It consumed him.

Dean had hoped that he’d be able to keep his injury from Sam, but the slam of a door and a shout of his name was enough to tell him that he had failed.

After all, he was a Winchester, and things never seemed to go as planned.

Which was why Dean didn’t even fight it when, again, the darkness pulled him under.

<><><><><>

Sam knew there was something wrong with Dean.

Ever since they had left the prison. Even before then, in fact.

But it had only become blatantly obvious when Dean had relinquished the offer to shower first. Usually, Dean would be the one that would be shoving Sam out of the way and locking himself in the bathroom as soon as they’d get back from a hunt. But not today.

Sam had wanted to ask what was wrong, but knowing Dean, the answer would have been, “I’m fine,” or “Nothing,”. So Sam had decided that, fine, if Dean wanted to stew in his own pain, then let him do so.

If he was being honest, Sam was still a little mad at Dean from when his older brother demanded that they stay at the prison, risking their lives to help one of dad’s friends. They were no use to anyone dead, and it didn’t really bother Sam that a few prison lowlifes would perish in exchange.

But maybe that was the monster talking.

No.

Sam showered in scalding hot water, as if he wanted to wash away all the evil in him. But then again, it hadn’t worked before, so why would it now?

He took his time, and was finished in a little over half an hour. Dean would kill him for that, Sam thought with a small smirk, brushing his teeth. They always did this. Fought over the smallest of things. Unlike other siblings, it was weirdly the way the Winchesters showed affection.

Small jabs. Insults. Pranks. Those were all the brothers’ ways of saying, “I love you.” It was odd, yes. But they were Winchesters, which meant that nothing they ever did was normal.

And Sam was fine with that.

Except for the times his brother was an ass. A stubborn, pigheaded ass. One that wouldn’t accept help from anyone or anything. One that Sam got so frustrated with. One like he was now.

It had been obvious that he had been having trouble driving. So why not let Sam drive? It was stupid. So very, very stupid. Kind of like Dean himself. Stubborn and stupid and sometimes Sam just wanted to throttle him.

Pulling on a fresh set of sweatpants and a t-shirt, Sam switched the lights off in the bathroom and opened the door, preparing himself for another long hour of trying to convince Dean to tell Sam what was wrong with him.

But nothing could have prepared him for the sight in front of him.

Dean was on the floor, on his hands and knees, arms shaking. His head was bent, almost touching the floor. And the sounds. Sam’s heart broke with every choke and wheeze that left Dean’s mouth. Before he knew it, Sam was darting across the room and dropping to his knees beside his brother.

“Dean!”

Dean lifted his eyes and their gazes connected mere seconds before Dean’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed forward into Sam’s waiting arms.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam whispered, knowing his brother couldn’t hear him. Grabbing Dean’s shoulders, Sam brought him up so that Dean was leaning against his younger brother, chests almost touching. Cupping Dean’s face, Sam tried to get his brother to wake back up.

“Dean? Dean, hey man, I need you to open your eyes, okay? Just for a second. Please, please, please just open your eyes.” Sam was pleading now, his mind a jumbled mess. What had happened? How had he missed something this serious? How was he going to help Dean if he didn’t even know what was wrong with him?

“Dean, open your goddamn eyes right now or I swear to god, I’ll sell the Impala. I will.” And just like that, Dean’s eyes were fluttering open and Sam was letting out a sigh of relief. “That’s it, Dean. That’s it. Now keep them open for me, can you do that?”

But Dean seemed to have other plans, and he tensed under Sam and lifted a hand to his chest, clawing the material covering it. His eyes were panicked, and Sam realized with an ever sinking heart that Dean was having trouble breathing.

“Oh god, Dean. You have to calm down. Take deep breaths, okay?” Sam pulled back a bit to give his brother room, but never loosening his grip on him. “Deep breaths, Dean. Just breathe. Breathe.”

But it wasn’t working. Dean was wheezing, gasping for air, and nothing Sam was doing was helping. Gritting his teeth, Sam decided to try something else. Pulling Dean flush against him, chest to chest, Sam started breathing deeply, exaggerating his breaths. In and out, in and out, all the while mumbling a mantra of soothing words into Dean’s ear. “It’s ok, Dean. I got you. Deep breaths. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

One of his hands was on Dean’s backs, rubbing it comfortingly, trying to ease the tension in the muscles. The other hand was cupping the back of Dean’s head, his fingers running through Dean’s hair. Gently. Softly.

And it worked. Soon, Dean’s breathing slowed, became calmer. His hands that had previously had a desperate grip on Sam’s t-shirt fabric had relaxed, as did the rest of his body. His head was pressed into the crook of Sam’s neck, and Sam could feel the small pants that brushed against his skin.

Once he was sure that Dean’s breathing was back to normal, Sam pulled back and peered into Dean’s face. His brother’s facial features were tight with pain, and Sam couldn’t help but notice the tear tracks that had made their way down Dean’s cheeks.

Sam didn’t want to do this, but he had to know what was wrong with Dean. How else was he supposed to help his brother otherwise? “Dean, what the hell just happened?”

Dean didn’t answer at first, the silence stretching between them. Then, as though he was speaking through glass, Dean managed to get out, “‘m fine, S’mmy.”

That was it. The last straw. Giving Dean an enraged look, Sam fought to keep his voice from shouting, which he knew would only make the pain worse for Dean. “You’re fine? You’re fine? Dean, you were on the floor, barely breathing! If that means ‘fine’ in your book, then you need to check the definition of ‘fine’. Because you are certainly NOT fine.” Seeing Dean wince, Sam realized that his voice had climbed in volume, and he brought it down a few notches. Yes, he was angry with his brother, but not angry enough to want to cause him additional pain. “Dean, it looked like you were having a heart attack! Now, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but-”

And then it hit Sam.

“You jerk. You big, stubborn, idiotic, jerk. You got attacked by the spirit, didn’t you?” The look on Dean’s face said it all. “I don’t believe it. And you didn’t even think to tell me? That you almost died on this job?”

Dean seemed to be getting his bearings more, being able to breathe on his own. He glanced at Sam before lowering his eyes to the floor between them. “Didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

Sam scoffed, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not a big deal? You do realize that you could have died, right? I could have given you painkillers, medicine. At least I could’ve done the driving.” Dean didn’t answer. “Dean, why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it would get better.” Dean’s voice was still rough, but even then Sam strained to hear it.

“You thought it would-” Sam let out an exasperated breath and took his hand away from its supporting grip on Dean’s shoulder, running it over his face. “Okay you know what. Whatever. I don’t care. But Dean,” His hand touched Dean’s chin and raised it so that their eyes would meet. “Next time you get hurt, you have to tell me, okay? I can’t do anything if I’m too busy being worried about you.”

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “It’s usually me saying that to you.”

Sam glared. “Promise me, Dean.”

It didn’t look like Dean was going to answer and Sam was about to ask again before Dean sighed. “Okay Sammy. Next time I get a papercut, you’ll be the first to know.”

Sam smiled grimly at that, not even bothering to correct his brother at the nickname. It would have to do for now.

“Let’s get you up,” he said, standing and hauling Dean up with him. Dean’s face twisted at the pain that no doubt laced through him, but Sam had to get him to the bed. And then had to somehow coerce him into taking pills.

One step at a time, though.

Wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist, Sam supported most of Dean’s weight as they hobbled back to the bed, Dean letting out a muffled cry as he sank onto the mattress. Gently leaning him backwards, Sam commanded that Dean not move while he got the meds.

Coming back less than a minute later with pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other, Sam offered them to his brother, who took them without any fuss. If Sam needed a sign that his brother was most definitely not fine, then that was it. Dean must have really been in pain for him to not object being given medicine.

Swallowing the pills down, Dean then looked up at Sam. “I’m hungry.”

Oh.

When was the last time they had eaten? Hours ago, probably.

Now that he thought about it, Sam was also hungry. He’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts and worries about Dean to even realize it.

Nodding, Sam shrugged on his coat and pointed a strict finger at Dean. “Don’t move. I don’t want to drag your sorry ass to a hospital just because you were stupid enough to try to get out of bed.”

Dean just gave him a smirk. “Get me a burger.”

“Not a chance,” Sam called over his shoulder as he opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him.

<><><>

Coming back with a salad and a BLT sandwich as well as some coffee for himself, Sam was relieved that Dean hadn’t moved since he had left his brother a little over forty minutes ago. In fact, his brother had turned on the TV and was engrossed in some type of family drama that was currently on. At least something was going his way.

Setting his salad and coffee down at the table, Sam walked across the room and gave Dean his own food.

What he wasn’t expecting, though, was that Dean turned off the TV as soon as Sam sat back down at the table, and fixed his eyes on him. The look on Dean’s face was something that confused Sam. It looked sad, grave. A chill ran down Sam’s spine.

“Sammy, I have to tell you something.”

Sam froze.

Dean continued. “I thought about what you said earlier, about not hiding any injuries from you...” Did something else happen? Oh god, what if there were still injuries that Sam didn’t know about from when he had been possessed by Meg. Had he done something to Dean?

Dean looked down, fiddling with the corner of the blanket. “I didn’t know if I should tell you this, but…”

Sam couldn’t wait any longer. “What is it, Dean?”

Dean’s sullen look suddenly morphed into a sharp grin as his hand flew up into the air and flipped Sam off. “I have a paper cut.” And he did. There was a small, red line cutting across Dean’s middle finger, and Sam’s eyes immediately went to the small knife that was sticking out from underneath Dean’s pillow.

The next thing Dean knew, there was a water bottle thrown at his head, and he ducked, chuckling.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” Sam growled, but he couldn’t stop the smile that fought its way onto his face.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

By that they meant ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m glad you’re ok’.

And, of course, because their last name was Winchester, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

#my fanfic #hurt!Dean #hurt/comfort #protective!sam #bc that's my jam #i was rewatching the episode and just couldn't NOT write a hurt!Dean abt it #whoops #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #fanfic

38 notes · View notes

bountyofbeads · 4 years

Text

What Happens When Ordinary People End Up in Trump’s Tweets https://nyti.ms/32bCiou

🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈

What Happens When Ordinary People End Up in Trump’s Tweets

By MATT FLEGENHEIMER | Published Nov. 2, 2019 | New York Times | Posted November 3, 2019 |

McCALLA, Ala. — The evening of April 29 passed like many others for Ben Rawls, a fire lieutenant in Tuscaloosa: settled in the rocking chair on his porch, amid empty beer cans and mosquito-fighting candles, tweeting to an audience of dozens until he got sleepy.

“Granted I am in Alabama,” Mr. Rawls, 45, wrote around 11 p.m., after a major firefighters’ union endorsed Joseph R. Biden Jr. for president, “but most of the firefighters I talk to are voting @realDonaldTrump.”

The morning of May 1, some 36 hours later, was less typical.

Mr. Rawls showered and took his daughters to school. He ignored his phone, until it yapped so insistently that he had to look. An ashbin of Twitter comments greeted him: Racist. Moron. “‘Toothless’ — that was a good one,” he recalled.

The most curious posts disputed Mr. Rawls’s very existence. Strangers accused him of being a bot. He replied to one with a video he recorded in his pickup. “Here I am,” he said to the camera. “No faking here.”

All told, it took about 12 hours for him to solve the mystery. Back in his rocking chair, he stared at a fellow Twitter user’s note of congratulations: Mr. Rawls had been retweeted by the president of the United States.

Along with the Republican allies, Fox News hosts and conspiracy-mongering trolls whose messages President Trump pinballs across the political arena, he has also elevated regular people whose words he finds pleasing. Perhaps no group understands the praise-seeking cyclone that is @realDonaldTrump better than these arbitrary few who have lived inside it, briefly and usually unwittingly.

Their brushes with cybercelebrity are a portal into the Twitter feedback loop powered and experienced by Mr. Trump — dark, caustic, skimpy on nuance — where the ripples of a single presidential tweet can be hard to fathom unless measured against the relative anonymity to which these users were accustomed. Mr. Rawls got 2,700 retweets and 14,000 “likes” with the boost from Mr. Trump. The reach of his tweets before and since, he estimated, was approximately zero.

For many of the retweeted, the temporary platform stands as a testament to a style of politics they have never seen before — one that has bonded the president to his followers, virtual or otherwise.

“No other president has ever done stuff like this,” said Curtis Vincent, a 35-year old in Bowling Green, Ky., who operates one of the more than 215 unverified accounts Mr. Trump has retweeted since taking office. “They’ve been on a higher pedestal.”

Mr. Rawls, Mr. Vincent and several others were retweeted by Mr. Trump on May 1 after responding to a post by a Fox News personality, Dan Bongino, about the fire union’s endorsing Mr. Biden.

Joining them in temporary Twitter fame was Joelle Palombo, 46, a Southern California resident with 11 followers, who had largely used her account to cheer on her daughter’s soccer team. But after Mr. Bongino tweeted that “NONE of the firemen” he knew were with Mr. Biden, she replied with a note of support for Mr. Trump from one “fire family” out West.

The flood of reactions so spooked Ms. Palombo that she enlisted her teenage son to help block anyone she saw in her feed. The purge took three days, she said, and included the president, who she did not realize had retweeted her until a reporter told her months later.

“I went and looked at his account, and I blocked him,” Ms. Palombo said of Mr. Trump. “That’s how scared I was. I’m just one tiny hair on a dog. Are you kidding me?”

Although her affection for the president persists, Ms. Palombo questions the value of his favored medium. “How many hours of the day do people put in to do this?” she said. “I don’t need to have a voice on this. I’ll vote.”

Others have found more purpose in the practice. Mr. Rawls described himself as a reluctant Trump voter in 2016. He preferred Ted Cruz during the Republican primary, and he winces at some of the president’s choices, including insulting John McCain well after the senator’s death.

But as the 2020 election approaches, Mr. Rawls suggests, the president’s Twitter output is a more effective galvanizer than even the slickest campaign ad. “The tweeting doesn’t bother me so much anymore,” he said. “I don’t really feel like I wasted a vote.”

And the validation of the president’s retweet has encouraged his own more quarrelsome instincts. “Before all this happened, I would type something out and say, ‘People will think I’m crazy,’” he recalled, citing prospective tweets that he scrapped.

Since May, these second thoughts have been rarer. He has called Anthony Scaramucci, the former White House communications director, a “bitter jerk.” He has shared a doctored video of Speaker Nancy Pelosi appearing to slur her words. He has weaponized a gif of Judge Judy (“Either you are playing dumb, or it’s not an act”) to mock Representative Eric Swalwell, a California Democrat promoting gun control.

“I’m a little bit less of a wallflower than I used to be,” Mr. Rawls said, crediting Mr. Trump’s retweet. “I guess you could say I was more emboldened.”

CATCHING HIS EYE

Capital letters help. Sentence structure can be disregarded. Mornings, East Coast time, are best.

Grabbing Mr. Trump’s attention on Twitter is more art than science — and, often, more fluke than art. But some who have been retweeted say there are certain flourishes that can improve the odds.

The surest path is echoing Mr. Trump’s voice. The user @fiiibuster, whose profile boasts that he has been retweeted twice by the president, has built a following of more than 38,000 accounts — and won the digital stamp of approval from a man with 66 million — through a steady offering of posts that resemble Mr. Trump’s own. Among the words in @fiiibuster’s retweeted messages: “security,” “prosperity,” “America first,” “Pathetic,” “bad reporter,” “shame!”

In other cases, Mr. Trump has gravitated toward those who share his taste in reading. A few weeks ago, he retweeted Cathy Buffaloe, 70, a retired librarian in Walton County, Ga., after she quoted a Wall Street Journal column criticizing Representative Adam Schiff, the Democratic chairman of the House Intelligence Committee.

When she told her husband what had happened, he asked if she had simply dreamed it. She took screenshots to show to friends and gained about 200 followers. “It isn’t often that ‘regular’ people have an opportunity to be heard concerning national issues,” Ms. Buffaloe said in an email.

J. T. Lewis, a 19-year-old Republican candidate for the Connecticut State Senate whose brother Jesse was killed in the Sandy Hook massacre in 2012, was retweeted last year after writing a flattering message to Mr. Trump. When he traveled to Washington months later to meet with the president as part of a school safety event, Mr. Lewis brought a printout of the tweet.

“He smirked and signed it,” he said. “It’s in my room somewhere.”

Mr. Lewis said he hoped the president’s imprimatur would show that Mr. Trump was not in league with the conspiracy theorist Alex Jones, who has spread bogus claims about the Sandy Hook shooting, including asserting that the victims’ families were actors and part of a plot to confiscate guns. (In 2015, Mr. Trump appeared on Mr. Jones’s “Infowars” program and praised him.)

But Mr. Lewis is skeptical that getting through to Mr. Trump owes to any elaborate strategy. “I don’t think things are planned out the way we think they are from the outside,” he said. “I think that was literally just: Guy in pajamas, ‘Oh, this is a nice tweet.’”

THE WRONG IVANKA

“The fingers aren’t as good as the brain,” the president once explained, discussing the typos he makes on Twitter.

And those fingers have at times conferred a spotlight on unsuspecting tweeters with low opinions of him.

In a tweet one night in January 2017, just before his inauguration, Mr. Trump shared a message calling his daughter Ivanka “a woman with real character and class” and tagging @ivanka.

That Twitter handle belongs to Ivanka Majic, 45, a technology researcher in Brighton, England, who shares a first name and little else with the president’s daughter. Ms. Majic woke up to media inquiries and a dilemma.

“There’s a decision to be made,” she said in an interview. “If you’re going to say something, what are you going to say?”

Ms. Majic recognized she would probably never be handed a megaphone like this again. “He was a bit unlucky, really, that it was my Twitter account,” she said.

She settled on this: “You’re a man with great responsibilities. May I suggest more care on Twitter and more time learning about #climatechange.”

Instantly, Ms. Majic became something of a local luminary as her progressive city strained to process Mr. Trump’s victory. Days later, at the London chapter of the global Women’s March, one attendee’s sign read, “@Ivanka, loving your work!”

In the years since, Ms. Majic has celebrated an annual “Trumpiversary” to mark the occasion. But one news clipping from the time still grates.

“There was one article that said, ‘Ivanka only has 2,700 followers,’” she remembered. “I was like, ‘That’s quite good for a normal person!’”

_______

Karen Yourish and Larry Buchanan contributed reporting. Kitty Bennett contributed research. Produced by Gray Beltran and Rumsey Taylor.

🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈🍂🍻🍁🏈

1 note · View note

seventyfiveapples · 6 years

Text

In Transit - Chapter 5

Bright fanfiction / Nick Jakoby x OFC

Previous Chapters: ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR

Or: The whole enchilada on AO3

Summary: When Officers Jakoby and Ward are hand-picked by the Magic Task Force to transport a dangerous convicted murderer, they must stay a few steps ahead as various enemies, forces of magic, and mistakes from the past complicate their path.

Nick slowed down and pulled over the car. There were five people waiting at the roadblock: the Sheriff, two police officers, and two of the men who’d recognized Leigh back at the motel. They must have used a shortcut of some kind to pass Nick, Daryl, and Leigh. The men from the motel did not appear to be police officers, but there was no telling what they had already told the sheriff.

In the passenger seat, Ward sighed heavily.

”What’s your plan here, Jakoby?”

”Ward, they’re still police officers. I think we just explain ourselves and continue on our way.”

”Guys-“ Leigh piped up from the back seat.

”Not all of them. You think Mr. Blue Pickup Truck is interested in the law, Nick? He was ready to fire at us back at that motel.”

”Guys-"

“I think the Sheriff would be reasonable,” Nick responded. They didn’t seem to hear Leigh.

“And if he isn’t?” asked Ward.

“If he isn’t, I have an idea.” Nick leaned over to whisper to Ward, out of Leigh’s earshot. She saw him open the glove compartment and hand the MTF cellphone to Daryl.

Leigh gave up on trying to get their attention and started working on her bracelet, working on the crack until she could pry it open and get them all out of this mess.

At that moment the sound of a megaphone rang out.

”This is the Sheriff of Lincoln County. I’m ordering you to exit the vehicle, slowly, drop your weapons and place your hands on your heads.” The two officers looked at each other before opening their doors, Daryl giving Nick a slight nod. Before he left the car, Nick turned around to Leigh.

“We’re going to stall as long as we can. Just stay low, out of sight.”

[TWO YEARS EARLIER]

Nick and Leigh exchanged a few sloppy, wine-fueled kisses on his front porch. It was Leigh’s birthday and they’d just enjoyed a leisurely dinner date at their favorite restaurant. She was looking forward to some additional “celebrations” once they were inside. Reluctantly, Nick separated his lips from hers.

“Leigh, sweetheart, let’s wait until we get inside.”

She draped herself on him as he managed to get his keys in the lock. She started nibbling his ear, causing him to drop the keys twice before he was able to successfully open the door.

”Mmm, now you can give me my other present... You know,” She said, talking a little more loudly than usual due to the wine as she stumbled inside. “In the bedroom?”

“Leigh-.”

“I mean you. I mean unwrapping you. And then-”

”Shhh…” he said, stifling some laughter.

”Why shhh? I know you like it when I’m loud.” She pulled up his shirt, running her hands over his skin - she loved the way his muscular chest felt - and started trying to pull his shirt over his head. He giggled and tried to gently hold her hands still.

”Listen, honey,” he whispered, “Trust me- wait a second.”

”What are you-“ Nick cut her off by flipping on the living room light to reveal about fifteen of her friends jumping out from behind furniture.

”SURPRISE!” They all yelled in unison. A few giggled.

Leigh’s eyes went wide and her hands flew back to her own pockets as she tried to remember exactly how much her friends had just heard. Behind her, Nick smiled shyly. Her friend Jeanette crossed the space to hug her first.

“Leigh, happy birthday! I was so afraid you already knew about the party, but I think now we can safely say that was not the case!” The party burst into laughter at that and any awkwardness in the room evaporated. Nick hung back a bit as Leigh greeted her guests one at a time. He said hello to the ones he already knew and was pleasantly surprised, as he always was with Leigh’s classmates, to sense their ease around him.. There were vanishingly few places where an orc and a human could express affection, but a room full of Brights was one of them. Magic users, in Nick’s experience, tended to hold more nuanced views of the different races than most humans - certainly, more than the humans in his Police Academy class. Leigh’s classmates always spoke to him with the same respect they’d give anyone: elf, orc, or human.

A few hours into the party, Nick went out to the backyard to get a little air. In a corner of the yard he saw... Chad. Nick still didn’t trust him, but he thought this might be a good time for a fresh start. He hated fighting with Leigh, and they’d had so many tense conversations about Chad. Maybe Nick could be the bigger person here. If Leigh got along with him, there must be something good about him. Maybe. In any case, Nick was ready to forget the past and start over. He started to walk towards him when he overheard snippets of a phone conversation and froze in place.

“Yeah. They’re still together, for now. It’s been almost three months, but I’m working on it... I’m actually at his house right now if you can believe it…. I don’t know, she doesn’t even notice my flirting, but he sure does… Of course they don’t suspect anything, she’s so naive, and he’s stupid even for an orc… Yes…Maybe… Look, I mean, she might get hurt that way but it could work…. Yes, I know we need her alive but, actually, an injury might actually be helpful.” Nick heard him laugh as he said this. What the fuck was this asshole planning? “I’m working on it, okay? I’m sure. Yes… okay, fine, I’ll see you later, Sarah.”

Well, there went that. Nick considered what he’d heard as he quietly made his way back to the house. Chad wanted Nick and Leigh to break up - no surprise there - but now he was planning something that might injure her? He saw Leigh through the window, laughing, and hung his head. How could he get her away from him when she saw him every day at her school? Would she believe what he’d just heard?

He thought of Chad laughing as he talked about injuring Leigh. Nick had to keep trying. Even if Leigh was angry. Even if she thought he was just jealous. Even if they got in a huge fight over it.

He wouldn’t - he couldn’t - let her be hurt, even if it meant things would be uneasy between the two of them.

----

[PRESENT DAY]

The bracelet that the MTF used to stifle Leigh’s magical powers was actually designed - by a Bright - to make life easier for other Brights. The inventor’s hope was that Brights could use these bracelets to stay safe and undetected while leading lives as normal as possible. She would be horrified to learn that the MTF now used them as a form of prisoner restraint.

The inventor, a mechanical engineer, had built it with two primary functions. First, its exterior projected a field that neutralized the physical and astrophysical traces left behind by magic use. This would block anyone from detecting the wearer’s magical activity. Second, its interior was built to shrink and conceal a wand. The external structure of the device was a sturdy military-grade polymer, reinforced by magic. The interior had a hollow cavity that used a permanent spell to reduce a wand to one eighth of its usual size. A single button popped the clasp, allowing the bracelet to open and the wand inside to emerge at its full size.

The design and magical elements were so intertwined that the device could not be replicated by anyone but the inventor. Because the MTF kept tabs on all known Brights in the country, they had become aware of this device from its development and they hired her to create a dozen of these for the agency’s official use… with some slight modifications. She wondered why they’d created them without the button that allowed a Bright wearer to remove and replace the wand at will, but she was paid well enough that this didn’t bother her for long. However, the addition of a tracking device was not part of her original schematics and went against every reason she’d created it.

She flatly refused to add one.

The MTF added them anyway, tacking them onto each completed bracelet with tiny screws that were able to puncture magical fields. The holes drilled for the screws had weakened the device enough that when Leigh fell, the tiniest crack had started to form. It was this crack that had rendered the concealment function unstable. It was periodically shooting out surges of energy and beams of blue light. These traces of magic had left a trail that both Agent Kandomere and Chad had now picked up.

To the agent, these surges were worrying. Although the tracking device had begun to malfunction, the spikes in magical energy could be picked up by anyone who was looking. There must have been damage of some kind to the bracelet. Hopefully she hadn’t been injured, but he knew something had happened. He frowned at the irregular beeping on his MTF map software. The transport SUV wasn’t far off and they seemed to be stopped in the middle of nowhere. More confusing. He heard a ringtone and looked down to see an incoming call from the phone in the transport vehicle. He answered it and heard voices: people shouting. The officers had placed the phone on speaker and appeared to be in the middle of a confrontation. He asked his driver Argyle to pick up the pace.

To Chad on the other hand, this was the first useful information he’d received in two days. He could identify the signature traces of Leigh’s magic anywhere. He tried to act calm as he saw a spark light up his paper map, and turned the car around slowly so that Sarah wouldn’t ask too many questions about the abrupt turn. He hadn’t been as fortunate in tracking her and was still more than 100 miles away. Sarah gave him a sidelong glance and only snickered as he re-routed, making his way back to intercept Leigh.

---

“Where’s your prisoner?” The sheriff asked, looking at Ward.

“Sir,” Ward started. “We’re LAPD officers on official assignment for the Magic Task Force, and we really need to be on our way. The man behind you is interfering with police business and I highly recommend you not pay any attention to anything he might be saying.”

“That’s not what my friend Danny here tells me. He’s saying that y’all have abducted Leigh Caldwell and are impersonating police officers. Can I see some credentials? Slowly.”

The officers slowly reached for their wallets and showed the sheriff their badges. This seemed to relax him… somewhat.

“As my partner said-” Nick began.

“Did I ask you?” The sheriff shot back. Nick seethed but remained quiet.

“Sir, this orc is an officer of the LAPD and you will speak to him with respect.”

Even with everything going on, Nick puffed up a little at his partner standing up for him. He didn’t have time to appreciate it. Mr. Blue Truck - Danny, apparently - fired a bullet into the dirt near the officers’ feet. Nick didn’t react to the gunshot but Ward jumped. “Quick dicking around. Hand over the prisoner.” Snarled Danny.

The sheriff whipped around to yell at him. “Back the fuck off, Danny. We’ve got this. I don’t need your help.” Maybe these two weren’t so close. He turned back to Nick and Daryl. “But we will need to take custody of your prisoner until we’re able to confirm your story with the feds.”

“We’re not going to do that,” growled Nick.

“Hand her over or we’re taking you all into custody,” said the sheriff.

“Do it and you’re making the biggest mistake of your life,” Daryl warned, “and judging by that haircut your mistakes are a pretty long list.”

“You want to get smart, son? Fine, hand her over or I can’t be responsible for your safety if you try to leave with her.” He nodded his head towards Danny, who raised a rifle to aim at Nick.

Back in the car, Leigh was laying as low as possible, hiding out of view as Nick had asked. She couldn’t really hear what the officers were saying, but the sound of a bullet was unmistakable. She wanted to help but couldn’t think of what to do that wouldn’t just make things worse. A few moments’ silence followed, then another gunshot. A scream. The rumble of another car’s engine arriving and shutting off. Silence for several seconds. She strained her ears for any sign of a voice. If Nick had gotten hurt trying to protect her…

After a few moments, she heard BANG BANG BANG - a frantic knock on the car door. She tried to press herself further into the seat. Leigh winced as someone slid the SUV’s rear door open, then relaxed as she saw that it was Nick. Thank Jirak.

“Leigh, Daryl’s been shot - but he’s okay - and the elf agent from the MTF is here.” He helped her out of the car. She saw Kandomere speaking with the sheriff. The men in the pickup truck were being cuffed and led into the police vehicles.

The sheriff had believed the men in the truck easily enough to threaten Nick and Daryl, but now seemed to be cooperating fully with Agent Kandomere, who appeared to be in charge now. Leigh didn’t really know what had happened but she was relieved that no one was pointing any guns at anyone, for the moment.

On the ground lay Daryl, panting and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. Nick kneeled down next to him and Leigh followed suit. Agent Kandomere approached the three of them.

“Hey,” said Ward to the small group that had gathered. Even one syllable appeared to be a struggle.

“Officer Ward. Try not to talk too much. My driver is going to take you to a hospital, and I’m going to take your place with Officer Jakoby and the prisoner. Excuse me,” he said, walking away to take a call.

“That guy… just a real… teddy bear.”

“How do you feel?” asked Leigh.

“Like shit, actually... Thanks for asking.”

“Hey partner- you know there are easier ways to get out of having to hear my Orcish music, right?” Daryl smirked. “Take care of yourself. Text to let me know when you get home. Soon as I get back to L.A. I’m going to bring you some vitamins, and I’ll tell Sherri and Sophia to make sure you take them.”

“Nick, man… just be careful... And you?” he looked at Leigh. “Try not to… get him killed, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Leigh said in a soft tone. She felt so guilty she could hardly speak.

Nick helped Leigh to her feet - she was still in handcuffs - and they walked back towards the vehicle.

“So what happened?”

“We called the MTF agent.. I had this phone clipped to my belt, and we put it on speakerphone so the agent could hear what was going on. Daryl and I were going to just stall as long as we could. Luckily, the agent was already following us, and he was just a few miles away. Anyway, that guy from the hotel this morning? He saw the phone, maybe heard it, and fired at me. Daryl pushed me down.” He shook his head. “He took a bullet for me. I can’t believe he did that.”

“Yeah, that’s… Damn, Nick.” She was grateful to Daryl but this was surreal. “I’m glad he’s going to be okay. But all of this - for me? Why do they care?”

“One of the people that, um, that were in that bus - was his niece. He just wanted…” Nick trailed off and shook his head. Leigh could finish that sentence in her head: Revenge. He just wanted revenge.

“You should have just handed me over. All of you are at risk as long as you’re with me. I’ve got a death sentence anyway.”

“I made you a promise, Leigh. I’m not handing you over to be executed.”

“Nick, for Jirak’s sake- You can’t just not do your job. I know you. But even if you wanted to, it’s a little trickier now that we’ve got that weirdo MTF agent travelling with us.”

“I’m going to figure something out. This - sending innocent people to be, well - this isn’t why I became a cop.”

Leigh didn’t want to argue anymore. She leaned back against the car. Nick looked at her tenderly again. “Hey, Leigh, I meant to tell you earlier: happy birthday.”

She laughed drily. “Shit, I nearly forgot. Don’t tell me this is all leading up to another surprise party.”

Whether from exhaustion or adrenaline or just surprise, Nick let out a hearty laugh.

The elf called over to them and, carefully, they helped Daryl into the car driven by Argyle. Nick, Leigh, and Kandomere headed for the MTF vehicle. They hoped for an uneventful night at the safe house.

NEXT CHAPTER

#bright movie #bright fanfiction #bright orcs #nick jakoby #nick jakoby fanfiction #nick jakoby x oc #daryl ward #kandomere #non graphic violence

21 notes · View notes

brendonurinal · 7 years

Text

Greek Life

Hi guys I’m just starting a Travel blog RIGHT NOW bc I’m studying abroad in Berlin this semester and this past weekend has an INTERESTING weekend in Greece to say the very least and wanted to document this for posterity. Its long but I promise u theres a lot, from concerts to city-wide evacuations.

An important part of context here is that the Patriots just won the Superbowl and some friends from school back in New York were throwing a party and decided to /sarcastically/ name it a Pats Victory celebration and of course, invite all of us abroad kids. Of course I RSVP’d to this party halfway across the world, I’m no stick in the mud. But alas, realistically my roommates and I knew we couldn’t fly back to the states just for one night, as such an endeavor would not even come close to being in our maximum joke budget of $200.

Obviously the next closest thing to celebrating a Patriots win in NYC is going to see the Dropkick Murphy’s live in concert, if not only to hear “Shipping Up To Boston” (which you may not be able to identify by title alone but will certainly be able to identify by the distinguished bagpipe and accordion undertones). And it was just our luck that they happened to be touring in Europe at present, and would be performing in Thessaloniki Greece the following night, and tickets to Thessaloniki were only 50 euro round trip, and we found an Airbnb for $16. It was God’s will for us to see this band, so we booked our tickets for a flight that left in 8 hours.

Maybe this is just a RyanAir thing, or maybe its a European thing, but the most notable aspect of the flight itself were the increasingly bizarre onboard sales. It started normal enough, with croissants and coffee. Then it moved to paninis, somewhat odd for 6 in the morning but hey, to each their own. Then they moved on to perfumes, boasting the lowest prices for designer names on all of european flights, which is a lot of qualifiers that raise suspicion that they may simply be the ONLY European airline that sells discounted designer perfumes. Finally, they started pushing lottery scratch cards on us, which felt shady but maybe Europe or the skies have different gambling laws, I’m no airplane lawyer. But they were REALLY pushing the scratch cards. They even offered a “one time deal” of giving two for the price of one (which was interestingly the exact same deal they offered on the return flight).

After we landed our first real hurdle was trying to get into the city as two American assholes who spoke literally no Greek whatsoever. If you’re thinking of that “It’s all greek to me” joke right now we not only beat you to the punchline but we beat that dead horse innumerable times over the rest of the weekend. Luckily there was a line of cabs outside the airport and I happened to have a screenshot of the location of the house on my phone. I handed it to the driver, he looks at it, shakes his head, takes it from me, looks at it closer, says something in Greek, gets out of the car with it, and walks to the next taxi in line. Soon the ordeal becomes every taxi driver’s business as about five Greek men stand behind this cab arguing over my phone. We just kind of watched them, doe-eyed from the back of the cab, not sure what to do. At the same time, a man behind them carrying a crate of oranges trips and spills the whole crate of oranges out into the street. This has no relevance on anything that happened, it was just some of the funniest imagery we’ve ever seen in real life. Eventually the cabbies sorted it out I guess because we were on our way.

The first thing we noticed about Thessaloniki is that there are stray cats just everywhere. They mind their own business when it comes to humans, but at night you fall asleep to the not-so-distant sound of cats screeching and hissing as they fight with one another in the streets below. The second thing we noticed was that the whole city is a designated smoking area. Maybe I’ve lived a privileged life in the states where indoor smoking has been outlawed for most of my life but I swear I ingested more smoke over those two days in Thessaloniki than I have in my entire life. The third and last thing we noticed was that at literally every restaurant, you got more food than you asked for. And I’m not talking about big portions, I’m talking about a full extra course (usually a dessert or appetizer, but still). The best was the waiter in a relatively empty cafe who spoke very little English and who set down two little pastry/pie/ things for us and explained “Ehh... my grandmother...” It was just disgustingly adorable stuff right there.

Less adorable were the very intimidating punk Greek kids at the concert that night. Theres something about understanding exactly none of what everyone else is saying that makes you feel incredibly vulnerable. Take that situation but add more leather jackets and mohawks and you’ve got yourself a Friday night concert in Greece. We did meet one guy there named Costas (I apologize for spelling errors but I think I’ve already demonstrated my astounding ignorance to Greek culture). He asked where we were from and we told him Boston and New York (Is it condescending that I assume Europeans might not know where Morris County, New Jersey is? Most New Jersey people don’t even know where it is). He responds with a “What the fuck... why are you guys here?” I chose to take Costas’s inquiry literally, and not even bother to venture down the rather existential and metaphorical question of why am I really here? Why are any of us here?

To be fair, I didn’t have a definitive answer to either the metaphorical or literal interpretations.

The concert itself was disappointingly good. When you go to see a band sarcastically you’re ready to stick it out to get a recording of the one song you came there to see, which in our case was “Shipping Up To Boston”. But Dropkick Murphys are surprisingly good live, and have a surprisingly large following in Thessaloniki Greece. We thought everyone there was just college kids that wanted to go to a random concert, but they all knew all the words. Even the people that didn’t speak English.I’m not even sure The Dropkick Murphys could draw a crowd that large in America, even in Boston.

Some instruments used in their live performances include (but are not limited to): bagpipes, a banjo, an accordion, a flute (played by the same man as the banjo). At one point the audience rushed the stage and all of the girls were all over the banjo/flute guy.

But the most distinct memory I have of this concert is the lead singer yelling “The state of Massachusetts!” before one of the songs and the crowd going absolutely nuts. A whole crowd of 20-something year old Greek kids were losing their minds over the concept of the entire state of Massachusetts as a whole.

On our walk back to the Airbnb after the concert we met a stray dog under a streetlamp who began to walk at our side for several blocks. It felt like we just got a video game sidekick, or that he was giving us directions or something. He was very old and calm and we decided to name him Murphy. After about five blocks Murphy decided we must know where we’re going and just turned around and walked back off into the night. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, I’ll never forget you, Murphy.

We fell asleep to the sound of a cat fight.

We woke to the sound of someone yelling through a megaphone in Greek from probably a few blocks away. I have no idea what this man was yelling about but it sounded like some kind of propaganda or protest. We never actually saw this man though we heard him twice. He only every existed as an angry disembodied voice with some kind of goal.

We got brunch and looked at a bunch of really old buildings. I don’t know what they were because all of the plaques and descriptions were in Greek, but I’m sure they were very important buildings.

The rest of our trip was pretty normal. We had dinner and walked back to the house. We went to bed because we had to get up early to catch a bus to the airport (we got insider info that there was actually a 2 euro bus to the airport from the owner of the Airbnb).

As I write this I have been back in Berlin for almost 12 hours now and I just saw a BBC article written 10 hours ago with the headline “Greek WW2 bomb deactivated after mass Thessaloniki evacuation”. At this point in bizarre experiences for the trip it seems to be just about par for the course, the cherry on top even. We missed a large scale city evacuation by the thinnest of margins and I honestly don’t know what we would have done if we had been in the city during it. I have class tomorrow. I know travel doesn’t count as an excused absence but what about WWII bomb evacuation absences?

I’m splitting hairs here. The point is, I hope my two wonderful Airbnb renters Otar and Maria, Murphy the stray dog, and our boy Costas are all ok and safe. And I hope that you, dear reader, will some day get to party with the Greeks or at least with the Dropkick Murphys. #KeepThessalonikiWeird.

#greece #thessaloniki #travel #personal #mine

0 notes