#crowd sourcing brain function because mine is not working

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all, I am blanking on a word so hard I am even blanking on the words to describe that word What's the term for like...groups of colors? color palettes but more specific? I'm looking for the generic term, but the specific words that are versions of that generic I can think of are things like earth tones, jewel tones, pastels, and maybe brights/neons I'm trying to figure out other categories like those but I cannot figure out what the word is to search

#crowd sourcing brain function because mine is not working #what is that called????? there has to be a like overarching category name for those #normally when I forget a word I can work around it in a way that makes it easier to come up with the word #when I was little I read a book that mentioned every piece of data in your mind has a pathway to get to it #and if you only have one connection to that data point when the path breaks you lose it #but if you have multiple paths to get there you can lose one path and still be able to find the data #(like I could remember shark facts by thinking about carnivores or weird teeth or shark jaws or non-human sensory perceptions) #idk if that is true??? but it was like. formative to me as a small child #so I deliberately made multiple associations to anything I learned from that point on #to the point where it kind of became second nature #which is good for me now that my brain is uhhhh not operating full speed #because I can work around a mental block (usually) and come up with the word #but I cannot remember this one!!! and it's frustrating! I'm just spinning through loose associations trying to find one that connects #my brain is a mush of half remembered art terms at the moment and I am getting no closer to figuring it out lol

[docfuture]

Princess, part 7

     [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Updates are theoretically biweekly–next update is scheduled for February 16th.]

Previous: Part 6

     Full intragroup and intergroup relative advantage simulation run started.  Estimated time for results: 6 hours at current background priority.       Flicker finished her third high speed assessment of Practical Power Dynamics and supporting information on people and organizations that had used it.  It had sparked insights--it was full of interesting social science--but it was also full of traps.  Many of them seemed to be associated with naive scaling--the book's advice seemed unusually hostile to the incentive structures of large organizations, such as major corporations, government agencies, and international organized crime.  She didn't yet have the context to follow the social changes the book had inspired, other than the notable de-fetishization of gratuitous killing.  A long model run would help, but it would also take a while.       Flicker's focus was more on the personal.  Some of the advice on managing anger was intriguing, but it was unclear how applicable it would be for someone whose emotional processing was not entirely human.  What she had found most useful was the window into the thinking of a smart, astute human who had done serious work on the problem of long-term functioning with a large personal reservoir of anger.       She slowed down, moving herself back into squishy brain again, with active senses other than sight and touch.  Human senses, hearing and smell, for the sound from the high speed workstation fans and the cooling pumps for the server room, and the faint smell of the oil she'd used on a stuck robot earlier in the day.  She flexed her hands, which tingled as the normal flow of blood returned after a long bout of speed typing.       Her emotions shifted back to as normal as they ever got as well.       Journeyman was still watching.  It had been about a minute for him--and almost a day subjective for her, some of it spent thinking on her own while she waited on resource intensive bits of Database analysis.  She stood up from the high speed workstation and moved to the other end of the couch.       "The book's perspective on anger is useful," she said, "and there are some techniques that may end up helping with management--but that will probably take a while.  DASI is analyzing it and running simulations.  There is lots of subtext, and quirks because it wasn't really intended for someone with my level of power.  And we still have to sort through some of the traps, so I'll take my time, and it's securely recorded and backed up."       She handed the book back to him.  "Thank you for the loan."       "No problem."       Flicker exhaled slowly, releasing a bit of the tension she had built up.  "My level of background anger seems to be pretty high compared to most humans.  But not compared to the author of the book, apparently.  The way she talks about normal humans getting angry and calming down sounds like an anthropologist documenting weird alien behavior.  It's kind of funny because I find some of the same things weird.  So I can see why someone with normal human anger might find mine scary.  Like you do."       Flicker waved a hand.  "It's hard to explain because a lot of it isn't conscious.  It's just what I do, I don't know any other way.  But I can tell you something I know I do differently.  A lot of the things I see at high speed make me angry.  How could they not, if I care at all?  And my speed mind is wider than my squishy brain--it has way more short-term memory.  That's why I need to forget so much when I sleep--to keep the human part of me sane.  But some of the anger from the memories stays.  Only a little for each one, but it adds up.  More than anything I can do to calm down does.       "I have ways to dump that kind of anger, but only down to a certain point.  So I tend to be at or above my background anger level most of the time, unless I'm completely concentrating on something.  And new things can interact with the background and make it seem like I'm reacting disproportionately when I'm really not.  Does this help you understand better?"       Journeyman glanced down at the book, still in his hands, then put it back into his vest pocket.  "A bit.  I hope you're ready for some things that will make you angry, because I can't put them off any longer."       Flicker studied him.  "Speaking of traps and subtext, there was a bit in the book about not setting traps for yourself with unresolved conflicts.  We have one.  Have you been avoiding it to sustain your load-bearing social fiction?  Or because you were worried I'd be angry?"       "Both.  The spying you did the next time I was gone after scrambled memory day had some serious consequences."       "It was research on your background I needed to do because you didn't leave me any other options, and you never elaborated."       "You'd already stopped by the time I found out about it, and I didn't want to have that fight while you were my backup for the dicey mess I got myself into."  Journeyman spread his hands.  "You uncovered information about a fair number of my contacts.  One of them was a Diviner.  Doesn't matter how careful you are if you hit a canary secret from a prepared Diviner.  If the number of people who know it is small, and goes up, they can tell.  After I got back, I found a message from her telling me it had been fun, but she didn't want to die finding out the hard way that my new girlfriend was the jealous type.  She'd already disappeared.  I can't blame her--she knew you were my partner and correctly guessed you were the one digging.  Diviners that aren't paranoid about being hunted don't generally live to get old."       "But I wasn't--never mind."  She planned ahead based on plausible assumptions.       "Yeah.  My contacts don't know everything, and neither do you.  And that's the way it has to stay."       Flicker frowned.  "Okay, but I still don't understand the rules for how your magical communities function.  The information quality about them in the Database was really low:  A lot of implausible junk, some weird and disturbing stuff--most of it probably untrue--and occasional records of conflicts that left a body or bodies.  I wanted to find a good enough set of connections and opinions of you so I could see where you fit.  I was not trying to endanger anyone. That was why I put so much effort into preserving anonymity for everyone but you when I was digging.  And stopped when I realized it would fail.  I learned a lot of things I didn't expect.  Including how justified so many of the people you know are in fearing databases.  But only the Database knows who they are, I don't."       "They don't know that.  Limiting access to personally identifiable information can be a matter of life or death for them."  Journeyman smiled humorlessly.  "The torches and pitchforks crowds and burn-the-witch-itis have always interacted with privacy loss in ugly ways.  One consequence is that internal safety is an issue, and yes, that's something I have to balance.  I try not to make things worse.  But I did, when I became your partner.  I needed backup for too long, and you stopped waiting and started spying."       "I wanted to know about you, and if you'd been willing to sit down and talk to me--"  Not productive.  Redirect.  "I use the Database as a social prosthetic to keep from screwing up even worse than I do already.  You were being evasive.  I didn't know enough to tell if you were trying to get me to take a hint, so I used it to try to find out if I was taking the right hint.  There were Database privacy blocks keeping me from finding out what I wanted, and that stupid superhero social taboo against asking directly.  How else was I supposed to find out?  Telepathy?  Osmosis?  It was OSINT, active hacking and monitoring, or ghosting around to spy in person, and I picked the least intrusive option."       Journeyman nodded.  "That's what the Database told me, when I learned about the urgent trust hazard you'd created.  I understand.  But even open source intelligence is qualitatively different with your level of Database access.  Perceptions count for what I do, and it doesn't matter what you or I think, if my contacts start avoiding me because they're worried about a frighteningly powerful 16-year-old with high level Database access who is perceived as immature."       "How did this become common knowledge?  Did the Diviner tell people?"       "I did.  I knew there would be others, so I asked the Database for a list, got in touch with those I still could, and apologized."       Calm.  "Without telling me."       "I told you I'd handle the fallout--that it was a social problem, not a speed or power problem.  Remember?"       "Yes, but this was something I needed to know to correctly evaluate consequences.  And isn't it still a problem, just from us being partners?"       "At the moment, yes.  It's going to take time for me to rebuild trust."       Flicker shook her head.  Staying angry at him for concealing an apology would be both unhelpful and unfair.       "I see," she said.  "Any other unpleasant surprises you want to get out of the way?"       Journeyman clasped his hands and looked down at them.  "Several.  I've had time to think a little more about Doc not telling you things.  And you make assumptions based on what you think he must know.  But there is something I've picked up as a magician that you probably haven't.  Diviners tend to be paranoid and secretive, for good reasons.  A lot of Seers have serious trouble staying mentally healthy.  And true Oracles have to take extreme measures to stay sane and alive, and be really careful how they talk."       "What definitions are you using?  The Database says 'Seer' is used so broadly and vaguely it's almost meaningless."       "Ah, sorry.  Magicians can be sloppy with terminology, but what can you do?  A Diviner is a magician who specializes in information magic.  Seer is a catch-all label for anyone who sees or perceives things not accessible to normal senses that are at least sometimes accurate--they don't have to be trained and Seeing often isn't voluntary.  Breakpoint is an example of a Seer who isn't a magician.  An Oracle is a Seer who can see the future, know it's the future, and possibly affect it.  They are frickin' dangerous.  And rare.  And Doc comes across to me as an Oracle doing a very good job of hiding it."       "He isn't an Oracle, he's just good at long term extrapolation.  He does do some pretty weird analysis and debiasing tricks with Database projections, though."       "I think there's more to it, but it might not matter.  There are quirks he has, ways he talks about certain things, that make me wonder if he has a future-vision-o-mat down in the vaults.  And a way to stay functional as an Oracle is extreme compartmentalization--literally putting some things completely out of your mind.  That's risky if you get attacked, and I think Doc has been.  But he does have the Database, and the support for the kind of compartmentalization he would need was already there when I needed some of it, for the data I just put in escrow."       Journeyman looked back at her.  "So don't assume he has to know something because he knows other things.  And be careful about dismissing warnings if he can't share direct evidence.  Oracles can know without being able to show."       "That sounds pretty speculative," said Flicker, "but I'll keep it in mind."       "That's all I can ask."  Journeyman nodded slowly.  "And now for something else you'll probably consider speculative, but sure doesn't look that way to me.  Did Doc ever tell you how an Oracle duel works?"       Flicker sped up briefly to check the Database, then slowed again.  "No, but it sounds like something theoretical called a dual loop virtual time travel instability.  Does it involve nothing you can really see except strange apparent coincidences?"       "Yeah, that's what Doc called them.  I'm pretty sure now that the entire mess I got dragged into over a year ago--the deciding factor for my agreement to become your partner in the first place--was tangled up with a long running Oracle duel involving at least two sides.  And that's not even counting whatever indirect effect Doc's projections might have.  When I started to realize something was weird, I didn't think it had anything to do with you.  Aaand... I was wrong.  Figured that out last night, but it doesn't help much.  Even if you know you're caught in the gears, it's way too easy to tie yourself up in self-delusion, seeing things that aren't there..."       "Confirmation bias?"       "And a bunch of other kinds.  Multiply the problems in Doc's rant about using Bayesian analysis to catch a probability manipulator by a hundred.  And I'm fairly certain I was targeted to get at you."       Flicker frowned.  "Why?  Why am I not targeted directly?"       "You are--that would be Hermes.  There are multiple things going on, which is what makes this such a pain to try to unravel.  But you have a lot of protection from direct probability manipulation.  A bunch of older magicians that lived through the Cold War still cast regular little blessings against nuclear annihilation.  You get part of them because you can--and would--rip apart a nuclear war with thrown rocks.  And Doc and I still argue about the origin of some less obvious buffers for you that definitely exist.  But there's lot of hostile probability manipulation, too.  Like, everyone who can do it who wants to destroy the world or part of it, because you're pretty good at stopping that, and the easiest way to get it to happen is to trick you into doing it for them.  Now I'm not defenseless.  But it's like..."       Journeyman paused to think, then looked up at her.  "Suppose I'm somewhere with bullets and shrapnel flying around.  I'm better off than the average bystander because I have an anti-bullet ward.  But if I'm standing next to Armadillo and a bunch of machine guns are shooting at her, I'm in danger, because bullets miss and bounce, and my ward can only handle so much.  And if some of the gunners get the bright idea to shoot at me instead, I'm in real trouble, because what might only annoy her can kill me.  I'm the weak point."       He pressed a hand to his forehead.  "I think I'm your weak point.  In more than one way.  And yeah, there are things we could theoretically do to try to handle it all, but you know what those machine gun equivalents are very effective at preventing?  Calm, uninterrupted consideration of anything personal or contentious."       "I think we're managing okay," said Flicker.  "I mean, it's not exactly fun, but..."       "We haven't gotten to the contentious part.  And, uh... I'd kind of like to move somewhere neutral for that.  This is your home, and you may suddenly prefer I be elsewhere."       "I may even more suddenly need to talk to the Database, and the latency is lower here.  If I want you to leave I'll tell you.  And you can port out any time, if you stop feeling safe."       "I'm not feeling particularly safe now.  But I promised I'd stop evading, so...  Do you still want to go ahead?"       Flicker briefly consulted her reminder list, much of which now seemed outdated or inappropriate.  "I had a plan, but you derailed it by bringing up other stuff--important stuff--like you're afraid we won't ever get another chance to talk."       A steadying breath.  "So I'm wondering if I even should, with everything you say is getting in the way.  And you aren't acting or sounding okay.  When you came back to Earth yesterday, you'd been through something horrifically bad.  Forgot you'd been stabbed in the back bad.  Paranoia turned up, reliving things under cover, not all the way back yet bad.  I changed the subject to Hermes, then later botched my sleep-fuzzy attempt to help.  Partner, can you tell me what's wrong?  And how we might go about fixing the Oracle thing if you think it's interfering with you too much?  Because I can wait a little longer if I have to."       Journeyman laced his hands together behind his neck and shook his head.  "You're right that I'm not okay, but waiting isn't going to make it better.  I think bad shit would just keep happening.  And I know you hate incomplete answers, but I've told you as much as I can about what's wrong.  As for fixing things... I don't think there is any quick fix.  I put details in Database escrow just in case, but I sure don't want you going off on a rampage in another dimension because I suspect some of the inhabitants might be responsible for some of our problems."       "Then why bring it up?"       Journeyman smiled wearily.  "Doc's old rule:  Tell you what not to do clearly and first, because there may not be a chance for a 'wait, stop'.  And with the way things have been going..."       "Fair.  So you think we're just going to have to live for a while with incomplete information, bad luck, unfortunate misunderstandings, inconvenient interruptions, and so forth for everything we do together?"       "No."  He took a deep breath.  "We aren't going to live with it because we aren't going to be together."       "...Until?"       Journeyman spread his hands.  "Don't wait around."       Flicker stared at him with a hollow feeling in her stomach.  "What does that mean?"       He looked down, then back up at her.  "First:  You're 16.  I would not be okay with starting anything before you're 18.  Next:  Even if all the interference went away, I still couldn't be Make-Everything-Better Man for you," he said.  "I'm glad I was able to help you as your partner.  But it's not a healthy basis for a relationship.  And those aren't the only problems, but going through a list with the implication that the goal is to find a way around them all would be a bad idea.  Some of the issues are mine.  Getting together with you would not work, and I don't know when, if ever, that might change."  He shook his head.  "You have your own life.  You should feel free to grow, and learn, and become... whoever you're going to be.  And right now there's too much I can't tell you, you have too many good reasons to be angry with me, and I don't want to be used as a weapon against you."       Flicker stood, and looked over at the entrance to the server room.  "So you'll just blow everything up yourself.  It sounds like you want to drop our joint duty shifts, too?"       A pause.  "I wasn't kidding about the load-bearing thing.  At least for a while, I think they would just make things worse for both of us."       "Now that makes me angry.  I put a lot into our partnership, and trusted you to maintain it.  But okay.  It's not like you need your partner's backup anymore."       The hollow feeling had given way to the grim disgust of seeing a tangled mess she couldn't possibly have helped, because it was wrecked before she even started.  But it was best to be sure.  She sped up.       DASI?  Does Journeyman appear to be suffering from mental sabotage, mind control, or anything else relevant?       I do not have sufficient data to judge the soundness of his decision process, but his actions are consistent with his prior behavior.  He is showing signs of prolonged stress.  As are you.       Thanks.  I knew that last part already.       Amelioration measures are still in progress.  Please do not do anything precipitous.       Yeah, yeah.       She slowed back down and shook her head.  "I just don't understand your thinking.  Why even agree to our partnership, if you were going to do this?  And if your model of an attack on me is right, and not just a paranoid overreaction, why pull away... everything I thought we had, without even trying to help?"       "I do intend to try to help, after I spend a while recovering," he said.  "I'll stay in touch through the Database.  But first I need to see if I can track down some Diviners, because half the ones I know are indisposed or missing, and the other half are getting 'future not found' errors or disturbingly ambiguous signs of some sort of global catastrophe that may or may not be happening the day after tomorrow."       A sudden frown.  "You weren't planning on doing anything drastic to the planet that day, were you?"       "Not particularly.  I'm not even going to be on Earth for some of it."       "What."       "I'm going to the Moon to run Speedtest, finally.  Scheduled it with Doc this morning."       "Ah," said Journeyman, his face noticeably paler.  "I don't suppose you'd be willing to reschedule?"       "No.  As you said, I have my own life, and things to learn.  If you are seriously convinced some entity is actively trying to sabotage something specific that I've put off for too long already, tell me where they live, and I'll visit them with some physics.  Before catastrophe day.  Then you can find those other Diviners and see if the problem has cleared up or there is someone else who needs a visit.  An Oracle should be able to tell if their personal future is about to become very short, right?"       Journeyman looked down.  "I... don't think that's a good plan."       "Then maybe you should have raised your concerns before dumping your partner?"       "Priority interrupt," announced DASI from the wall speaker.  "A candidate psychological expert has been located."       Flicker sped up to read a summary on her visor.  It was good news that DASI had managed to identify and contact someone.  But she had conditions for her help and an unusual background...       Flicker puzzled over some of the details, then slowed down to frown at Journeyman.  "All right, if you really still want to help, the Database profile of this person is weird.  There seem to be rumors that she has some kind of magic resistance.   Have you ever heard of a Dr. Stella Reinhart?"

Next: Part 8

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which, instead of going for each other’s throat, they reach a little lower (and Lion gets more than he bargained for). (Rating E, explicit, ~3k words) - written for @big-r6s-fan! 💗 I will never tire of thanking you for commissioning me and allowing me to write this because it was super fun :) Find my commission info here!

.

“Flament, a word.”

The tone of voice effortlessly conveys the blatant lie in Doc’s statement – what he really means to say is: The only thing keeping me from writing you a novel is lack of time. Lion narrowly avoids rolling his eyes in annoyance and obliges, throws Montagne a meaningful look which implies they’ll finish their rudely interrupted conversation later and trails after his other teammate. If he could’ve gotten away with it, he’d be dragging his feet just because the murderous glare Doc would send him never fails to be hilarious. He’s reasonably certain he knows what this is about and boy, is he not in the mood for this.

And of course Doc marches him into his office instead of just any room which would’ve served the same purpose. With his inflated ego, it’s no surprise he enjoys chewing people out in a place where he’s comfortable; Lion can’t even begin counting the occasions on which he ended up on this side of the mahogany desk, having his person and skills and ethics challenged by a man too naive to be in this line of work and who genuinely thought he could pull off that frankly ridiculous moustache for a few years of his life. Lion is almost sad it’s gone by now, it befitted Doc’s general absurdity.

It doesn’t matter. He’s secretly begun rebelling against the man’s authority in a satisfying way and now he puffs himself up whenever he comes face to face with the very desk which used to make his temper flare purely by existing, but by now has lost its sting. It was customary for him to view the solid piece of furniture as an unsurmountable obstacle rendering any proper communication between them impossible, yet his view has shifted. It’s converted. It’s working for him now.

“I will not stand for you endangering more innocent lives.” Doc’s French is clipped, efficient, yet more than a tool to be used – he has the same intonation and melody to his words as Lion’s parents, as Sophie, as former teachers.

“Then stop endangering your own”, he replies and wants nothing more than to stuff something down Doc’s throat to make him stop talking. His holier-than-thou attitude has always rubbed Lion the wrong way, created sparks of fury, hostility, and something… entirely different on occasion. There’s dust from the debris in Doc’s hair, making it whiter than it already is and Lion wants to bury his fingers in it and then pull sharply.

He needs to stop getting distracted.

“Stop interfering with my work”, Doc snaps and it’s wonderful how easily Lion can get under his skin. At this point, it’s almost a hobby for him to rile up his colleague. And while private hissy fits are a necessary-turned-amusing evil, they serve another purpose as well: providing excellent material for long, gratifying ‘self-care’ sessions in which he fantasises about what would’ve happened if instead of quoting a specific law to shut down Doc’s argument, he’d just crowded him against a wall, rumbled filth into his ear and showed him how unprofessional he really can be.

“Then stop interfering with mine.” He has to suppress a smirk at the frustration on Doc’s face and doesn’t mind in the least that he’s doing the grown-up version of ‘no you’.

“Pray tell, Flament, what exactly does your work entail then? Does it state anywhere you should prevent me from administering first aid to a wounded civilian? Hm?” His tone is cutting, sharp and sweet like a rose’s thorn, and he actually abandons his safe haven behind the desk to come down to Lion’s level – or rather lower. Because he is noticeably shorter and Lion gladly stands up straighter to emphasise this fact.

“Above all, my work entails keeping my colleagues safe, for example preventing an altruistic idiot from rushing head first into a potential ambush.”

Doc’s eyes narrow. Their faces are uncomfortably close together, a result of too many altercations in the past where both of them got scolded for raising their voice, so now they rely on dangerous hissing. His smell is making it hard to breathe because it’s earthy, mesmerising, distinct. Lion wonders how it’d feel to force him to his knees and have this defiant gaze directed up at him while his sharp tongue is used for something other than reprimanding him for - “Is that your way of saying you’re worried about me?”

Lion is halfway through formulating a reply in his head when his thoughts screech to a grinding halt. Nothing has changed, Doc’s posture is just as defensive as before, expression stony, intonation accusing, and yet the atmosphere has… tilted a little. Spilled into uncharted territory. Lion isn’t sure what to make of it. “I worry about all my colleagues”, he eventually responds neutrally.

“That doesn’t absolve you from jerking off at my desk. Repeatedly.”

Oh.

Well fuck.

He blinks owlishly, utterly speechless because how in the world is he ever going to recover. Doc knows. How does he know?

Sensing he’s not going to get a sensible response from Lion any time soon, Doc continues: “If you have a problem with me, I’m sure we can work something out.”

His mouth is faster than his brain because there’s no way he’d in his right mind shoot back: “Yeah, you can work out on my cock.”

Okay. Alright.

This is still salvageable. All he needs to do is to back off immediately, apologise for the inappropriate comment, not mention that Doc needs to stop wearing these blasted form-fitting shirts or else Lion will really end up doing a briefing with a raging hard-on in front of everyone, and then steer clear of Doc for the rest of his entire -

“Real mature, Flament, but I expected no less. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, though, as it would be the other way round.”

Once again, words elude him, this time out of indignation. The audacity. Lion has no doubt he’s the more experienced one, is taller and heavier, certainly more masculine and dominant, and Doc has the gall to imply… Shock slowly morphs into smug disbelief and he finds himself shaking his head at this bold claim. “You haven’t got the balls.”

And Doc grabs him by the collar and smashes their mouths together.

Lion just – he stops functioning for a few seconds until he realises that it’s Doc’s tongue prying his lips open so he parts them willingly with an involuntary moan he regrets the moment he utters it. His brain still refuses to acknowledge the whole situation, making it easy for Doc to overpower him, guide the messy kiss and shove his hands under Lion’s sweater and holy shit, is this really happening? The desk’s edge digs into the backs of his thighs and Doc’s teeth into his lower lip and it’s Lion who’s making these horribly embarrassing noises, isn’t it? Like a mixture of a dying whale and a prisoner of war about to be freed and this is not at all how he pictured this to go.

Despite the suddenness of it all, there’s a particular part of his body which has no trouble keeping up and draws even more attention to itself the moment Doc’s thumbs brush over Lion’s nipples and good heavens, he did not expect Doc to be such a fantastic kisser. Desperate to regain any sort of control, Lion tries to fight the onslaught by grabbing Doc’s hands, wrestling his tongue into submission and spinning them around – with an emphasis on tries. Because Doc chooses that second to push a thigh between Lion’s legs, presses it directly against his achingly hard erection in all the right ways and makes his brain short-circuit yet again. The gesture results in vague flailing on Lion’s part, a particularly vicious swipe of Doc’s merciless tongue which turns his joints into butter and some ungraceful bumbling of which Doc makes use by basically lifting him up and setting him down on his stupid desk.

Well, so much for that.

“If you want me to stop, now’s the time”, Doc murmurs against his mouth and curls his tongue around Lion’s in a way he didn’t think possible. His inner monologue has turned into no more than incoherent screaming because while this general situation is a wet dream come true, he’s conflicted about the details and yet the thought of stopping the other man doesn’t even enter his mind. When calloused fingertips twist his nipples, all he can produce is a throaty groan full of arousal and longing, and when his legs (the traitors) wrap around Doc’s to pull him closer, his opponent breaks the kiss to regard him with a disgustingly smug expression. “That’s what I thought”, he says and starts unbuttoning Lion’s trousers.

Why don’t you start lubing up my cock with your throat so the sliding in becomes easier, the monkey part of Lion’s brain provides helpfully, sends the signal to his mouth and witnesses in stark horror how he instead chokes out something very, very different: “Please, hurry up, I want you.” It seems his entire body has set out to betray him: his upper body gives in at the slightest push and lies flat on the largely empty surface he’s defiled in the past, his hands lie uselessly by his side instead of struggling, and his dick is magnificently hard. Painfully hard. So hard it’s continuously throbbing and will probably ejaculate as soon as Doc looks at it wrong.

“I noticed my hand lotion depleting unusually quickly and asked Meghan for a Black Eye when I couldn’t locate the source”, Doc informs him conversationally while ripping down Lion’s trousers with minimal resistance. And oh, that explains how he knew. And… also means that Doc saw him. Oh God. “Tell me, did you fantasise about me, Olivier?”

His cheeks are crimson. It’s impossible to provide an honest answer, not when Doc pulls his underwear down as if they’d done this a thousand times and throws his uncomfortably hard cock an appraising glance. “I”, Lion starts stupidly and then Doc’s mouth envelops him in wonderful tight heat, prompting him to thrust his hips up at the unexpected stimulation and the next thing he hears is a sharp snap.

Doc just slapped his ass as punishment.

It stings, but even worse is the realisation that Lion isn’t going to top anybody today. “You can’t do that!”, he gasps, appalled, yet the look he receives is unbothered.

“Watch me”, Doc says and does it again. This time, Lion moans at the sensation, can’t help himself, it’s just – he doesn’t even know what’s going on, only that he’s in too deep already, and he’s not only talking about Doc’s mouth and oh God, his tongue really can do what it promised earlier. A mere minute later, Lion is writhing on the cursed desk in agonising bliss, trying desperately not to come down Doc’s throat while producing so much noise it’s a miracle no one has checked on them yet. He’s so resigned to his fate that he at first doesn’t notice the warm hand creeping up his thigh and getting dangerously close to his crotch, up until the pad of a finger strokes over his entrance and absolutely no way.

“Don’t”, Lion pants and nearly knees Doc in the temple, “just – keep sucking, please, but not -”

Doc pulls off his dick with a wet pop and, unperturbed, conjures up a bottle of lube seemingly out of thin air. “Should’ve used this instead of the lotion”, he states. “Then you could’ve fingered yourself in preparation as well.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing”, Lion protests and yelps when Doc hoists his legs up, folds them in half and places Lion’s hands on his own calves. He��s much too overwhelmed to complain and so he simply holds his legs up, spread invitingly, and then there’s a slippery finger inside him.

He opens his mouth to object. The finger crooks in a way just as magical as Doc’s tongue earlier and a fierce wave of pleasure rolls through him. Lion closes his mouth again.

“I don’t believe it for a second”, Doc counters and adds a second one and good Lord, how is he doing this? Lion’s thoughts are running haywire and he’s ashamed to admit that at least half of them are focused on replacing those fingers with something else. “This looks like your natural habitat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” He flinches when the digits withdraw and narrowly stops himself from substituting his own. It really does feel phenomenal.

“It means”, Doc replies while unzipping his own trousers, “that you’re a slut.”

Lion is stupefied. Did Doc just -

And before his brain even processes the insult, it shuts down completely because that’s definitely a dick pushing inside him, giving him the opportunity to adjust and then rubbing over all the right places. In utter disbelief, Lion stares down at himself and can’t fathom how he ended up here when by all means, he should’ve -

“Hold this too.” The hem of his sweater gets shoved between his teeth and he bites down automatically; his reward is warm palms stroking over his chest and fingertips finding his nipples yet again and he’s sizzling, he feels hot and weird and his skin prickles wherever Doc touches, and above all he never wants this to end. Especially when Doc starts thrusting. “Do you like this?”

Lion’s only answer is a muffled moan about an octave higher than he’d like. There’s something like fireworks going on and it almost drowns out Doc’s next words. Almost.

“You, Olivier, are a nasty little slut”, and Doc emphasises this with a particularly deep thrust, “and you deserve to be punished. Do you know why?”

He shakes his head, too preoccupied with the sight before him, the incredible feeling of becoming one with this man, something of which he’s been dreaming for a long, long time.

“But you do. Because it wasn’t just my desk, was it?” Panicked, Lion looks up and is met with a half amused, half heated gaze. Doc seems to be enjoying this at least as much as he is. “My underwear has gone missing a few times. So has my uniform. I know how you look at me.”

Oh shit. Lion’s face starts burning and it’s only partly the hard movements which rock his entire body. He must make for a shameful display: presenting himself, incapacitated of his own volition, whimpering and squirming on Doc’s magnificent cock. And he realises that he doesn’t even care – because it looks like Doc is having the time of his life, and that implies they’ll do this again.

“Look at you, you’re taking it so well.” His voice is mesmerising and Lion notices himself giving in to the thrumming desire, relishing the sharp motions reaching deep and causing small explosions of need, of want, of delight. When a hand closes around his throbbing erection, he throws his head back and arches his back, feels fingernails dig into his ribs and scrape over a sensitive nipple, prompting an elated groan. “You’re sucking me in and gripping me so tightly.”

Lion wants it to last so badly, wants to hear Doc talk some more about all the depraved things he’s done because he hasn’t even mentioned half of it, can’t know the full extent, but as always, the universe is against him and gave Doc not only a gloriously talented tongue as well as a perfectly shaped dick, but also awarded him with skilled fingers who identify Lion’s weakspots in seconds and massage the ridge of his glans, torture him with long, slow strokes just like he would himself and that’s right, Doc knows exactly how he does it because he’s seen it, and this knowledge mercilessly shoves Lion off the edge without so much as a warning.

He comes with a series of moans, abs contracting marvellously and sending shocks of pleasure through him while Doc milks him, keeps jerking him in time with the almost violent spurts of come Lion unloads on his belly. Doc fucks him through it and creates white noise in Lion’s head with his thrusts, the stimulation flirting with discomfort but never really reaching it; and if it wasn’t for Doc’s own orgasm, Lion might’ve passed out cold with how hard the relief hits him. His rhythmic spasming must’ve been too much for Doc, causes him to climax while Lion is still tensing up and riding the last of his high and he looks beautiful. Doc tilts his head back with a satisfied groan, hips stuttering, and comes deep -

He – he’s actually coming inside, dick pulsing, eyes rolling back. And if Lion is honest, it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

The hem of his sweatshirt snaps back the moment he lets go and he rests his head on the uncomfortable and frankly ostentatious desk with a sigh, lowers his legs but refuses to let Doc go by wrapping them around him once again. The fight has left him, but so has the heat of the moment which has shifted into an odd uncertainty. He’s not sure what to do other than enjoy the gentle afterglow.

As if he’d read his mind, Doc bends down to him for a kiss which lasts much longer than Lion expected it to, and when they separate after a good while, they’re both smiling. “How about we think of an excuse as to why our conversation took this long while we get you cleaned up?”, he murmurs good-naturedly.

The warmth spreading in Lion’s chest easily replaces the insecurity he felt, and so he nods happily.

“Really, though. Don’t touch my stuff again.”

He almost laughs at Doc’s serious tone and decides to take a chance: “And what if I do?”

To this, Doc smirks and Lion didn’t even know he was capable of doing that, is actually glad he didn’t find out earlier because it apparently doubles his heart rate and steals his breath away.

“Then I’ll see you in my office, Flament”, he says and raises a meaningful brow.

#rainbow six siege #doc #lion #doc/lion #fanfic #oneshot #commissions #lion is one of my fav unreliable narrators #stop letting your mouth write checks that you can't cash

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Non disclosure agreements pt.2

Summary: Shawn is desperate to talk to Y/N and fix things.

Warnings: mostly angst, some fluff

Word count: ~ 2.3k

Part 1

I moved my fingers around an almost empty bowl, grabbing a few popcorn and popped them in my mouth.

“This is a future memory.” Stefan begins the same line Shawn used and I frown, glaring at the television as if it’s the source of all evil.

“BOOO!” I couldn’t hold myself back, throwing the rest of my popcorn at the screen in frustration.

A weekend inside with The Vampire Diaries while the outside turned into winter wonderland was not ideal, but I needed it.

Shawn liked snow. He adored every damn snowflake, but I hated it. It was cold and wet, slippery and a hazard for clumsy people like me. Although Shawn fell on daily bases once ice rolled into town, he still enjoyed the weather...despite my Bambi jokes.

Shawn...

I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t on my mind all the time. I couldn’t sleep, finding him in my dreams every time I close my eyes. Watching his favorite TV show only to point out every time he used their lines on me wasn’t helping the situation and yet, I found it therapeutic. Not the words, but me boo-ing each line. Food? Well, I couldn’t get enough of food.

I scroll through my Twitter and Instagram, finding he didn’t post anything new since our break up.

Was he suffering too?

Good.

I know it’s childish and silly, but I wanted him to be hurt as I am. I was stuck in limbo, half of me loving him and the other one hating him. The part who clung to him had turned desperate and hateful toward the one who resented that NDA he presented me with. The hateful part...well, it simply despised him in every way.

I never thought he’d be the one to break my heart.

His sexiest quality by far is emotional warmth, nothing else comes close. Yet, I find myself freezing since the moment he pulled out those papers.

That sane part of me understood him, empathized with him. People always come and go in his life, all of them in search of something he could give them. Once they receive it, they disappear and take a part of him with them.

Shawn is the type to give his all to anyone he meets and regardless how difficult it is, he never showed to be disappointed when they leave. I guess it finally took its toll on him and I had to pay the price.

A soft knock on my door brings me out of this particular thought and I stand up, wrapping myself into a blanket. Trudging my way to the door, I quickly rub my eyes to make myself seem happier.

Forgetting to check who’s on the other side, I open the door and gasp unintentionally.

“Hear me out, okay?” Shawn stands with his palms pressed together, pleading. His eyes are tired, dark circles surrounding them. His usually styled curls are a mess, sticking out in different directions, unruly and wild like they turned only behind closed bedroom doors.

“Think I made myself clear.” With a heavy heart, I push the door closed. But Shawn had a different idea.

Shawn’s quick to push his way in, despite my attempt to keep him out.

I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms over my chest. I stay rooted to the spot, a breeze from the hallway moving my hair softly away from my face. Shawn keeps his eyes steady, remaining on my face as if they’re finally home again, just briefly before the sorrow in them starts to build up.

“Remember how happy we were! I’m begging you!” His voice is laced in desperation and it pricks at my heart like thorns of a red rose, a flower he frequently gifted me with.

I bite my lower lip, sucking on the soft flesh nervously, looking anywhere but at him with uncertainty. Should I let him speak, my resolve might waver. Should he break my resolve, it will chip away a piece of who I am and it will be lost to me forever. My features buckle just slightly before I speak, the only betrayal of my grief. 

“I think you should leave, Shawn.” I try and push back at all those happy memories we’ve made so far, finding they’re agonizing now.

“Hey! This is going to sound really stupid, but I saw you from across the street and I really wanted to kiss you. What do you say, eh?” Starting with the first words he ever spoke to me.

I recognized him instantly, thinking it was a prank of some sorts. Yet, I didn’t complain when he pressed his lips against mine and took the very breath from my lungs.

For a guy who claimed he has no game, he certainly proved otherwise that day.

“Now that we’re acquainted, what do you say about having a cup of coffee with me?” And he was smooth, charming...a perfect combination of sexy and fluff and I couldn’t resist him.

“Is this where we say goodbye? The end of the road?” He steps closer, looking down on me just like he did the first time we met. Just like he did every damn day after that; softly, gently, longingly. It’s the kind of a look that makes you sure love is visible, tangible and real.

“God, the way you look at me. Stop looking at me like that.” I speak through gritted teeth, running a hand through my hair as my emotions run wild.

I want to kiss him and slap him at the same time. I want to run my fingers through his hair and pull at it, caress him and push him away...I’m a walking contradiction when he’s in question and it’s driving me insane. Absolutely insane.

Shawn chuckles and I know he’s got a bad habit of laughing at the worst possible time. He shakes his head to wipe that adorable smile from his face, knowing I might be insulted by the gesture, but I’m not. I know he meant nothing malicious by that burst of energy he couldn’t contain. I know his anxiety is at an all time high right now and I can’t hold it against him.

“I’ll always look at you like you’re the only one for me. Because you are.” Shawn takes a step closer, reaching toward me with his hands.

I follow them closely, closing my eyes once they make contact with my hips and the hold he has on me tightens.

“If I give you a chance to explain why you want that NDA right now, will you please be honest with me?” The words leaving my lips make no sense, but my mouth seems to be faster than my brain right now. He’s in my head and I keep on forgetting he’s taken over my heart and he’s at the very seams of my being. He became a vital, out of body organ I needed to function. I know it’s wrong, but everything changed when we met. He became the blood that runs through my veins, but I’d survive without him either way. I’d move on, however, he’d always be somewhere inside, forever stuck with me.

Being infected by Shawn Mendes is an incurable disease and I know all I can do is manage the symptoms as they come along.

“I never lied to you.” Shawn says quietly, leaning down to rest his lips on my forehead. They’re warm,...far too warm for someone who just came in from a blizzard. And that’s when I know...He’s been standing in front of my door for God knows how long in hopes of talking things through and I feel my heart soften ever so slightly.

“So talk to me. Shawn, why?” I press the palms of my hands on his chest, feeling his heart beat is fast, but in perfect rhythm with my own.

“Because I got hurt. Hailey, she...kind of betrayed my trust while I swore up and down she’d never do that. And the worst part is, she worked with the studio for that. By the time I was included, I had already invested time and feelings and it all went to waste. It’s why I kept us a secret for so long.” Shawn sighs against my skin, moving back to look at my face properly.

I couldn’t look him in the eye, staring at his perfectly plump lips instead as he spoke.

“I was scared they’d ask the same of you. And I know! I know you’re not her, but there’s this quiet voice in my mind that annoys the shit out of me. It questions me and it questions my ability to know who to trust and I know in my heart I can trust you. I do.” Shawn keeps rambling, most of it becoming unrecognizable as his thoughts come out jumbled and I know his anxiety is getting to him. I know he needs emotional stability and yet, I need to put my foot down. Should I let this slide every time he feels any anxiety, I’d sacrifice my own needs for him all the time and instead of a loving relationship, we’d turn toxic.

I press my index finger against his lips, finally looking up at his eyes.

“That’s irrational and you know it.”

Then he turns to go, shoulders sunken and his hands in his pockets. Before I know what I'm doing I'm standing in his way and we lock eyes, the perfect distance for a kiss, but he shakes his head. I can see my pain mirrored in his dark eyes. 

“Shawn...You said you think I’m the only one for you. If that’s the case, is that NDA seriously more important than I am? Are you willing to let your fears hold you back from having happiness in your life? Will you let the label tell you who to date or will you make your own rules? Because that’s the Shawn I know and love.”

Shawn averts his eyes to the floor, looking at the fluffy black carpet he surprised me with on my birthday. He knew I loved anything soft that resembled  animal fur without it actually being fur and he got this as a present. I loved him for it. I still love him for it.

“Shawn?” He always said he'd persuade his label when the time came that we weren’t a threat to his career. I guess they won after all.

He looks back up at me, following the sound of my voice on instinct. He always said he’d know my whisper in a screaming crowd.

We have a silent conversation as we stared into each others eyes. I finally look away, tears threatening to blur my vision, when a hand encircles mine. It’s soft and warm, reassuring almost, as If the owner of that hand sensed my desperation. 

“You’re more important. I don’t really care for the NDA, I swear. I would place my life in your hands and trust you to keep it safe, let alone anything else. I was just angry that you didn’t even entertain the idea of signing. Like it was ridiculous. It felt like you didn’t understand me or the pressure they applied for a month until I caved to bring it before you.” He sighs and I blink fast, a tear slipping past my defenses.

He did fight for me.

He did.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Shawn? I wasn’t upset about the contract itself, but by the thought of you just letting them dictate our lives without a fight.” My bottom lip quivers and I notice his do the same as he looks up in exasperation.

“It’s not easy telling your girl you failed in something. Unfortunately, they wore me down and I really didn’t think you’d mind. I thought you’d laugh it off and sign it, throw it on some shelf to collect dust while we live our lives together.” Shawn admits, making eye contact once more.

I place a hand on either side of his face and observe him cautiously.

“You fought for me.” I pause, silently staring into my favorite whiskey colored eyes with adoration I’ve always had for him.

“It’s all I needed to know.” I smile, running my thumb across his cheek slowly.

“Of course. It always comes down to love of a girl and for me that was your love.” His lips turn up into a tiny smile, as he holds me tightly to his chest.

“That was a Damon line!” I exclaim, slapping his chest playfully.

“Founder’s party in season one, I think.” Shawn squints in an attempt to remember and I shake my head slightly.

“Sounds about right.” I add, confirming his thoughts since I basically watched the entire season yesterday.

“You’re not signing that contract.” Shawn leans down, kissing the top of my nose and I crinkle it in response.

“I’m grateful that you’re saying that now...but I’m gonna sign it.” I state, using the fact that his face is so close to me to leave a quick peck on his cheek.

“No, you’re not.” Shawn frowns, moving away from my face and I take in a deep breath.

“Are we going to fight about me wanting to sign it now? Because I’ll sign it to get them off your back. I don’t want you having anxiety over this anymore. You proved you love me, trust me...it’s enough for me. And I love you for it.” I whisper the last bit, capturing his lips into a kiss that feels just right.

“But tomorrow.” I break the kiss to look at him properly, my fingers wandering around the curls at the back of his head.

“I want to spend some quality naked time with my boyfriend tonight.” I smile cheekily and he grunts, connecting our lips hungrily once more.

Tags: @accalialionheart @xalayx @ourlittleshawnie @esoltis280

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes x y/n #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes angst

[unsettlingshortstories]

Magdala Amygdala

Lucy A. Snyder (2012)

I was bound, though I have not bound. I was not recognized. But I have recognized that the All is being dissolved, both the earthly and the heavenly.

—The Gospel of Mary Magdalene

“So how are you feeling?” Dr. Shapiro’s pencil hovers over the CDC risk evaluation form clamped to her clipboard.

“Pretty good.” When I talk, I make sure my tongue stays tucked out of sight. I smile at her in a way that I hope looks friendly, and not like I’m baring my teeth. The exam-room mirror reflects the back of the good doctor’s head. Part of me wishes the silvered glass were angled so I could check my expression; the rest of me is relieved that I can’t see myself.

Nothing existed before this. The present and recent past keep blurring together in my mind, but I’ve learned to take a moment before I reply to questions, speak a little more slowly to give myself the chance to sort things out before I utter something that might sound abnormal. My waking world seems to have been taken apart and put back together so that everything is just slightly off, the geometries of reality deranged.

Most of my memories before the virus are as insubstantial as dreams; the strongest of them feel like borrowed clothing. The sweet snap of peas fresh from my garden. The crush of hot perfumed bodies against mine at the club and the thud of the bass from the huge speakers. The pleasant twin burns of the sun on my shoulders and the exertion in my legs as I pedal my bike up the mountainside.

The life I had in those memories is gone forever. I don’t know why this is happening to humanity. To me. I’d like to think there’s some greater purpose, some meaning in all this, but God help me, I just can’t see it.

“So is the new job going well? Are you able to sleep?” My doctor shines a penlight in my eyes and nostrils and marks off a couple of boxes. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask to see my tongue. It’s the same set of questions every week; I’d have to be pretty far gone to answer badly and get myself quarantined. The endless doctor-visits wear down other Type Threes, but I hang onto the belief that someday there might be actual help for me here.

I nod. “It’s fine. I have blackout curtains; sleep’s not a problem. They seem pretty happy with my work.”

My new supervisor is a friendly guy, but he always has an excuse for why he can’t meet with me in person, preferring to call me on his cell phone for our weekly chats. I used to bounce from building to building, repairing computers, spending equal amounts of time swapping gossip and hardware. After I got out of the hospital, I went on the graveyard shift in the company’s cold network operations center. These nights, I’m mostly raising processes from the dead, watching endless scrolling green text on cryptic black screens. I’m pretty sure the company discreetly advised my quiet coworkers to carry tasers and mace just in case.

“Do you feel that you’re able to see your old friends and family often enough?” Dr. Shapiro asks.

“Sure,” I lie. “We meet online for games and we talk in Vent. It’s fun.”

For the sake of his own health, my boyfriend took a job and apartment in another state; we speak less and less on the phone. What is there to say to him now? We can’t even chat about anything as simple as food or wine; I must subsist on bananas, rice, apple juice, and my meager allotment of six Bovellum capsules per day. The law says I can’t go to crowded places like theaters and concerts. I only glimpse the sun when I’m hurrying from the shelter of my car’s darkly tinted windows to monthly 8:00 a.m. appointments with my court-ordered physician.

So I’m striding up the street to Dr. Shapiro’s office, my head down, squinting behind sunglasses, when suddenly I hear a man in the park across the street shouting violent nonsense. Or he used to be a man, anyhow; he’s wearing construction boots, ragged Carhartt work overalls, and a dirty gray T-shirt, all freshly spattered with the blood of the woman whose head he is enthusiastically cracking open against the curb. He howls at the sky, and I can see he’s missing some teeth. Probably whatever he did for a living didn’t pay him enough to see a dentist. But his skin looks flush and smooth, so much healthier than mine, and for a moment I envy him.

He stops howling and meets my shadowed stare, breaking into a gory, gap-toothed smile. The kind of grin you give an old, dear friend. I’ve never laid eyes on this wreck before, and the woman beneath him is beyond anyone’s help. They both are. I don’t want to be outed, not here, not like this, so I pretend I don’t even see him and stride on.

A few seconds later, I hear the spat of rifle fire and the thud of a meaty body hitting the pavement, and I know that the SWAT team just took out Ragged Carhartts. They’re never far away, not in this part of town. And once they’ve taken out one Type Three, they don’t need much excuse to kill another, even if you’re just trying to see your doctor like a good citizen.

“Oh, God,” a lady says. She and another fortyish woman are standing in the doorway of an art gallery, staring horrified at the scene behind me. They’re both wearing batik dresses and lots of handmade jewelry. “That’s the third one this month.”

“If this keeps up, we’ll have to close.” The other woman shakes her head, looking gray-faced. “Nobody will want to come here. The whole downtown will die. Not just us. The theaters, the museums, churches—everything.”

“I heard something on NPR about a new kind of gel to keep the virus from spreading,” the first woman replies, sounding hopeful.

I keep moving. Her voice fades away. People still talk about contagion control as if it matters, as if masks and sanitizers and prayers can stop the future.

The truth is, unless you’ve been living in some isolated Tibetan monastery, you’ve already been exposed to Polymorphic Viral Gastroencephalitis. Maybe it gave you a bit of a headache and some nausea, but after a few days’ bed rest you were going out for Thai again. Congratulations! You’re Type One and you probably don’t even know it.

But maybe the headache turned into the worst you’ve ever had, and you started vomiting up blood and then your stomach lining, and when you came out of the hospital you’d lost the ability to digest most foods and to make certain proteins. And in the absence of those proteins, your body has trouble growing and healing. The enzymes your DNA uses to repair itself don’t work very well anymore.

Sunlight is no longer your friend. Neither are x-rays. Even if you quit smoking and keep yourself covered up like a virgin in the Rub’ Al Khali, your skin cracks and your body sprouts tumors. Your brain begins to degenerate; you start talking to yourself in second person. Sooner or later, you develop lesions on your frontal lobe and hippocampus that cause a variety of behaviors which will lead to your friendly neighborhood SWAT team putting a .308 bullet through your skull. That means you’re a Type Two, or maybe a Type Three, like me.

If you’re Type Four, we aren’t having this conversation. Unless you’re a ghost. You aren’t a ghost, are you? I don’t think I believe in them. But if you were a Type Four, your whole GI tract got stripped. I hope you were lucky and had a massive brain bleed right when it got really bad, and you never woke up.

I’m pretty sure I woke up.

“Do you find yourself having any unwanted thoughts or violent fantasies?” Dr. Shapiro asks.

“Of course not.” I try to sound mildly indignant.

There’s one upside, if it can be called that. If you lived past all the pain and vomiting, the symptoms of your chronic disease can be alleviated, if you consume sufficient daily quantities of one of a couple of raw protein sources.

If the best protein source for you is fresh human blood, congratulations, you are a Type Two! Provided you have a fat bank account, or decent health insurance, or are quick with a razor and fast on your feet, you can resume puberty or your athletic career. Watch out for HIV; it’s a killer.

If, however, the best source for you comes from sweet, custard-like brains . . . you are a Type Three. Your situation is much more problematic. And expensive. You better have a wealthy family or truly excellent insurance. Or mob connections. Otherwise, sooner or later, you’ll end up trying to crack open someone’s skull in public. The only question then is if you’ll get that one moment of true gustatory bliss right before you die.

I have excellent health insurance. There’s no bliss for me. What I and every other upstanding, gainfully-employed, fully-covered Type Three citizen gets is an allotment of refrigerated capsules containing an unappetizing gray paste. Mostly it’s cow brains and antioxidant vitamins with just the barest hint of pureed cadaver white matter. It’s enough to keep your skin and brains from ulcerating. It’s enough to keep your nose from rotting off. It’s enough to help you think clearly enough to function at your average white-collar job.

It is not enough to keep you from constantly wishing you could taste the real thing.

“I was wondering about something,” I say, as Dr. Shapiro begins to copy the contents of her survey into the exam room computer.

She stops typing and gives me a wary smile. “Yes, what is it?”

“My medication. I feel okay, you know? But I think I could feel . . . better. If I could have a little more?” I’m choosing my words as carefully as possible. My tongue feels thick, twitchy.

I can’t talk about the cravings I’m feeling. I can’t mention wanting more energy, because nobody in charge wants someone like me feeling energetic.

I wonder if there’s a sniper watching from behind the mirror on the wall; has he tightened his grip on his rifle? Are gas canisters waiting to blow in the air conditioner vent above me? My skin itches in dread anticipation.

Dr. Shapiro hedges. “Well, I know there’s been a shortage of raw materials these days.”

I swallow down my impatience and worry. The capsules are ninety-eight percent cow brains, for God’s sake. Probably they can squeeze a single human brain for thousands of doses. I can’t imagine the pharmaceutical companies are running short of anything.

“Could you check, just the same? Could you ask for me?” I sound meek. Pathetic. The opposite of hostile. That’s good.

She gives me a pitying look and sighs. The mirror doesn’t explode in gunfire. Gas doesn’t burst from the vents.

“I’ll see what I can do,” my doctor says.

I try to believe she’ll come through for me.

• • • •

I go home. I take my capsules with some Mott’s apple juice. I rinse my mouth out with peroxide and don’t look at my tongue. I rub salve on the places my clothes have rubbed raw, and I climb naked into my bed. Sometime later, the alarm goes off, and I rise, shower, dress, and drive to work in darkness.

My shift is dull-clockwork, until just after gray drizzling dawn, when one of the new tech leads comes in to talk to my coworker George about some of the emergency server protocols. I haven’t seen this young man before; he’s wearing snug jeans and the sleeves of his black polo shirt are tight over biceps tattooed with angels and devils. His blond hair is cut close over a smooth, high-browed skull. He starts talking about database errors, but he’s thinking about a gig he has with his band on Friday night, and it suddenly hits me not just that I know what he’s thinking but that I know because I can smell the sweet chemicals shifting inside his brain. The chemicals tell me his name is Devin.

I am filled with Want in the marrow of my bones. I am filled with Need from eyeballs to soles. I excuse myself and hurry out into the mutagenic morning and punch Betty’s number into my cell. Soon after we met, she made me promise not to save her details in my phone, just in case anything went wrong.

It’s early for her. But she answers on the third ring. Speaking in the casual code we’ve used since we met online, we agree to meet that evening. It’s her turn to host.

I sleep fitfully. When my alarm goes off, I call in sick, shower, dress, and check my phone. Betty’s texted a cryptic string of letters and numbers for my directions. And so I drive out to a hotel we’ve never visited before, drinking Aquafinas the whole way. It’s a dark old place, once grand, now crumbling away in a forgotten corner of downtown. I wonder if she’s running short of money or if the extra anonymity of the place was crucial to her.

Still, as I get out my car and double-check my locks in the pouring rain, I can’t help but peer out into the oppressive black spaces in the parking lot, trying to figure out if any of the shadows between the other vehicles could be lurking cops or CDC agents. The darkness doesn’t move, so I hurry to the front door, head down, hands jammed in my raincoat pockets, my stomach roiling with worry and anticipation. I avoid making eye contact with any of the damp, tired-looking prostitutes smoking outside the hotel’s front doors. None of them pay any attention to me.

My phone chimes as Betty texts me the room number. I take the creaking, urine-stinking elevator up four floors. My pace slows as I walk down the stained hallway carpet, and I pause for a moment before I knock on the door of Room 512. What if the watchers tapped Betty’s phone? What if she’s not here at all? My poised hand quivers as my heart seems to pound out “A trap—a trap—a trap.”

I swallow. Knock twice. Step back. A moment later, Betty answers the door, wearing her Audrey Hepburn wig and a black cocktail dress that hangs limply from her skeletal shoulders. It’s appalling how much weight she’s lost; her eyes have turned entirely black, the whites permanently stained by repeated hemorrhages.

But she smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back, warmed by the first spark of real human feeling I’ve had in months. I have to believe that we’re still human. I have to.

“You ready?” Her question creaks like the hinge of a forgotten gate.

“Absolutely.” My own voice is the dry fluttering of moth wings.

She locks the door behind me. “I’m sorry this place is such a pit, but the guy at the Holiday Inn started asking all kinds of questions, and this was the best I could do on short notice.”

“It’s okay.” The room isn’t as seedy as the lobby and exterior led me to expect it to be, and it’s got a couch in addition to the queen-sized bed. Betty has already covered the couch and the carpet in front of it with a green plastic tarpaulin. Her stainless steel spritzer bottle leans against a couch arm.

“Want some wine?” She gestures toward an unopened bottle of Yellow Tail shiraz on the dresser.

“Thanks, but no . . . I couldn’t drink it right now. Maybe after.”

She nods. “There’s a really good Italian restaurant around the corner. Kind of a Goodfellas hangout, but everything’s homemade. Great garlic bread.”

Betty pulls off the wig. Before she got the virus, she could grow her thick chestnut hair clear down to her waist. I’ve never seen it except in pictures; her bare scalp gleams pale in the yellow light from the chandelier.

The scar circumscribing her skull looks red, inflamed; I wonder if she’s been seeing other Type Threes. I quickly tamp down my pang of jealousy. We never agreed to an exclusive arrangement. And maybe she just had to go to the hospital instead; she told me she’s got some kind of massive tumor on her pituitary.

She looks so frail. I can’t possibly begrudge her what comfort she can get. I should just be grateful that she agrees to see me when I need her.

And, oh sweet Lord, do I need her tonight.

Betty pulls me down to her for a kiss. Her hands are icy, but her lips are warm. She slips her tongue into my mouth, and I can taste sweet cerebrospinal fluid mingled in her saliva. The tumor must have cracked the bony barriers in her skull. Before I have a chance to try to pull away, my own tongue is swelling, toothed pores opening and nipping at her slippery flesh.

She squeaks in pain and we separate.

“Sorry,” I try to whisper. But my tongue is continuing to engorge and lengthen, curling back on itself and slithering down my own throat; I can feel the tiny maws rasping against my adenoids.

“It’s okay.” Her wan smile is smeared with blood. “We better get started.”

She kisses the palm of my hand and begins to take my clothes off. I stare up at the tawdry chandelier, watching a fly buzz among the dusty baubles and bulbs. When I’m naked, she slips off her cocktail dress and leads me to the tarp-covered couch.

“Be gentle.” She presses a short oyster knife into my hand and sits me down, the plastic crackling beneath me. I nod, barely keeping my lips closed over my shuddering tongue, and spread my legs.

With slow exhalation, Betty settles between my thighs, her back to me. She’s a tiny woman, her head barely clearing my chin when we’re seated, so this position works best. Her skin is already covered in goose bumps. The anticipation is killing both of us.

I carefully run the tip of the sharp oyster knife through the red scar around her skull; there’s relatively little blood as I cut through the tissue. Betty gives a little gasp and grips my knees, her whole body tensed. The bone has only stitched back together in a few places; I use the side-to-side motion she showed me to gently pry the lid of her skull free.

She moans when I expose her brain; it’s the most beautiful thing I could hope to see. Her dura mater glistens with a half-inch slick of golden jelly. Brain honey. When I breathe in the smell of her, I feel my blood pressure rise hard and fast.

I set the bowl of skin and bone aside and present the knife to her in my outstretched left hand. With a flick of her wrist, she slits the vein in the crook of my arm and presses her mouth against my bleeding flesh. I wrap my cut arm around her head and pull her tight to my breast.

I open my mouth and let my tongue unwind like an eel into her brainpan. It wriggles there, purple and gnarled, the tiny maw sucking down her golden jelly. It’s delicious, better than caviar, better than ice cream, better than anything I’ve had in my mouth before. Sweet and salty and tangy and perfect.

The jelly gives me flashes of her memories and dreams; she’s been with other Type Threes. She’s helped them murder people. I don’t care. I keep drinking her in, my tongue probing all the corners of her skull and sheathed wrinkles of her brain to get every last gooey drop.

I can control my tongue, but just barely. It’s hard to keep it from doing the one thing I’d dearly love, which is to drive it through her membrane deep between her slippery lobes. But that would be the end of her. The end of us. No more, all over, bye bye.

A little of what my body and soul craves is better than nothing at all. Isn’t it?

My arm aches, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded on top of the high. We’re both running dry. I release her, spritz her brain with saline and carefully put the top of her head back into place. She’s full of my blood, and already her scalp is sealing back together. We’ve done well; we spilled hardly anything on the tarp this time. But my face feels sticky, and I’ve probably even gotten her in my hair.

She daintily wipes my blood from the corners of her mouth and smiles at me. Her skin is pink and practically glowing, and her boniness seems chic rather than diseased. “Want to go to that Italian place after we get cleaned up?”

“Sure.” I’m probably glowing, too. My stomach feels strong enough for pepperoncinis.

I head to the bathroom to wash my face, but when I push open the door—

—I find myself in Dr. Shapiro’s office. She’s staring down at an MRI scan of somebody’s chest. The monochrome bones look strange, distorted.

“There’s definitely a mass behind your ribs and spine. It’s growing fast, but I can’t definitely say it’s cancer.”

I’m dizzy with terror. How did I get here? What mass? How long have I had a mass?

“What should we do?” I stammer.

She looks up at me with eyes as solidly black as Betty’s. “I think we should wait and see.”

I back away, turn, push through her office door—

—and I’m back in a rented room. But not the downtown dive with the dusty chandelier. It’s a suburban motel someplace. Have I been here before?

The green tarp on the king-sized bed is covered in blood and bits of skull. There’s a body wrapped in black trash bags, stuffed between the bed and the writing desk. Did I do that? What have I done?

Oh, God, please make this stop. I have to lean against the wall to keep myself from tumbling backward.

Betty comes out of the bathroom, dressed in a spattered silk negligee. I think it used to be white. There’s gore in her wig. Her eyes go wide.

“I told you not to come here!” She grabs me by my arm, surprising me with her strength. In the distance, I can hear sirens. “They’ll be here any minute—get away from here, fast as you can!”

She presses a set of rental car keys into my palm, hauls me to the door and pushes me out into the hallway—

—and I’m stepping into the elevator at work.

Handsome blond Devin is in there. A look of surprised fear crosses his face, and I know the very sight of me repels him. His hand goes to his jeans pocket. I see the outline of something that’s probably a canister of pepper spray. It’s too small to be a taser.

But then he pauses, smiles at me. “Hey, you going up to that training class?”

I nod mechanically, and try to say “Sure,” but my lungs spasm and suddenly I’m doubled over, coughing into my hands. When did simply breathing start hurting this much?

“You okay?” Devin asks.

I try to nod, but there’s bright blood on my palms. A long-forgotten Bible verse surfaces in the swamp of my memory: Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee? I will lay mine hand upon my mouth.

I look up and see my reflection in the chromed elevator walls—my face is gaunt, but my body is grotesquely swollen. I’ve turned into some kind of hunchback. How long have I had the mass?

Instead of the pepper spray, Devin’s pulled his cell phone out. I can smell his mind. He’s torn between wanting to run away and wanting to help. “Should I call someone? Should I call 911?”

The elevator is filled with the scent of him. Despite my pain and sickness, the Want returns with a vengeance. Adrenaline rises along with my blood pressure. My tongue is twitching, and something in my back, too. I can feel it tearing my ribs away from my spine. It hurts more than I can remember anything ever hurting. Maybe childbirth would be like this.

Betty. I need Betty. How long has it been since I’ve seen her? Oh God.

“Call 911,” I try to say, but I can’t take a breath, can’t speak around the tongue writhing backward down my throat.

“What can I do?” Devin touches my shoulder.

And the feel of his hand against my bony flesh is far too much for me to bear.

I rise up under him, grab him by the sides of his head, kissing him. My tongue goes straight down his throat, choking him. He hits me, trying to shake me off, but as strong as he is, my Want is stronger.

When he’s unconscious, I let him fall and hit the emergency stop button. The Want has me wrapped tightly in its ardor, burning away all my human qualms. The alarm is an annoyance, and I know I don’t have as much time as I want. Still. As I lift his left eyelid, I take a moment to admire his perfect bluebonnet iris.

And then I plunge my tongue into his eye. The ball squirts off to the side as my organ drills deeper, the tiny mouths rasping through the thin socket bone into his sweet frontal lobe. After the first wash of cerebral fluid I’m into the creamy white meat of him, and—

—Oh, God. This is more beautiful than I imagined.

I’m devouring his will. Devouring his memories. Living him, through and through. His first taste of wine. His first taste of a woman. The first time he stood onstage. He’s at the prime of his life, and oh, it’s been a wonderful life, and I am memorizing every second of it as I swallow down the contents of his lovely skull.

When he’s empty, I rise from his shell and feel my new wings break free from the cage of my back. As I spread them wide in the elevator, I realize I can hear the old gods whispering to me from their thrones in the dark spaces between the stars.

I smile at myself in the distorted chrome walls. Everything is clear to me now. I have been chosen. I have a purpose. Through the virus, the old gods tested me, and deemed me worthy of this holiest of duties. There are others like me; I can hear them gathering in the caves outside the city. Some died, yes, like the ragged man, but my Becoming is almost complete. Nothing as simple as a bullet will stop me then.

The Earth is ripe, human civilization at its peak. I and the other archivists will preserve the memories of the best and brightest as we devour them. We will use the blood of this world to write dark, beautiful poetry across the walls of the universe.

For the first time in my life, I don’t need faith. I know what I am supposed to do in every atom in every cell of my body. I will record thousands of souls before my masters allow me to join them in the star-shadows, and I will love every moment of my mission.

I can hear the SWAT team rush into the foyer three stories below. Angry ants. I can hear Betty and the others calling to me from the hollow hills. Smiling, I open the hatch in the top of the elevator and prepare to fly.

[ethan1220world-blog]

Audience Studies (3P18) Blog Post #1 - Ethan Limsana

During the introduction of our text, we learn many different ways to describe the concept of an audience and how a particular audience has and can function over time. A critical piece in learning about where we are now, is to examine how they began and evolved overtime based on popularity of politics and social needs. In order to relate to these teachings, I will apply them to my modern life with a form of entertainment that I access daily in many different ways and social settings depending on context: music. Whether it be walking through the supermarket with a pair of headphones on, or at a live concert surrounded by crowds of rowdy young adults, music demonstrates a multitude of ways an audience can be affected. I listen to music daily on my phone with the goal of finding melodies that are addicting, and artists that write lyrics that heighten my emotions either by making me feel excited when I’m energized, or depressed when I’m sad. Once I’ve found the right song, I can listen to it many times before I get bored, and look at other works the author has to offer through streaming platforms like Spotify and YouTube to choose what else I do and don’t like. This work that I’m doing to curate my music tastes are demonstrating an information based audience by simply listening to the artist and what they have to say about a given topic. It also demonstrates a meaning based view because by choosing I like and don’t like, the artist will see those tracks and adapt future works based on the reviews. Although, these messages would be much different face-to-face by exact knowledge given to one another, I am a part of the mass audience and communicate through my views, likes, and shares. This is my role in obtaining music for low cost, often free, for the large profit organizations that provide me music. Like any other job, I perform these roles when I am the audience member, and when I stop listening, I am no longer an audience member. Although I enjoy listening to 1980s music, my music taste has changed due to shifts in society and me as a demographic. As streaming services kept offering me to listen to rap music for being a young adult male, I eventually tried it, giving into Drake, Young Thug, Tupac, and more. Here, my shift in music taste was a result of the audience-as-outcome model because the media altered my taste. As mentioned before, I filter into the grand scheme of advertising and ratings as an individual on my phone, without a public space to listen or review the music, where most others are listening too. Since this experience is primarily alone, and I have no connection with other listeners, I am part of the audience-as-mass model. Not to say I have no power in this situation, I demonstrate audience-as-agent too by telling social media, and the entertainment providers what I think and ultimately making the final decisions of my interests on my own; in this case I happened to not enjoy older rap music, but enjoy modern rap music because it heightened my excitement. I chose to keep what I enjoyed because it fits me and my lifestyle, as an act of my free will. 

A small percentage of the time I spend with music is live because it costs more money, often requires travel, and isn’t nice for time management, but it's the most engaging and memorable musical experiences I’ve ever had because of the nature of crowds. As a practice dating back to ancient Greek and Roman audiences, concerts are the same in essence; hundreds or thousands of people leave their homes to gather in one specific location to listen to a select few. Here, it is entirely dependent on the people on stage to determine the energy of the crowd. At rap concerts, loud music is played, and messages of substance abuse, and violence are in the lyrics. The crowd responds to this content by showing up to the concert dressed in fashionable clothes, drinking, getting high, and most of all, being rowdy by pushing, shoving, crying, and sometimes even fighting. As feared by the end of the 19th century, live concerts often display the potentially destructive qualities of crowds. As an individual listening to music alone, the reality is relatively unchanged from regular society, but when a crowd gets together, it is a temporary change in that particular society as a collective because individual actions have less consequences associated with them and immediate emotions can freely be demonstrated by all. The positives of the crowd are also unchanged; they create a physical setting for me to go, and create a memorable experience for me to worship someone who was already in power, to reinstate my value in enjoying their music, and keep them in power. 

This power opens up new opportunities for record labels and artists to scheme new ways to alter our decision making process to make choices that continue their revenue flow and keep them in power for as long as possible. For example, Drake and his label OVO, use advertising and multimedia to keep us thinking about his music and persona even when we’re not listening. The money made from live events and music sales, goes into buying and selling merchandise, buying restaurants, maintaining an entertaining Instagram page, and utilizing television and film for documentary and selling the idea of his rich lifestyle. Although it is our own agency and free will to choose what we enjoy, these power moves are made to trigger appeal and to trick us into a cycle of worship.

It is the complete truth that modern rap music is a gold mine for those in power: it is repetitive, subject matter is relatively the same throughout different artists, and it is insanely popular among young viewers who make up most of the internet’s usage in North America. It can be tough for myself to take a moment to realize all that I see online is not real, but I’m one of millions, with many that don’t have the education to consider that. The effects perspective is a lens I can use to think about how I am affected by these powers in media that influence me now, and over time. In order to be informed, and understand why I’ll be advertised certain types of content in the future, is to study why my demographic reacts so positively to rap music. 

As part of mass society, I and others are listening to this music alone, with little to no exposure of the themes suggested aside from movies and tv shows. Mixed with being a young adult, male and naive, this ignorance to the rapper lifestyle is exactly what advertisers capitalize on to gain and keep my attention. We live in a progressive time where racial equality, specifically black, is at the forefront of all media concerns and therefore, our concerns. The issue is that I have no first hand idea what is different in their culture as opposed to mine. There are few popular media that demonstrates African American’s as regular people who do regular daily things; instead the popular discourse uses selective exposure to say they grew up on the street and have become rich and surpassed whites. When music videos and lyrics suggest their lifestyles include endless amounts of money, having sex with multiple women, and killing people they don’t like, there’s actually very little I can actually do to disprove that even though its highly unlikely. Early concerns with mass persuasion worry that even though I have the critical ability to deem what is true and what isn’t, my brain wants to imagine something before it experiences it. I’m only shown stereotypes, so that's all I have the capacity to imagine for the time being. The artists acts as a barrier between me and their affairs; they only let me imagine how rich their lifestyle is for their specific interest of me believing that listening to what they have to say will elevate my life in some way, or keep me racially diverse. 

I keep listening to these fake notions of black culture because, well, it's addicting for me. The Payne studies showed some important facts: intense violence and action scenes were more memorable for boys, the more exposure of similar themes created pronounced beliefs within children, and the interest in sexual themes became more engaging in children as they grew older. The themes I’m exposed to represent delinquencies that parents and teachers have taught me to stay away from, so they are exciting for me to see and fantasize about. It is an over-saturated market also, so I have more pronounced internal feelings about the content. Also, it is at a point in my life that I am more gullible to what is shown to me online. If these reasons weren’t enough to argue why I don’t stop listening, the presence of opinion leaders and emotional contagion make it increasingly difficult to leave the genre. Opinion leaders rise within my friend group, and reviewers I find online. Being so close to Toronto, most of my friends fall into the same demographic trap and see Toronto rappers as something to take pride in and constantly keep up with celebrities’ internal drama. Online reviewers, although they have more credibility, often promote the popular opinion in order to keep fans happy, sharing, and make their program more popular, and they might even be incentivised by outside sources to create and artificial opinion. Seemingly everywhere wants me to keep listening to this music, and when it consistently keeps my friends and I in an energized mood through emotional contagion, it at least feels like it's doing more good than bad in the moment.

As an audience member, mass media has treated me like an object whose attention can be persuaded, changed, and sold, but it's too early for me to see long term detrimental effects. I spend about 6-8 hours looking at screens everyday with heights of around 12-14 hours. Some of this is because of work, but more than half is for consuming entertainment and social media. It often gives me a fictionalized perspective of different topics which is why I’ve worked hard in the last two years to improve my lifestyle and create more unique experiences. Most of this leisure time is worse spent than when the media originally pulled me into addiction at the beginning of high-school. I was recommended to watch things I’ve already seen, or are so similar, it offers no unique ideas, so constantly being offered what I already like has put me in a rut. Also, I am weary of gaining emotions because of my viewing habits. Since most of my interests in entertainment are associated with delinquent themes, I recognize that when I’m out, I am not outgoing with strangers because I don’t trust them. Commonly in mob related movies, they give the feeling that you can’t trust anyone, and those feelings lie somewhere within me.

Public opinion is the most powerful information a company use to always have the upper-hand over the consumer when it comes to buying and selling. The information can be private or public depending on if it is beneficial to the company. It can be used to gain honest opinions about what the population thinks about a product, or a survey can be made specifically to trick the public into conforming to a certain ideal by use of question-wording-effects. The information can be used to alienate consumers into bandwagoning onto a perceived public opinion. The potential to mix and match these uses seems like a modern day superpower to me. To examine the ways public opinion is measured and used by large corporations for profit, I’ll relate to myself working in sales at Best Buy and Virgin Mobile to compare and contrast by looking at what I do to earn an individuals’ opinion on a much smaller scale. 

When working with a customer, I want to ensure my commission is made whether or not it is in the buyers’ best interests when they walk in. First, I want to find out why they’re in the store. I ask about what issues they have with a current device, and move further to find out important things about their lifestyle: if they have kids, are they in school, where they live, and what hobbies they have. At this stage, I am giving my customer a person-to-person interview where I establish rapport, and my most advantageous position as a salesperson to both learn about the client, and earn a degree of trust so I can be given true answers to my questions. Here, I avoid leading questions because the answers wouldn’t accurately depict the information I want to offer a product that is relevant. The tactics of my survey change depending on what part of the sale we’re at for my benefit. Once we find the right phone for the user, we talk about the price which is where response effects are wildly useful. If the first thing I say is the actual price per month, the customer would be unsatisfied with the number and feel entitled to bargain, or wait for another sale, or go to a different company entirely. Instead, I show the original price for the phone, and their mobile plan separately which is always high, then show them what I can save them by signing up with a new contract; the response is almost always positive. This is because the original price has nothing to contrast except for some kind of number they’ve had before, or seen in a flyer which isn’t obtainable for me. In the second example, I’ve given a realistic, yet unfavourable example for them to contrast instead to get rid of any pre-existing notions of price. Once the customer has decided to buy the service or product, they will be less likely to buy anything else because they either don’t have enough money, or are weary of me taking advantage of them. When defenses are high, question-wording-effects can be used to make the customer think they want more. The last thing I have to sell is extra insurance for your phone, which everyone is accustomed to say no to because of negative connotations of other insurances like car, or life. Once they tell me they don’t want insurance, I proceed with the process and move on to the next topic, but realistically, I’m using this time to include specific words and body language to make them feel unsafe about their new product. I will begin using words in our conversation that have to do with the length of their contract, the price of the phone, specific words like fragile, stuck, lost, regret. My body language also changes to be more loose and clumsy, and often I place my drink uncomfortably close to the new device. When I ask again later in the process, the customer feels they have made the decision for themselves, drop their defense and buy. 

Sometimes, other means of gathering opinion are beneficial as well. Although a personal interview offers me the most advantages, a telephone interview is a cheaper and time efficient way of gathering information. There is a possibility I could employ the same tactics into this interview, but that poses a couple problems. I cannot establish rapport as well, so if I ask too many personal questions, the customer will feel uncomfortable and hang up. I generally need to avoid leading questions, and keep the call strictly about the sale. This is a good way to earn information to use in the future, not the present. I can filter their answers to find out what may be a successful offer for the future. For use of large companies, this type of information could be used to find out where and when to sell things, but not as precise to find out what type of product to make. The final type of survey I look for is an email survey. These help me to gain a higher personal rating to gain recognition within my company, but as the text suggests, these are borderline useless way of gathering and asking for information. Just about all ways of surveying have some kind of flaw which skews the data gathered with varied impact, but email has to be the most negative impact. It requires the customer to actively do it during their leisure time, and it holds no benefit to themselves. Out of every ten customers I offer the online survey to, one may actually do it. This means they would have an outstanding reason to do it; either they really liked, or really hated the service. The numbers of completions are low, and the sources are not credible.

After information is acquired, the Government and large corporations use qualitative and quantitative data to use audiences in ways that far exceed the possibilities of an individual. They use this information to operationalize their audience; keep their viewing habits the same, and constantly sell their time to advertisers without suspicion. In order to find examples of political economy today, I will examine myself as an audience member of advertisements specifically through my phone on social media platforms and entertainment streaming services. Now that I can identify how advertisers obtain my personal habits and information, I can assume who is buying it based on what advertisements, or entertainment I’m offered. 

As a consumer, I actually pay for many of the streaming services I use which I know isn’t the norm for post-millenials. I pay monthly to access Netflix, Spotify, and YouTube, which means I don’t receive advertisements through these entertainment services, which is great for some of my leisure time, but I do not escape advertisements altogether. In fact, each of these streaming services, including the phone I bought, have a mandatory a lengthy multi-page terms of service agreement which states that they are services which I use while I pay for them, and during this time, they can gather as much information about my viewing habits as they want to improve their services. In exchange for signing this contract, I am given thousands of choices of the most popular movies, TV shows, and music of today with a service that knows what I want to watch even before I know what its about. In the meantime, however, all information of my demographic including how much I am paying for streaming is being sold to google, to then sell to advertisers in similar markets. I’m still not rid of the blindspot that advertisers use to steal my leisure time. Often while watching a show, I browse on my phone, and during that time I get ads for tv shows and movies on subscription services I have yet to pay for. The luxury of using Netflix services is paid for by me enduring ads for other similar subscription-based websites, which I am then working for free to review by looking at them and seeing whether or not they are worthwhile, just for it to be advertised again when there's a new incentive for me to consider again. This same operation happens to everyone who uses streaming services, as the audience is a commodity to be bought and sold by advertisers. 

I’m treated very well as a subscriber of these services; the servers send the program are reliable with few buffers, the websites don’t have malware or bugs that slow down the speed of my computer, and I even get special features such as the option for subtitles on any show, and even an automatic option to skip opening credits. The same can’t be said for those who can’t afford to pay monthly, or who are using ad blockers. For example, my girlfriend is the daughter of Asain immigrants and she watches Korean TV, but she doesn’t pay for streaming services, and there are no channels for her to watch them for free. She streams these shows from free servers she finds online. These are often filled with malware, regular ads, and pop-up ads that ruin the viewing experience as well as poor servers from outside of the country which buffer and crash often. I am labelled as a priority customer because my viewing consists of popular American TV and I pay for the service, meaning I will most likely respond well to the advertisements that are sent to me and have a higher chance of purchasing, so my leisure time is improved to keep me as a customer. My girlfriend is exactly what advertisers will ignore, she enjoys foreign shows and doesn’t pay for her streaming service, so her leisure time is not cared for or valued, so is less important. This is a slightly different take on what the text has to explains, but it is a similar issue. Racial formation is causing someone close to me to not enjoy their leisure time as much as me because of their background and taste. 

Adding market value to certain demographics does show signs of massive potential in new technologies though. Our viewership is measured on any platform we visit through server logs, and cookies. Even now with Google assistant and Google Home and smart home devices and surveillance systems, our voices are being monitored too. I had a conversation with my mother about what Halloween costume I am going to wear this year, and Google offered me advertisements for Halloween costumes the next day. This is the evolution of peoplemeters that tracked TV viewing habits, but on a much smarter and efficient scale that people meters couldn't achieve. Because of psychographics, we are not purely treated as a mass audience in this situation. I am not being offered to listen to Drake because Drake is popular with men my age, I am being offered curated advertisements that are relevant to me based on my demographics, psychology, and my actual web searches and needs described through conversation. This conclusion is very controversial because devices that listen to your voice at all times is creepy, but it is the peak of what target marketing strives to be in its most efficient form. When this form of information gathering and target marketing is perfected, it is hard to say whether our thoughts are truly our own because of the power of suggestion.

[zephyroh]

i got you (please don’t let go of me)

it’s 4am again and im having feeling about jason scott again

Read on AO3

-----

There was something wrong.

Jason couldn’t put his finger on what, but there was something not right. He felt uneasy. Like his body was trying to tell him something. He was lying in his bed – his window always opened ever since the night at the mine in because his friends had taken the habit of coming to his room whenever they wanted, usually when they needed company or comfort.

He remembered the day Pearl was born - he looked at her with wonder in his eyes, holding her tightly in his arms. He heard her laugh, and saw stars in her eyes, and vowed to himself to be the best brother in the world. Just like in the movies. He had wanted to be a superhero for her, before actually becoming one. And now he had added four persons to protect in that oath. He was, in some ways, a big brother to his team – “more like the mom friend”, had said Zack laughing one day.

He usually felt them coming, before seeing them. In was an unshakable feeling in his body, in his bone, and when they were feeling bad, it was like something was out of place. Like something in the universe had shifted, was out of balance, and he couldn’t rest until he fixed it. Like those night after an argument with his father where Pearl came to his room crying because he didn’t want them to fight, and he couldn’t sleep before reassuring her. Going to sleep knowing his baby sister was unwell was impossible. Just like if one of his teammates was having a hard time.

This night was one of those night.

He felt like crying. He felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to scream at the world, but could only lie immobile, staring at the ceiling. He could only hear the soft sound of the wind gently passing through his curtains. The light of the moon was shielded by clouds, and the only other source of light was coming from his digital alarm clock on his night stand.

4:48, it read.

The silence was almost maddening.

He waited for the familiar sound of Kimberly’s heel hitting the frame of his window. Or a pebble hitting the wall because Zack found it hilarious to throw rocks at his window even though he knew it was open. Or the soft “You up?” that Trini whispered, always afraid to wake him up. Or the sound of metal and cable in Billy’s backpack when he didn’t want to work on a project alone.

But nothing came.

It was a month after they saved Angel Grove – or the world actually – and it was the tenth night he couldn’t sleep, not knowing why.

Some night he just couldn’t get asleep.

Some night he woke up soaking with sweat, bones trembling, dread in his heart, and a scream stuck in his throat.

 -----

“Jas, you need to close your eyes if you want sleep.”

Jason blinked three time, shaking his head. He looked at the coffee machine in front of him, who had already stopped pouring coffee into his mug two minutes ago, before shifting his gaze to the little human being beside him.

Pearl was standing next to him with wide open eyes and such an innocent look on her face he couldn’t help the found smile growing on his lips.

“Why are you saying that, P?” The girl frowned and pouted at the surname while Jason smirked. “I don’t wanna be pee!”, she had cried out, horrified, the first time he called her that – and he never did stop after because her reactions where adorable.

“You wasn’t moving, like when you sleep, but with your eyes open. You have to close them.”, she answered matter-of-factly. He let out an amused laugh as his heart swelled.

“Thank you, I’ll think of that next time.”

He smothered a yawn and rubbed his tired eyes. The day was going to be long, he thought as he brought the coffee mug to his lips.

 -----

He felt like he was functioning in slow motion. Even superhero powers didn’t compensate sleep deprivation. He almost arrived late for his first class after taking too much time to prepare in the morning, and cursed himself for missing his friends before class. They would usually gang up at Billy’s locker before going their own way.

He couldn’t concentrate. The only remaining seat when he arrived was the one by the window in one of the rows at the back of the class – the perfect spot to not listen one word of what the teacher was saying and just daydream. His chin in his hand, he started dozing off, regularly jerking awake when his brain was warning him he was falling asleep.

The guilt of not listening to the class – history, the only one he actually liked – started creeping on him. He just couldn’t wait for the day to be over. He hadn’t had such a horrible day since the Power Rangers thing. Before that, he was used to waking up hating everything, and endure the day until he could come back to bed. But he hadn’t feel this way again, until now. He was not thrilled to remembered was it was like.

After two hours of pure torture, he speeded out of he classroom, eager to join his teammates. He walked into the cafeteria, mentally insulting everyone. They were making so much goddamn noise. He was definitely too tired and not caffeinated enough to deal with that.

He quickly spotted his squad at their usual spot. He felt his mood lighten up was he saw Trini and Zack fighting over their food trails while Kim was smirking and throwing crumbs of bread at them, and Billy was carefully sorting his food by colors, probably occasionally commenting on how it would be physically impossible for Trini to fit an entire bus up Zack’s bottom, and therefore pointless to try or even threaten to.

He sat in front of him, automatically putting his apple on Billy’s trail. It was his favorite fruit, and Jason was always too happy to give up his just to see Billy excitedly clap his hands. Today however, Billy merely looked up to him and thanked him, giving him a small smile, before returning to his food. Jason didn’t miss the dark circle under his eyes, and understood that he wasn’t the only one with sleep problems.

He frowned and his body only tensed more. The feeling of the night before, shaking his bones to the core, was back.

“You alright, farmboy?” Jason slightly rolled his eyes at Trini’s nickname she found for him after he told them the whole story about the cow in the locker. “You do dress up a bit like Clark Kent”, she had argued.

He felt his heart warm up at the sight of four concerned looks directed at him when he lifted his head from his food.

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, but I’ll be fine”, he answered with a tired smile. They nodded in agreement, and Trini gave him an understanding smile, looking at him intensely like she was trying to communicate with him telepathically. “I feel you”, he though she was trying to say. He nodded back, knowing it was her own way of expressing herself. Not with words, but it was just as well.

He felt kind of guilty for worrying them. He was used to be the one worrying about them. He liked that role, he wanted to care of them, and hated feeling this low and miserable.

The sound of the school bell felt like a blow in the stomach. Here we go again, for four more hours. While the others started hurryingly picking up their stuff, Jason was feeling out of it. Like in another dimension, like he was out of tune with the world. There but not quite there. He forced himself to move, trying to keep up with the rest of the student body. He saw Zack waving and blowing kisses at them, heading for the exit, and Jason knew he had decided to skip class today. Kim was teasing Trini, pulling down her beanie on her eyes as the tiny girl was feigning being mad, while they were headed to their Biology class.

Without even thinking about it, he launched himself forward, elbowing a few students as he spotted the back of Billy’s head in the crowd. He caught up to him as Billy was opening his locker. Jason smiled at the sight of the inside of it. Pictures of the five of them together, a flyer of Krispy Kreme, five tiny dinosaurs toy and carefully scotched in the back, a crumbled-up piece of paper reading “we should start a band”.

“Are you alright, Billy? You look as tired as me, and that’s not good news.”

“Jason.”, the boy acknowledges him, looking at him straight in the eyes. Jason wondered if it was the lack of sleep or the amount of caffeine he had ingested, but his heart twitched at this moment. “I’m just having a few nightmares recently. Of Rita… but it’s alright, I’m okay.”

The red ranger suddenly felt powerless at the sight of Billy’s tired – and somewhat resigned – smile. Jason wished so hard he could make all his problems go away, because Billy Cranston should never feel sad about anything in his life, ever. He was too good for this shitty world, and Jason wanted so much to protect him from it.

Billy seemed to notice the former quarterback’s sorrow, because before Jason could register what was happening, Billy was ruffling his hair.

Everything seemed to stop for Jason, even his heart. He only managed to tilt his head to the side with a questioning look on his faces, mouth half open but not trusting his vocal cords to actually be able to function at this moment.

Then Billy smiled his pure, angel-like smile, and everything momentarily felt right in the world.

“I’m cheering you up!”, he explained. “Kim does that to me when I’m feeling low, so I’m doing it to you. Zack usually makes a lot of bad jokes and then explains them to me, but I don’t know as many as him, and you know I’m not really good at jokes anyway. And Trini, she brings me food, but I don’t have any snacks on me. Besides, we just ate so it would be pointless to give you more food right now. Should have I not done that?” Billy suddenly looked worried, like he made a mistake – he was always too self-conscious even around the team, always afraid to be “weird”, as if the squad would ever feel weirded out by him.

Jason immediately snapped out of his dazed state to reassure the boy. “No! No, no absolutely not, I- it was good- well, it’s alright. You did good. It worked”, he stuttered, and it never felt this complicated to get coherent words out of his mouth.

Billy shot him a glowing smile, exuding pride because he managed to lighten up Jason’s mood, and the red ranger felt like he could breathe a little bit better, and the world was a little more colorful than this morning.

 -----

Jason stared at the sharp, red inked letter in front of him. He stared so long it felt like the letter was floating on the blank piece of the page he was holding.

He blinked. And blinked again. And stupidly pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, and regretted it immediately afterwards. He tended to forget about his superhero strength from time to time.

The classroom was buzzing around him, student putting their books in their bag, pulling chairs, talking and laughing loudly. But Jason couldn’t move.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and lifted his head to see his teacher looking at him with a small smile.

“I’m proud of you, Jason. You really did improve. Keep up the good work.”

His eyes dropped again at the paper.

He got an A. At a math test. Him. Jason Scott. Jason Scott, who was only good at football. Jason Scott, whom only shot at having a future was a sport scholarship at a local university. Jason Scott who was constantly failing his class, and felt to depressed to even try to study. Jason freaking Scott.

He had to show it to the team.

They were all pretty good students, even Zack when he bothered to show up, and prepared a study plan for Jason when he told them, ashamed, that he wasn’t even sure he’d graduate. Without question nor his opinion on the matter, they immediately organized study sessions in between training sessions, and before long, Jason learned the pleasure of learning.

Trini helped him mostly in English, but never with the others present. She just showed up one day in his room with the reading assignment of the semester in her hands. And after an hour, Jason learned that Trini loved literature and poetry – she actually wrote some, but threatened to slit his throat if he ever mentioned it to the others, especially Kimberly who would never stop teasing her about it, and Jason still remembered the feeling of fright in his heart in front of her dead serious face. He never heard her talk as much as when she was passionately explaining the meaning of some obscure figure of style the author of the book used, and why he used it. “It’s easier to express fictional people’s feelings than my own.”, she admitted once.

Zack’s subject of predilection was physics, and he liked to dress up as old famous physician as he was moving around, his arms flipping around, talking with animation trying to explain the laws of physics to Jason, occasionally throwing apples at his head screaming “Eureka!”.

For biology it was Kim who was his assigned tutor. She wasn’t much of a pedagogue, but she had a way of vulgarizing complex mechanism about DNA and cells with simple words that made sense to Jason. They actually both hated it, but going through it together made things better and easier.

As for math… It has always been Jason’s worst nightmare. His parents had tried to get him private lesson before giving up, seeing that there was no results. Not matter how hard he tried, how long he could tire his eyes on an exercise, nothing made sense to him.

But then Billy came along. It came so naturally to the boy, he made it look easy. And the blue ranger loved that he could monologue as long as he wanted about math, Jason would never complain. When Billy noticed there was something Jason wasn’t getting, he tried to explain it in another way, and in another if it was still not enough, again and again until Jason understood. Step by step, Jason started to catch up on his lacunas, and God knew there was a long way to go.

Until this day. Because this day, his efforts were rewarded, and he owed it all to his friends.

He jolted out of his seat, suddenly filled with energy. He almost ran up the hallway leading to Billy’s locker, which Zack was already leaning against. He strode swiftly to reach up the boys and planted himself in front of Billy.

“I’m going to hug you now.”, he announced. “Is that okay?”

Billy nodded, a bit surprised and confused, but relaxed as soon as he felt Jason arms around him. Jason knew he was still getting used to physical contact. The red ranger tilted his head to press Billy’s body even harder against him and his nose ended up grazing the boy’s neck for a slipt of a second. As he felt Billy shudder, he released his grasp, fearing that it was too much for Billy. But as they separated, the other boy seemed fine, even happy if not still confused.

Jason realized he was staring a bit too long at Billy’s dark brown eyes when Zack’s voice startled him.

“Hey, man, I want some love too!”, he joked, and Jason hoped he didn’t notice the redness of his cheeks. “Why so sappy?”.

Jason brandished the paper he was still holding in his hand, harboring a proud smile. As Zack took in the information, a similar smile appeared on his lips.

“Yeah, that’s awesome dude! You’re a genius now”. He put his arms around Jason for a quick hug, patting firmly the red ranger’s back.

A confused Billy appeared near Zack, countersigning his neck to look at the paper, and his eyes grew wide with excitement when the saw the “A” at the top of the paper. He started hoping around, clapping his hand and laughing excitedly.

“Something to celebrate?” Kim’s voice came from behind Jason. He spun on his heels, with a wide grin still on his face as her and Trini – the two always looked like they were joined by the hip – raised their eyebrows.

He answered simply,

“Billy turned me into a math genius!”

 -----

Jason sighed heavily. Then let out a groan. Then slammed his fit against his mattress out of frustration.

3:27. The glowing, dimmed light of his alarmed clock seemed to be mocking him.

He felt the impulse to throw it against the wall, then decided against it out of fear of waking up his little sister. But he just wanted to break something.

Exhaling slowly, he tried to relax his fist, then the muscles of his forearms, then his entire body. He concentrated as he remembered Trini’s words when she was teaching him yoga one night, at the top of a cliff near the mine.

“Focus on your breathing and the beating of your heart. The more you think about that, the less you think about everything else.”

After what felt like an eternity, Jason noticed his mind had already started to wander off, and he felt himself giving up. Shooting a glance at the time, a deep sense of despair crushed him as his saw the red numbers.

3:51.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

He clenched his jaw and pressed his palm against his forehead where drips of sweat were starting to form.

Instinctively, he took his phone, which was resting on the nightstand, in his hand. He paused for a second, staring at the numerous apps on the screen – which was at the lowest setting of luminosity but still hurt his eyes – decided what he wanted to do.

Trying to ignore the feeling carved in his gut, he opened his text messages. Without thinking, he just followed his impulse, and tapped on one of the conversation.

“Hey, you up?”

After five minutes of silence from his phone, he stared at the name of the contact one last time. Billy Boy.

He felt empty as he put down the phone next to him, then turned around in his bed.

 -----

When he woke up, tears were burning his eyes, and he didn’t know if his heart was crushed in his chest or if he wanted to rip it out of his ribcage himself.

It took him three whole minutes for his limbs to stop shaking, and five for the sobbing to cease.

Even though he was sure he knew exactly why he was crying when he woke up, the memories were already starting to fade away. The feeling of frustration was almost too unbearable.

Blue lips. A still body, too still. Rigid. Numbness. Clouns in his mind.

He clenched his eyes shut just and let out a whimper.

Weight in his arms. A loud thump on wood. Rope gliding through metal.

Tears were running down his face again and he hugged his knees tightly against his chest.

Electricity. The rope stopping abruptly. Opened eyes, but a blank, lifeless look.

Jason buried his head in his arms.

Billy was alright. Billy was alive. It was just a nightmare. Billy was fine. Billy was alive.

He repeated those words like a mantra In his head until his body finally calmed down.

The clock was now reading 5:05.

Wiping his tears with the blanket, he mechanically reached out for his phone again. His heart skipped a bit when he pressed the button to light up his screen. Billy Boy.

He fumbled on his phone, trying to unlock it as fast as he could.

“Yes, bad dream again ☹ Why? Everything alright?” Send forty-five minutes after his own text. He cursed himself for having missed it, for not having been there for Billy when he woke up from his own nightmare.

“I just couldn’t sleep…”, he texted back. As he was hesitating to elaborate, to explain that his first instinct was to reach out to Billy, the sight of three jumping dots made his heart race. Before he could do anything – strangely his first impulse was to throw the phone away – another text popped up.

“Seems like you still can’t :p”, immediately followed by the dots again. Jason waited patiently, smiling softly at the emojis Billy loved to use and sometimes, overuse.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to be mean. It sounded mean. I was thinking: “what would Zack say in this situation?” Was it mean?”

“It’s alright, don’t worry 😊  I had a nightmare too, just woke up.”, he replied.

He suddenly felt a little bit better, imagining Billy’s rambling voice in his head. Relaxing, he waited again while Billy was typing… only to nearly choke on his saliva when the words appeared in front of his eyes.

“Maybe next time we should sleep together!”

Jason froze on the spot, forgetting to even breathe and he read the text three times to make sure his eyes were not playing games with him.

“That way we won’t be alone having bad dreams :p”

Air slithered back into his lungs, and Jason refused to acknowledge to himself that he was blushing.

And this moment, the thoughts keeping him from sleeping were all kind of different from the ones before.

 -----

Jason mentally cursed himself when he greeted Billy and a blush crept onto his face ; Billy didn’t make it any easier for the red ranger when he didn’t stop when approaching Jason, and rather wrapped his arms around him. He only had his reflex to thank when he reciprocated the hug on auto-pilot, because his mind was racing, and his body was feeling too much all at once.

“Wh-what that for?”, Jason managed to get out, trying his best not to sound weird – and probably failing.

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday. I actually did sleep much better after we talked, or rather texted. Well, even though it was for a short time because it was early. But I feel better than yesterday.”, Billy exclaimed, smiling happily. “Jason, are you okay? You look weird? Did you not sleep at all after?”.

“Yeah, no, I did actually. I’m-“. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, clearing his throat, avoiding Billy’s eyes as he pushed back the thoughts he had this morning in the back of his mind. “I’m good.”, he added, finally meeting his friend gaze.

Then without thinking, Jason saw his hand raise itself to land on Billy’s head, gently ruffling the boy’s hair. Realizing what he was doing, Jason froze as his eyes widened. He was starting to positively panic when Billy merely tilted his head, confused look on his face, not embarrassed in the least.

“Don’t worry, I’m not sad, Jason. I just told you, I’m really feeling better.”

 -----

“Okay, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting off for a couple of days now.”

Jason jumped in his seat as a pile a book loudly landed on the table, right in front of him. Kim promptly dropped herself unceremoniously in the seat next to him, crossing her arms, a serious yet concerned look on her face.

Jason sighed. He knew pretending would be useless with Kimberly. She was too perceptive for that.

“I- I don’t know actually.”, he answered, waving his arms around to illustrate his words. “I’m just either having horrible nightmares or I have insomnias.”

He turned to face her and was surprised to meet a raised, unimpressed eyebrow. She was expecting something else. She blankly started at him as seconds passed by, apparently not intending to speak, nor letting him off the hook.

“… Okay fine, there’s maybe something else.” A satisfied smirk grew on her lips. He cursed her under his breath. “Never become a shrink, you’d be horrible.”

He swallowed his saliva with difficulty, trying to make sense of the turmoil in his mind.

“I’m having weird feelings… about Billy.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulder. Like the blinds were suddenly opening in a dark room and light was coming through. Like a dam had just exploded and water was flowing through. “I keep seeing him dead in my dream, Kim. I just can’t erase the imagine of him just- lying there, on the dock, not breathing. So, when we’re together, I just- It’s like I constantly want to make sure he’s alive, that’s he’s here with us. I’m always catching myself looking him out, like when I walk into a room I automatically look for him. It’s like I don’t want to get him out of my sight. Wow, that’s sounded creepy, didn’t it? But then, there’s sometimes the way he smiles to me, or talks to me, or looks at me, or just is- It’s weird, I don’t know how to describe the feeling…”

The words kept pouring out of his lips like he couldn’t stop them. Kim’s simple, knowing smile made him feel better, and something in her eyes just made him realize. It dawned on him harder than the train hit them that night.

“Is that- Is that how you feel about Trini?”

And the pink ranger simply nods, smiling ever so calmly. She didn’t say a word, and didn’t have to. Jason just had to figure it out by himself, he just needed a push.

He just sat there a while, mouth opened and jaw hanging low – he knew he probably looked like an idiot but there was too much on his mind for him to care. After a while, Kim finally spoke out, putting a gently hand on his arms, squeezing it.

“You almost lost him. Well, you actually did lose him for a while. It’s normal if you’re a mess. It’s okay. Just talk to him about it.

And that was just about the most terrifying thing he’d ever heard.

 -----

Jason couldn’t sleep.

Again.

But this time was different. He was just restless, thinking, pacing around his room, sometimes picking up his phone, staring at it for a second before putting it down. And repeating the process all over again.

He had to jump off the cliff. He had to talk to Billy. But it was easier to agree with Kim than to actually do it.

He sat on his bed with vigor, taking a deep breath, taking the small object into his hand. His heart throbbing in his chest, he looked intensely at the black screen… which lighted up as the phone vibrated.

Billy Boy.

As panic ran through his veins; he let out a shrill scream and impulsively throwed his phone on the pillows across the bed.

Rolling his eyes at his own reaction, he picked up the phone again to answer the text.

“I’m afraid to fall asleep. Can I come over?”

Once again, Jason froze. Then laughed nervously. And started to hyperventilate a bit.

As his fingered were slightly trembling, he typed “Of course, the window is always open!”, trying to figure out if it sounded chill enough.

He was actively trying to calm his heart beating loudly in his chest when Billy came through the window, landing carefully next to Jason’s bed – who couldn’t hold a found smile when he saw Billy’s batman pajamas.

The blue ranger put down his bag before hoping into Jason’s bed, immediately rolling the covers around him. He breathed in deeply before casually saying “Thank you, Jason. Your smell always calms me down. That’s why I take some of your shirts sometimes. But I’ll give them back, I’m not a thief don’t worry. “

Jason wondered if Billy was in fact actively trying to kill him, or if he was just oblivious to the effect he had on the red ranger. He also wondered if the boy could see, despite the darkness, that he was as red as his armor in this very moment.

“Of course, anytime you need”, and his voice sounded a bit off to his ears.

As Billy was making himself comfortable, Jason thought he was never going to get sleep. And at his grand surprise, he actually did start to feel himself slip into slumber when he closed his eyes, feeling the heat emanating from Billy’s body next to him, listening to the boy’s calm breathing, his own body relaxing.

 -----

It was either the hands shaking his shoulder or the voice in his ears that woke up him.

He had that same feeling of panic in his chest than that night.

He was covered in sweat, body shaking and he felt the cold air hitting his damped cheeks. But then…

Warms palm running through his back, his forearms. A soft voice whispering calming words. Then hands on his hair, across his cheeks, and on his back again.

“It’s okay, Jason. It was just a dream. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jason’s body relaxed all at once, crashing against Billy who reaffirmed his grip to a just at the sudden weight. Jason’s head landed on the boy’s shoulder, his nose grazing lightly Billy’s neck. And at this moment, in this position, he absolutely understood was Billy was saying about comforting smell.

“You kept calling me in your sleep. And then you started to get agitated.”

“You were dead.”, Jason said simply. His tone was grave, heavy with a sob that was about to burst.

‘You were dead.”, he repeated, as tears started to form at the corner of his eyes, shoulders shaking abruptly.

“I just- I don’t know how to deal with that.”

Billy squeezed his arms around Jason, holding him even closer. He took Jason’s wrist, placing it against his torso, against his heart which rhythm was as fast paced as Jason’s.

“But I came back. You brought me back. And I’m here, Jason. I’m here with you, right now.”

He could feel Billy’s breath against his cheeks as the boy was pressing his forehead against Jason’s temple. The thumb of Billy’s hand was gently caressing Jason’s, still placed against the blue ranger’s torso. Jason’s adjusted his position to that his forehead rested against Billy and lifted his chin a bit. His fingers pressed harder against the other boy’s chest, digging into the flesh.

“It was so horrible…”. His voice cracked and Billy answered by squeezing him ever harder.

“Let it out, Jason. It’s okay. I got you.”, he whispered against Jason’s lips.

Jason’s heart exploded at those words, and as their lips met, the universe seemed balanced again.

#cranscott #jason scott #billy cranston #power rangers #cranscott fic #mine #i just have a lot of feeling about jason #and jason and billy #and jason face when he said i go you while holding billy's body #i also threw in some headcanons about jason dynamic with the team #and some trimberly #because i can #mywork #myfics #mycranscott #*powerrangers

[shelleyseale]

9 Great Finds for Summer

From new style staples to smart hair and skincare to ways to amp up that summer soirée, these 9 finds will help get you through the summer season in fab form.

Ah, summer. Sun in our face, wind in our hair, flowing fashions and travel...lots and lots of travel! Such an eagerly anticipated and exceedingly enjoyed season indubitably ushers in an array of covet-worthy beauty and style solutions and, lucky for you, I’ve found nine fine ones among them.

William Henry ‘Zurich’ Design Money Clips

Photo Courtesy of William Henry First are the stunningly gorgeous money clips from William Henry, a luxury jewelry and accessory brand. The company’s Zurich design money clips are stellar for summer. This striking ‘Raven’ design features a hand-forged 'brain wave' Damascus frame by Chad Nichols, inlaid with carbon fiber and a blazing red topaz. A beautiful engraving is bright cut against the matte-finished background. The Zurich ‘Panama’ design features hand-forging by Mike Sakmar using an ancient Japanese art used to decorate samurai swords. The inlay is cocobolo wood, punctuated with smoky quartz. Its engraving is also bright cut against the matte-finished background. Only 1,000 pieces of this special design are available. The Zurich ‘Talon’ money clip features a hand-carved sterling silver frame, inlaid with Kingman turquoise and a white topaz gemstone. This exquisite piece is another limited edition with just 250 available. Known for its meticulous use of classic natural materials, precious metals, gemstones, and state-of-the-art alloys, William Henry is a benchmark luxury brand that has an upper echelon following world-wide. Just visit the “Proud Owners” section of its web site to see what entertainment power players like Harrison Ford, Nick Jonas, Jared Leto, Laurence Fishburne, John Varvatos, Luke Bryan, Pierce Brosnan, and Adrien Brody own from the company’s collections. Evan A-list ladies like Cameron Diaz have bought this brand’s baubles.

Photo Courtesy of William Henry

Kut from the Kloth Apparel

Embodying the summer season and spirit of California overall, Kut from the Kloth is a vibrant, contemporary lifestyle brand. With innovative fabrics, a flawless fit and sophisticated style, the Kut collection is designed with your busy life in mind so you can confidently go from day to play. They recently debuted the go-anywhere “vacation vibes” line of ultra-fashionable travel staples designed for easy packing, wearing and washing. In fact, you can vacation with on-trend pieces created to wear right out of the suitcase. An online boutique beloved for blending modern trends with coastal flavor, Kut from the Kloth makes couture-inspired fashion both accessible and affordable. Their essential summer escape collection is great for jet-setters who want to look like a million bucks and still have plenty of cocktail cash. Short-sleeved button-ups feature palm fronds and pastel pinstripes, perfect underneath a soft, quilted sweatshirt or white denim jacket for chilly evenings. So feel those vacation vibes of delicate florals in shades of pink, coral and yellow that’ll help you stand out in the crowd.

Metalicious Silver Shark Tooth Necklace 

Photo Courtesy of Metalicious Thanks to the Metalicious line of luxury jewelry made from recycled metals, ocean-lovers can tell people their wearing the tooth of a maneater! The company’s Small Silver Shark Tooth Necklace is cast in sterling silver from an original shark tooth, then oxidized to bring out the details and give it a soft finish. Available with choice of a 17", 20" or 22" sterling curb chain to ensure it falls in that perfect spot on your necklace, the shark tooth pendant itself is 1" long x 3/4" wide. I like this piece because it can be edgy and sophisticated, but sweet and subtle also. It looks like a work of modern art! You can wear this every day, mixing and matching it with various looks. Metalicious sources recycled metals and ethically mined gemstones to create meaningful, handcrafted heirlooms that adhere to strict environmental and sustainability standards. Also charity-minded, the company donates a portion of its profits to City Harvest, a non-profit organization that provides meals to over 1.4 million New Yorkers a year.

Ekster 3.0 Parliament Smart Wallet 

Photo Courtesy of Ekster After reportedly raising over $1,000,000 in their previous crowd- funding campaign, Ekster, the world’s largest smart wallet brand, has launched their latest edition perfect for discerning men: the Ekster 3.0. This time they have engineered both the slimmest and the first voice-activated smart wallet to date. Owners can now call their wallet, find it on a map or even make use of the widespread Chipolo community to help locate their missing belongings easier than ever before. Battery issues are also no longer a problem due to Ekster’s patented solar-powered tracking solution, which on a full charge can last up to two whole months. These identity theft, RFID- blocking wallets also look extremely handsome. They’re held together by handcrafted premium leather for a luxury look and feel, while the design provides instant card access whenever necessary.

Dining Elevated Utensil ‘Uplifts’ 

Create a more stylish table setting and eat smarter at your summer soirées with the help of Dining Elevated Uplifts. These offer a cleaner, more sophisticated dining experience by elegantly raising all flatware and cutlery above a table's surface. Similar to a chopstick rest, Uplifts elevate western-style utensils to establish an improved aesthetic and hygienic standard. Uplifts look, feel and function better than the traditional table setups. Supported by research from the University of Arkansas and showcased by the National Environmental Health Association, Dining Elevated brings the highest level of food safety to hospitality. Featured on Top Chef and reportedly showcased in some of the finest hotels and restaurants, Uplifts are a game-changing addition to place setting design that the world never realized it always needed. Of course, there are a myriad to styled, materials and designs available to suit your desired aesthetic and complement your tableware.

Bloomers Frosé and More

Courtesy of Bloomers Frosé Bloomers Frosé is a vegan, non-GMO, gluten-free and kosher non-alcoholic mixer that’s ready to use and enjoy. They enable anyone to whip up an icy-smooth version of their favorite beverage in just minutes—important when you’d rather be poolside soaking up those rays. Bloomers Frosé makes it simple to take different variations of Rosé, Prosecco, Sparkling Wine, Sauvignon Blanc and spirits to the next level with easy-to-create frozen concoctions that are sure to please both intimate groups and large crowds, alike. Because what summer gathering is complete without the frozen beverage brigade? There are also brand new, low-calorie and low-sugar formulas offered by the company so, for those who want to keep their summer bod in check, there are plentiful options on that front as well.

Gleamin Vitamin C Clay Mask 

Photo Courtesy of Gleamin Gleamin is a yellow Australian Vitamin C Clay mask that's helping women worldwide achieve a natural glow! In fact, all over Instagram customers are talking about how this skincare solution has helped their skin tremendously, which is part of the reason this product actually sold out at least twice since it launched. The product is formulated from 100% vegan, natural and ethically-sourced ingredients like Yellow Clay, Aloe Vera, Turmeric, Kakadu Plum, Desert Lime, and Finger Lime Caviar. It’s designed to banish dark spots and hyperpigmentation, replacing these areas with a natural brightness. This Vitamin C-infused Clay Mask also revitalizes skin and replenishes moisture thanks to the Aloe Vera, while turmeric enhances and revives skin tone. Native to Australia, the Desert Lime, Kakadu Plum, and Finger Lime Caviar ingredients are among the richest known sources of Vitamin C. Together, this trio fights acne, heals imperfections, evens the skin tone, and prevents future breakouts. It’s especially helpful for users with deep skin tones. Gleamin offers a Glow-and-Go single kit that features a 60 gram jar of the vitamin c clay mask, plus a brightening brush, for just $39.99.  Value-minded customers can even save 25% if they purchase the Glow-and-Go Duo package that includes two masks and two brushes, available for $59.99. And, the company offers free shipping on all orders, so gotta love that!

Herban Body Care 

Imagine being able to hand-make soaps and elixirs from scratch, like a batch of fresh-baked cookies or homemade soup. Using only plant-based and concentrated formulas, you’d mix organic ingredients with herbs and essential oils from around the world. Now imagine if these soaps incorporated only body-nurturing ingredients which possess healing properties and promote a feeling of rejuvenation for all skin types. No need to get out the mixing bowl for such hand-crafted skincare, as you can turn to Herban, instead. Their collections are unisex and their custom-molded versions of different soap varietals are even featured at high-end wellness retreats and boutique hotels around the United States. All of their formulas are created in-house, so you never have to worry about outsourced ingredients. Particularly popular items include their Plant Bar soap and Salted Butter moisture scrubs. The company’s name has significant meaning as well. Breaking it down: Herb - they use herbs in all of the formulas; Ban - they ban all chemicals from their formulas; Her – it’s "her" company (woman owned); and Herban - originally targeting an underground urban culture. The line is also entirely gift-worthy!

Pura D'or Hair Care 

Photo Courtesy of Pura D'Or Get the shiny, chic hair with voluminous undertones that you can flaunt all summer long with the help of Pura D'or Hair Care. This brand features proprietary blend of organic extracts and oils helps heal your hair. With ingredients like Tea Tree Oil, Ylang Ylang, Lavender, Vanilla, among other natural vitamins and nutrients, there is no shortage of quality that helps to get the job done quite effectively. This cold press, preservation-harvested oil, known for centuries as pure gold, fuses inside each formula to help solve problems like thinning hair and hair loss due to breakage and dandruff. With products such as Hair Thinning Therapy Shampoo & Conditioner, Energizing Scalp Serum, Volumizing Styling Spray and Moisturizing Masque, Smoothing Therapy Shampoo and Conditioner, Smoothing Therapy Cream, Curl Therapy Shampoo and Conditioner and Curl Therapy Cream, take your next step to healthier hair this summer, all season long. Rest assured that, o matter what your particular hair challenges might be, there is a Pura D'or formula with a solution just for you. ~~~ ***Some or all of the accommodations(s), experience(s), item(s) and/or service(s) detailed above may have been provided or arranged at no cost to accommodate this review, but all opinions expressed are entirely those of Merilee Kern and have not been influenced in any way.*** Read the full article

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[elizabeth-234]

Chapter Eighteen

Someone to Care

Chapter Seventeen 

“You alright?” Her head twisted back around as she met Ned’s eyes. His brow was winkled when he took in her rumpled up clothes and pale complexion. Peyton hadn’t been paying attention to what he had been saying and quickly laughed off his question.

“Yeah. Thanks Ned.” Her hand grabbed at the small hairs at the back of her neck, tugging slightly before pushing them into her pockets. He looked like he wanted to say something else but he just smiled at her and bumped her shoulder before looking down at his feet.

“You know if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, even if it’s embarrassing. I’m here.” Their eyes connected and her cheeks flamed.

“Yes, uh, yeah. Thanks Ned. You’re such a good friend.” This time it was his turn to blush. She didn’t deserve him. Every day at school his smile would greet her appearance and she felt like when they first met. It felt good to have a friend, to be normal and she would do anything to keep him around. To keep some semblance of normalcy in her otherwise crazy life.  

Ned stopped and grabbed her shoulders making the people behind them grumble and move toward the edges of the hall. “Peyton, I know something is wrong and I respect that you don’t want to talk about it but you are a good friend. A kind and caring person. You know, um, I don’t let just anyone play with my limited addition Legos.”

Hesitantly she smiled at him, putting her arms around her friend. The students continued walking around them, not paying to the two people embracing in the middle of the hallway. Ned pulled away first a red stain on his cheek. Patting her on the back they continued walking to class, ignoring Peyton’s show of affection. He began complaining about the chores his mom wanted him to finish before the weekend. Peyton commiserated along with him.

The thought of going back to school had made Peyton’s stomach feel like she was a batch of laundry in the middle of the dry cycle. The knowledge of seeing Flash again made it worse. After her talk with Mr. Stark everything had seemed so clear but now that she was at school her brain was decidedly more confused - cloudier. She knew that it wasn’t her fault but it was hard to remember that and try to avoid him at the same time. She scanned the hall again as Ned continued to chat. Her senses had been extremely sensitive this morning and she convinced herself that it was her nerves getting the best of her. It felt like there was a target on her back. That someone was watching her, and she was just waiting for the shoe to drop. Peyton had half a mind to just talk to Flash. To get it over with but her stubbornness had won out so far.

There was nothing to be afraid of, she knew logically. It was Flash who would be in trouble if what happened got out but just as a precaution she had taken to walking with Ned in between all of their classes. Even the ones they didn’t have together.

At first his expression betrayed his confusion, she wasn’t one to hover unnecessarily, but she rarely asked for things without a reason so he acquiesced. He had been a lifesaver so far, asking questions but not pushing when he could tell Peyton didn’t want to answer. But he couldn’t stay with her forever and was called to stay back by Mr. Harrington.  She was left to wander to social studies alone. Flash like a fly to a corpse found her and cornered her as soon as he saw she was alone outside the classroom.

“Parker. I need to talk to you.”

“Not now Flash.”

“Come on. It will be fast.” With an expulsion of breath she followed him into a more vacated part of the hallway a couple doors down from their classroom. Peyton made sure she kept her distance from the boy as he turned to face her, his face tight. He looked nervous, she observed. His head kept turning, trying to survey the hallway and his hands were straining the bottom of his pockets.

“What do you want Flash?”

“Look, you can’t tell anyone what happened last week, alright? I’ll be in huge trouble. You can’t say anything.” Why would she expect anything less? Of course all he cared about was making sure he didn’t get in trouble. What was she expecting, an apology? She held her breath trying to calm down.

“Flash. You owe me an apology. You’re just saying it so you won’t get in trouble.” His face remained blank, not registering her statement.

“Come on Parker. Just don’t say anything. No big deal.”

“Yes, Flash. It is a big deal. You hurt me. I had bruises from where you hit me. So forgive me for not bending over backward to do something for you.” She shoved her shaking hands into her jean pockets and forced herself to continue looking into his eyes. His pale face frowned and he broke eye contact first, kicking an imaginary bug on the ground.

“I’ll get in so much trouble.”



“You should have thought about that before.”

The bell rang before he could reply and they were forced into class. Peyton leading the way while Flash shuffled behind her. The tension was palpable but Peyton tried to focus on the lesson. As soon as the next bell rang she all but ran from the room.

The rest of the week she continued to spend avoiding Flash. As a consequence she was more aware of him than normal. It took a surprising amount of effort to try and avoid someone who inhabited the same building as she did. She never looked at him but could feel his eyes following her. In the classroom, hallways, and even the lunchroom his gaze grated on her nerves. It made her skin itch. Every time she saw him coming down the hall if Ned wasn’t with her she would duck into the bathroom or around the corner, listening until his footsteps disappeared. But he made no move to approach her again. In social studies all his friends were there so he wouldn’t dare say anything.

She could feel the bags weighing down her eyes and she had to stop a yawn from escaping. This week had been exhausting. Her and May had got in a fight last night. The patrol hadn’t went well that day and she didn’t catch the person who had been going around and stealing radios out of cars. She had went home in a nasty mood and then clashed with May who had been in an equally bad mindset because, from what Peyton could gather, they were increasing her hours on the weekends again. She had run into her room, the walls reverberating from the slam, and stayed in there sulking all night. Sleep evaded her, as it had the whole week, and she was left to overthink.

While normally she would never begrudge her enhanced senses, this week they had been getting in the way of her normal functioning. Something completely normal like walking to class became a mine zone. One wrong foot out of the place and she would feel like she had stepped on the battlefield. The invasion was even leaking into her apartment. It was like when she first was adjusting to her powers, a surge of feelings that wasn’t normalized yet. At first she thought she should talk to Mr. Stark but she hadn’t seen him this week and didn’t want to text him something that was probably all in her mind. Something that might go away once she was used to it.

It wasn’t until Wednesday that Flash finally caught up with her again. She had been pacing outside of the lunchroom waiting for Ned to come meet her before they could navigate the trickling crowds when somehow Flash was standing right next to her, staring down at her. Peyton turned to go into the lunchroom. She could deal with sitting alone till Ned got there but Flash softly spoke her name sounding so un-Flash like.

He stood there oddly stiff, the rings under his eyes matched her own and for a moment she felt pity for the boy. This time he did not force them somewhere quiet but they remained in the open just to the sides of the cafeteria doors. Her eyes hovered over his forehead at a hair sticking straight up. She waited for him to speak first.  

“I’m sorry Peyton.” She continued to gaze evenly at him. “I’m so sorry for what I did. There is no excuse. I know that but I want to apologize all the same. And I’m sorry for the way I talked to you on Monday. It wasn’t okay to ask that of you and you have every right to tell someone. In fact, say the word and I will go and turn myself in.”

She could feel her jaw gaping open. It was the most sincere thing that Flash had ever said to her and it hurt. She had thought she would be enraged if he ever talked to her again but all she felt was an empty sensation. Peyton hadn’t forgiven him, not yet, but she couldn’t lie to herself. His sincerity touched a part of her. Oh, she could still feel the sting of his fist across her face and the confusion she felt afterward but this felt different somehow. He felt lighter to her, like a different person than she had been with in the hall. She brought her hand forward in between them. He stared at it for a second before raising his own to clasp them together, shaking once before awkwardly letting go.

“Thank you for apologizing. I’m not ready to forgive you yet, but maybe some day.”


He nodded, looking determined. “I understand,” he said and walked off leaving Peyton to stare after him. What had come over him and made him change his mind so quickly?

The rest of the week passed without incident. Her and May semi made up, at least they weren’t yelling at each other now, and she was excited for the weekend. It was Friday and she had plans to go to the tower to work on something with Mr. Stark. Their findings at the warehouse had been substantial but he needed time to contact some old source of his to confirm their suspicions. It was frustrating because he didn’t want them investigating it anymore. He called in other people that were “more equipped” to deal with this sort of thing. Mr. Stark had seemed weary of what he had found out in the warehouse. It had to do with some old government organization. Peyton had tried looking them up but there was nothing on the internet just something about Greek mythology. From the way he talked about them it seemed like they were bad news. That’s why Peyton wanted to be the ones to continue to work on the case, for it did seem like a mystery. Mr. Stark had put his foot down and firmly told her that someone else would be from now on.  

Once again, the dark door of the social studies classroom loomed before her. Trying not to overthink she walked in quickly to find her seat. Flash glanced up from his phone before turning back to the front. It had been like this since he apologized to her but besides Decathlon and social studies she hadn’t really seen Flash at all. He gave her a nod here and there but other than that he left her alone. It was kind of nice, a relief not having to worry about him talking to her anymore.

Mr. Ridermark commenced the lecture and she doodled in the margins of her notebook. The design began with the repetition of her web formula but as she continued writing the text became denser and it began interlocking with each other, morphing into one giant spider-web sprawling down the side of the margin.

“Well, Miss Parker. Do you have an answer?” The authoritative voice was loud and she looked up to find Mr. Ridermark standing in front of her, hands on his hips. A blush tore across her face as she scrambled to casually hide her drawing.

“I think. Uh, I’m sorry. I don’t know.”


“Miss Parker doesn’t know. Maybe if you were paying attention you would know in fact that it was in 1227 that Genghis Khan died.” His lectured went on and her leg continued to bounce up and down. A girl, Mackenzie, who sat next to Flash rolled her eyes at Peyton and whispered to another boy who’s name Peyton forgot. “I don’t even know why they let her into this school. She’s such an embarrassment.”

It was said low enough that a normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear it but Peyton did. Her face blushed red at the mumbled words and she gripped her pen tight. Flash heard as well, being next to the girl, and gave her a sympathetic glance that she did not see.

“Alright class. Here are the group assignments for the project.” Her head whipped up. A project? Since when were they doing that?

Dread filled her as she sat unmoving. It was like a lead weight had pinned her arms and legs down. Maybe she should just leave the class now, pretend she was sick and hope for a different assignment but she was glued in place. She hoped that somehow there were an odd number of people in the class. That maybe she would have to work alone. It would be way less embarrassing than having to work with, “and Flash you are paired with Peyton and Mackenzie.”

The lead engulfed her heart and her pen broke under the pressure she was exerting. Flash was looking up at her under his eyelashes, staring at the ink coating her fingers. Mackenzie smiled at Flash and threw Peyton a dirty look. Peyton, on the other hand, ignored the ink as she tore through her notes trying to find the syllabus. Trying to find the due date of the project. The ink dripped off her fingers covering the words, which had read some date in December. The rest of the semester spent on a group project with two people she really didn’t care for. Great.

As they separated into groups Peyton found herself across from her partners. The ink from her pen now smeared on the inside of her hoodie, leaving only a faint stain on her fingers. She sat quietly as they talked about their plans for the weekend. Mackenzie was short with long dark hair. She was fastidious in her work and even more so in her social life. Although she had never been outright mean to Peyton’s face, Peyton would not classify them as acquaintances much less friends. She cleared her throat trying to get their attention so they could start working. Might as well get this done as fast as possible. Peyton really did not like group projects.

Mackenzie’s head glanced toward her. “What?”

Peyton winced. “So, uh, what did you both want to do on the project? I was thinking that…”


“We’ve already decided to do it on the role of women in the Mongolian Empire.” That actually didn’t sound so bad. Peyton nodded and went back to staring at her book, pulling her hoodie around her tighter. A hand thumped on her book blocking the words.

“I said, we are going to meet after tomorrow at the library to plan this out more. Is that okay with you? Or are you busy?”


Peyton bobbed her head. She could do it before going to the tower. That way it was done with before seeing Mr. Stark. Flash was unusually quiet and the bell rang for the final time that week. Peyton was done with school and ready to patrol.

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

The shadows stretched down the stairs when she got home and Peyton was surprised to see that the lights were on in their little apartment.

“May, I’m home!” She called toeing off her shoes in the front hallway excited to see her aunt now that they weren’t fighting. The smell of tomato sauce wafted to her nose. She walked into the kitchen to see May with an apron on in front of the stove - tomato sauce and noodles boiling away. Her aunt greeted her with a smile and held her arms open.

“Hi, sweet P!” She gave Peyton a tight hug. “You will never guess who’s coming for dinner.” Peyton untangled herself and looked around finding nobody else in the apartment. The doorbell rang and Peyton swiped a roll before telling May she would get it.

“Coming” She yelled, her mouth full.

The door swung open and there stood Nat. Her red hair was styled straight today. She wore this black leather jacket and black jeans looking like the epitome of cool. Peyton looked down and saw a bowl filled with salad. She smiled warmly at Peyton as she entered their apartment.

“Hi there Peyton. Your aunt invited me for her famous spaghetti.”

Peyton tried to smile back and led her into the kitchen. She stood against the door observing the two women as they hugged and began talking about the past week.

Mr. Stark had told her all about Germany once she got the courage to ask and Black Widow’s actions perplexed her. The woman had let them go, had helped them. Sure, they were her friends and she had been trying to do the right thing but Peyton wasn’t sure if that absolved her. The whole thing made her head ache. It was curious, though. Peyton had never expected to see Nat again. She had thought that her aunt was being nice but from their interactions they seemed like they were friends. They certainly had a lot to talk about.

Peyton sat inhaling her spaghetti as May told funny stories about her work. She stayed quiet for the most part and just enjoyed listening to May talk. Nat was also quiet. Peyton could tell that the woman was uncomfortable with questions. Nothing in her face betrayed her but she would answer personal questions with a vague answer and steer the question away from herself. It was elegant the way the woman could turn the conversation around without anyone being the wiser but it made Peyton feel for the woman. It must be lonely not being able to confide your life with someone, not having many friends. Peyton felt a connection to her and could see herself in the same shoes as Nat in the future. Always trying to protect people, not showing them who you truly were.

It was nice spending time with them. Cool talking with another woman besides her aunt. May was smiling and laughing freely at a joke Peyton had made. Nat smiled behind her glass. The whole meal she felt like she was in another reality. One she didn’t have to hide away. Maybe she should ask Mr. Stark what she should do. Maybe things could be like this all the time if she could better protect May.

“…busy with the internship and me with work. So we don’t really get out much.”

Nat glanced toward Peyton, a sincere smile on her face. “Congrats on the internship. Who is it with?”

“Ohh, it’s not that cool. I just get coffee and such.” She did not want to tell Nat about the internship. Did not want anything to connect her any closer to her secret identity and was annoyed that May had said anything to begin with.

“Oh, don’t be humble Peyton.” May said, her cheeks rosy from the wine. She looked proudly over at Peyton. “She has an internship at Stark Industries. Helping the man himself. It came as such a surprise too. She didn’t even tell me she was applying and then one day came home with the good news.” The blood drained from Peyton’s face. Nat glanced at Peyton with a curious expression, the woman’s fingers wrapped around her glass. Peyton tried to even her facial muscles but nobody could lie to Black Widow.

“I didn’t know that they took interns. That must be really special working there. I heard the man is kind of a self-entitled jerk though.”

Before thinking Peyton leapt to the man’s defense. “No! Mr. Stark is, he just. Well, he’s really down to earth and, uh, a great boss and he has been really kind to me. It’s really not that big of a deal. Like I said, I’m just getting coffee”

Nat continued to look at Peyton and she thought that the woman would pry, would try and find out more. Instead she merely smiled and inclined her head before asking about school. That could have been so much worse, she thought as she glared a spot into the tablecloth, missing the small glance that Nat threw her way.

“Oh, I work in retrieval as a contractor.” May was completely fascinated by Nat’s talk of her work.

“Really? What does that entail. Sounds interesting.” She leaned toward the other woman who looked mildly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Peyton narrowed her eyes at the red haired woman.

“Well, someone or some company hires me to retrieve an asset or information for them and I find it.” All she had to do was lie to May but she chose to tell the truth. Boiled down, simplified, but true.

“So you’re like a bounty hunter? That sounds dangerous, Nat.”  Again, Peyton wondered why Nat wouldn’t just lie. Say she was in accounting or something inconspicuous.

“Sometimes it can be, but I get by.” She said with a wink in Peyton’s direction.

The evening passed in a buzz of delicious noodles, laughter, and good stories. The conversation flowed as smoothly as the music playing in the background. Nat eventually gave in to May’s begging and told them about one of her favorite places in the world, though she never ended up saying why she went there. Peyton was always aware that she was, like Nat, balancing on the tip on a pin trying not to lean to far to one side or else it would fall to the ground; all the papers it was holding falling down with it.

She excused herself to go finish her homework letting the two women continue to talk. Peyton was dozing on her book when she heard the door open and May’s perfume hit her nose. Footsteps padded to her window and the fan drowned the whizzing of her shades being pulled down out. The book left line indents in her arms once it was moved to the nightstand and the covers floated over her shoulders. Peyton still half asleep lay there letting May take care of her. Her aunt’s warm hands smoothed over her cheek before she laid a kiss upon it. Her eyes closed; a smile on her face.

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

The blaring alarm jolted her awake. She groped for the clock smashing the snooze button under her hand and winced at the sound of metal crunching. It was quiet for a moment and her breathing had just evened out only to be interrupted by another alarm.

“Shut up.” She mumbled into her pillow. The last thing she wanted to do was get up to work on the stupid project. With one last groan she got up and showered quickly before heading to the kitchen to see if there was something to eat. Peyton grabbed an apple and put a piece of bread in the toaster while she cleaned the glasses and plates form last night that had been left in the sink. The toast popped up and she glanced down the hall. May’s door was still dark underneath so she wrote her aunt a note and left the apartment.

Skipping down the stairs she headed toward the subway entrance. Peyton glanced behind her trying to ignore the pulsing sensation in the back on her head. She walked to the back of the train so she could have a view of the whole cart. Keeping her head down she took a seat and after a moment glanced up through her eyelashes, careful to make it look like she hadn’t moved. Nobody was looking at her. The people aboard the car all seemed to be in their own little world. She was just being paranoid. As she exhaled a breath, Peyton willed her shoulders to fall to their natural position. A tender feeling left there from her tense posture all week. It had been a long week and again she stopped herself from texting Mr. Stark. It was just something upsetting her balance once she got used to it, like when she first got her powers, it would be nothing to worry about. She had to repeat that to herself once more before she started to believe it. Peyton popped in her headphones hoping to drown out the sensations and swayed with the moving car; her knee bouncing up and down.

Her stop arrived and as she got off glanced back. No one else got off at the stop. Breathing a small sigh she ascended the stairs. The sunlight streamed down the steps illuminating all the dried up gum and graffiti on the walls. She loved New York.  

The wind blew across the road making Peyton wrap her hoodie around her body tighter. Although it was sunny the days were getting colder as they were now firmly planted in autumn. She would have to remember to grab her jacket out of the front hall closet. The library loomed a top a set of steps around the corner. It was a tall, stately building looking like an old prestigious college and Peyton adored it. Although reading wasn’t her favorite- she was working on it- Peyton loved the atmosphere in the library. Loved seeing all the different people working on their own projects together in one haven.

Peyton started making her way toward it weaving through the crowds of people when someone veered toward her. Trying to get out of their way she moved quickly over to the far left and into the gap between the street signs and road. The man’s hood was pulled up and he continued on his way never looking up even as she apologized. Her phone had clattered to the ground and she hastily bent down to get it, wiping off the dirt from the still smooth screen. May would have been so mad if it had cracked. The traffic rushed by her but she paid no mind to the busy noises.

She stood there waiting for an opening before heading to the main walkway again. Before she could move someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind. Turning around a man just taller than her height held a map in his hands. His sparsely haired scalp shined with the sun and the map had pristine creases from the folds.

“Excuse me Miss. You seem to be a native New Yorker. Is there anyway you could point me to Metropolitan Museum of Art? I think I may be lost.” She smiled at him and looked down at the map.

“Sure thing. It’s right here.”

“Thanks a million.” The man smiled at her and held out his hand. She didn’t want to take it, but thought it would be impolite not to so she shook it. He didn’t let go. Peyton laughed awkwardly and tried to remove her hand, tugging gently. His grip tightened and Peyton felt another presence come up behind her.

“Okay, my dad is waiting for me just up the block. He must be worried now. Hope you find your way.” The man stopped smiling at her words and stared at her. His piercing blue eyes holding no humor as his hands squeezed hers. The other figure, now beside her, clasped his arm around her shoulders. Her breathing came in short puffs and her head darted back and forth trying to catch someone’s attention on the sidewalk.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Miss Parker.” The hand clasped around her shoulder moved suddenly and before she had a chance to call out she felt a prick in her neck. Her blood ran cold and she strained her hand again. No longer worried about being polite she struggled to get away.

Peyton could feel her jaw going slack as her head began to tilt and lean sideways into the shoulder of the second man. The words forming in her mouth evaporated into a sigh. Finally the hand let go of her own, imprinting her skin with an angry outline. She slumped even further into the man next to her, breathing in his pungent cologne.

“That’s it Miss Parker. We’ll find our way together. We have somewhere we need to be. If that’s all right with you.”

Her eyes widened as a car door opened that she hadn’t noticed earlier. What was wrong with her? Screw being polite she should have followed her instincts. Peyton’s body wouldn’t obey any of her pleas as the man hoisted her into the van. Her eyes were frantic as the door shut leaving her alone in the back seat. She heard voices outside and hope flared within her. Maybe someone had seen her being loaded in! Try as she might no sound would escape her lips. The attempts leaving her breathless. When the other door opened and the map man got in she wished that she was still alone. The headrest dug into the base of her skull while her ankles, which were pushed in after her body rested at an unnatural angle.

He chuckled at her defeated expression as he entered. “Oh don’t worry Miss Parker. Nothing can stop us from arriving at our destination.”

The car started moving and Peyton attempted to will her body into motion. A ball of sweat rolled down her spine. Her finger twitched toward her phone and she hoped the man didn’t see.

“Oh no. What have we here.” His body shadowed across hers. His breath hot against her cheek as he grabbed her phone from her pocket. “I’m surprised that you are even still able to move that much. We gave you a much larger dose than necessary in case it wasn’t enough. This just proves how special you are.” He was still so close to her and Peyton tried to flinch back, to distance herself but she was frustratingly still.

“There, there, Miss Parker.” His hand rose toward her and hovered there for a second, his eyes not leaving her face. She thought he would reach forward, would touch her for a moment but all he did was move a patch her bangs out of the way to reveal her whole eyes for him. Though her movement was impaired it didn’t stop the formation of tears in the corners of her eyes and she could do nothing but let it roll down her face. He clicked his teeth at the sight. She had to be strong. May would find her note and know something was wrong when she didn’t come back. And Mr. Stark could find her; would have too.

“No need to cry, dear. As long as everything goes to plan there is no reason to fret.” She wanted to scoff, to scream but still the van was silent. The car rumbled creating a white noise that had Peyton relaxing farther into the seat.

Her head rolled toward the window and the wandering hand was back. This time he did touch her. She could feel the tips of his fingers sweeping across her cheek, forcing her to look at him. It was a gross imitation of what May had done the night before and it infected her, leaving a burning where each of the finger pads lingered. She could feel her cheeks flame as the car made a turn and her head pressed farther into the fingers.

If the windows on the van had not been tinted to a stranger this small action would have seemed like a normal show of physical affection. They would have smiled before going about their day. To the two people in the van, however, it was very different. Peyton managed to whimper before the hand withdrew.

“That’s right Miss Parker. Time to sleep.” The tears escaped her closed eyes as she prayed to anyone listening for help. Her ragged breathing got softer and with every turn of the vehicle the world got darker and darker until she wasn’t aware of anything.

Thanks to everyone! Let me know what you think.

Chapter Nineteen 

#spiderman fanfiction #female peter parker #peter is female #peyton parker #mcu fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3 #Ned leeds #Flash Thompson #kidnapping #someone to care #eliza writes #May Parker #spiderman and ironman

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic Prompt: Coldwave, Zombies.

Fic: Staying Alive - AO3 linkFandom: Flash, LOT, ArrowPairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Cisco Ramon/Lisa Snart, unproven allegations of Mick Rory/Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: “– as always, this is Ami Dillon, your resident media studies graduate student and totally under-qualified radio host, and your source for the latest updates on the state of Central City during the present Zombie Crisis, courtesy of the Mayor’s office. In addition to life-saving tips and general safety alerts, we also bring you the excellent morale-boosting soundtrack of the greatest hits of the Apocalypse, by which we mean whatever tracks the local radio stations had sitting around and the cover songs played by our dearly beloved cover band, the Post-Apocs. As always, we begin with our theme song: Stayin’ Alive, by the Bee Gees!”

(the great coldwave romance of the zombie apocalypse)

A/N: Have you ever had an idea, gone “heh, that would be funny, I’ve always wanted to try writing one of those” and then it eats your brain? This is it.

…honestly, with the zombie apocalypse theme, I really should have predicted it.

———————————————————————————-

———The End———

“– as always, this is Ami Dillon, your resident media studies graduate student and totally under-qualified radio host, and your source for the latest updates on the state of Central City during the present Zombie Crisis, courtesy of the Mayor’s office. In addition to life-saving tips and general safety alerts, we also bring you the excellent morale-boosting soundtrack of the greatest hits of the Apocalypse, by which we mean whatever tracks the local radio stations had sitting around and the cover songs played by our dearly beloved cover band, the Post-Apocs. As always, we begin with our theme song: Stayin’ Alive, by the Bee Gees!”

———The Beginning———

Consciousness comes swiftly, as it always does, but Len yawns and stretches lazily anyway. He doesn’t have anything serious planned for today: Lisa’s off doing some ‘team bonding’ thing with the new Rogues he’s recruited, by which she means she took them to that Caribbean island resort beach house that Len won in a high stakes poker game against a Family don once to kick back, drink margaritas, and demonstrate to them the value of staying in rather than out. Len’s the vinegar, Lisa’s the honey; they work well together that way.

Naturally, Len is going nowhere near that stupid island when it’s this hot; he would have agreed to go if Mick was going, because Mick would have kept people (Lisa) from badgering him about leaving the air-conditioned house to go swimming or something stupid like that, but Mick had been lured away by a fireworks convention (why are there fireworks conventions? Why? Is it specifically designed to lure in pyrophiliac arsonists? Except no, Len checked it out, it’s apparently legit and just run by fireworks companies, pyrotechnics experts, and people who like things that go boom) all the way over on the East Coast, so Len’s all by himself.

He finds he likes that state so much more when it’s voluntary.

Still, biology can’t be denied: he’s definitely awake now.

Yawning again, he pads over to the kitchenette they’ve set up in the warehouse to make himself a cup of coffee, flicking on the TV as he does.

“Scenes of chaos break out internationally as what can only be described as zombies terrorize cities and towns around the globe,” the reporter says as violence plays out behind her. “No one knows where this plague came from, but the simultaneous outbreak in multiple locations has been definitively determined to be an act of bio-terrorism. Governments around the globe have deployed the military and information is limited. Interstate and international communications are being shut down as we speak. We don’t know how much long we will be able to continue reporting –”

The TV crackled, static-y, and abruptly cut out.

“Well,” Len says, reaching out to flick the coffee maker back off before it’s finished making the coffee. “Shit.”

———The End———

“Mayor Snart! Mayor Snart!”

“I am not the goddamn mayor,” Len says, as evenly as he can, though he suspects sourly that he’s going to lose that fight - in fact, that he may have lost it several weeks ago and no one seems inclined to confirm to him that the fight is lost.

The grins of the media pool seem to confirm as much.

“I’ll give you five minutes to ask questions,” he concedes. “Starting now. Go.”

“Mayor Snart – Scott Evans, Central City Picture News. Now that you’ve opened Central City’s doors to the international community once more -”

“After they go through our quarantine procedures, yes,” Len interjects.

“-the world wants to know how you managed to make Central City the most functional city in North America following the Crisis.”

“You do realize I said I was only giving you five minutes, right?” Len says with some disbelief. “Four minutes, thirty eight seconds, now.”

The reporter seems to realize his error and quickly rushes to the next point on his list. “Mayor Snart, when did you first learn about the crisis?”

“When I saw the news on my TV, just like most of the rest of the world,” Len says. “Next question?”

“Mayor Snart – Ronnie Troupe, Daily Planet,” a black woman says. “What reason did you have for going straight to Central City University in your quest to defend the city? What qualities were you thinking about?”

“The intercom system, mostly,” Len says, then takes half a step back at the sheer noise the media pool is generating at him. He holds up his hands for silence, which he even gets after a few minutes. “Everybody’s got a zombie plan, right? This one was mine. I always figured that the university – any university – has the most important assets you need when dealing with a zombie invasion, and I turned out to be right.”

“What assets are those?” the woman asks. “The library, for information?”

“The cafeteria, with food supplies?” another reporter asks eagerly.

“A well-stocked medical facility?” another one added in.

“All of those are important,” Len says. “But no, I was thinking about its greatest asset: an intercom system, and lots and lots of mostly able-bodied young adults between eighteen and twenty six who are conditioned by over twelve years of school to listen to anything that comes out of that intercom.”

He has to step back again as the media roars, each one yelling follow-up questions and drowning themselves out in the sheer noise. Then, when they realize he can’t hear them, they each start shouting his name – “Mayor Snart! Mayor Snart!” – in an effort to get his attention.

This is ridiculous.

“Lise,” he says to his sister and self-appointed chief of staff, who is perched idly in the chair next to his podium, filing her nails in a purposefully bored manner. “I’m basically the dictator of Central City right now, right? Why haven’t I banned the paps already?”

“Because you always said the only reason you can’t steal speech is ‘cause it’s free,” Lisa replies, not missing a beat. “Sorry, big brother. Suck it up.”

Len looked at his other side, where his personal admin – why does he have a personal admin again? He doesn’t remember agreeing to that – shrugs. “Sorry, boss. She has a point. You should answer some more questions.”

“Yeah, that ain’t happening,” Len says, his internal clock hitting a blissful zero in its countdown. “Sorry folks, your time is up. I’ll be answering questions again on Friday –”

He eyes a smug-looking Lisa.

“– and in the meantime, I’m sure my chief of staff will be happy to answer some questions for you.”

He dashes off the stage, Lisa’s yowl of “Lenny, you bastard!” following him like music in his ears as the reporters turn on her like piranhas in a feeding frenzy.

She’ll make him regret it later, he’s sure.

But for now: freedom!

———The Beginning———

Len makes his way through the entrance of the university, which is filled by anxious-looking undergrads and older students, all gathered in groups and chattering amongst themselves or gathered around the televisions.

Some of them, in what Len can only describe to be the true tenacity of the American K-12 system, are still doing their homework.

Sometimes Len is so happy he’s a dropout.

“Hey, you,” he ask a black kid who’s hovering around watching the crowds with increasing trepidation. “Where’s the AV department?”

“Uh, third floor, I think,” the guy says. “Wait, who are you?”

“I’m the guy that’s going to keep most of the people here from dying,” Len says, and taps the gun strapped to his leg. “By force, if necessary.”

The kid blinks and stares at the gun. “Hold up. Are you Captain Cold?”

“Right now, I’m the man in need of the AV department because I don’t fancy dying,” Len informs him. “You hear that noise in the halls? That’s the student body hurtling towards panic. Panic leads to questionable decision making and stampedes, which in turn lead to –”

“Lots of dead people, no zombies required,” the kid finishes, looking grim. “Okay, on the off-chance that you’re not as bad as everyone says you are, follow me; I’ll show you where it is.”

“You’re very trusting,” Len observes, following him as he barrels down the hallway at double-time pace. "Especially given that I am a supervillain.”

“Not so much you I’m trusting,” the kid says. “Barry says good things about you.”

Len’s eyebrows shoot up. Well, if that’s not a spot of good luck, he doesn’t know what is. He has no idea who the kid is, but if he’s part of the Flash gang, that’s good news for him. “Barry – Allen?”

“That’s the one.”

“And where is Barry Allen, by chance? I’d been wondering that. Zombie crisis everywhere - I thought I’d see lightening every step I take.”

The kid makes a face. “He’s in Starling City. And possibly another universe. He and – uh, a bunch of the others – went to go stop the zombie plague.”

“I’m in awe at his success,” Len says, voice dripping with sarcasm, and then he sees the door he’s looking for and walks in. The intercom set up is immediately apparent and he heads towards that, sitting down and pulling it out.

“What are you going to do?” the kid asks.

“What’s your name?” Len asks instead.

“Wally West.”

“Great, Wally, you can help me with the vernacular.” Len turns the intercom on and summons up all his vague memories of high school and television shows thereof. He puts on his best homeroom announcer voice. “Students and faculty of Central City University, pay attention. This is an urgent announcement regarding the ongoing crisis. In order to deal with this in an orderly manner, I need all of you to head over to one of the big classrooms –”

He pulls away from the mic and looks at Wally.

“You mean the lecture halls?”

“- to one of lecture halls. Once those have been filled up, any remaining individuals should fill up the classrooms near to them. Please fill up all available seats. Once there, circulate a –”

He pulls away again and asks Wally, “What do you call it when they all sign their names?”

“Attendance sheet.”

“Circulate an attendance sheet. We’re going to want to know where everyone is. The next step is going to be splitting you up into groups of five people, so please start organizing yourselves into those groups. Faculty, send a representative of each department, but specifically the history, engineering, chemistry and physics departments, to lecture hall 101 –” Len had noticed that that was the largest one. “– and AV techs, please set up a system by which the broadcast from that room can be sent to all the other rooms or hooked up into the intercom system. Additional instructions as to how we’re going to be dealing with this crisis will be forthcoming in thirty minutes, so be in position by then.”

Len flicks the microphone off. “Think that worked?”

“I mean, yeah, everyone’s gonna do it,” Wally replies, eyes narrowed a bit. “But what’s the actual plan?”

“It’s a university,” Len says. “Gotta keep up with the proud college traditions of 1968.”

“1968?”

“Do you even get taught history here?” Len complains. “I’m talking about barricades.”

Wally’s eyes go wide. “Barricades?”

“Well, yeah,” Len says. “How else are we going to establish a clear zone to use as a base to re-take the rest of the city?”

“Re-take the city?”

Len holds up a finger. “Barricades,” a second one, “clear zone,” a third, “quarantine procedures,” a fourth. “Siege warfare and expansion to fight the zombies. You can’t fight if you don’t have somewhere to fall back to. We’ve got a couple of thousand students waiting for directions right now. You gonna help?”

“Yes, sir!” Wally says enthusiastically.

Len makes a face. “No ‘sir’,” he corrects him. “If you gotta call me anything, just make it ‘boss’.”

———The End———

– in view of the mental and physical deterioration suffered by the individuals afflicted by TX-90 (colloquially known as “zombies”) [see supra, chap. 2], city warfare quickly reverted to the forms most familiarly used in the European social conflicts of the 19th century, most famously in Paris, France during the revolutions of 1789, 1832 (popularized, of course, by the famous novel ‘Les Misersables’ by Victor Hugo), 1848, and 1871.

Early military blockades, composed in the more ‘modern’ style primarily of individuals and high powered weaponry, proved ineffective against the onslaught, particularly in view of the general reluctance of soldiers to aim against such human-appearing enemies, many of whom were still dressed in casual civilian garb. Additionally, the infection of a single soldier on the line caused a severe and immediate drop in morale, leading to regular retreats and ineffective blockades.

In contrast, the revival of the use of physical barricades, accompanied by siege warfare tactics, in the retaking of Central City [see infra, chap. 6] was extraordinarily successful. As the traditional ‘paving stone’ barricade structure was rendered unavailable due to the introduction of asphalt roads, the citizens of Central City – led by Leonard ‘Captain Cold’ Snart [this work, which focuses on the strategic and tactical elements of the crisis, will not go into detail regarding the well-known actions of Mr. Snart; for a full biography, see Roberts et. al, Cold: A Study in Unorthodox Leadership and Lahiri, Divak & Strumm, Supervillains To Superheroes: The Rogues During the Crisis] – resorted instead to a more nuanced form.

The barricades of Central City, which served as the model for the other cities in the United States and, eventually, the world, are created by using elements of the existing infrastructure. Three teams would be sent out on any given ‘building’ expedition: the ‘scouts’, the ‘builders’, and the ‘reserves’. The scouts – a position reserved for individuals of bravery and recognized talents in armed combat, often including criminals of Mr. Snart’s acquaintance which he deemed trustworthy and supplemented by his student army, many of which were obliged to pick up firearms instruction as part of the ‘Crisis Curriculum’ [see infra, chap. 5, subsection 3 ‘Educational Initiatives’] – would be posted at the furthest extent from the epicenter (originally: Central City University) in order to spot any approaching zombie. While the scouts maintained the perimeter, the ‘builders’ would overturn local cars onto their sides and position them in a semi-circular fashion between the buildings on each side of the street. Quick-acting cement, formed in large quantities in the labs of Central City University [see infra, chap. 6, subsection 5; see also Trumbull & Hall, Chemical Manufacturing in the Midwest: The Zombie Revival], would then be poured into the gaps between the cars, creating an immediate ‘wall’ that would serve as a barrier between the oncoming zombies and the defending individuals. The ‘reserves’ were there to supplement the ‘scouts’, should any roving bands of zombies take notice. A certain number of ‘gates’ were introduced in each barricade wall, initially made of doorframes stolen from nearby buildings and later reinforced with additional layers of concrete and steel once the local automobile factories had been reclaimed and their manufacturing capabilities turned to support the barricades.

These barricades were simple, cheap, and brutally effective against the ‘mindless’ zombie attackers, who would simply charge the barricades repeatedly, enabling the defenders to utilize siege warfare tactics, including, but not limited to, burning oil, spikes, ditches, and even simply luring zombies in before destroying a whole set with a grenade while the defenders hid behind their wall. Due to the cheapness of this approach, utilizing existing cars already out on the street, it was possible to continue to expand with relative ease without disrupting the earlier built segments. As each barricaded area was secured, yet another set of teams was sent out to create another barricade further out. It is this simple yet visually arresting barricade system that created the famous ‘concentric circles’ of Central City, leading to the famous images captured by airborne photographers –

excerpt from Military Tactics During the Crisis, pub. 2018, © Columbia University Press

———The Beginning———

“They’re coming!” a panicked cry went up.

Len races down to the gates of the university, which have been barred and sealed by his order. The first barricade line is still being built; he’s pleased to see that his squads are returning back to the relative safety of the university as ordered instead of trying to fight the zombies.

Perhaps a little more “retreat” and a little less “fleeing in terror” would be better, but hey, they’ll work on that.

“Does anyone have a baseball bat?” he calls out.

It’s just weird enough that everyone stops panicking long enough to turn to look at him in disbelief.

“Chair or table legs work too,” he adds, then goes over and hops the fence. “Though I wouldn’t mind having a few guns at my back as well. And can someone call the chemistry department? That work I’m having them do in their spare time regarding explosives will come in rather helpful soon, I’m sure.”

Then Len turns to face the zombies. “Heeere, zombie!” he calls, mimicking every person he’s ever heard talk to a dog. “Heeere, zombie!”

“Is he nuts?” he hears someone ask.

Possibly multiple someones.

But it works – the zombies lurch after him instead of aiming for the university walls filled with tasty, tasty undergraduates, because the zombies clearly have lost whatever portion of their brain involves prioritization and/or efficiency.

They’re quicker than the slow-walkers he might have hoped for in an ideal universe, but he’s even faster, jogging a quick circle around them until they’ve gotten themselves all into one big, giant ravening mob.

One big, giant target.

Len grins.

He hoists up his cold gun and fires lengthwise at full power, freezing the whole lot of them as he slowly moves the gun from left to right over the crowd. As he fires, he moves steadily sideways, echoing his first round around the zombies, careful to ensure he gets every single one of them.

This involves having to climb up on a dumpster to get the last few that got stuck in the middle, but that’s fine.

When he finishes, with nearly forty zombies all frozen, he turns to look at his audience of gaping students. “Baseball bats, chair legs, table legs,” he calls to them. “Any blunt object will do. I want this ice cubes smashed before they even think about starting to melt, you hear me?”

The roar of agreement he gets is most satisfactory.

———The End———

“Welcome back,” the TV show host says with a grin. “Our guest tonight is here to talk about her newest book – the Age of Heroes. Ms. West here is a long-time citizen of Central City –”

There’s a long pause for applause.

“– and one of the first chroniclers of the activities of the Flash, whom many people are calling the country’s first super-powered superhero.”

“Well, it’s something of a race between us and Metropolis,” Iris West says with a laugh. “Thanks for having me. Ironically enough, though, my book isn’t about the superpowers people – especially people in Central City – got, or what they chose to do with in. Instead, my book is something of an exploration of how the whole superhero phenomenon got started: people realizing that they was something to fix in this world, and then going to fix it.”

“A lot of people have been quibbling with your decision to set the start of the Age of Heroes, as you call it, back with the emergence of the Green Arrow, Star City’s controversial vigilante figure. What do you have to say to that?”

“It’s very hard to say exactly when something began,” Iris replies. “Certainly, academically, you could go with any number of options. That being said, I do think that the Green Arrow counts as a superhero – he dedicated his life to stopping evil in his city, even if the way he started out was…more violent than what we’ve come to expect from our heroes.”

“Though, speaking of violent heroes, what do you have to say about the current leadership of Central City?”

“Oh, Mayor Snart?” she says, grinning. “He’s – definitely a special case.”

The host leans forward, eyes avid. “In fact, it appears that your foster-brother, Barry Allen, has attended several events as Mayor Snart’s plus-one instead of his husband. Given the – would it be wrong to say legendary? – nature of that particular relationship, that’s got a lot of people talking. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Yeah, I do,” Iris says, looking amused. “Weren’t we here to talk about my book?”

———The Beginning———

Len isn’t going to throw the phone across the wall. He is not.

For one thing, he’s a mature adult. Way too old to be throwing temper tantrums, even if there are no impressionable kids around to terrify. It’s childish and irresponsible and stupid.

For another thing, he didn’t work this hard on a reputation for being cool to lose it at the first provocation. He’s Captain Cold, for fuck’s sake. He is not going to go off at nothing.

A lot of nothing.

Several weeks of nothing.

“Don’t throw it, boss,” Wally says, walking in with an armful of paper. “Cell phones are hard to replace.”

Len gives the kid a dirty look. “There’s a knock off cell phone store inside the clean zone now, I happen to know. Anyway, did I ask for your input?”

“Yeah, you did,” Wally says. “When you appointed me your personal aide.”

“Why did I do that?” Len wonders grumpily, but he already knows the answer to that.

“Because you hate paperwork with the fury of a million suns,” Wally says, smirking. “Or would you prefer to say something more like the frozen heart of a dead star being sucked into a black hole of vast emptiness?”

“You were an English student, weren’t you?”

“Engineering, actually. Cars.”

“You missed your calling.”

Wally cracks a grin. “My sister’s a journalist. Iris West.”

“I’ve read her stuff,” Len acknowledges with a nod. “Good writer. Probably gonna murder Barry for dragging her out on adventure when she could be winning a Pulitzer.”

“She insisted on going,” Wally says. “She’ll be okay; I’m sure of it. Barry would fix the timeline if her nail broke.”

Len barks a laugh. “Speaking of the Flash gang,” he says, gesturing for Wally to come closer, “do you have the plan for retaking STAR Labs?”

“No, that’s Axel’s bailiwick,” Wally says. “He’s got this genius for guerilla tactics that you really have to admire; he’s on his way. He’s not that bad, you know?”

“Getting him away from Jesse’s influence helps,” Len allows. “He’s still a punk. You get Rosa’s little sis?”

“Ami? Yeah, she’s still handling communications and having a blast. No word yet on Scudder - he’s probably still in Iron Heights, and that’s still no-man’s-land thanks to the military.”

“Pity,” Len says. “Useful skill set, that. Well, we’ll figure it out when we get there. Have we secured the reservoir? Professor Latham’s lecture on cholera gave me nightmares.”

Wally shudders. “No kidding. Yeah, it’s secure; Singh gave the orders and the CCPD stopped bitching. Well, for the most part. They’re feeling overshadowed.”

Len shrugs. “I have plenty of cops in the ranks,” he points out. “It’s the ones that cling to their need for superiority over the rest of us that are having trouble adjusting. Though really, after we raided the SWAT supply, I don’t see what’s so great about their precious hierarchy anyway. Whatever. I want to see the latest update from the reservoir first thing this afternoon.”

“Right,” Wally says, noting it down. “Now you wanna tell me what’s really bugging you?”

“Do I look like the touchy-feely ‘talking it out’ type?”

Wally cracks a grin. “No,” he admits. “But you wouldn’t be asking about the reservoir three days after declaring the project in progress and leaving it in Jax’s hands - also, on that note, he hates you and would like to remind you that he never actually got into college - ”

“He knows more engineering from his auto repair job than some of the so-called professors,” Len replies with a shrug. “He can learn how to fix a dam. Besides, I assigned him a professor – what’s his name – as back-up, didn’t I?”

“He still hates you for making him a general.”

Len smirks. He likes appointing people as generals, especially individuals under the age of twenty-five. They always freaked out about it.

“He can tell me all about it when I see him this afternoon on the reservoir project,” he says.

"Which is suddenly important again, why?”

Len scowls at his cell phone. “Solar’s all well and good to supplement our generators, but I want some hydroelectric to help boost the phone lines. Why the hell did the military cut them everywhere, anyway? Did they think the zombies were going to tap them or something?”

"I thought you already heard from your sister,” Wally replies, frowning.

“I have,” Len replies. “She has a satellite phone. The military of the island nation she’s on has barred all entrance/exit traffic until they’re satisfied that the crisis is over, so she and the others went back to the resort and are currently debating piña coladas vs margaritas.”

“Wow, really?”

Len shrugs. “It’s an island, and I haven’t seen any indication that zombies swim.”

“…now I’m imagining a swarm of underwater zombies, thanks for that, boss.”

“Me, too, actually,” Len says with a frown. “Get the bio department on that question stat, will you?”

“Sure thing. So what’s the problem with the phones, then? I thought you said your sister was the only living relative you had.”

“She is,” Len says, eyes still stealing to the useless and not-ringing phone. “It’s my partner I haven’t heard a peep from.”

———The End———

“– our next Oscar nominee is 500 Miles, an epic tale of love and hardship set during the events of the Zombie Crisis. This moving film skillfully merges romance, tragedy, action, and, yes, even comedy – yes, a romantic comedy has finally been nominated for an Oscar, and all it took was a horde of attacking zombies –”

The presenting actor pauses to allow the audience to laugh and the camera to pan over various faces in the audience, all smiling.

“As you all know, 500 Miles is based on the amazing true story of current Central City mayor, Leonard Snart, and his husband, Mick Rory, who found themselves located on opposite sides of the country when the Zombie Crisis began –”

The camera zooms in on a group of people in the audience sitting by the far left wall. A tall man with closely clipped salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a dark blue suit, is slouched down in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s developing a headache; the man by his side, a larger man with a shaved head, has a giant grin on his face. He’s dressed in a tux and he’s somehow obtained a giant tub of popcorn, despite food generally not being allowed into the building.

The young man sitting on the other side of the first man, a lithe brunette with a pleasant smile, punches the first man in the arm and gestures at the camera.

The first man does not show any inclination to raise his head and mutters something that makes the young man blush and the second man laugh, as does the dark-skinned young woman in a lovely dress sitting by the young man’s side.

“– and this film chronicles their epic journey to reunite, despite the many hardships they encountered along the way. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: 500 Miles.”

An orchestral score begins to play as the lights dim and a giant screen descends to the center of the stage.

A vaguely audible “Oh, god, kill me now” can be heard from the position of the group that had been the subject of the camera focus a few minutes before.

———The Beginning———

“What’s all the big fuss?” Mick asks the first group of people he finds climbing out of their cars with duffle bags and a scared expression, poking his head out of the side of the car he’d hotwired. They’d reached the same conclusion as him - the highway, filled with cars, was never going to start moving again.

Mick wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, because he’d been at the fireworks convention for the last few days, slept the sleep of the thoroughly satisfied yesterday, slouched around the house for one lazy day to indulge in the feeling of having been around so many beautiful fires, and today he’d started heading back to the rendezvous point with Len. Same as always.

Except for the bizarre traffic patterns getting in his way. It’s been three hours - they should have moved a little.

“It’s - the radio - they’re saying -” the father of the group is stuttering.

The little girl, about eleven, has no such issues. “There’s zombies everywhere and they’re gonna kill us all!”

“Jessie!”

“What? It’s true!”

Mick blinks. He hadn’t been listening to the radio, though apparently that was an oversight. But really, zombies? That has to be a joke.

He flicks it on.

“– more sightings of the alleged ‘zombies’ have been reported in every major city and many rural areas. People are advised to stay indoors where possible and to report any instance of contagion to the military hotline, reachable at –”

He flicks it off.

“Huh,” he says. “Zombies. Okay, then.”

He climbs out of the car, because they’re definitely not getting anywhere by car. He grabs the backpack he’d brought along for the trip, which had everything he needed – a change of clothing, the solar generator for his heat gun, a hard-copy map and a couple of snacks – and straps his gun back onto his thigh.

“Guess I’m gonna have to walk this one,” he says, shaking his head at the thought. Cross-country hiking was never his idea of a good time, but he can manage.

“Walk?” the father asks. “Walk where?”

“Central City,” Mick replies.

“What’s in Central City?” the mother asks. “They said the zombie outbreak was everywhere, especially the cities.”

“Yeah, but Central City’s gonna solve the problem,” Mick says confidently.

“Why Central City in particular?”

“Because Central City’s got someone with a plan to handle this,” Mick says. Central City’s got Len, after all; they’ve never actually discussed what they should do in the event of a zombie apocalypse – the few times it came up while drunk and watching movies, they usually assumed they’d be together during it – but Mick knows Len. Len will have a plan. Len will enact that plan.

The zombies don’t stand a chance.

“You think they’ll be able to beat the zombies?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Mick says.

“But how are you going to get there? There will be zombies all the way there!”

Mick pats his gun. “I’m not worried about zombies,” he says with a smirk. “I can defend myself.”

The whole family exchanges looks. “Could we come with you?” the father asks hesitantly. “To Central City, I mean. It’s as good a destination as anywhere else – I don’t trust the military shelters they’re talking about on the radio.”

Mick blinks. He hadn’t thought about taking stragglers, but he guesses there’s no reason why not. After all, it’s useful to have someone to keep watch while he sleeps.

“Sure,” he says. “As long as you keep up, you’re welcome to come with me.”

“And you’re sure they’ll be able to win? Even against zombies?”

“I’m sure,” Mick says.

After all, a zombie crisis is not really that different from any other, and he knows what to do during a crisis.

Get back to Len’s side.

———The End———

“– I mean, man, it wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before,” the young man with the long, braided hair said earnestly to the camera. “It was, like, a religious experience, you know? All of mankind, getting together, in all its different shades and complexity, in one group, and we followed our leader to the promised land.”

“It was just like they always said it’d be in church,” a young black woman adds in. Her hair curls in tight corkscrews and frame her face like a halo. “I never really listened, you know? What do they know, they’re all old and boring, that sort of thing. But it was just like they said. I opened my heart, and I felt the truth of it.”

“He led us to the promised land,” the young man repeats. “All the way from the coast to the heartland. He pulled us together when we were scattered. But he wasn’t, like, snooty about it or anything. I wouldn’t have thought that the prophet would’ve been the sorta guy to sit back and smoke a joint with you – I mean, when I was protesting in favor of legalization, I had that sign and everything, you know, Jesus woulda smoked one, but, you know, I didn’t really think it’d be that way. But it was!”

“He wasn’t doing it for fame,” another man adds, a young Korean man, rubbing his eyes and shifting a little away from the first man. “He didn’t even want to do it at first, I think. But he protected us anyway. He was called, and he answered.”

“He just tore his way through the zombies whenever they attacked,” the first man says. “Fire shooting from his hands.”

“It was a flamethrower,” the black woman says, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t make it any less impressive –”

“A flamethrower that works with no visible source of fuel and can roast a zombie to ash from ten yards back?” the first man says skeptically. “Right. That’s what he wants you to think.”

“Listen, you moron; we already live in an age of miracles, we don’t need to be making up –” the young woman says, leaning forward emphatically.

“Hey, hey!” the second man interjects. “What would Mick think about how the two of you are behaving right now?”

They both look shamefaced.

“You’re right,” the woman says. “He’d tell us we had to get our act together and deal with this shit, because it’s the end of the world and there’s no one else to deal with it for us. Whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together.”

“He’s really profound,” the first man says wistfully. “Walking with him was an honor.”

“It really was,” the woman says, and the second man nods. “Let us tell you about how we joined up –”

———The Beginning———

“Goddamn military,” Len snarls. “Wally, make a note, we’re not ever letting them do anything ever again. And I mean ever!”

“You got it, boss,” Wally gasps, the rain slicking down his hair. He looked rather bedraggled, clutching at his coat in an attempt to keep out the storm. Ami, clutching her tablet in its water-proofed case, doesn’t look much better.

“How many do the reports say?” Len asks, stalking along the wall they’d created.

“They brought a whole Marine battalion,” Wally says.

“How many companies?”

“Last thing we heard before they realized we were listening on their frequency, three, but undersized,” Ami volunteers.

“So we’re dealing with anywhere from a few hundred to nearly a thousand,” Len says grimly. “We can’t assume any of them got out of that hell-hole military base without infection. How goes the building of the wall?”

“Points A through D report that they’re on schedule. E and F are reporting trouble with flooding –”

“I’ll go there now and freeze them a dam,” Len decides, turning on his heel and stalking towards there. “Not that I think the zombies will really give a dam about it…”

“That was awful, boss,” Ami says.

“Let it go,” Wally tells her. “Complaining just makes him worse.”

“No, I actually rather enjoyed it,” Ami says. “But it was awful. Factually.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Len says. “How are our squad leaders doing? Everyone in position?”

“Yeah,” Wally says. “Everyone’s checked in, it’s all good. We’ve got car lights on every wall, so we’ve got visibility for at least thirty feet all around, even with this damn rain.”

“If we had a few more of your cold guns, we’d be golden,” Ami says with a sigh.

“Sorry, my sister took her gun with her,” Len says, not without regret. “And we don’t have enough cryogenic power sources for another gun.”

“The cold grenades you were able to work up are a pretty decent alternative,” Ami assures him. “Also, engineering loves you.”

“It’s called thinking outside the box,” Len says. “Or outside the bomb, anyway. Everyone knows not to activate them –”

“– until we see the whites of their eyes, yeah, yeah,” Wally says. “Everyone knows.”

“Good,” Len says. “We’ll send the runners out as soon as E and F are ready to deal with an attack, if necessary; they’ll lure them in towards where we’re strongest, so hopefully E and F won’t have to fight at all. Doesn’t mean it ain’t a good idea to make sure they’re secure. Wally, go to point A; I want to make sure the runners know that if they try to be a hero, I’m gonna hunt them down and kill ‘em myself.”

“Yes, boss!”

“Ami, point C. I want our electronics team working on getting the goddamn grid back up right away. And if the federal government sends a message, tell ‘em we’re seceding.”

Ami hides a smile very badly. “Yes, boss,” she says. “Anything else I should mention?”

“Yeah. Central City’s a dictatorship, namely mine, and they’ve gotta apply for diplomatic status if they want anywhere near our borders.” He pauses. “Oh, and make up some stupid-ass limbo shit they’ll have to go through to get diplomatic status approval. Check with poli-sci and the D&D foucs groups for ideas.”

“Yes, boss!”

“Stop ‘yes, boss’-ing me and go,” he snaps.

They dash away.

Len stalks forward, mind already busy with plans to protect his city from an armed, infected battalion of soldiers who just couldn’t be bothered to listen to the warnings of a mere criminal.

He’s too busy for it, but he takes a moment to be happy that Mick isn’t here, though he would love to have him by his side.

He hopes Mick’s safe, wherever he is.

He hopes Mick’s near –

But not too near.

———The End———

The chaos raged about the countryside the dead rose from the grave, a stormy sea where every ship was strained and all were tried; surrounded by dread gates, nowhere to flee. The earth was churned by feet worn down to bone and hands that grabbed in a full-swelling tide under a moon that froze the human throne and burned in light those who had died. But as their horde approached our wretched wall, Despair tearing at bricks, we would not bow. These heroes stood so that we might not fall, For Central’s death would not, for them, be now. Our walls did fall, but we–the people–stay, knowing how close we came to death that day.

THE ZOMBIE CYCLE, SONNET. 6 – Harris “H.R.” Randolph-Wells

———The Beginning———

Mick grew up in the country.

Oh, sure, it liked to call itself a suburb of Keystone, but it was so far out in the sticks that Keystone was ashamed to admit to it. He knows exactly how it works, out in the places that are only theoretically tamed; he knows the dirt fields that appear out of nowhere, the hidden dangers in the pleasant pool of water, the way it gets dark.

It gets very, very dark.

And nowadays, there are more things that roam in the dark than just wild animals.

“Follow me,” Mick bellows, but his (surprisingly large, now that he looks at them) band of tagalongs mill aimlessly, panicking, as the groans of the approaching zombies become audible. It’s worse, in the dark - they have flashlights that do nothing, car lights that do nothing but make people claustrophobic - because they can hear them, humanity’s nightmare in its hideous infectious glory, they can hear them, but they can’t see them.

“We’ll lose them when we cross the river,” he bellows. “Just cross the river! Follow me!”

It does no good.

They’re caught in the panic and the terror of the night.

Mick knows that they’ll be safe if they only cross the river - terrifying to do late at night, he knows, fording a river is dangerous even outside of the Oregon Trail games - but it’s the only chance they’ve got. The fucking idiots that left the group to go to the Walmart accidentally drew the attention of an entire zombie horde, then led them right back to the group.

He could go himself. Him, and the others who aren’t crazy with fear, and he’d get father and faster without the stupid tagalongs that joined up with him, most without even asking. They just saw people walking and decided that they’d better follow, because at least someone seemed to know what they were doing. Didn’t even ask, half the time.

They’re not his crew. They’re not his anything. He doesn’t know them, they don’t know him. He could leave them now for the monsters to get.

Mick snarls.

He hates not being the scariest monster out there.

Mick holds his gun to the sky and shoots up.

It’s a waste of charge and fuel, he knows that, emptying his gun in a pillar of fire against the vacant skies when he’d much rather turn it against some zombie monsters, but it works.

All the panicking masses turn and look at him.

“Get sticks,” he orders, lifting his voice as loud as he can. “Big sticks, and whiskey. We’ll make ourselves light and fire, and then all you need to do is follow the fire.”

Weary, dazed, scared eyes look at him.

Shit, this isn’t Mick’s area of expertise. He can’t convince them to follow him; can’t convince them to save their own damn lives. He’s not good with people. Too big, too angry, too dumb - he doesn’t have Snart’s silver tongue or Lisa’s charming ways.

But he does have fire.

“Follow the fire,” he orders them, and backs off, gun held aloft, flames shooting up in a line that can be seen a mile away. “Come on, you idiots! Follow the fire!”

And he’s almost entire sure that it’s not going to work, but it does. The first few people stagger towards him. Then the next few after that, and then little by little the whole group is moving.

“Follow the fire,” Mick bellows, again and again. And then they start saying it too - “Follow the fire,” they whisper, through fear-bitten lips and chattering teeth. “Follow the fire.”

A lot of voices, saying it. Saying it again and again, all together, until it’s a mantra that even the people way in the back can hear and understand.

And Mick backs away the whole time, backs down to the river front and into the river, makes them keep going. He stays in there, even though it’s cold and wet and awful, because they need to see him to keep going. People help each other through the muck, whispering to each other, “Follow the fire.” Those that begin to lose energy are pulled along, even carried, and though they can’t walk, they groan the line along with everyone else.

Mick keeps the fire burning until the last one of them has crossed the river, collapsing on the banks of the other side. Only when each and every one of his stupid follow-alongs has made it does he turn off the gun and fall onto his ass, shoulders sinking with exhaustion.

“Like in Genesis,” someone next to Mick mutters, voice dull with exhaustion and the remnants of terror. “Follow the pillar of fire to the promised land.”

“Fire,” someone else agrees. “Fiery fire.” And then another someone starts laughing, and that does it. They’re all laughing, even Mick, and he has no idea why.

When the laughter dies, someone turns to Mick and asks, “What do we do with Alex and Mikhail?”

Mick just stares, because he has no fucking clue who that is.

“The fuckers that brought down the horde on us,” another guy clarifies, looking like he’s considering being angry but he’s a bit too tired to be totally sold on it yet. “We need to punish them.”

“No, we don’t,” Mick objects, and weirdly enough they all look at him. “They were just being dumb,” he says. “You’re all going to be dumb eventually, and when you are, you’ll be glad for it.”

He has no idea what he means - he knows he doesn’t want to be part of any ‘punishment’; he’s been in too many prisons to ever trust mob justice - but he knows he can’t let it happen.

“No shame in being dumb,” he tells them, and they even seem to be listening. “We all start that way. Way I see it, it’s our job to get the dumb ones the rest of the way there.”

“Carry them through the water,” someone says. Mick’s not sure who. It’s dark.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

And then, even though he wants nothing more than to sleep right where he’s lying, he stands up. It’s more bravado and sheer pig headed stubbornness than anything else driving him now.

“Get sticks and whiskey,” he says again. “We’re going to have torches - tonight, and every night. We’re gonna follow the fire all the way there.”

He only means that it’ll be easier for such a large group to stay together if they have something bright to follow, but people start muttering again - “follow the fire,” they say, again and again, like it’s some sort of lifeline - and Mick’s not entirely sure what to do with that.

But it makes them stand up, the ones who still can, and that’s all that matters right now.

He’s going to Central City, to find Len, and Len can take care of whatever it is that’s growing right in front of Mick’s eyes. He’s sure Len will be able to handle it.

There’s nothing Len can’t handle, given time.

———The End———

– and of course his story is well known – and growing rapidly in popularity.

No one knows where the term 'Archon’ was coined for the enigmatic leader of America’s newest religious movement. Some say it came from his refusal to accept the name of 'prophet’, it being weighed down from a dozen other religions; others claim that there was at one point a serious debate as to whether Mick Rory was an incarnation of the archangel Michael. Regardless, the title seems to have stuck.

For the first time in living memory, we are seeing the resurgence of a new religious movement: open to all, ambiguous in its teachings, and with its leader still alive to theoretically explain them – theoretically, because other than his appearances with Mayor Leonard Snart of Central City (see our list of runners-up!), during which he often remains silent, Archon Rory has frustratingly remained virtually impossible to interview.

He has not even agreed to grant this publication an interview for the present feature -

–excerpt from TIME, “Mick Rory: Person of the Year”

———The Beginning———

“Almost there,” Mick says, squinting up ahead. They’ve been trudging through the suburbs for hours now, heading towards the boundary line that marked off Central City proper from the surrounding area.

A boundary more noticeable from the fact that it was now reinforced by what appeared to be a wall. Made of cars and concrete, and patrolled at regular intervals.

“They’ll never let us in,” Nadia groans. She tugs at her (head cover) anxiously. “This’ll be like that mall.”

“The guys in that mall were just assholes,” Mick tells her firmly. “They didn’t wait ten minutes past the first announcement to try to turn the world into the Mad Max dystopia of their wet dreams.”

“Survivalist militas,” Jerri spits. She’d brought her family to that mall in search of shelter; they’d been one of the ones Mick had rescued in his raid on that mall. She had reason to be angry: they’d been forced to join the militia’s band of “protected” individuals, expected to do chores and follow their absurd rules at the threat of a gun or being thrown out for the zombies.

Mick had enjoyed that raid. Jerri had, too - she wielded a mean baseball bat for a former suburban soccer mom.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m telling you, it’ll be all right.”

He’s pretty sure Len wouldn’t let things in Central get that far out of hand. Gotham was probably under martial law - hell, the cops and the capes there are just panting for the opportunity to really lock it down - but Central? He couldn’t believe it.

Still, no harm in being cautious.

“Nadia, Sharif, Timothy, Chris and Maricruz,” he says. “You’re with me. Jerri, Chaz, you’re in charge of bringing up the rest once we give you the all clear.”

“Sure,” Chaz says. “What’s the all clear?”

“We’ll wave.”

“And what if you want us to keep back?” Jerri asks.

“Chris’ll scream like a little girl,” Mick replies promptly.

Everyone laughs, even Chris. “I only did that once,” he protests, looking amused.

“Three times,” Mick corrects. “And that’s why I’m bringing you - that scream can cut through stone if it needs to.”

Chris is also apparently a somewhat well-known football running back, pre-crisis, which meant he had a remarkable running speed, excellent aim with a gun and a hell of a right hook. He grins good-naturedly.

They go up to one of the breaks in the wall, where someone is waiting with a rifle.

“Hello!” the guard says perkily, well before Mick and his crew can say anything. “Welcome to Central! How’s it going?”

“You mean, other than the zombies?” Nadia asks.

“Well, yes,” the guard says, blushing. “You want to come in? We have quarantine procedures, but everyone is welcome. You can keep your weaponry if it makes you feel better.”

“How’s quarantine work?” Mick asks. “We being tossed in with other suspected infected?”

“No, no - everyone gets their own cubicle, to avoid quarantine contamination. We set up plexiglass so no one feels claustrophobic or alone or anything - the psych department at the university says it’s likely to lead to heightened emotion otherwise - and we let you out after 32 hours. You know, just in case. Oh, and you get food! Do you have any dietary restrictions? We have halal,” he adds, looking at Nadia.

“Holy crap, this is the promised land,” she says, staring.

“How’s that?” the guard asks.

“Just a joke,” Mick adds hastily.

“Okay,” the guard says agreeably, though he still looked a little confused. “Anyway, bring everyone you’ve got. We’re a city; we’ve got room.”

“We’ve got a lot of people,” Mick warns.

“We’ve taken over an entire block of the financial district for quarantine purposes,” the guard replies. “We’ve got a lot of cubicles.”

Mick studies him, but the guard looks legit, and what the hell. They have a lot of people. They could take the guardhouse if they really needed to.

He turns and waves.

They begin to come - first in groups, then all at once, the whole lot of them, like an ocean of people bringing the tide in.

“Whoa,” the guard says.

“Told you there was a lot,” Mick says with a smirk.

The guard shakes his head in amazement, then pulls out a pad of paper. “Well, we’ll still need basic information for our records - names, origin city, any missing family or friends you’d like us to look for –”

“You’re running a registry?” Chris asks, interested.

“Yeah, we figured it’d be useful if people are missing each other, at least until we get cell phones redistributed. Let’s start with you guys. Names?”

“Mick Rory, Keystone City,” Mick says. “I’m looking for someone –”

“Wait, wait,” the guard interrupts. “Mick Rory? Is that what you said?”

Mick frowns. He wouldn’t have thought the open warrants were going to be such an issue, in light of everything, but…

“Hold on, I need to call this in,” the guard says, starting to grin. “This is going to be great - you’re to go straight to the main building – I’ll get someone to show you the way –”

Mick’s frown deepens. That didn’t sound like an arrest. “How’s that?”

“What about quarantine?” Nadia asks.

“He can do his quarantine in the main building; there are still quarantine cubes there,” the guard says. “We all got told in training that Mick Rory gets sent straight there, Mayor’s orders.”

“What does the Mayor of Central City want with our Mick?” Maricruz asks, her voice low and sweet and steely as always.

“Just to see him, I think,” the guard says. “Honestly, I don’t really question Mayor Snart’s orders.”

“Hold up,” Mick says. “Did you just say Mayor Snart?!”

———The End———

“I can’t go in there,” she said. “I can’t - it reminds me of the dark of the night when the zombies first attacked, when I was all alone -”

She turns accusing eyes on Adam. “You told me you’d be by my side the whole way.”

“It’s not his fault,” the guard said, his voice soft. Isabelle turned to look at him.

He was, now that she was looking, startlingly beautiful in his own way - his hair was long and braided, his skin dark as polished oak, his eyes fair. He held out his hand to her.

Isabelle took it instinctively.

“He can’t follow you into quarantine,” the guard explained. “It’s to keep us safe, all of us - and no one can be excluded. Even our own scouting parties have to go through quarantine after a long expedition. So many lives are at stake - we can’t let even one person hiding a bite in.” His eyes were wide and sorrowful; he had clearly known great loss.

Isabelle felt strangely affected by it - almost like she knew him, knew his sorrow - it wasn’t like Adam, how they’d bickered and fought, growing closer every step of the journey; this was something immediate. Something magical.

“What’s your name?” she breathed.

“Jonas,” he says.

“I’m Isabelle.”

“And I’m Adam,” Adam says, stepping forward, putting a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. A possessive hand, one that would have thrilled her beyond understanding not even three hours earlier. “We traveled the Great Route together, in Archon Rory’s train.”

“Then you have done a great thing,” Jonas says, letting go of Isabelle’s hand only reluctantly, meeting Adam’s eyes dead on. “Perhaps, after the quarantine, I will have the honor of showing you around the city, Isabelle. But for now, follow me.”

She shivers as the two strong men eye each other warily. Could it be that they were fighting over her? That Jonas felt that same instant connection? Oh, but what about Adam - they’d been together through so much -

Isabelle would never have expected her life to become this; not in a million years.

- excerpt from “A Rescued Beauty”, the brand new romance novel by Adrienne Masters.

———The Beginning———

“Mayor,” Mick says. “Mayor.”

“Shut up,” Len says.

They were separated by a glass wall, the little Plexiglas box that Mick had to stay in for quarantine; he would mind it a lot more except that Len kept prowling around it, like he can’t wait for the time to be up. He felt like he was one of those beautiful paintings that museums kept locked up, one of the ones Len bent the full power of his considerable intellect on obtaining for his own. He’d never felt that before; it was strangely exciting.

“Besides, I hear you started a religion,” Len adds.

“I did not,” Mick protests, but he’s not so dumb as to deny that one may, in fact, have been started. “They did it on their own.”

“It’s still a cult of personality based on you.”

“Can I make 'em all drink kool-aid?”

Len’s smile is there and gone. “Your precious babies? I bet you know all of 'em by name.”

Mick prefers nicknaming people, but with a group that large he didn’t have any choice but to start learning names. But damnit, they’re not his babies.

He tells Len as much.

“Uh, huh,” Len says. “Jerri says to tell you that the pigeons are all fine.”

“Oh, good,” Mick says. “They’re skittish, though can’t blame them for…” He catches Len’s look. “They’re not actual pigeons; it’s just what I called this one group of kids - they were all out of field trips, and we got their buses to safety, and -” Len’s expression reveals nothing. “They’re not my babies!”

“Mick,” Len drawls. “When I said we could think about adopting, I didn’t mean a whole army of devotees.”

“Says the man who adopted a city.”

“Central’s always been mine,” Len says, sounding like a cat with a whole flock of canaries sitting in front of him. “They’re just getting with the picture is all.”

“Mayor.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you even know what a mayor does?”

“I have an entire poli-sci department at my beck and call,” Len says haughtily.

“So, no.”

“Not a clue,” Len concedes cheerfully, though his amusement is brief and the scowl comes back. He glares at the glass. “How much longer did they say?”

“It’s only been a few hours,” Mick says, amused. “You missed me?”

“Started to get worried after so long with no contact,” Len says. “You being a delicate flower and all that.”

“Lenny…”

“Don’t you 'Lenny’ me. Don’t you know how to use a phone?!”

“There weren’t any,” Mick says reasonably. “Most of the south was put on communications blackout. Military took down electronics everywhere.”

“We were too,” Len admits. “I had them put the grid back up.”

Len had an entire electric grid set up just to make sure he wouldn’t miss it if Mick tried to call.

Mick feels all warm and fuzzy.

“I hate having to wait,” Len says.

“I would never have known that about you,” Mick lies virtuously. Len’s as patient as you get on the job; it’s in personal stuff that he gets anxious.

“Yeah, yeah,” Len says.

“Don’t you have important mayor stuff you need to be doing?”

“I have sub-lieutenants for a reason,” Len says. “As do you. They can live without me for a short time.” He scowls. “Not that I’m doing anything.”

Mick thought about that for a second, the shrugs and pulls off his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Len asks.

“Giving you something to do,” Mick says agreeably.

“Something to do?”

“Yeah. Watch.”

Turns out Mick likes being looked at like some precious thing that someone wants to steal away, as long as it’s Len who’s doing the looking.

Fascinating, the things you learn about yourself during an attacking zombie crisis.

———The End———

Buzzfeed’s 10 Top Unbelievable Stories That Came Out Of The Zombie Crisis

You Won’t BELIEVE What These People Did

…

#6 Sex in the Quarantine Room: Fact or Fiction?

The individualized “mini”-quarantine units - started in Central City by using cubicles and plexiglass, then refined as the practice spread throughout the United States - are the opposite of sexy! But when death is looming as a potential option, anywhere looks appealing. Yes, everyone is put in these quarantine units individually, so touching is a no-no, but nothing will stop these brave outside-the-box thinkers, not even being literally in the box! There are reports of at least three confirmed incidents and potentially dozens more - there are even rumors that one of the most famous reunions, that of Mayor Leonard Snart and Archon Mick Rory, featured some of this!

———The Beginning———

Wally didn’t want to tell Len about the rumors at first, that much was obvious, but if the last few months of fighting side-by-side has done anything, it’s taught Len every single one of the kid’s tells.

“Tell me,” Len orders.

Wally tells him.

Len gets up and goes to solve the problem, because he’d known that there was some type of pernicious rumor dampening morale and he’d even known more or less who was spreading it, he hadn’t know exactly what it was. The downside of leadership, he supposed; they tried as much as possible to keep him out of the loop.

He hated being out of the loop.

Maybe he should establish a spy network? That’s what the television said leaders did instead of gossiping.

He’d ask at the next general assembly meeting. The LARPers will support him, at least; they think that stuff’s cool.

Mick will think it’s cool, if he ever manages to escape the stupid temple they’re building for him. Oh, sure, they’re calling it a ‘gathering place’, but Len knows what they really mean, even if Mick hasn’t quite accepted the reality of it yet.

The knot of ill-wind huddled around the statue of Bovine that oversaw the side lawn in front of the Agricultural Studies Department. It was easily accessible from the front lawn and from multiple buildings; they were going to have quite an audience.

Good.

Eyes followed Len, as they always did; he’d become uncomfortably aware that many of the people who came in through the quarantine lines saw Len as personally responsible for saving them, which was of course absurd and undoubtedly the remnants of shock after being attacked by zombies. Many had heeded Len’s early hijacked radio announcements - courtesy of the combined efforts of the media studies college-radio host and the comp-sci hackers - to stay in their homes, that rescue was coming; many had thought it was a lie and expected death, so they were pleasantly surprised when Len’s squads collected them and hurried them over to quarantine.

Len knows how to play an audience, though, and he’s worn his blue parka so much that the mere sight of it acts like a beacon.

So all eyes are on him when he stops in front of the small crowd of students milling around the statute.

“I hear,” he drawls, eyeing them all, “that somebody here’s got some beef with the Flash.”

Silence for a long moment.

And then foolishness prevails, someone assuming that Len’s reputation was a better guide than his tone of voice.

“He abandoned us!” someone shouts. “He should have been here to stop the zombies, and he wasn’t!”

“He’s fast! He could have saved all those people!”

“Where is he, anyway? Hiding or something?”

“Yeah!” “That’s right!” “Where is he?”

Len waits until the crowd is bubbling with anger and then fires his cold gun into the air, letting the shockwaves of cold air silence people as effectively as a gunshot with less chance of the bullet hitting someone when gravity pulls it back down.

“Are you all stupid?” he asks as politely as he can, his voice pitched to carry. “Some of you are young, so I’ll grant you that, but those of you who see yourself as past the age of reason - for shame.”

“You know where he is?” one undergrad, who had been one of those yelling most fiercely, a raggedy Flash t-shirt barely visible under her coat, asks meekly.

“I know the Flash,” Len answers, and he seriously can’t believe he has to do this. How quickly people forget. “I fought the Flash. You know as well as I do that he’d never abandon this city. You’re just so used to him doing all the work that you’ve forgotten that he’s just a man, in the end. He’s a fucking volunteer.”

His eyes review the ranks and they wilt before him.

“I’m sure you’ve all volunteered for something,” he says, “either before or during this crisis. Ain’t it hard, doing something without any expectation of reward? Throwing yourself - your body - against the worst this city can come up with on a regular basis? But the Flash does it. He does it again and again. And I am willing to bet that he’s doing it now.”

“But where is he?”

“The zombie plague came from somewhere,” Len points out, carefully omitting that he actually did have a good idea of where the Flash was and what he was fighting, courtesy of Wally. Some information didn’t need to be shared, and the existence of a stable breach to an alternative dimension that wanted to poison yours was definitely one of them. “I’m willing to bet he’s there, keeping the worst of it away. That, or he’s dead and you’re all on your own. Pick whichever theory you prefer.”

“Why do you care?” someone in the back, feeling brave in their anonymity, shouts.

“He’s my nemesis,” Len says. “Judge a man by his enemies, and whatnot. But more importantly, I’ve never in my life blamed a volunteer for not being able to do more than they can, and I ain’t starting now.”

His eyes narrow. “And since you all seem pretty content sitting here, swapping grievances instead of helping out in quarantine, the clinic, the cafeteria, sanitation or the fields - it’s not like we don’t have options - I’m guessing you’re all gonna be pretty happy with that tendency.”

Several people look shame-faced.

Len consults his mental version of the enhanced catalogue they’ve made, the school version merged with the IDs of everyone who they brought inside.

“Katy,” he says to one. “You’re chemistry. I expect to see you helping out in the labs.” Her eyes go wide. “Rakesh,” he continues. “Shira. Matt. The cafeteria needs extra help today.”

He goes down the line, smile painted firmly on his face, naming each of them and assigning them a task. It’s a good thing he prepared ahead of time, noting who seemed to be the source of the trouble, because even Wally is gaping at him, utterly impressed, and that kid isn’t surprised by anything anymore.

“Now,” he says, concluding his recital, “you’re all volunteers, you’re all here, and right now, you’re all we’ve got to rely on. No Flash, no heroes, just you. So get to it.”

He pauses.

“Oh, and the next person who wants to talk shit about the Flash behind his back?” he adds, icy smile growing on his lips. “Just remember that the Flash beat me once, one on one, and I’d be more than happy to find myself a new nemesis to keep me busy while he’s gone. Anyone who thinks they’re better than he is had better be ready to prove it.”

Oddly enough, there don’t seem to be many volunteers for that.

———The End———

fansagainstzombies: CALLOUT: do NOT apologize for zombies!!! they are mass murderers and MUST BE STOPPED. u cannot sympathize with zombies and still be on the side of their victims.. it is upestting and rude to all zombie survivors. DO NOT NORMALIZE ZOMBIES. THEIR ACTIONS HURT PEOPLE AND ARE COMPLETEY INEXCUSABLE.

justiceforthedead66: excuse me?? zombies were people just like us and we need to HELP them, it isn’t there fault that their killing people, their sick and not in their right mind, we need to find a CURE, not just MURDER these INNOCENT PEOPLE

fansagainstzombies: *their *they’re *they’re you’re argument is invalid. go back to 2nd grade, where your politics belong

theyliveagainandagain: [popcorn.gif]

zombiezombiezombiemushroommushroom: Guys, you’re taking this all too seriously.

fansagainstzombies: they were KILLING PEOPLE. WTF even is WITH this hellsite

———The Beginning———

“We’ve been gone how long?!” Cisco exclaims.

“Six months,” Felicity explains, staring at the screen. “Looks like it was a six to one ratio - one day there, six here. And it’s, uh - there’s a communications blackout. Mostly.”

“What? Why?” Iris asks.

“Uh,” Felicity says.

Sara peers over her shoulder. “Wait,” she says. “Zombies? But I thought - we went to stop them!”

“We did,” Joe says grimly. “Some of it must have gotten through regardless.” He rubs his hands on his face. “God, and Wally’s still there.”

“Thea,” Oliver breathes.

“We have to go back to Central,” Barry says. His hands are shaking. His city - he’d thought he was doing the right thing, chasing the cure and fighting the Necromantics, the inventors of the plague, all the way back to their own dimension, and in the meantime, his city, his responsibility was…

“Actually,” Felicity says, “looks like Central’s doing okay.”

“What?!”

“No, really - I’m reading military chatter, and Central City gets mentioned a whole bunch of times. Like, a bunch of times. By the time the military showed up to offer help - and not much help, either, we’re talking, like, food drops - the city said thanks but no thanks, we’re doing okay. And then started broadcasting - through the electrical grid they set up themselves after the military knocked the old one down, yeesh, now they’re just trying to make the rest of us look bad - information to other cities. They’ve got quarantine methods, zombie fighting methods - hell, they’ve been doing a weekly seminar on how to keep zombies away from your crops, and that’s, like, not even a serious issue yet.”

Barry blinks.

“They did say they would be interested in a cure if it were found,” Felicity adds. “Their new mayor, that is; he’s the one that led the whole movement against the zombies.”

Iris nudges Barry. “Looks like we made the right choice after all.”

Barry smiles helplessly. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.” There was something he wanted to say, something profound, maybe, about how much it means that they all got up to fight, that Central, of all overlooked places, is now standing out as a beacon of hope to the rest of the country…

“Our city is so much cooler than yours,” Cisco crows.

Or that.

That works.

“We should still head back,” Barry says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Oliver, unless you need help?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Easier without you, to be honest,” he says. “Star City is - complicated. At the best of times.”

“I’ll stick around and help Oliver,” Sara offers. “You go, Barry.”

Barry nods, and turns to look at his friends - Joe and Iris, Cisco and Caitlin. “C'mon, guys. I wanna meet this new mayor. Looks like we’ve got a lot to thank him for.”

———The End———

“As president of the United States during these dark times,” the president says, “it is my honor to bestow upon these heroes a medal that they have long deserved. We recognized them first during the alien invasion of 2016, and there we recognized them as heroes - individuals, meta or human, that were willing to put themselves forward to help their fellow man at risk to themselves.”

Barry shifts awkwardly.

Oliver doesn’t shift at all.

Sara looks like she wishes she was literally anywhere else.

“These heroes took the fight to its origin, fighting the creators of the zombie plague to a standstill and returning, triumphant, with a vaccine designed to prevent any new infections -”

“Only six months late,” Barry mutters under his breath. He was still pissed about that. Six months, his city had been without its hero, while he piddled around fighting bad guys in an alternate dimension.

Not that his city had been in bad hands…well, technically ‘bad’ hands, but not, like, bad hands…

“We got the cure,” Sara points out, also sotto voce.

“Yes, but…”

“Shhhh. She’s getting to our part,” Oliver interjects.

They quiet down, then step forward when instructed to let the president pin medals onto them.

“Now, our heroes will say a few words.”

Oliver nudges Barry. They’d agreed that he should do it, since he was well known as the Flash - though less well known than Oliver Queen - and he could adjust his voice like he’d stopped doing in Central ages ago. Also, he was apparently “charming”.

Barry goes forward. “Thanks,” he says. “We appreciate these medals; nothing means more to us than the people we protect, and we are honored to do so. We do it because it’s the right thing to do, not for any thanks - but it sure is nice!” He pauses to let the audience laugh, which they do, then changes from his prepared remarks. “I’d also like to thank you, the people, for standing up when we couldn’t be here. In city after city, town after town, people stood up and showed that you don’t need meta powers or special training to be a hero in a crisis. This medal belongs as much to you, people of America - people of the world - as it does to me. We do what we do not because we think you can’t. We know you can. We do it because you shouldn’t have to.”

Oliver is glaring hard enough that Barry’s half-worried he’ll develop Kara’s heat vision.

“We should have been there during the zombie crisis, done more, and trust me, no one regrets our absence more than me,” he continues anyway. “But you don’t need us - and you proved it. Thank you.”

Confused applause.

“I’m going to kill you,” Oliver says once they’re backstage.

“He wasn’t wrong,” Sara points out.

“That sounded like a retirement speech.”

“It wasn’t,” Barry says. “But I do think we should be partnering more with local authorities. Look at how much they achieved.”

“Your city got taken over by a supervillain while you were gone.”

“He’s the mayor now,” Barry replies. “You need to get over it already.”

———The Beginning———

People were happy to see him.

The Flash, that is. He got waves and a handful of “Hey, Flash!"s, and no one seemed to hold it against him that he’d been gone.

They made it almost all the way to the university center - they’d been excused from quarantine only because they’d been in a different universe, and anyway there were people hanging around to keep an eye on them in case they turned - before someone calls out, "Hey, Flash! Where you been?”

“I, uh,” Barry says. “Fighting the guys that invented the zombie thing. Getting a cure.”

“Knew it,” the guy responds in satisfaction, and turns back to what he’d been doing - repairing one of the barricades that seemed to dot the city now.

Somehow word spread, though, and less than fifteen minutes later a horde descended.

Well, just like eight or ten people, but they felt like a horde.

Biochemistry majors and professional chemists and pharma people and Tina McGee, who was a horde all by herself, in the lead.

“You have a cure?” she asks Caitlin.

“Yes,” Caitlin replies, and is promptly whisked away to the wonders of science and medicine.

Barry feels a bit like a supporting character in someone else’s (Caitlin’s) exciting biomedical thriller/action novel. It’s kind of a nice feeling.

Joe rejoins them.

“I thought you were going to find Wally,” Iris says.

“Apparently he’s in the mayor’s office,” Joe says, shrugging. He looks relieved; hearing that Wally was doing okay had clearly lifted a weight off his shoulders. He grins. “Besides, I want to meet this new mayor, too. Where did Caitlin…?”

“Don’t ask,” Cisco says.

Good to know that he was just as shaken by the horde as Barry was.

Then they get to the university and get shown into the mayor’s office.

“Flash!” Snart exclaims from behind the desk.

“Captain Cold?!” Cisco hisses.

“Flash, tell me you’re here to arrest me,” Snart demands.

Barry blinks.

That was…new.

“Um,” he says. “I don’t think so?”

“None of the police will do it anymore,” Snart says. His eyes are rimmed with red, like he’s been having trouble sleeping. “Waste of time, the whole lot. But you’re a superhero. You could do it. Just pop me over to Iron Heights.”

“We’d have you back by lunchtime,” Wally says. He’s slumped over a nearby chair. “And then you’d still have to attend the council meeting.”

Snart sighs. “Fine,” he says sulkily. “Never mind, then.”

“Wally!” Joe exclaims. “Are you okay?”

“He’s fine,” Snart says snippily. “He’s no doubt skipping the meeting on the basis of a long-awaited family reunion.”

“You bet your ass I am, boss,” Wally replies fondly.

“Wally, hold up a damn second,” Joe says. “Why are you calling Leonard Snart boss?”

“I’m his secretary,” Wally says. “Or possibly chief henchman. It varies by the day, really.”

They all stare at him.

“Oh, and he’s also the mayor now,” Wally adds.

Pandemonium.

———The End———

mymayorissexierthanyourmayor: LOOK AT THESE GIFS. LOOK AT THEM. How are these people real???

sssssnartssmarts: I love it when Snart and Rory kiss in public. It’s so fucking cute.

flameboycoldboy: This gives me life. Look at that adorable little face Rory makes when Snart kisses him!! [awwyouhaveacrushonmethat’ssoembarassingwe’remarriedstill.gif]

followtheflamewar: see this is why I can’t believe either of them is cheating with that Barry Allen guy

mymayorissexierthanyourmayor: yes, but have you considered: possible polyamory??

followtheflamewar: there’s no way to tell for sure tho!! at least we know the Ramon Glider ship is sailing – they’ve been going on dates like all the time

sssssnartssmarts: god those two make me so happy [lifegoals.gif]

———The Beginning———

“Joe’s still pissed off,” Barry reports.

“Let him be,” Iris says dismissively. “I’ve got your back, bro.”

“You’re the best,” Wally says. “Actually…”

“That wasn’t an offer to help with your paperwork!”

“Not paperwork!” he says, though he looks shifty-eyed. “Just – could you go out with Barry to the airport field over in Ashberry?”

“That’s outside of the line,” Barry says, frowning. “I know we’ve been distributing the cure, but…”

“But you’re a super speedster and can get them all,” Wally says earnestly. “So it, like, shouldn’t be a problem!”

“I’m helping repair the walls…”

“It’ll be super short,” Wally promises. “I just need someone to go pick up Lisa or else the boss gonna want to do it himself and that’s just – no.”

“I’ll do it,” Cisco says. “Uh. I mean. If no one else is. I could do it.”

His attempt at being casual fools literally nobody.

“I’ll take Cisco with me,” Iris says.

“But!” Barry protests.

“Relax,” Wally says. “Cisco, Iris, and two squads.”

“I don’t need two squads of backup,” Iris says, scowling.

“Probably not,” Wally says. “But it’s the rules. You don’t want to put up a bad example for everyone else, do you?”

Iris eyes him. “You’re getting sneaky.”

“I’m a politician’s aide,” Wally says. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Can we go now?” Cisco says hopefully. “I want to see Lisa.”

Iris rolls her eyes.

———The End———

“You had better make the weather fucking perfect,” Lisa says poisonously to Mardon.

“It’s perfect,” he assures her. “75, sunny, scattering of clouds, mild breeze.”

“Hartley -”

“The sound systems are perfect,” he sniffs. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Shawna -”

“I’ve done a head-count of all the guests, everyone’s here, and your fiancé is being talked down from a panic attack by the Flash, who’s here in costume,” she reports.

“Scudder and Rosa?”

“Banned from the premises and locked up as tight as Iron Heights, the Flash, and your brother can manage,” Iris reports.

“Good,” Lisa says. “Boys, you’re dismissed; girls, help me adjust my veil.”

“I still can’t believe you’re getting married,” Shawna sighs.

“I still can’t believe it’s going to be covered by the international media,” Iris says. She’s not jealous. Really.

“Don’t worry, you get the first interview afterwards,” Lisa says soothingly. “Or whatever Cisco’s next invention is going to be.”

“I’d better,” Iris says, and they share a grin. They hadn’t anticipated becoming friends, but somehow it’d happened.

Probably sometime around Lisa literally flying back in with a tan and offering to take Iris to her secret island next time there was an invasion of some variety.

There had been protests that there would be no next time, but Iris very reasonably pointed out that their track record hadn’t been great.

After that, well, what with Lisa becoming her brother’s unofficial media spokesperson slash chief of staff, it was really only business sense to cultivate the relationship. And they got to regularly have lunch on Central City Picture News’ dime, something they could both appreciate.

Lisa’s face twitches.

“Yes, you’re getting married,” Iris says immediately, recognizing the onset of nerves. “Yes, it’s a good idea – even Len likes Cisco – and yes, your dad is really, truly, totally dead. Deader than dead. We’re planning on having Mardon hit his grave with lightning as a wedding present.”

Lisa grins. “You don’t have to,” she says, but her shoulders are more relaxed. “Not that I’d object. God, how do people do this? This whole wedding thing is just nerve-wracking.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have had it at City Hall.”

“But irony points. Also, honestly, where else could we get a reservation at such short notice?”

“Come rain, snow, or zombie invasion, the bridal market in Central City is as competitive as ever,” Iris says. “I’m going to have to book mine years in advance, when it happens.”

“If Len’s still mayor, you could do it here,” Lisa offers.

“You know, I’m suddenly convinced of the virtues of eloping…”

The girls all giggle.

Mardon and Hartley look at each other and make a quick exit.

“Boys,” Lisa says, shaking her head and watching them run. “I clearly got the best of the lot.”

“And just think,” Shawna says, grinning, “you’ll be marrying him in less than two hours.”

“Oh god…”

———The Beginning———

“Allen, swing by my place later tonight, will you?” Len says to Barry as they walk down the main street. “This isn’t really the time. Or place.”

“Right,” Barry says. “I keep forgetting how busy you are nowadays.”

Len rolls his eyes and drops his voice, mindful of the fact that there are paparazzi and camera phones everywhere. “The fact that you’re even coming to me with your super secret plans to establish a metahuman superhero base in Central City is already weird enough. My reputation won’t take much more of this.”

“You’re the mayor,” Barry hisses, leaning back in towards Len. “Your so-called ‘reputation’ is totally shot.”

“Hey!”

“Well, it is.”

Len glares.

Barry glares back.

“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t reject your proposal out of hand from sheer spite, Scarlet,” Len says back, voice still dropped down low enough that Barry has to lean in closer to hear.

“A, because you’re a better mayor than that,” Barry says. “B, you wouldn’t reject anything out of hand, you’re way too petty for that. You’d let me do the whole presentation first, then reject it.”

“You know me well,” Len says, nodding a little.

“But that’s not the main reason you’re not going to reject the proposal,” Barry says confidently.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what is?”

“Because having the Hall of Justice be located in Central City would be so. freaking. cool.”

“…excellent point. Also, who the hell named it that? Cisco? There’s gotta be something better.”

Barry laughs.

Len shakes his head in amusement and turns to go to his next meeting. How did his schedule have so many meetings? Twisting a little, he calls back over his shoulder, “This evening, my place, 8 PM. And for once in your life, don’t be late.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He leaves Barry in the street shrugging helplessly in an admission of guilt.

———The End———

“Umbrellas!” the man calls out as the group entered the open-air marketplace in Central City Square, multiple individuals checking the darkening sky with some concern. “Get set, don’t get wet! If you pass me by, you won’t stay dry!”

“Fresh fruit, straight from the orchards of Keystone!” a woman shouts from another stall. “Get them fresh right now; they won’t last long! Ripe fruit, fresh fruit, get your fruit here!”

“Leather is better!” a man in a shop filled with bags and boots and other items cries out. “Finest leather goods in Central City! You won’t find any better than our leather!”

“Magazines!” another man calls. “Get your latest news fix here! All the celebrity gossip you could want! Actors, actresses, politicians – you know you want to know!”

One of the group slows down and heads that way to squint at magazine covers. “Hey, guys, look at this!” the young man calls back to the main group. “The title of this one is ‘Barry Allen: Homewrecker Extraordinaire.’”

“What the fuck,” another young man in the group says indignantly, ducking his head when people look over at his exclamation as if he could hide his face.

The first young man pays the magazine seller out of pocket – ten dollars and one Central City credit for good measure – and then carries the magazine in question back. “No, look,” he says, grinning. “On page four – ‘The mysterious Barry Allen, which has of late attracted so much attention from our esteemed mayor, maybe as more than merely a friendly visitor –’”

“Barry, for shame,” one of the woman says, starting to laugh.

“‘He has been seen in company with Mayor Snart at odd hours, including the two of them emerging late at night from Mayor Snart’s office…’”

“That was business!” the second young man squawks. “You know, running business!”

“‘And he has also been seen in the company of Mr. Rory in the evenings –’”

“Wait, hold up, which one is he supposed to be cheating on which one with?” a second young woman says, grinning.

The first young man flips through the pages. “Uh – huh, looks like he’s double-timing Snart with Rory and Rory with Snart, and neither of them have figured it out yet.”

“That’s the most unlikely bit about the whole thing so far,” a dark-skinned young man puts in. “Snart not figuring it out, I mean.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, look, Barry’s also apparently pregnant with a zombie baby.”

“I’m what?”

“The way of the tabloids is strange and mysterious, Bear,” the second woman says. “Just accept it.”

“I hate all of you. Why is this even still being published?”

“Morale, and also Lisa thinks this shit’s funny.”

“But seriously. Why do tabloids get to survive the zombie apocalypse?”

“Zombie crisis, Barry; the world’s still going. And are you really surprised?”

“…no.”

———The End and the Beginning———

“I demand that you do something about this injustice,” Len says to Barry before falling face-first onto the couch.

Mick was on the couch.

Mmm, Mick. That was fine; he could stay.

Barry just snickered, the ungrateful little brat.

Len lifts his head a little - not too much, Mick has put his hands on the back of Len’s neck and started rubbing, and he doesn’t want to discourage that - and glares at Barry.

“I take it from that you’re going to just stand by and do nothing while this continues.”

“Yep,” Barry says.

“Some superhero you are.”

“Terrible,” Barry replies.

“Total waste.”

“Absolutely.”

“Standing by idly while your city’s citizens are being horribly abused - ugh, yeah, Mick, just there; a little harder, will you?”

Mick complies, smirking.

“Len,” Barry says, sounding reasonable, which was surely a sign of the end of the world. “It’s not abuse that your staff wants you to run for governor.”

“But I don’t want to run for governor.”

“You shouldn’t have agreed, then,” Barry points out.

Stupid Barry.

“Wally snuck it by me,” Len says resentfully. “He’s as fast as you, now.”

“I’m sure that helps him with the paperwork,” Barry says soothingly.

“So much paperwork,” Len agrees with a groan. “I think Wally is planning on taking over the world and using me to do it.”

“I’m sure you’re very proud of him, you being a former supervillain and all,” Barry says.

Len considers this. “Well, yeah,” he says. “But does he have to be so public-spirited about it?”

“Just do me a favor,” Mick rumbles, hands still moving very pleasantly on Len’s neck.

“Sure,” Len says drowsily. “Name it.”

“Don’t become president.”

“Hah, please,” Len says. “I’m a former supervillain and I have this for a family life. What’s the likelihood of that ever happening?”

#my fic #dccoldwave #coldflashwave #goldenvibe #mick rory #leonard snart #barry allen #lisa snart #cisco ramon #wally west #zombies

[supersexystonersecretssavwlives]

Rambling text post, like a river from the mountain traveling to the sea it's all down hill from here.

It's been so long since I've had an actual conversation, a dialog, a debate, a discussion... Not a fucking argument, but an exchange of ideas that doesn't leave a bad taste in my mouth and a head full of regret, aggravation, anger, and a strong desire to avoid contact with other members of my species as though they where a sentient cancer. Not small talk, admittedly a totally great place to start but by itself it's not enough to scratch that itch (In My Personal Opinion, like the majority of this... Brain Defication, more substantial then a fart, still doesn't smell great). It doesn't have to be about anything fundamentally earth shattering, but when it's built on personal passion, mutual respect, and the desire to broaden perception and understanding of others even a conversation about how Transformers 2:Rise of the Fallen is probably the greatest Video Game based on a movie across any platform, is also probably pretty awesome for the brains development, (also T2:RotF IS a pretty awesome movie game, the controls and physics are "functional yet frustrating" it doesn't add anything to a franchise from the early 80s that basically boiled down to a toy commercial with a 'wholesome' message, rebooted as a series of blockbusters (The game drawing plot and setting from the sequel of the rebooted toy commercial). But cut down to the basic core of itself this is a game that lets you be a collection of transforming giant robots (automatons?) in a semi-destructible environment, partially linear but replay-able levels, and dated yet charming/eerie graphics that make this game accessible for a large percentage of peeps who play games. From the ironic-hipster-noob-lord Casual to the hardcore-won't-sleep-until-completion MLG. This game is the kind of flawed perfection that has enough holding it together to make it playable, but also just the right amount of broken to make it interesting beyond the Dev's intentions (maybe, Nobody knows with the Dev's yo, nobody knows...)) because it developes the ability to effectively communicate ones personal prespective while also maintaining an open channel for others to have input regarding the topic! Snowballing ideas, feelings, trains of thought, and discoveries gained from trial and error!! Yes, this is the thing I most miss from empassioned speakers, GROWTH!!! Feed the fire of the mind, water the bad seeds, nurture the sapling but leave it to grow within and as a part of it's environment, and the more this happens the better things will become for almost everybody (maybe? Shit I could be wrong and it'll doom us all! Potential future events are neat to think about huh?) except for those who only want to argue. The "my common concencous cannot be incorrect" Crowd, Ideologically Circle Jerking conversational saboteurs uninterested in the merest hint of their own fallibility yet acutely aware of "wrongness" in others, seen throughout recorded human history as "ignorent, loud, and dangerous". These are the killers of meaningful progressions and structural changes in the many facinating components of Human Development, like evolutionary dead ends in thought itself, or perhaps more like a meme cancer infecting hosts with some predisposition for the mental plateau! Treatment isn't possible for those that don't recognize the infection and/or embrace the rage inducing and irrational as the cornerstone their view of reality is founded upon. So how would someone know if they where a cannibal meme carrier? Sane, insane, irrational, and rational blend pretty well and it is often difficult for developing minds to distinguish the difference (P.S. No matter how old you are you should still be developing if participating in the grand social experiment, fast or slow is relative and also irrelivent so long as it is present on an individual level.) THEREFORE I HAVE DEVELOPED THIS FLAWED BY BIAS FROM IT'S CREATION UNTO COMPLETION OBNOXIOUSLY SIMPLE NAKEDLY INDEFENSIBLE BULLSHIT GENERATING YET OPTIMISTICALLY PROVOCATIVE ENOUGH TO GET THAT TURD LADEN CEILING FAN SPINNING LIKE A TOP... RHETORIC TEST!! There are three statements with two defined choices and a section for write-in answers, each of the three answers has the potential to be scored with a numerical equivalent representing it's relationship to "Status Quo, Common Sense, and Facts" (note how these don't always agree, and originate from different aspects of our shared history) with write-in answers being graded by a small panel of culturally, politically, sexually, ethnically, temperamentally, religiously, and aged-ly diverse people who individually score the answer and assign the average (Now taking applications for the judges panel, there isn't an official doc. But the point being diversity on all levels means the bar couldn't possibly be lower for qualification, also anon testing is not only available but recommended to further reduce avoidable bias in the results) The Questions! 1.) Political parties are unnecessarily divisive as a means to do the least amount of work over the greatest amount of time. A.) True B.) False C.) (blank space for answer is a full page.) 2.) Divisive Rhetoric is a necessary part of debate because it galvanizes the masses into specialized task focused groups who enrich the discussions. A.) True B.) False C.) (blank page) 3.) The Internet is a reputable source of information. A.) true B.) false C.) (blank page).... At this point of my rambling trip to the ocean it may be apparent the kind of person I present as on social media sites, and I often wonder what the people who choose to stay in my life and associate with me think about the two objectively different personas that ultimately voltron into the Whole Self with a few other event specific masks developed since childhood as a tool of self-preservation and later self-promotion to endear myself to my family, peers, and assorted authority figures. I've personally had a crisis while trying to determine which is my truest self only to find Truths and Lies in each facets core. "Who am I?" I asked myself "How should I know?" My own reply, so I shrugged and stopped worrying about it. I am Nobody, just like everyone else. You can know the faces we put on for each other better then the person underneath, you can form yourself like living clay into whatever makes you comfortable, be it found in conformity, regulation, and structured order or whimsical, wild, and capricious chaos or a moderate dose of both poles to reside somewhere in between. I can't/won't judge the choices that make your path through life because I'm not you and to judge that would be undermining the chain of events that lead up to the situations that in turn shape who you might become, with one noteworthy exception. If you are Authoritarian/Hypocrite/Imposing of Beliefs, read carefully the following. I dislike you intensely for you are A Fighter Of Freedoms in my observed belief, through words and actions you improve the status and benefits of your tribe and yourself at the expense of those 'other' to your narrow understanding of the reality we share, you are with me a dichotomy. Diametrical to the point of redundancy on a number of levels, and while I personally find your existence and persistent smashing of metaphorical sand castles abhorrent I begrudgingly respect the challenge you offer (Is it more beneficial for continued species viability to offer a vast pool of paths to choose from or to restrict options arbitrarily[ish, there seem to be calculable variables at work determaining who is included in the Feudalistic Oligarchy and who is expelled to the lower castes]?) and the opportunity to study the social, political, and environmental origins of as well as catalytic events nourishing the ideological tenents you represent (horrific as the historical examples of their practice appears in both the immediate event and the ripples of it's significance on the zeitgeists that followed.) it is my sincerest hope that the foundations of elitism, xenophobia, and misanthropy that support such seemingly shallow organizations find a peaceful, natural terminus in a dialog, a discussion, a debate, a conversation, a connection and a cultivated common ground. Unfortunately I've spent this whole time typing out the raw shat of the mind that is partially mine and predominately an amalgam of suspiciously sticky memes. All of which is ground fine, formed into patties, delicately seasoned, cooked, and custom garnished before being hurled with considerable force in four dimensions without warning or regret. For no more complex or enlightened reason then base curiosity blended with two cups boredom, one gram granulated existential horror, a pinch of delusions of grandure, and a somewhat unhealthy dose of apathy. This has been flow-with-it-river-rambling on Tumblr Tuesday. Fertalizing a better tomorrow, one steaming shit at a time.

#Long post #ramble #Rant #Ionlytagyouwhenivebeenwritingforanhourandhatemylifeseriouslyfuckoffyoudidn'treadthatwholethingdidyouHOLYSHITWHYDOYOUHATEYOURSELFSOMUCH?!?

[webbygraphic001]

20 Best New Portfolios, January 2019

Welcome back, WDD Readers. It’s January 2019, and we’re all coming back to work bleary-eyed and bushy-tailed. Why don’t you take a moment to put off wor… I mean get inspired by these new portfolios? We’ve got a fair bit of variety in aesthetics and strategies this month. Enjoy.

Note: I’m judging these sites by how good they look to me. If they’re creative and original, or classic but really well-done, it’s all good to me. Sometimes, UX and accessibility suffer. For example, many of these sites depend on JavaScript to display their content at all; this is a Bad Idea, kids. If you find an idea you like and want to adapt to your own site, remember to implement it responsibly.

Robbygraphics

Robbygraphics starts us off with some modernist minimalism and a touch of illustration. It’s a part of that business-friendly wave of design that I mentioned recently, and it’s a fine example of the trend.

My only critique is that the hero image on the home page could really be SVG. PNG is great and all, but large vector illustrations are better served in a vector format, these days.

Platform: WordPress

O

Yup, this designer is named “O”. The one-page portfolio is a bare-bones as the name, with simple typography, screenshots, and red blobs that change shape as you scroll.

I’m not a huge fan of animations that absolutely depend on having smooth scrolling turned on (I keep it turned off), but overall, it’s a good-looking site.

Platform: Custom CMS built on Ruby (I think)

Florent Biffi

Florent Biffi stands out in the crowd with bold text on a sort of… wrinkled cloth texture? Look, the effect, while simple, is fairly striking. I haven’t seen it a lot. The rest of the site is fairly standard sans-serif fare with thick headings and occasionally-overlapping elements. That first striking visual is enough to keep a user scrolling all on its own, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Platform: Static Site

Timo Kuilder

Timo Kuilder makes new-age-ish cip-art-ish illustrations that look… way better than that sounds. So of course the whole site leans into the aesthetic, using a light masonry collage of the work to sell their services.

Platform: Cargo Combined with Backdrop, apparently.

D7 Creative

D7 Creative takes an interesting and highly interactive approach by making every section of their one-pager look almost completely different. I mean, that’s one way to showcase your range, right? Plus, they have a fully functioning game of Snake that you can play.

It’s not the most visually consistent approach, but rules are made to be broken eventually.

Platform: WordPress

Playground

Playground is a fusion of the corporate-friendly aesthetic (including lots of solid blue and red) with the constantly-overlapping elements of more post-modernist web design. There’s also plenty of animation, but it’s understated enough that it’s not too distracting. I like this style a lot, but don’t make me come up with a name for it, please.

Platform: Static Site

Camilo Alvarez

Camilo Alvarez hit me right in the nostalgia. I had a phase where I used a sort of “film grain” effect for almost everything. Well the film grain is back with an animated vengeance, overlaid on a sort of post-minimalist design. As with most of these sites, it’s a bit JS-heavy for me, but it’s pretty and it’s making me feel young again, so it’s here on the list.

Platform: WordPress

Fly Digital

Fly Digital is going very minimalist, and reminds me of the ’90s in a good way. I normally wouldn’t recommend a handwriting typeface for body text, but when there’s this little text, you can get away with it. Though the text could be bigger. And I wouldn’t blur out those client logos on the home page, even if you are going to unblur them on hover.

Otherwise, the site feels handmade and old-fashioned without feeling amateurish. It’s a fine line to walk, but they’re doing it.

Platform: WordPress

epo

Where other sites merely feel modern, epo feels super modern. It’s like flat design had a baby with a corporate color palette. It’s like easy listening music in web design form. None of that is criticism, mind you. If it gets them the clients they want, then it’s doing the job right.

Platform: WordPress

Breadhead

Breadhead brings us some of that classic elegant dark-layout minimalism that we don’t see nearly often enough these days. Thin type, illustrations, and an all around classy feel are what will make this design stick in your brain for a while.

Platform: Static Site

Marijn Bankers

Marijn Bankers’ portfolio reminds me, at first, of an animated spa brochure. You know, the whites and pastels, then thin type, the thinly-lined UI elements, everything. As you dive into the site, it feels more like an architecture firm.

And then it all makes sense when you look through the portfolio. His clients are exactly those who would appreciate the aesthetic. I keep highlighting websites with this approach for the simple reason that it works. Portfolios tailored to the clients just work.

Platform: Static Site

Anvar Shoe

Anvar Shoe’s portfolio eschews the aesthetic fusion we’ve been seeing lately for a site that looks positively post-minimalist. It’s artsy all the way with a mostly-one-column layout and effects that, once again, kind of depend on smooth scrolling to look good.

Platform: Static Site

YRS Truly

YRS Truly is an interesting case. I’ve previously featured portfolio sites that mimic an operating system, but this one fuses the “windows” gimmick with the general structure and layout of a normal two-column website. It’s odd, but it works, and it uses UI conventions that most of us are used to.

Platform: WordPress

Cleverbirds

Cleverbirds’ art portfolio is highly presentational and animated. No points for accessibility here, but if you want some creative and pretty ideas for monochromatic web graphics, look no further. It’s on the list because it’s pretty, and that’s that.

Platform: Static Site

João Pereira

João Pereira’s portfolio is just plain pretty; I love the use of color. While the text could use a little more contrast in places, it’s just generally gorgeous. Plus you can click the triangles in the background to see a list of his skills.

Sure, that’s not intuitive, but it’s better than any “skill progress bars” I’ve ever seen.

Platform: Static Site

Kristopher Bolleter

Kristopher Bolleter’s portfolio leads with text that says, “No cliché slogans, just work that speaks for itself.” Well, he might not know how often I use the phrase “speaks for itself”, right?

All kidding aside, he lives by that motto, presenting all his featured work on one page in old-fashioned iMac illustrations. Man it’s been a while since I’ve seen that instead of the mockup mobile devices. The whole thing isn’t very flashy, but it’s effective and serviceable.

Platform: Hugo

Adrien Laurent

Adrien Laurent brings us back to the flashy stuff with their portfolio. It’s post-modernist, presentational, pastel, and loaded with animation (I couldn’t think of an animation-related word that started with “p”).

Platform: Static Site

Translation

Translation takes a generally bold approach, starting with their overall aesthetic, and on to their assertion that “The world doesn’t need another ad agency.” With a monochromatic palette and really big headings, the whole idea seems to be to blast your brain and hope it sticks. Well it’s working for me.

Platform: Static Site

Anthony Florio

Anthony Florio’s portfolio is fairly standard modernist, with light artsy touches in the form of randomly placed illustration. And it wouldn’t be a photographer’s portfolio without some sort of collage.

Do you ever miss the classic grid full of thumbnails? Nah. Me neither.

Platform: Static Site

Corn Studio

No portfolio list of mine is truly complete without someone using yellow right. In this case, it’s the ever-so-appropriately named Corn Studio gracing us with the classic yellow and black, combined with some highly animated minimalism. It’s flat, it’s pretty, and it’s pretty good.

Platform: WordPress

Add Realistic Chalk and Sketch Lettering Effects with Sketch’it – only $5!

Source from Webdesigner Depot http://bit.ly/2M8ixb4 from Blogger http://bit.ly/2FrtMuL

#Blogger

[iyarpage]

20 Best New Portfolios, January 2019

Welcome back, WDD Readers. It’s January 2019, and we’re all coming back to work bleary-eyed and bushy-tailed. Why don’t you take a moment to put off wor… I mean get inspired by these new portfolios? We’ve got a fair bit of variety in aesthetics and strategies this month. Enjoy.

Note: I’m judging these sites by how good they look to me. If they’re creative and original, or classic but really well-done, it’s all good to me. Sometimes, UX and accessibility suffer. For example, many of these sites depend on JavaScript to display their content at all; this is a Bad Idea, kids. If you find an idea you like and want to adapt to your own site, remember to implement it responsibly.

Robbygraphics

Robbygraphics starts us off with some modernist minimalism and a touch of illustration. It’s a part of that business-friendly wave of design that I mentioned recently, and it’s a fine example of the trend.

My only critique is that the hero image on the home page could really be SVG. PNG is great and all, but large vector illustrations are better served in a vector format, these days.

Platform: WordPress

O

Yup, this designer is named “O”. The one-page portfolio is a bare-bones as the name, with simple typography, screenshots, and red blobs that change shape as you scroll.

I’m not a huge fan of animations that absolutely depend on having smooth scrolling turned on (I keep it turned off), but overall, it’s a good-looking site.

Platform: Custom CMS built on Ruby (I think)

Florent Biffi

Florent Biffi stands out in the crowd with bold text on a sort of… wrinkled cloth texture? Look, the effect, while simple, is fairly striking. I haven’t seen it a lot. The rest of the site is fairly standard sans-serif fare with thick headings and occasionally-overlapping elements. That first striking visual is enough to keep a user scrolling all on its own, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Platform: Static Site

Timo Kuilder

Timo Kuilder makes new-age-ish cip-art-ish illustrations that look… way better than that sounds. So of course the whole site leans into the aesthetic, using a light masonry collage of the work to sell their services.

Platform: Cargo Combined with Backdrop, apparently.

D7 Creative

D7 Creative takes an interesting and highly interactive approach by making every section of their one-pager look almost completely different. I mean, that’s one way to showcase your range, right? Plus, they have a fully functioning game of Snake that you can play.

It’s not the most visually consistent approach, but rules are made to be broken eventually.

Platform: WordPress

Playground

Playground is a fusion of the corporate-friendly aesthetic (including lots of solid blue and red) with the constantly-overlapping elements of more post-modernist web design. There’s also plenty of animation, but it’s understated enough that it’s not too distracting. I like this style a lot, but don’t make me come up with a name for it, please.

Platform: Static Site

Camilo Alvarez

Camilo Alvarez hit me right in the nostalgia. I had a phase where I used a sort of “film grain” effect for almost everything. Well the film grain is back with an animated vengeance, overlaid on a sort of post-minimalist design. As with most of these sites, it’s a bit JS-heavy for me, but it’s pretty and it’s making me feel young again, so it’s here on the list.

Platform: WordPress

Fly Digital

Fly Digital is going very minimalist, and reminds me of the ’90s in a good way. I normally wouldn’t recommend a handwriting typeface for body text, but when there’s this little text, you can get away with it. Though the text could be bigger. And I wouldn’t blur out those client logos on the home page, even if you are going to unblur them on hover.

Otherwise, the site feels handmade and old-fashioned without feeling amateurish. It’s a fine line to walk, but they’re doing it.

Platform: WordPress

epo

Where other sites merely feel modern, epo feels super modern. It’s like flat design had a baby with a corporate color palette. It’s like easy listening music in web design form. None of that is criticism, mind you. If it gets them the clients they want, then it’s doing the job right.

Platform: WordPress

Breadhead

Breadhead brings us some of that classic elegant dark-layout minimalism that we don’t see nearly often enough these days. Thin type, illustrations, and an all around classy feel are what will make this design stick in your brain for a while.

Platform: Static Site

Marijn Bankers

Marijn Bankers’ portfolio reminds me, at first, of an animated spa brochure. You know, the whites and pastels, then thin type, the thinly-lined UI elements, everything. As you dive into the site, it feels more like an architecture firm.

And then it all makes sense when you look through the portfolio. His clients are exactly those who would appreciate the aesthetic. I keep highlighting websites with this approach for the simple reason that it works. Portfolios tailored to the clients just work.

Platform: Static Site

Anvar Shoe

Anvar Shoe’s portfolio eschews the aesthetic fusion we’ve been seeing lately for a site that looks positively post-minimalist. It’s artsy all the way with a mostly-one-column layout and effects that, once again, kind of depend on smooth scrolling to look good.

Platform: Static Site

YRS Truly

YRS Truly is an interesting case. I’ve previously featured portfolio sites that mimic an operating system, but this one fuses the “windows” gimmick with the general structure and layout of a normal two-column website. It’s odd, but it works, and it uses UI conventions that most of us are used to.

Platform: WordPress

Cleverbirds

Cleverbirds’ art portfolio is highly presentational and animated. No points for accessibility here, but if you want some creative and pretty ideas for monochromatic web graphics, look no further. It’s on the list because it’s pretty, and that’s that.

Platform: Static Site

João Pereira

João Pereira’s portfolio is just plain pretty; I love the use of color. While the text could use a little more contrast in places, it’s just generally gorgeous. Plus you can click the triangles in the background to see a list of his skills.

Sure, that’s not intuitive, but it’s better than any “skill progress bars” I’ve ever seen.

Platform: Static Site

Kristopher Bolleter

Kristopher Bolleter’s portfolio leads with text that says, “No cliché slogans, just work that speaks for itself.” Well, he might not know how often I use the phrase “speaks for itself”, right?

All kidding aside, he lives by that motto, presenting all his featured work on one page in old-fashioned iMac illustrations. Man it’s been a while since I’ve seen that instead of the mockup mobile devices. The whole thing isn’t very flashy, but it’s effective and serviceable.

Platform: Hugo

Adrien Laurent

Adrien Laurent brings us back to the flashy stuff with their portfolio. It’s post-modernist, presentational, pastel, and loaded with animation (I couldn’t think of an animation-related word that started with “p”).

Platform: Static Site

Translation

Translation takes a generally bold approach, starting with their overall aesthetic, and on to their assertion that “The world doesn’t need another ad agency.” With a monochromatic palette and really big headings, the whole idea seems to be to blast your brain and hope it sticks. Well it’s working for me.

Platform: Static Site

Anthony Florio

Anthony Florio’s portfolio is fairly standard modernist, with light artsy touches in the form of randomly placed illustration. And it wouldn’t be a photographer’s portfolio without some sort of collage.

Do you ever miss the classic grid full of thumbnails? Nah. Me neither.

Platform: Static Site

Corn Studio

No portfolio list of mine is truly complete without someone using yellow right. In this case, it’s the ever-so-appropriately named Corn Studio gracing us with the classic yellow and black, combined with some highly animated minimalism. It’s flat, it’s pretty, and it’s pretty good.

Platform: WordPress

Add Realistic Chalk and Sketch Lettering Effects with Sketch’it – only $5!

Source p img {display:inline-block; margin-right:10px;} .alignleft {float:left;} p.showcase {clear:both;} body#browserfriendly p, body#podcast p, div#emailbody p{margin:0;} 20 Best New Portfolios, January 2019 published first on https://medium.com/@koresol

[iyarpage]

20 Best New Portfolios, January 2019

Welcome back, WDD Readers. It’s January 2019, and we’re all coming back to work bleary-eyed and bushy-tailed. Why don’t you take a moment to put off wor… I mean get inspired by these new portfolios? We’ve got a fair bit of variety in aesthetics and strategies this month. Enjoy.

Note: I’m judging these sites by how good they look to me. If they’re creative and original, or classic but really well-done, it’s all good to me. Sometimes, UX and accessibility suffer. For example, many of these sites depend on JavaScript to display their content at all; this is a Bad Idea, kids. If you find an idea you like and want to adapt to your own site, remember to implement it responsibly.

Robbygraphics

Robbygraphics starts us off with some modernist minimalism and a touch of illustration. It’s a part of that business-friendly wave of design that I mentioned recently, and it’s a fine example of the trend.

My only critique is that the hero image on the home page could really be SVG. PNG is great and all, but large vector illustrations are better served in a vector format, these days.

Platform: WordPress

O

Yup, this designer is named “O”. The one-page portfolio is a bare-bones as the name, with simple typography, screenshots, and red blobs that change shape as you scroll.

I’m not a huge fan of animations that absolutely depend on having smooth scrolling turned on (I keep it turned off), but overall, it’s a good-looking site.

Platform: Custom CMS built on Ruby (I think)

Florent Biffi

Florent Biffi stands out in the crowd with bold text on a sort of… wrinkled cloth texture? Look, the effect, while simple, is fairly striking. I haven’t seen it a lot. The rest of the site is fairly standard sans-serif fare with thick headings and occasionally-overlapping elements. That first striking visual is enough to keep a user scrolling all on its own, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Platform: Static Site

Timo Kuilder

Timo Kuilder makes new-age-ish cip-art-ish illustrations that look… way better than that sounds. So of course the whole site leans into the aesthetic, using a light masonry collage of the work to sell their services.

Platform: Cargo Combined with Backdrop, apparently.

D7 Creative

D7 Creative takes an interesting and highly interactive approach by making every section of their one-pager look almost completely different. I mean, that’s one way to showcase your range, right? Plus, they have a fully functioning game of Snake that you can play.

It’s not the most visually consistent approach, but rules are made to be broken eventually.

Platform: WordPress

Playground

Playground is a fusion of the corporate-friendly aesthetic (including lots of solid blue and red) with the constantly-overlapping elements of more post-modernist web design. There’s also plenty of animation, but it’s understated enough that it’s not too distracting. I like this style a lot, but don’t make me come up with a name for it, please.

Platform: Static Site

Camilo Alvarez

Camilo Alvarez hit me right in the nostalgia. I had a phase where I used a sort of “film grain” effect for almost everything. Well the film grain is back with an animated vengeance, overlaid on a sort of post-minimalist design. As with most of these sites, it’s a bit JS-heavy for me, but it’s pretty and it’s making me feel young again, so it’s here on the list.

Platform: WordPress

Fly Digital

Fly Digital is going very minimalist, and reminds me of the ’90s in a good way. I normally wouldn’t recommend a handwriting typeface for body text, but when there’s this little text, you can get away with it. Though the text could be bigger. And I wouldn’t blur out those client logos on the home page, even if you are going to unblur them on hover.

Otherwise, the site feels handmade and old-fashioned without feeling amateurish. It’s a fine line to walk, but they’re doing it.

Platform: WordPress

epo

Where other sites merely feel modern, epo feels super modern. It’s like flat design had a baby with a corporate color palette. It’s like easy listening music in web design form. None of that is criticism, mind you. If it gets them the clients they want, then it’s doing the job right.

Platform: WordPress

Breadhead

Breadhead brings us some of that classic elegant dark-layout minimalism that we don’t see nearly often enough these days. Thin type, illustrations, and an all around classy feel are what will make this design stick in your brain for a while.

Platform: Static Site

Marijn Bankers

Marijn Bankers’ portfolio reminds me, at first, of an animated spa brochure. You know, the whites and pastels, then thin type, the thinly-lined UI elements, everything. As you dive into the site, it feels more like an architecture firm.

And then it all makes sense when you look through the portfolio. His clients are exactly those who would appreciate the aesthetic. I keep highlighting websites with this approach for the simple reason that it works. Portfolios tailored to the clients just work.

Platform: Static Site

Anvar Shoe

Anvar Shoe’s portfolio eschews the aesthetic fusion we’ve been seeing lately for a site that looks positively post-minimalist. It’s artsy all the way with a mostly-one-column layout and effects that, once again, kind of depend on smooth scrolling to look good.

Platform: Static Site

YRS Truly

YRS Truly is an interesting case. I’ve previously featured portfolio sites that mimic an operating system, but this one fuses the “windows” gimmick with the general structure and layout of a normal two-column website. It’s odd, but it works, and it uses UI conventions that most of us are used to.

Platform: WordPress

Cleverbirds

Cleverbirds’ art portfolio is highly presentational and animated. No points for accessibility here, but if you want some creative and pretty ideas for monochromatic web graphics, look no further. It’s on the list because it’s pretty, and that’s that.

Platform: Static Site

João Pereira

João Pereira’s portfolio is just plain pretty; I love the use of color. While the text could use a little more contrast in places, it’s just generally gorgeous. Plus you can click the triangles in the background to see a list of his skills.

Sure, that’s not intuitive, but it’s better than any “skill progress bars” I’ve ever seen.

Platform: Static Site

Kristopher Bolleter

Kristopher Bolleter’s portfolio leads with text that says, “No cliché slogans, just work that speaks for itself.” Well, he might not know how often I use the phrase “speaks for itself”, right?

All kidding aside, he lives by that motto, presenting all his featured work on one page in old-fashioned iMac illustrations. Man it’s been a while since I’ve seen that instead of the mockup mobile devices. The whole thing isn’t very flashy, but it’s effective and serviceable.

Platform: Hugo

Adrien Laurent

Adrien Laurent brings us back to the flashy stuff with their portfolio. It’s post-modernist, presentational, pastel, and loaded with animation (I couldn’t think of an animation-related word that started with “p”).

Platform: Static Site

Translation

Translation takes a generally bold approach, starting with their overall aesthetic, and on to their assertion that “The world doesn’t need another ad agency.” With a monochromatic palette and really big headings, the whole idea seems to be to blast your brain and hope it sticks. Well it’s working for me.

Platform: Static Site

Anthony Florio

Anthony Florio’s portfolio is fairly standard modernist, with light artsy touches in the form of randomly placed illustration. And it wouldn’t be a photographer’s portfolio without some sort of collage.

Do you ever miss the classic grid full of thumbnails? Nah. Me neither.

Platform: Static Site

Corn Studio

No portfolio list of mine is truly complete without someone using yellow right. In this case, it’s the ever-so-appropriately named Corn Studio gracing us with the classic yellow and black, combined with some highly animated minimalism. It’s flat, it’s pretty, and it’s pretty good.

Platform: WordPress

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Source p img {display:inline-block; margin-right:10px;} .alignleft {float:left;} p.showcase {clear:both;} body#browserfriendly p, body#podcast p, div#emailbody p{margin:0;} 20 Best New Portfolios, January 2019 published first on https://medium.com/@koresol