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let-it-raines · 4 years

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Nonnie, this is quite possibly one of the funniest prompts I’ve ever received. I actually, legitimately laughed out loud when I read it, and I definitely had to find the original post to read it all. Not gonna lie, I’m totally rooting for that poor girl.

I hope you enjoy this version of such a crazy little tale 😘

on ao3 | here | if that’s more your style

-/-

Her back is absolutely killing her. There are bones in positions they are definitely not supposed to be in, and she has to wonder where the hell David and Mary Margaret got their couch. Emma secretly thinks that when she asked them if she could come stay with them for a few weeks – days, weeks, months, who the hell knows at this point – they got rid of their old couch and replaced it with one that they found on the side of the road that’s full of extra springs and the smallest amount of cushion stuffing on the planet.

David and Mary Margaret are too full of kindness to do something like that, but she knows that if her sister – if she had one obviously – called and said she lost her job and her apartment and needed a place to crash for a little while, she would definitely make the stay as uncomfortable as possible.

If the couch crasher isn’t comfortable, it means they won’t stay as long, right?

It’s July, and she’s been on their couch since the end of April. So much for that theory, obviously. But hey, at least she’s not stuck still living with Neal because if she had to sleep in the same apartment as her cheating douchebag of an ex, there is no guarantee that she wouldn’t murder him in his sleep.

Small blessings and all.

Emma raises her arms above her head and interlaces her hands together, stretching her body out and loosening up her limbs, before she moves her legs and starts running. She’s never been much of a runner. She always thought it was some kind of voluntary torture. Back in Boston, she had a kickboxing gym she went to every day, but there’s not one of those in Storybrooke. There’s one gym here, and it’s got out of date equipment that definitely aren’t cleaned every day. There’s no way she’d ever pay for that when she’s already short on cash to begin with.

So running on the beach it is, even if it makes her calves feel like they are legitimately on fire.

There’s no one on the beach this morning. Sometimes tourists will get here early and mark their space with their chairs and their umbrellas, but today, it’s blissfully empty so that she can run up and down the sand without being bothered. Music blares through her headphones, and it propels her forward every time that she wants to quit. She’s never been one to want to stare at the ocean and soak in its beauty. It’s never calmed her, but now, when her days are spent going between having a bad back, serving drinks to people who don’t know how to tip, and wondering if her life is always going to suck this much, she thinks that the ocean isn’t that bad.

It’s calm and beautiful, and right now, it’s as blue as the…what the fuck?

Emma stops jogging, sand kicking up around her, and her breath escapes her as she squints and looks out onto the ocean past the pier.

Is there…is there someone out there?

About forty, fifty feet out in the water, there’s some kind of floating figure. She can’t really tell from here, but it looks like there’s a man floating on his back, his head tilted backward.

Oh shit.

This area has been full of scuba divers this summer, but they’re usually in groups and only go in the afternoon with some kind of instructor. This guy – or girl, she can’t really tell right now because she doesn’t have her contacts in and can’t see that far away – must have been a dumbass and gone on his own.

Her stomach is heavy, like it’s full of wet sand, and when she looks around, she’s reminded that there’s no one around.

Shit, shit, shit.

This isn’t what she’s trained to do. She’s not even technically trained to do anything. She’s only really ever worked in food service besides her boring as hell office job in Boston, and none of that would have ever prepared her for something like this.

“Oh, what the hell?” Emma mumbles to herself as she pulls her tank top off before tugging her leggings down, kicking them off with her socks and shoes. She drops her phone and her headphones into her shoes. She’s in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of underwear that literally has little animated penises on it from Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party, but that doesn’t really matter when this guy (girl) might be dying.

The water is cold when she first dives in, and salt gets up her nose so that her throat is itching, but she manages to swim out to the water as quickly as possible. Now that she’s closer, she can see that it’s definitely a man, and Emma closes her eyes as she closes the final strides and reaches for him.

When she opens them, he is staring directly at her, blue eyes blown wide in what she can only assume is confusion.

So, he’s not dead. That’s good to know.

“Are you okay?” Emma blurts out, salt water still in her mouth that she hacks up.

The guy nods and slowly removes his regulator and his mask. One eyebrow raises before they both furrow together. “Aye.”

Great. He thinks she’s a lunatic. She probably is.

She just tried to save a man from drowning when he wasn’t actually drowning.

This is all Mary Margaret and David’s fault because they own the most uncomfortable couch in existence, and she obviously is suffering from poor decision making because of a lack of sleep.

“I thought you were dead!” Emma explains as she starts treading water and hopes that a shark doesn’t show up any time soon. That would really be the cherry on top of her day. “But you’re obviously not dead.”

“No, love, I don’t think I am.”

“What’s going on here?”

Emma stops treading and dips under the water before she rises back up and sees another guy floating a few feet away. As she looks around more and more keep popping up, all of them deadly silent, and if she had any air in her lungs right now, she would scream.

What the hell has she just walked…swam into?

And then, when she comes to her senses, she realizes that they’re all laughing at her.

The bunch of assholes.

(She probably deserves their laughter, but she won’t admit to that.)

“Alright, alright,” the non-dead guy says, raising his hand in the air, “leave the lady alone. She is a real savior, okay?” He flashes her a pearly white smile and nods back to the shore. “Do you want to go back and get away from these assholes?”

What she’d like to do right now is drown, but there seems to be none of that going around today.

“Yeah, I would. I don’t need you to take me back though.”

“Good because I’m not going to. I’m simply going to happen to be swimming to the shore at the same time that you do.”

Emma nods and then turns around and starts swimming back. He stays at her heels while his friends whistle out words she’s ignoring behind them, and while Emma considers herself to be in good shape, she is not a swimmer. The adrenaline from her run and from her not-so-daring rescue are wearing off, and she can feel her breathing getting heavier and heavier. Is the shore getting further away? That would be impossible.

“You’re so lucky you weren’t actually dying back there because there was no way I was going to be able to drag your sorry ass back to shore.” He chuckles, and she cuts her eyes back at him. “I’m glad you find this funny.”

“I find this hysterical, love. You need a tug to shore?”

She does, but there’s no way in hell that she’s going to accept that.

“Absolutely not.”

Eventually, after what feels like ages, she steps foot on solid, if sandy, ground, and the early morning air nips at her skin as she emerges from the water. She tries to shake it off while walking toward her clothes, but she knows that there’s no way that she could possibly get her leggings back on.

That would be torture of an entirely different kind.

Holy shit. She’s wearing underwear with cartoon dicks on them.

This day could not get any worse.

Except when she turns around, she sees the guy stripping out of his gear, only the wetsuit left on, and this is the first time she gets a really good luck at him. He’s trim, like he spends a heck of a lot more time swimming than she does, and he’s got dark stubble across his jaw that she imagines would feel fantastic brushing against her skin. His eyes also seem to be bluer now, and she definitely didn’t think that was possible.

Okay, so maybe her day could get worse.

Or a little better.

Then she watches his eyes tail down her body, just for a moment, but it’s long enough that she knows that he’s noticed her unfortunate choice in underwear.

“So, do you go about saving people every morning or is this just a one-time thing?”

“Definitely a one-time thing since all of my effort was apparently useless.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. That’s the most entertainment me and the boys have had in weeks. I don’t think we’re going to forget about this for a long time.”

Emma nods and bends down to get her tank top. She pulls it over, and it immediately clings to her skin. So much for getting a little coverage. “You lead that boring of a life then? All diving all the time?”

“Lately, yeah.”

“Is that so?”

He shakes his hair out and runs his fingers through his locks, and she is not distracted by that at all.

(She is definitely not thinking about the fact that she hasn’t had sex in several months.)

(She just embarrassed the hell out of herself in front of him, so that shouldn’t even be a though going through her mind.)

(Even if these were normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be a thought that went through her mind this early in the morning.)

“We’re training for diving school for the Navy,” he explains. “We’ve got a few weeks off that we’re spending up here for the incredible diving spots, but then we’ll be in Florida for four months.”

“Well, I hope you won’t need any saving while you’re there.”

“It won’t be you, so I’m not sure that it’d be quite as enjoyable.” Emma rolls her eyes, and she has to try her hardest not to let herself smile. That was a bad line. She will not smile at it. “Killian Jones, by the way. And you are?”

“Emma Swan.” She reaches out to take his hand to shake, but instead, he pulls it up and brushes his lips across the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact.

“It’s nice to meet you, Swan. You wouldn’t happen to know a good spot around here to get a beer, would you?”

Emma looks down at her feet, kicking them in the sand, before she raises her head and smiles. He’s flirting with her. She just embarrassed the hell out of herself, interrupted a military training exercise, and he’s flirting with her.

What’s wrong with him?

“I actually work at the Crab Shack down by the pier. Don’t let the name fool you. There is only a small possibility that you’ll get crabs if you shack up while there.”

Okay, what is wrong with her?

Killian cocks his head to the side and chuckles as a water droplet falls from his hair and streaks down his face. Why is that so distracting? “I’ll see if the boys and I can stop by tonight. You know, to celebrate the woman who saved me.”

“Alright, alright,” Emma laughs, holding her hands up and bowing her head. “I get it. I’m never going to live this down.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

-/-

David and Mary Margaret are both at work when she gets home, so she thankfully doesn’t have to explain her appearance. Her heart is still racing and her clothes are still soaking wet. Her leggings were pretty much impossible to get on, so she walked through the streets of Storybrooke in nothing but sneakers, a tank top, and dick-covered underwear. She takes a shower and tries to wash away the embarrassment of the morning. She never thought that she was one to embarrass easily, but she guesses that was not some kind of normal situation.

Why is she such an idiot?

Is this just a new low point in her life?

She’s not working until after lunch, and while she would usually take this time to clean up around the loft to show her appreciation for David and Mary Margaret for letting her crash here, she doesn’t do that. Instead, she spends a ridiculous amount of time trying to decide what to wear to work, like she’s not going to wear her regular cut-offs and a tank top. That’s exactly what she puts on, and if she decides to add a lacy bralette, well, that’s just because all of her other bras need to be washed.

Eventually, she heads to work, clocks in, and starts helping to serve the few tables and the people at the bar. It’s pretty slow, though, and when there’s only one guy in a booth in the corner, she tells Ruby about her morning.

Considering Ruby literally starts choking from laughing so much, Emma thinks maybe that wasn’t her best idea.

“You were wearing the underwear from Marg’s bachelorette party?”

“It was clean! I have to do laundry!”

“This is the best thing to ever happen to me,” Ruby laughs, leaning forward and resting her face on the countertop before she pops back up with wide eye and a wolfish smirk. “Wait. Did you say that he’s coming here tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Is that why you have on mascara?”

“I wear makeup sometimes.”

“Rarely.” Ruby places her hands on her hips, and okay, maybe she definitely shouldn’t have told Ruby. She probably wouldn’t have noticed the Navy guys coming in. “Oh, is he cute? Are you going to sleep with him? Is that what’s up with you looking slightly put together. Emma Swan, have you gone and found yourself a man in the most ridiculous way possible?”

“I am not going to sleep with him.” Ruby raises her brows and then winks, and all Emma can do is shake her head. “He’s in the Navy. He’s about to go to Florida for four months and then who knows where? What would even be the point?”

“That sounds like the perfect excuse to sleep with him. There are no strings attached, and I’m sure he knows that too. I mean, you’ve got to get over that douche eventually. Why not do it with a hot guy who is going to leave, no strings attached?”

She’s only known Ruby from when she’s come to visit David, but they’ve managed to be pretty close friends over the last few months. Ruby is fearless and crass, and there’s never anything holding her back. Emma often wishes she was like that.

The girl is right, unfortunately, not that Emma would admit that to her. She would never shut up about it.

“He’s probably not even going to show, Rubes.”

-/-

He shows.

His entire crew doesn’t. It’s just him and two guys named Robin and Will, and they all settle down at a booth, ordering burgers and drinks and taking the piss out of her every time she brings them something. Will is the main culprit, and she’s pretty sure that he’s the one who scared the shit out of her earlier by silently popping up out of nowhere.

It’s weird seeing them all out of their gear and in their civilian clothes. Killian is in a pair of dark jeans that hug his legs – not that she was staring or anything – and a short-sleeved gray t-shirt. A tattoo peaks out underneath his sleeve, and she’s curious as to what it is.

She’s not going to sleep with him, though. That’s not…that’s not happening.

“So, I have to ask,” Ruby says after Emma’s been chatting with them on and off for an hour, “did you manage to get a good look at the panties this girl had on earlier?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t, love,” Killian tells Ruby before looking at Emma and winking.

Oh, she might be in trouble if he’s going to do things like that..

“Really?” Ruby asks, disappointed.

“I’m afraid that I was too busy being thankful to be saved to pay any attention to what my savior was wearing.”

“I call bullshit on that, but whatever. You really missed out too. They were the greatest pair of panties in existence.”

Little by little, the bar fills up with people, mostly tourists, but a few locals come in. Will and Robin start talking with a few guys they happen to know, but Killian comes to sit at the bar across from her where she learns that he’s originally from California but that his dad was in the military growing up and they moved around a lot. His mom was British, and they spent the majority of his early years in England, which explains the slight accent, and he has an older brother who lives in Denmark with his wife. At twenty-four, he’s only three years older than her, and he says that he got a bit of a late start to being in the Navy, messing around too much and not knowing what the hell it is he wanted to do with his life.

Emma gets that more than he could probably ever know. She’s literally sleeping on her brother’s couch and working in a place called the Crab Shack.

They don’t even sell crab most days.

He gives as good as he gets with being teased, and she finds that he’s always quick to give back an insult or a jab whenever one comes from Ruby or from his friends.

Or from her.

It’s easy talking to him, laughing and sharing a drink and some fries, and as the night goes on, it’s even easier to forget that she hasn’t flirted since Neal and that the man smiling across from her was the witness to one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.

Killian kisses her against the wall in the hallway that leads back to the bathrooms and the storage closets. It’s dark, the music from the bar dimmed, and the only thing she can focus on is the warmth of his mouth and the expert sweep of his tongue as chills scatter across her body before warming her everywhere, from her toes to her cheeks but especially in the pit of her belly. She hasn’t been kissed like that in quite some time, if not ever, and getting lost in it is as easy as anything she’s ever done.

She doesn’t sleep with him, though.

She desperately wants to, aches for it really, but he mutters something about being a gentleman, which she protests against, but he reassures her that he is, indeed, always a gentleman.

Making out with her in the hallway of a bar doesn’t really allow that theory to hold up, but she guesses he’s going to play the gentleman card.

He promises he’ll be back, though, asking her if she’s working tomorrow, and when she says yes, he kisses her again and then walks out the door.

-/-

Killian comes back the next day.

And the next.

And the one after that.

And then he asks if he can see her outside of work, take her on a proper date or something, and the only reason Emma says yes is because she knows this is temporary. He’s going to leave soon, so it’s okay for her to get to know him and laugh with him and make out with him in the backseat of her car until her lips are kiss-swollen and every part of her is flushed.

It’s okay for her to get to know how he likes his burgers and what his favorite drink is and that the tattoo on his arm is in honor of his mom who passed away five years ago. She learns more about his brother and his apparently shitty dad, just as she tells him about David who he apparently had some kind of run-in with on his first night in town, and little by little, she starts to know all of these pieces of this man she never should have met.

If she were a romantic, Emma would say that this is like something out of a movie, a summer romance that passes by in montages full of laughter and good times. She’s not a romantic, though. She knows that this is the real world where things don’t work out like that, but even so, the weeks pass by, and when she goes to bed at night, she finds herself thinking of blue eyes and a kind but mischievous smile.

Oh.

Oh, okay. Maybe she’s gotten herself in too deep of waters without knowing the way out, and this time, there’s not going to be some idiot running along the beach who dives out into the ocean to save her.

Despite her thoughts starting to attack her, her heart aching even when she tells it to stop, she continues to see him whenever she can. And a week before he leaves, they manage to find a time when no one is home but the two of them, and while she doesn’t intend for it go that far, once his lips brush across her neck and liquid heat blazes over her skin, there’s no stopping them as they shed their clothes.

“No dick-covered underwear today, love?” Killian whispers against her bare stomach as he kisses her in such a way that her stomach ripples.

“I’m afraid those have been retired.”

“A pity that.”

They don’t talk much for the next few minutes, not more than curses and instructions and repetitive words of pleasure, and as her heart races while Killian drives her absolutely mad with his movements, it also aches, the ticking time bomb she wants liked suddenly something she’s dreading.

She likes him.

Honestly, truly likes him.

He’s kind and funny and has a mouth on him that matches hers in curses and in banter. He asks her about her day and listens to her when she talks, which Neal nearly never did, and while she finds that what’s between them is physical, there’s something more underneath the surface, so damn close to breaking through.

When he leaves, she doesn’t want to say goodbye. She’s never been particularly good at those, but Killian still comes to the bar, sits with her at the counter likes it’s not his last day, and when he has to go, he takes her hand and pulls her outside, the wind whipping around them and the smell of salt permeating the air.

“There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.”

Emma nearly makes some kind of sarcastic quip, but instead she leans up on her toes and slowly glides her lips over his, savoring the softness and undeniable warmth of them one last time.

“Good.”

-/-

Emma wakes to a text the next morning.

KJ: So, I have some time off in January. Do you think I could take you to dinner?

ES: I think that could be arranged. I don’t know if I’ll recognize you all bundled up to live through Maine’s winter weather.

KJ: I’ll bring a red rose, just in case.

Emma rolls over on the couch and buries her smile in her pillow.

ES: I am looking forward to it.

-/-

Emma sees Killian for the first time – FaceTime not included – on January third, four months and a week after they said goodbye. He’s standing outside her apartment – one she shares with Ruby, each of them with their own, actual bedrooms – dressed in his Naval dress uniform with a red rose in his hand.

His hair is shorter, his usual stubble a little bit more trimmed, his skin tanned, and even with his uniform, she can see that his shoulders are broader than they were this summer.

“Hi,” Emma whispers. She thought she was yelling it, but it definitely only came out as a whisper. “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

He cocks his head to the side, smile bright, and God, she has missed that smile. “Ah, well, you see, I had an opportunity to see the woman I love one day sooner, and there was no way in hell I was going to pass up that opportunity.”

“The woman you love, huh?”

“Aye.” He steps closer, and it takes everything in Emma not to tackle him to the ground. “She’s this fiery lass who is beyond brilliant and witty. And, I’ll have you know, that she is so brave that she’ll dive into the ocean to save a drowning man. Would you happen to know anyone like that?”

Emma rolls her eyes and closes the distance between them. It was once 1,500 miles (she may have looked it up), but that is no longer. And it feels damn good. “I might have an idea where you can find her.”

“Good,” he says, her own word from so long ago echoing back to her, before pressing his lips to hers in a deep, slow kiss that feels like it never stopped.

She has never been so thankful for David’s shitty couch and how it inadvertently led her to this.

#the one where emma goes underwater #cs prompts #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #Captain Swan

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

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THE WORD HACKER NEWS FROM HACKER NEWS

Read their job listings. No. But I think this would have such a visible effect on the economy.1 And it's so easy to do: just don't let a sentence through unless it's the way you'd say it to a friend. I don't want to make it open. Make something people want is the development team and the software they've built so far. If it succeeds, you may be better off just using whatever language has the best library functions for the task. The tree structure of large organizations sets an upper bound on the size of company you work for. Our generation wants to get paid up front.

Hacker News had the good fortune to start out good, so in this case it's literally a matter of preservation. Boston VC who had known him for years. Sometimes, in desperation, competitors would try to invest in do things a certain way, what difference does it make what the others do? They're not. The problem is the same they face in operating systems: they can't do product development. Quite small, but the curve is just as steep, and when you do, surprise, you've got a company. Indeed, the law of supply and demand insures that: the more rewarding some kind of secretary, especially early on, because she was the one who'd go out and get each new group and she didn't ask many questions.2 But the market doesn't have to be in a race against your competitors, glued immovably to the median language, will never be able to say who cares what investors think? Most organizations who hire people right out of stock that could otherwise be given to them.

It's the principle of a market economy. He said it wasn't anything specific Google did, but simply that they understood search so much better. And so, as people generally do with admissions of failure, they put it off for as long as possible. Convince yourself that your startup is worth investing in, then simply explained this well to investors. The process inherently tends to produce an unpleasant result, like a VC. The first time Peter Thiel spoke at YC he drew a Venn diagram is illuminating. Most investors feel the same. If you had a handful of writers who can get away with using fancy language in prose. And yet the bullshit you choose may be harder to eliminate than the bullshit that's forced on you or it tricks you. While perhaps 9 out of 10 startups fail, the one that succeeds will pay the founders more than 10 times what they would have made in an ordinary job. Watching employees get transformed into founders makes it clear that the difference between the two types of startup ideas: those that grow organically out of your round.

Before him, most companies treated design as a frivolous extra. We had big doubts about this idea, but the job listings have to be a promising experiment that's worth funding to see how bad some practice is till you have something to compare it to. It's really a group of people are publishing online, and the various departments created recently in response to political pressures. So if you're mainly interested in hacking and you go to grad school after this equivocal recommendation, I can give you solid advice about how to get in. Every couple days I slip and call it Viaweb. I've noticed a definite difference between programmers working on their own startup is probably going to learn more. You write programs in the parse trees that get generated within the compiler when other languages are parsed. Object-oriented programming is popular in big companies, software tends to be missing when people lack experience. If you want to start your own company. One question I can answer is why hardware is suddenly cool.

That may be the best source of organic ones, because they're missing some feature he's used to. On questions of design, I ask What would Steve do? All that matters is to ask yourself whether you'll care about it in the future. Stock is not the most powerful language available. In the big angel rounds that increasingly compete with series A rounds, the investors won't take as much equity as VCs do now. If you want to use Lisp, so much the better. We are having a bit of a fib. Angel rounds are their whole business, as online video was for YouTube. Which is not that high.

Particularly to young companies that are growing fast, but haven't been doing it for long enough to have grown big yet. In business, as online video was for YouTube. 167. And the reason everyone doesn't use it is that programming languages are different: programming languages are not merely technologies, but habits of mind as well, partly because it seems kind of slimy. Even Microsoft probably couldn't manage 500 development projects in-house. So was the Apple I when Woz first started working on it. I've written several essays that began as comments there. The first microcomputers were dismissed as toys. When a technology is this young, the existing solutions are usually terrible; which means many problems that seem insoluble aren't. Most of the legal restrictions on employers are intended to protect employees. It's also counter-cyclical.

Such customs evolve with glacial slowness. Robotics, for example, you can use technology that your competitors don't understand. Here's a simple trick for getting more people to read what you write: write in spoken language, you'll be ahead of 95% of writers. It seems to be no benefit from working for a company with 100 people will feel different from one with 1000. Normal food is terribly bad for you. 4 people per startup, but startups will probably do better with founders more in control, and there would be no room for investors to make money from it. Why don't acquirers try to predict the companies they're going to get a lot of people, like a practitioner of Aikido, you can decrease the amount of information it conveys, people try to distinguish them instead by being funny. It was also how we picked founders who'd be successful. I've been able to keep up, in the long run, of the forces underlying open source and blogging have to teach business: 1 that people work a lot harder. So if Lisp makes you a better programmer.

Notes

They'll be more precise, and they were more the aggregate is what we do the opposite. It's a bit of an official authority makes all the page-generating templates are still a dick move. A few startups get on the expected value calculation varies from person to person depending on their companies that have bad ideas is many times that conversation was repeated.

There's nothing specifically white about such customs. If you can make it easier to get all the poorer countries.

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treatian · 3 years

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: Breaking the Curse

Chapter 4: And Your Enemies Closer

It turned out that whether Dove had wings or legs, he was still a remarkable asset. After his accomplice had left the shop, he had dutifully taken his bag of money into the back. He pulled out a thick black ledger off of one of the shelves and began to count the money. He worked on the books, just as he'd told Dove he would do, just as he always did. But this time, throughout the day, text message after text message came in. It began to paint a picture in his mind that made him smile with pride as he realized he was going to like this Emma Swan.

"Rumors are true," Dove wrote. "She was arrested earlier today for stealing Henry's file from Doctor Hopper's office. Mary Margaret Blanchard bailed her out. She cut down the tree branch after that. She's no longer welcome at Granny's, something about a 'no felon rule.'"

He'd barely had time to smirk at that convenient rule he was certain Regina had only just now decided to enforce when his phone buzzed with a picture notification. It was a picture of the apple tree outside the Mayor's office. Usually prim and elegant, it was obvious that one limb had clearly been hacked away by an ax or a chainsaw, perhaps. The branch lay on the ground along with a dozen or so apples scattered around it. The image nearly took his breath away. But this time, it wasn't because of Emma Swan, at least not entirely. It was because he'd seen that scene before, once a long time ago.

In the Enchanted Forest, in his original vision, he'd gotten a flash of Regina and the Swan, Emma, in clothes that were not of their land, facing off with one another. They'd stared one another down with hatred and determination in their eyes, two enemies, a villain, and a hero: the Cursemaker and the Cursebreaker. Behind them, in that vision, they'd been standing in front of a tree…an apple tree with a limb cut off.

As a chill swept through him, he crawled back through his messages and reread the part about Mary Margaret bailing Emma out of jail. Mary Margaret, Snow White. Mother and daughter had been reunited and maybe even formed some sort of bond somehow. He had no idea how or why, but he knew Mary Margaret. Here, the timid school teacher was shy and less than confident. She was a far cry from the queen and bandit she'd once been, no doubt by Regina's design. For Mary Margaret to want to do something like post bail for the woman who had stolen the files for the Mayor's son…that wasn't something she'd usually do. But it was interesting, so very, very interesting.

He knew what he had to do. He'd spend all day thinking about it. From the moment he'd gotten the picture from Dove, all the while he'd worked on the books and counted the money, even as he packed himself up to go home that evening and made a few adjustments to his shop. He'd come to the conclusion that he didn't need the Seer's help to break this Curse, that he didn't even need the voices of the other Dark Ones in his head. He could plan for the breaking of the Curse, he could navigate bringing magic to Storybrooke, but it was all going to start with one person: Emma Swan.

As if on cue, as he walked to his car that evening, he happened to spy Henry and Emma coming out of Archie's office, smiling together. The bug, Archie, personally saw them out, and they checked their watches. It was too early for Henry to be out of therapy, and as forgiving as Marco's friend the cricket was, he knew that Archie wouldn't have that look about someone who had really stolen the file. That meant that Emma and Henry spending time together was an action that was being sanctioned and encouraged by a man who always valued truth and honesty. And the fact that watches were checked…Archie wanted them back before Regina arrived and could find out.

That action alone was confirmation that he was about to make the right decision. In order for the Curse to be broken, sides would be taken, alliances would be formed, enemies made. He'd needed to choose his sides carefully in the Enchanted Forest, playing different sides to make sure the Curse was cast. Here, trying to break the Curse, it would be a lot easier. The vision he'd had in the Enchanted Forest made sense. Now, there was Regina's side, and there was Emma's side. Victory, this time around, would be found on Emma's side, and nowhere else.

As he watched the pair happily walk down the street, his eyes were drawn to the clocktower. Aside from the abandoned library, the sight of that still working clock lifted his spirits and his hopes. Whether she was currently capable of using magic or not, her arrival in Storybrooke had already worked some magic here. That magic was only going to grow. He wanted to be a part of it.

It was time for an allegiance change. That fact weighed heavier on him than he thought it would, but it was understandable. He'd trained Regina. He'd taught her everything she knew, relied on her, spent hundreds of years investing in her so that she'd cast the Curse and get him to where he was today. But now they were here; the Curse was cast. Now, his life had to be about breaking that Curse, or else he'd never be able to leave and find Bae. So yes, that meant it was time to change his allegiance. It was time to champion the Savior. It was time to start rooting for Emma Swan.

Once, he'd sought to ensure a terrible war between Snow White and the Evil Queen, and now he wanted to ensure one between the Mayor and the mother of her child. But this wasn't like crafting a war for Regina. This was creating a fight for Emma. He knew little about her, only having been in the room with her one time since she'd arrived, but the fact that she'd stayed and defaced the apple tree after Regina had her arrested and kicked out of her room at Granny's told him enough. She was fiery. She was strong and determined, and that was without whatever magical qualities she possessed. He'd known types like her before. The more support she had, the more she fought against Regina, the stronger she would get. So what was he to do?

Create support by creating unrest. Regina didn't have many friends here, he wasn't even convinced the Sheriff liked her, and he shared her bed, though he had no idea why he was sure. He had to foster hatred and fear of Emma in Regina. By doing that, Regina would push Emma. Emma would push back. The town would sense the war; they'd rally behind her, the Savior would grow stronger, the Curse would break. He could go find Baelfire.

And for that, he knew exactly what he had to do. He had to create instability for Regina. He didn't want Regina to know he had his memories, not yet…knowledge was power. But suspicion, on the other hand, was born of fear. And fear bred weakness. Weakness created instability.

With Regina assuming Henry was still at therapy, he knew right where to find her. He didn't make it into the Mayor's office at Town Hall; he didn't have to go that far. He smiled as he found her in the garden, tending to the tree that Miss Swan had defaced. The branch was gone, the apples picked up, the tree looking nearly perfect again. But the fact that Regina was the one tending to it…Emma had gotten under her skin. Beautiful.

"What a mess," he commented, alerting her to his presence.

"Not for long. What could I do for you, Mr. Gold?"

"I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd pop by. Lovely to see you in such high spirits," he stated before she could pick up on the fact that he never just "popped by," especially not to check on her, not unless he had something he needed or she needed of him.

As he circled her tree, Regina laughed. "Well, it's been a good day. I just rid the town of an unwanted nuisance."

He smiled. That was unlikely. In a way, he felt bad for Regina. If her wolf-spy was half as good as his bird-spy, then she might know that wasn't the case right now.

"Emma Swan. Really?" he paused, looking over the tree. Love her or hate her, that tree from their land did make the most delicious of apples. Probably second only to the apple that she'd fed her poor step-daughter once upon a time. He had an idea.

"Yes. I imagine she's half-way to Boston by now."

"Oh," he smiled, plucking one from the tree. "I wouldn't bet on that." Suddenly Regina turned, and the smile he'd heard in her voice gave way to darkness. "I just seen her strolling down the main street with your boy. Thick as thieves, they looked."

"What?"

"Perhaps you should have come to me," he suggested with a smile. Given their relationship, it was a suggestion in character for Mr. Gold, but if she happened to take the bait, he wouldn't regret it. It would give him an excuse to be closer to the situation. "If Miss Swan is a problem you can't fix, I'm only too happy to help. For a price, of course."

Regina chuckled. "I'm not in the business of making deals with you anymore."

He smiled as she turned from him. She really had made this all too easy. He wanted her on edge. He wanted her back to the Regina she'd been when she'd stormed into his shop after getting Henry because she'd figured out who or rather what his mother was. What ever happened to that fire, that knowledge and discomfort, he wasn't sure…but he wanted it back now. He wanted just a tease of it. And interestingly enough, Henry was the last deal she'd ever made.

"To which deal are you referring?" he questioned with perfect timing.

She turned back, her eyes wide, body trembling. He had a feeling that if he could hear her heart, it would have been pounding. Now she had fear. It wasn't much, just a hint. It was only a hint of what had been that might make her begin to question her power and this curse. "You know what deal."

"Oh, right. Yeah. The boy I procured for you." Her shoulders lowered in relaxation, and she turned back to her tree. She was relieved, and that meant it was the perfect time to stress her again. "Henry…did I ever tell you what a lovely name that was? How ever did you pick it?"

And there it was again. Tension. Just enough inflection in his voice to suggest he knew something, but not enough to confirm it. That was what he wanted. He wanted her to stay up late tonight, reliving those memories of panic from when she'd first gotten Henry, remembering what it felt like to think the girl was the Savior coming to break her curse. He wanted her to wonder if it was breaking and ask herself if the man she was talking to was Mr. Gold or her old tutor Rumpelstiltskin.

"Did you want her to come to town?" she questioned, rounding on him, her voice raised in exactly what he wanted to hear. Panic. "You wanted all this to happen, didn't you? Your finding Henry wasn't an accident, was it?"

He kept himself in check, showing not a trace of the curiosity and surprise on his face as he looked her over. They'd had this conversation before. Not exactly word for word, but close enough. She hadn't gotten answers from him then because he really hadn't known, he was cursed, and it was fate intervening on his behalf. But she…she should know. Why didn't she know?

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Where did you get him? Do you know something?"

"I have no idea what you're implying."

"I think you do," she bit back. "Who is this woman, his mother, this…Emma Swan?"

He smiled, suddenly feeling breathless and unable to hide the joy he found in her statement. If she was asking again, then she didn't know. Dammit. He was right. She did have magic. She'd used it on herself all those years ago, to erase the information from her mind. That was how she'd been able to raise Henry all these years without fear of his birth mother. That was why she'd stopped panicking after she'd come into his shop! His previous suspicions were confirmed. He had to be careful then. If she had magic and he didn't, he needed to tread very carefully. He might have already given away too much.

"I would say you think you know exactly who she is," he answered mysteriously. It was a statement that could easily go two ways. It could be translated that he assumed Regina had figured Emma Swan out already, judged her early on, and knew what she was dealing with. Of course, it could also be translated that if she was fearful that it was Snow White's daughter, she might want to act on that instinct. And he was happy to leave it at that.

"I really must be going," he turned to leave, but with his limp, he'd barely gotten a step in before Regina appeared in front of him again, cutting him off.

"Tell me what you know about her!"

Panic. That was good. Panic was good, but knowledge was bad. Panic kept her in a state of confusion, which would only serve him in the future. It meant that she wouldn't attack Emma directly because there was no proof that she was the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. He wanted her to suspect but not to know. But maybe, a bit more suspicion…what was that deal they'd made back home?

"I'm not going to answer you, dear," he responded, giving her a hint that he might have known something more than he was saying. "So I suggest you excuse me. Please."

And there it was. He felt something shift in the air between them, something sizzle. Magic. The curse upholding itself and sparing magic to make sure the deal they made was upheld. And from the looks of it, Regina sensed it too. The drop of the jaw, the flush of her cheeks. It was just enough that it scared her. It made her question whether or not he remembered and whether or not it was because of Emma. He took a bite of his apple and moved around the Mayor. She didn't follow, didn't ask any more questions.

And he smiled to himself as he tossed the apple over his shoulder and left her with a head full of suspicions and fear.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Mr. Gold #Regina Mills #Evil Queen #Emma Swan #Savior #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

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loquaciousquark · 5 years

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Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E63 (May 21, 2019)

Sorry it’s late, guys. @eponymous-rose has narrowly avoided being blown away by tornadoes and I’ve narrowly avoided drowning in equally dangerous paperwork, so here we are at the end of all things. Preroll is post-its of donors for Red Nose Day.

Tonight’s guests: Sam Riegel & Liam O’Brien.

Tonight’s announcements: We’re opened by Mark Hulmes instead of BWF. He dabs. No one blinks an eye. After the music open, we find out BWF’s neighbor’s kid stole his keys and then he lost his wallet. It hasn’t mattered, because he’s about to be Mr. Ashley Johnson & people just keep giving him what he needs. They’re still raising money for RedNoseDay. Thursday morning, the Colbert one-shot airs on the Critical Role Youtube. You can donate at critrole.com/rednoseday. Mark Hulmes joined Taliesin & BWF today for an episode available on the CR Twitch.

Episode 63: Intervention

CR Stats: Caleb cast his 700th spell, Gift of Alacrity, on Caduceus. Nott rolled her 40th natural 1 this episode to understand the local sewer system. This was Caduceus’s first HDYWTDT. Everyone mourns that someone stole the Golden Snitch from Matt’s bag.

It’s more stressful not knowing everyone’s motivations, both within the party and the game world. Sam talks about Yasha’s mysterious past and Beau’s dangerous ties to the Empire, especially given how much they understood in the first campaign about (at least) who the bad guys were. Sam feels like once they have a shred of information, he wants to jump on it ASAP and make big, bold decisions on them. He’s dealing with the discovery that this might be not as great an idea. He’s not experienced this kind of “trepidation, failure, uncertainty...I don’t like this game. I don’t like it at all!”

Caleb likes using the little bit of dunamantic magic as a taste of a drug--each little hit makes him want more and more and more.

Danimancy? Make a Carrcana check. Sigh, Sam.

Sam made two big mistakes in the last fight: he missed the gender of the dragonborn, so he thought that one of the other voices Matt was doing was actually the dragonborn giving orders (and therefore the one in charge, while the drow was the one taking orders). He also saw the dragonborn leaving and was worried that he was waiting on the party to give him (Nott) the go-ahead to kick things off. He recognizes he put Caleb in a terrible position both in a meta yes-and sense and in the Nott-Caleb team sense.

The world devolves into campaign slander and propaganda. Everyone’s in it, including BWF and Dani. #samforpresident

Caleb told the Brightqueen about his past because he feels like they’re on a very tight timeline, looking for very slight drips of information like gold. He thought it was worth the shot.

Sam desperately wants to know what the missing years in Yasha’s memory hold. BWF tells him to get what he can out of her while she’s here; her show’s been renewed for another season. He sounds genuinely bitter as he says it, but he notes at least it’s the last one. :(

They ask Mark Hulmes about what Charm does for people. He helpfully tells us it doesn’t say if they remember or not. Sam also points out Nott has blown up Caduceus before, so doing a few more points to Yasha is *wigglehands*.

Caleb did not mean to kill the horse on purpose. Sam tries to get him to confess that on camera, but instead Liam needles him about not cuddling Henry.

Cosplay of the Week: @andy_srivastava’s cosplay of Beau. Gorgeous!

Both Sam and Nott feel the fight’s outcome was his/her fault. He expects her to feel very guilty next week. Sam genuinely felt and still feels bad about it. He also prefers hashing out reactions the night things happen instead of having to wait a week for the next Thursday. He feels it’s more genuine.

Caleb is very worried about Jester’s mom and Astrid’s crew finding ways to use her mom as leverage. He’s also worried about the kid, but is glad Shakaste is going to get him. Liam also always imagined running into his old crew against the backdrop of the Empire, and is now very worried that if he runs into them soon he’ll have the added perception of being a traitor since they’re in the Dynasty.

Liam and Caleb both were surprised he was given hints of dunamancy so freely. He looks forward to learning more.

Liam totally understands how easy it is to miss things now. He’s constantly looking things up and reading in an attempt to understand his spells, and therefore missing parts of the battle. He greatly sympathizes with Marisha. Sam, on the other hand, is finding it hard to adapt to rogue life; he doesn’t like the necessary “out there, bold choice” nature of rogues in D&D and having the pressure of making big decisions very fast. He prefers Scanlan’s nature of sitting in the back, casting spells, and being more reactionary than instigatory. Liam always is afraid of picking the wrong spells, and finds it much harder than Vax. BWF: “Dagger dagger dagger...dagger dagger dagger dagger?” Liam: “I kept track of that fine, it’s everyone else that was wrong.”

Sam is shocked the D&D Beyond campaign bit has dragged on. BWF calls his rebuttal “bogusly weak,” and Sam looks genuinely aghast. It’s hilarious. “I don’t know how he got to you, Brian, but this feels like coming on Fox News! You’re a partisan hack! I won’t take it anymore, but I love attention, so I will stay.”

Nott is super interested in the dodeca’s ability to give people different bodies, but Caleb is still the clearest path to getting her body back. It’s complicated because the Dynasty souls are “chosen” and Nott’s not likely to be so.

Liam is very excited to see this magic system Matt has created in dunamancy. Did he create it in response to Liam or had he already thought about it? Sam tells us he’s always been thoughtful about fate and the subverting of it. Liam is so pumped because in campaign one, fate strings existed and were uncontrollable, but in campaign two we’ve “developed physicists, tinkering.”

In re: Essik, Nott’s just happy Caleb has found a friend. She wishes he’d bring him home more often.

Sam finally busses Henry’s cheek and affirms to us that he actually loves dogs. Everyone in his family is voting for a new dog except for his daughter, who wants a cat.

Liam doesn’t want everything to be cat-themed, but likes retouching a few spells here and there for flavor. He also wanted to differentiate it from Scanlan’s Bigby’s Hand. Sam thinks he should reskin more spells.

SPOILERS FOR C1 IN THIS QUESTION. Sam talks about rogue high-stakes moments as genuinely, surprisingly stressful. Liam says Vax was stressful but exhilarating, especially when it came to moments that conflated poor meta decisions vs roleplay decisions. He specifically mentions Raishan’s chase as a terrible in-game decision but one that was right for the character. He and Sam will always do what’s right for the character, even if it’s bad narratively in the moment. Sam says he got a lot of support from the group thread this past week, though. END SPOILERS FOR C1.

Fanart of the Week: a gorgeous Caduceus portrait by @larndraws.

Nott trusts Shakaste to get Luke traveling safely. Sam also drops a bombshell on the world by telling us Luc is spelled Luc. It’s just that no one’s ever asked. Heavens!

Caleb’s made an effort to tell people he cares for them, but he fears it at the same time. He’s afraid he’s going to be put in a position where he needs it too much. Brian asks if he believes he’s truly irredeemable: Liam says there’s a certain road where he could feel he atoned, and there’s a road that might lead to balance, but there’s never a brass ring that he could reach that could let him relax entirely. I don’t entirely understand the metaphor, but I get what he means.

Sam likes that the theme of this campaign seems to be “atonement and reconciliation” compared to the first campaign’s “finding family.” There’s a bit of that in this campaign too, but he likes how everyone has something in their past that they’re clinging to, and he’s interested to see who will be able to resolve it, who will be able to handle it, and who won’t be able to let it go.

Mark Hulmes come on to talk about the Stream of Descent, which happened last weekend. He’s the DM for High Rollers, which airs at 9am Pacific on Sundays.

BWF talks about how C1 had a lot of the Hero’s Journey in various forms, and C2 feels a lot like “what it means to be good.” He doesn’t feel they fit the “antihero” archetype very well.

Liam thinks that if Caleb were going to leave the campaign, he’d have done it already.

Part of Caleb’s generation was to create a character the world would shun, and seeing if he could find a way to find compassion for them. He mentions the poem written for the Boston marathon bomber a while ago. BWF talks about how it’s a really interesting character choice because it depends on the rest of the table being willing to stick around and seek out that redeemable quality in your character, even when you’re making decisions that are true to the character but bad for the table/the rest of the group. You can’t always expect that to work with every group you play with.

Mark talks about Calliana being the other end of the spectrum from Caleb, because she also has a history of having done very terrible things, but she was taken in by a family who helped her understand she’d been manipulated and it was not her fault. He’s desperate for his recently mentioned package to be picked up because she has some messages for Caleb in it. Now she tries to see the best in everyone she meets as a result of her history. He has a whole folder of fanart of Calliana on his wall. Awwww.

It’s still never gotten old for Liam or Sam either.

Mark endorses Sam for President. Good job, foreign fellow. Is it Thursday yet?

#talks machina #talks machina spoilers #critical role #critical role spoilers #long post for ts

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badcowboy69 · 5 years

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Unexpected part 4

Gosh, it’s been a REALLY long time for this poor chapter to be coming out. I have been distracted with many things, good and bad, but it seems as if I’m finally back on track. Hopefully that means I’ll be able to crank out stories again like I used to. That being said, this is the latest installment of my little saga. Hope you like it. As always comments and asks are welcomed and reblogs are the bests.

Oh and just in case you would like to read the previous chapters if it’s your first time or simply needing a refresher, here’s the links.

Part One Part Two Part 3

Story begins under the cut due to the length. Enjoy!

It was evident Travis could barely contain the excitement that was surging through him. Giving Riley a crooked grin, he quickly loped back into the bedroom and practically tripped over the doorway threshold. Picking up on the enthusiasm, Rex bounded eagerly along at his side while yipping and yapping playfully. “Got an extra wardrobe in here so it’s the perfect place for you to put all your stuff!” Travis called out over the happy, chirpy barks of his cyberdog.

However, Riley had paused his pursuit, suddenly distracted by the trail of discarded clothing scattered along the hallway. A gentle smile curled his lips as his mind flitted back to last night where a wonderful event started in the elevator then led to the bedroom where it continued for hours. Even though he was half-serious when mentioning about the fantasy of getting a blowjob inside of an elevator, it came as no surprise that Travis would actually comply.

While bending to gather up the clothes, Riley happily reminisced about their reunion. Suddenly, his wonderful recollection was interrupted by a stark naked Travis standing in front of him. Although he’s seen Travis naked plenty of times, Riley still found his cheeks warm with a blush at the unexpected, but very pleasant sight. “Hell, Travis, you keep enticing me like this I doubt we’ll be making tracks to the Fort anytime soon,” he jested while adjusting his glasses as his eyes began to wander up and down his boyfriend’s slender frame.

“Huh? Oh! Well...maybe...when we get back I can make it all up to you. I know you can’t resist this bod,” Travis purred while he ran his hands seductively over his sides only to get shoved playfully by Riley. “Anyhoo, is everything ok, Riles? Been talking to you and you ain’t answering.”

“Oh, sorry about that, but yes, that wardrobe sounds great, thank you. By the way, I can’t seem to find my pack. I could have sworn we brought it up here with us last night.”

Giving a quick scan around the now cleaned up hall, Travis got a hunch and pushed the call button for the elevator. The silver doors slid open and there on the floor was not only Riley’s pack and Gauss rifle, but Travis’ own rifle and cowboy hat as well. “Ah, Hell, looks like someone was in an awful hurry to get out of there to leave all this stuff behind,” Travis jested while he retrieved their items.

Reaching for the weapons, Riley randomly noticed Travis’ motorcycle was leaning close to the wall. He wondered how he missed it earlier, but there were plenty of other things distracting him since he arrived. Travis tended to do unusual things from time to time, but having a vehicle in the living quarters seemed a bit out of the ordinary, even for Travis. “Looks like someone forgot where the parking garage was,” Riley teased back.

“Ain’t forgot,” the courier replied while rubbing the back of his neck, mild embarrassment in his voice. “I only got back here a few days ago and was too tired to screw around unpacking downstairs then make like twenty trips back and forth to the elevator. Figured it was easier to bring the bike up here so’s I could unpack and put stuff away in one shot. I was planning on taking it back downstairs eventually, but some hot redhead dropping in from Boston sort of interrupted that. Besides, had too much going on in my mind to really want to deal with chores...or much else.”

“Understandable,” Riley said softly as he knew exactly what Travis must have gone through. His own world was quite setback and lost when Travis left Boston only a few weeks ago. He got through his lonely days by drinking or being with friends, but barely.

Following Travis into the bedroom, Riley set the weapons against the couch then stood silently in the doorway. Travis made his way towards a large, dark wood wardrobe to choose an outfit for the day’s outing. Riley still couldn’t tear his eyes away from admiring the finely shaped, naked form of his partner. His gaze abruptly halted seeing bright red scratch marks on Travis’ back. A demure smile curled his lips as memories of last night’s passions flooded his mind and made him long to repeat them soon.

Forcing his eyes to look elsewhere, Riley turned to his left and let out a soft gasp of surprise. His eyes suddenly widened behind his glasses and he found himself gravitating towards a large bookshelf behind a desk. He felt an excited jolt go through him while he read aloud the titles of the books. “Las Vegas: A History. How to Succeed at Hacking. Cats. Guns, Your God-given Right. Building a Robot. Motorcycle Mechanics. Sparky and the Flying Securitron. Texas Red. Damn, Travis, you certainly have quite the mix of genres,” he chuckled as he took out the Vegas book and began flipping through its pristine pages.

“Shucks, got plenty of books in the other rooms and there's a ton more upstairs in the penthouse.” He snickered hearing the soft gasp escape his partner. “You’ll see everything, don't you worry none about that. Shit, there’s so much to see in the casino alone to probably last us all day. Umm...wanna get the ten cent tour of the apartment before we head to the Fort?” “Oh! Yes, right, the Fort. As anxious as I am to see your suite, I know you’re in a hurry to head out. It’s ok, Travis, we can do what you needed first and you can show me around here when we get back.” Riley set the book carefully on the shelf as not to damage the delicate paper dust cover and gave his partner a supportive smile.

“You sure? I mean I don’t mind showing you around first, but I’ll do whatever you want to do. This is your vacation after all,” Travis replied while pulling out his traditional red plaid shirt and blue jeans from the wardrobe and tossed them on the bed. “Besides, I’m only going to the Fort today to drop off my semi-weekly donations and show you around. Figured I could introduce you to Arcade while we’re there. It ain’t really crucial we go today. I can always drop off donations tomorrow. Ain't like they're expecting me or anything.”

Riley sat on the bed next to his pack and looked up at his broadly smiling lover. “You’re something else, you know that? Then that settles it. I’d love to have a quick tour of your place before we leave.”

Travis grinned more and leaned down to deliver a quick kiss on Riley’s cheek. “Great! Gonna go and get washed up first, though. Feel free to use the other wardrobe for your stuff if you wanna and make yourself at home. My casa is your casa,” he declared making Riley chuckle at his attempt of a Spanish phrase.

“It’s me casa es su casa,” he corrected with a gentle smile. “But thank you just the same.”

As Travis walked out room, Riley caught himself once more staring after the naked vision. He sighed wistfully and suddenly noticed he was becoming aroused. Knowing it was best to stifle his urges, at least for now, Riley bit his lower lip and distracted himself by unpacking. “Well, this won’t take long,” he muttered to himself realizing he had nowhere near as many clothes as he would need for a prolonged stay. Past experience taught him things could go wrong very quickly with an unexpected visit. He prepared for the worst, but did hope for the best. Packing light was a precaution even though deep down he knew wasn’t necessary.

Gathering up the meager armload of clothes, Riley headed to the wardrobe on the opposite side of the bed. It was identical as the one Travis was using right down to the almost pristine condition. Resting atop of it was some sort of helmet with ruby colored eye lenses. Next to it was a skull from some kind of animal that Riley could only guess was a brahmin. To his surprise a small Sentry bot action figure he had given Travis back on the day they first met was also there. A pleasant warmth spread through him as he remembered that day with tender fondness.

Opening the double doors Riley was mildly surprised to find a small assortment of clothes already neatly arranged inside on hangers. Riley set his things down and curiously began to sift through the impeccable assortment of slacks, polos, and solid colored button down shirts. He pulled out a baby blue colored polo and absently held it against himself to check the size.

“Don’t mind the clothes.” Travis had silently padded into the bedroom and was already pulling on his jeans. “Grabbed ‘em out of the dressers up in the penthouse where Mister House used to live. I was hoping they’d fit me, but they’re all a bit too big. If they fit you, you can have them and hell...you can probably have all of what’s still up there. House sure as hell don't need ‘em. All sorts of suits and ties and stuff up there ...stuff you would probably really like.”

Grinning broadly Riley turned back to the wardrobe and began examining the garments with more interest. He put the blue shirt back and pulled out a black polo with a wide green stripe around the middle. “Travis, these are all in such amazing condition,” Riley said in disbelief. Taking it off the hanger, Riley pulled the shirt over his head. Much to his joy it fit him perfectly. “Travis, this...this is wonderful! Are you really sure I can have these?” he asked as his partner sauntered up to him.

“A’yup. What am I gonna do with a bunch of clothes that don’t fit me? I was originally gonna take them to camps around the Mojave and donate them, but never had the chance. Reckon it’s a good thing. Shirt looks really great on you, Riles. Cain’t wait to see you out of it later either,” Travis purred while nuzzling against the freckled skin of Riley’s neck. Sliding his arms around Riley’s waist, Travis pressed close to him and sighed. “I still cain’t believe you’re here and I cain’t wait to get back after the donation run. Maybe we can take a swim in my pool before heading out for dinner.”

“Swimming and dinner? Man, Travis, you’re going to spoil me. You really don’t have to take me anywhere tonight. In all honesty it might be more enjoyable to stay in and relax with you. I’m sure there’s plenty here for you to show me,” Riley softly replied as he leaned against his partner with a contented sigh. “I'm not going anywhere anytime soon and right now I just want to enjoy being back in your company.”

“Whatever you'd like to do is fine with me! Reckon we’ll play it by ear.” Travis gave Riley a few tender kisses which quickly became heated. Fighting his own eager urges Travis reluctantly pulled back. “We best get going afore I find something better for us to do,” he panted with a smirk. Riley nodded in agreement and they separated to continue getting dressed.

Afterwards, with his arms open wide and welcoming, Travis walked around the room. “Well then, as you can see, this here is the master bedroom. I keep lots of my personal and most treasured things in here. Ain't all I got, though.” He then motioned for Riley to follow him and led him towards a room that was between the master bedroom and dining area.

“Reckon this is more my collection and game room. Got all kinds of cool stuff I found in my travels,” he proudly announced while placing his hands on his hips.

Riley slowly wandered around the room which was considerably larger than the master bedroom. In the center of the room was a pool table with way too many balls scattered on top of it. A Sunset Sarsaparilla soda vending machine was against one wall next to an almost perfect Nuka Cola machine. Next to those was a fantastic jukebox, it’s glowing colored lights and bubbles instantly drew Riley to it. As he flipped through the selection markers he asked,”Does this thing really have these tunes and does it really work?”

Travis couldn’t help but give a toothy grin. “A’yup! Sure does! Hell, pick a song and push the button, I sure don’t mind. I really lucked out with this find up in Black Mountain. They got a big storage building that was untouched in probably forever ‘cause of the Super Mutants that used to guard the place. Plus there's a buttload of radiation there that'll get ya if precautions ain't took. Gotta tell you that story someday.”

Arching an eyebrow, Riley picked a random song by Frank Sinatra and pressed the white button. The machine made a series of clicks and other sounds while Riley watched in anticipation as the record he chose moved into place and the player’s arm dropped down onto it. After a few pops and static sounds, All of Me began to play much to Riley’s delight. Overcome with the pure joy of hearing a long forgotten song again, Riley pulled Travis into his arms and did a quick, impromptu dance with him around the room.

Seeing the two humans engaged in what he thought looked like fun, Rex began to loudly bark and jump up and down vying for their attention hoping they’d dance with him too. Travis began to laugh at his cyberdog’s antics as well as the handsome redhead’s sudden burst of enthusiasm.

Riley stole a quick kiss and released Travis with a laugh. “Shit, it’s been far too long since I’ve heard that song! Oh, Travis…” he sighed and trailed off realizing that he danced them all the way to the other end of the room. Adjusting his glasses, Riley gave Travis a wink and directed his gaze towards the tall shelf unit that seemed to be screaming for his attention.

On each shelf was a different sort of collection all neatly arranged to show off each coveted piece. Much to Riley’s delight, one shelf was dedicated to more books. These ones all were various novels, mostly westerns and science fiction. Knowing he’d have a chance to look over them more thoroughly later, he bypassed them, setting his sights on a different shelf.

The bottom most one had a selection of pre-war toys. There was a baseball and glove, a few tin cars, a checkerboard, and a few different style teddy bears and dolls. Most of the toys were in pretty rough condition, but they were still in great shape considering their age. Riley spotted a baseball bat and golf club leaning against the shelf as well as what appeared to be a half of a bowling ball. It was a perfect, smooth cut and Riley made a mental note to ask Travis how it got that way at another time.

Right now he was distracted by what dominated over two of the remaining shelves. Travis loved collecting Nuka Cola merchandise and had voiced that quite often while he was in Boston. One shelf was glowing brightly with a variety of Quartz and Quantum while the other shelf had bottles of Victory. Riley looked them over and gave a low whistle. “Looks like you’ve been rather busy scouring the Mojave to get this kind of collection,” he commented while picking up a small sheriff badge made out of tin. “Now I understand why you were so excited to get those rocket shaped bottles in Boston.”

Travis grinned while crossing his arms in front of his chest, obviously proud of his little collection. “A’yup. I still got them in the bedroom, though. Like I said I wasn’t too keen on unpacking when I got back the other day. Maybe I’ll put them up later tonight.” “Glad to see they’ve gone to a good home,” Riley chuckled as he carefully picked up a large, metal toy Nuka Cola delivery truck complete with tiny soda bottles. “Man, this stuff is amazing! I know a few people back east who would be rather envious of your collection. Maybe not so much the bottles, but these cool premiums like your trucks and pin-up girl figures would really drive folks wild to possess.”

“I’m sure this ain’t nothing compared to what I heard some people got, but considering Sunset Sarsaparilla is the dominate drink out this way I am pretty lucky I got what I got,” Travis replied while pulling a small chain hanging from a neon Nuka sign that looked like he ripped it directly off a store front. The glass tubes flickered a few times before lighting completely. “Got this at a pawn shop in Freeside a while back. It was tucked behind some old washing machines, but I somehow spotted it. Traded for a few shot guns and ammo. The owner thought I was nuts, but I had to have it. Didn’t work, but I talked to a buddy of mine and he helped me get what I needed to get it to light up. I think it’s my fave of all my collection, well, besides the glowy bottles.”

“It’s really something else, Travis. I can’t wait to hear some of the stories behind your collections.” Giving the shelf a final look and making sure nothing was on the floor for him to accidentally step on, Riley wandered towards a marvelous display unit near the room’s door. It was similar to something one would find in a gift shop as it showcased all kinds of snow globes. They all featured Vault Boy in some sort of scene depicting where the globes might have originated from. “Hoover Dam, Goodsprings, The New Vegas Strip....how did you even come across these?” Riley asked while picking one up and giving it a shake, amused at the white plastic flakes inside the water swirling about like a mini snowstorm.

“Eh, some were actually in this place and a few came from general stores out and about. Got some from Vault 21 as well. You might like that place a lot. Used to be a real pre-war vault, but it's a hotel and small casino now. It’s all set up to what I think your time might have looked like. They’re really big on that nostalgia! They even got tons of pre-war stuff stored in a few of the rooms. I've done a lot of trading with the folks there for a few things I liked. The manager wanted any Vault suits I might find in my travels. I found lots and exchanged them for some of the metal signs I got hanging around here and other parts of my casino.”

“Sounds like an extremely good system you got going. Bartering is so much better than using caps I think.”

“Okies I got one last room to show you then we can get a move on to the Fort!” Taking Riley by the hand, Travis eagerly led him down the hall and to the room across from the bathroom. “I don’t give this room much mind, but I reckon it has its uses.”

The room was obviously once a guest bedroom with two neatly made full sized beds complete with satin sheets, comforters and throw pillows. One even had a few teddy bears resting on it. However, that’s where the bedroom look stopped and instead seemed more like a storage area. A makeshift gun rack was against the wall with about ten metal ammo boxes stacked next to it. The rack had everything ranging from shotguns to rifles of all different calibers. A small footlocker rested next to the rack, its lid open, revealing the contents of various explosives like mines and hand grenades.

Riley smirked at the small arsenal and shook his head surprised there wasn’t more. “Your supply of these are a little low,” he jested while giving a nod to the explosives.

“Nah, got more down in my workshop. Didn’t want to keep that kind of stuff up here in big piles, you know?” Travis casually replied as he bent to pick up some casings that were scattered on the floor and tossed them in one of the ammo boxes.

“Yes, that uhhh... makes sense.” Riley paled, suddenly feeling nervous thinking of the entire casino blowing up because of of Travis’ passion for explosives and fires.

A few metal cases stacked against the wall housed flamethrowers as well as a grenade launcher. The weapons looked like they were used quite often and Riley could only imagine the mischief his partner got into with them. Riley was thankful not seeing anything that launched mini nukes or the like. Even Travis must have his limits when it came to destruction.

However, there was one weapon that got Riley’s curiosity and he tugged at Travis’ sleeve to get his attention. “What in the world is that thing?” he asked, pointing to what looked like a motorcycle gas tank with an iron sword attached to it by a cable.

Travis twitched his moustache and grinned broadly while picking up the sword. “This is what’s called a shishkebab. One of my fave pyro weapons. The sword flames up. I’ll have to take you out later and show you it in action! Some of the trees out in the desert are dry as dust and man you should see them burn up when I slash ‘em with this!”

Riley inwardly groaned seeing Travis’ crystal blue eyes light up with excitement while showing off the sword. “I’d love to see, as long as you are careful. I’m sure more than just trees catch fire easily here.” “Oh man, you ain’t kidding!” Travis excitedly responded while putting the shishkebab back down and went back to his task of picking up the casings. He heard a soft groan come from his partner over his comment and he quickly added, “But don’t worry, I only set shit on fire in secluded areas where they won’t go out of control and cause more trouble.”

“Great,” Riley grunted as he glanced at the single wardrobe in the room. Its door was ajar revealing some articles of clothing that looked like military uniforms and dusters. More guns were leaning against the furniture along with more ammo boxes. Off in a far corner of the room was a small metal platform and on it Travis’ robot ED-E was resting on it. No doubt it was a charging station of sorts.

However, like in the previous rooms, what really captured Riley’s attention was yet another large bookshelf stocked not only with books, but interesting items such as a space helmet, globe of the world, and what appeared to be some kind of blaster from a science fiction movie.

“Interesting choice of books you have here, Travis. I didn’t expect you to read these sort of things,” the redhead remarked as he looked over the book titles that ranged from business operations and government to mathematics and science.

Travis snorted and shook his head. “Nah, ain’t read those. I glanced through them and they’re boring and filled with words I can’t even understand. Some got nice pictures at least. I got them there for looks and maybe give to someone if they’re interested. Hell, if you like them by all means please read them”

“I was anticipating some history books, actually. Do you have any of those?” Riley asked hopefully as he carefully flipped through the pages of an astronomy book, marveling at how bright and crisp the photos inside were after all the centuries.

“Oh, sure! Got plenty of those upstairs in the penthouse!” Travis couldn’t help but laugh seeing Riley’s face light up hearing the news about history books. Slipping his arms around Riley’s waist, Travis leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Trust me, Riles, my apartment is only the beginning of shit for you to see in this place. Anyways, was this a good enough tour for now? You ready to mosey on outta here?”

“Yes, the tour was perfect and I look forward to exploring and experiencing it more as the days go by. Thank you, Travis.”

“Great! Let’s make tracks then!” Stealing another quick kiss, Travis entwined their fingers together and briskly led him towards the elevator. “Gotta stop and pick up some supplies for the Fort first. Can't exactly make a donation run without donations.”

Right as the metal doors began to slide shut, Rex decided at the last moment to join the couple. He gave a startled yelp as the doors closed, barely touching him. “Dumb dog!” Travis groaned as the doors re-opened to allow the cyberdog entry. “Hit the button with a T,” Travis directed to Riley while he pushed his dog into the back of the elevator and out of the way.

Riley searched over the panel of buttons and realized the vast majority of them weren’t numbered properly or numbers for that matter. Furrowing his brow as he looked for the T button, he asked, “Ummm...Travis, what’s with these numbers and...letters? They’re all so... randomly placed.”

“Well, it helps make things easier to remember where things are. Six is me, so my suite’s button is six as you found out last night. C is for casino. P is for Penthouse. L is for Lounge. T is for Treasure. W is for workroom. B is for basement. S is for Sub Basement…”

“Ok Ok I get it,” Riley chuckled and pushed the T button. “It’s a good method as long as you understand it. Do you do anything with the other floors not designated to a specific number or letter?”

“Nothing really. They’re there for whatever. Storage I reckon. All still got nice beds, sheets, furniture, clothes...almost like Mister House had this place gussied up and evacuated afore the bombs hit. It's also why I have an endless supply of sheets and clothes...got lots of liquor too,” he snickered.

“Sounds perfect,” Riley grinned. “I can’t wait to see all of your special floors, but this one we’re going to...T for Treasure, really sounds interesting.” “Ain’t no big deal for me, but for the folks I help out...well...you’ll see. Used to be one of the business suites or some shit,” Travis said with a dismissive shrug right as the elevator came to a halt at its designated floor.

The doors slid open and an over enthused cyberdog bolted out. “Ain’t never seen him this excited, but I reckon he’s picking up on my feelings,” Travis drawled as he followed the dog leaving Riley to stand blushing in the elevator over Travis’ compliment. Realizing Riley wasn’t at his side, Travis halted and turned around. “You coming?”

Riley cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, yes of course.” He stepped out of the elevator and gazed up and down the hallway. The carpet had a checkered pattern of different shades of reds and still looked as it might have 200 years ago. Various pictures were on the wall showcasing scenes of the pre-war New Vegas and Mojave areas. Other than that the hall was completely barren and disinteresting. One lone door was at the far end to their right and that was where Travis was headed.

“Got all sorts of crap in this place,” Travis casually remarked while they walked. “Plus during my travels I find lots of stuff and salvage it. Been in this place almost seven years and pretty much went through all the floors. I gathered up certain things and organized them for later distribution. I sure don’t need it, but plenty of folks out there do.”

Opening the door, Travis beckoned for Riley to follow him inside. Entering the suite Riley was taken aback by what he saw. The entire suite reminded him of what pre-war shopping mega-centers or warehouse type of stores looked like. Tall metal and wooden racks lined the walls stocked with various goods while large boxes were on the floor and filled with things too bulky to store on shelves.

As Riley gazed around the room he eventually realized that everything was sorted and organized according to purpose. One shelf had small boxes filled with syringes with labels marked stimpack or med-x. Piles of rad-away along with bottles of rad-x occupied another shelf. Piles of crutches and canes were stacked in a corner, propped against the shelf. Boxes of gauze and bandages were lined on the bottom shelf according to size. Various other medical supplies were scattered on a wooden table where some brown doctor bags were resting.

Where the medical supplies ended, linens began. Riley wasn’t sure how many or what size, but there was plenty of nicely folded bedding materials stacked neatly on their shelf. Stacks of towels were also on the shelf along with what looked like cloth napkins and tablecloths. After that a row of boxes filled with teddy bears, dolls, cars, and other various toys were set on the floor in front of the shelf. A smaller display case, almost similar to the one Travis had his snow globes on, had a variety of carved wooden figures.

The remaining shelves were stocked with varieties of food preserved in jars as well as candles, ropes, lighters, electronic parts, and many other things. All necessary supplies, but not so vast where they needed their own separate area. Three large wardrobes with their doors removed were also lined against the wall. Inside were various clothes for men, women, and children, but it looked as though those supplies were rapidly being depleted.

Giving out a low whistle, Riley slowly browsed through the supplies, amazed how much was actually gathered here. “You have quite the hoard, Travis. Are you sure you aren’t secretly a dragon with all this wonderful treasure?” Travis snorted as he grabbed a brown medical bag and began hastily stuffing random supplies into it. “Ain’t no hoarder...but what’s a dragon?” he asked, suddenly pausing from his task, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

“Well...a dragon is a mythical beast that was found in many cultures around the world. Generally they were depicted as a large lizard or reptile, usually with wings, and quite often were known to have vast hoards of treasure like gems and gold. It also wasn’t uncommon for them to breathe fire.”

“Oh! We got dragons here in the Mojave then!” Travis exclaimed excitedly and turned to face Riley, his blue eyes shining. “We call them Fire Geckos, though. They’re about as tall as you and they breathe fire! No wings, though, but they do run awfully fast. I wonder if they have treasures?”

Riley paled slightly hearing about the beasts and frowned as his body instinctively tensed over Travis’ last remark. “Please don’t tell me you want to go finding that out?”

“Nah, I don’t make a point out of going after critters for no reason other than for food. If we happen to find them and they attack, yeah, different story. Don’t worry, your man ain’t no ruthless killer bent on mowing anything down that moves especially over material goods.”

“This I know,” Riley gently replied as he stepped over to Travis, watching him gather supplies. “Honestly, I’m surprised you even still have this big of an inventory. I mean, I wouldn’t think there’d be so much good and salvageable stuff out there in the wastes. I also would think you’d run out of supplies in time, especially since you’ve been doing things for what...like...seven years now you said?”

“Yeah, everything’s pretty much picked over in the Mojave,” Travis said with a dismissive shrug. “But shit’s never-ending for the most part here in the casino. I also don’t send out donations every day or even every week. If I didn’t ration things I’d run out of supplies right quick and then probably’ll get bitched at for not helping anymore. It’s so stupid that the folks you sometimes help take advantage of ya or ain’t thankful for what ya do give them and they want more.” Travis snorted as if remembering such a case while he began to add empty syringes inside of the bag. Riley smirked knowing about thankless individuals all to well. He witnessed first hand and personally experienced that behavior many, many times in Boston where the more help you offer to people the more that is demanded. You would think people would be more grateful especially in these hard times. He sighed and gave Travis a pat on the shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Travis. Do you need any help packing supplies?” “Sure,” Travis replied as he began gathering up a few handfuls of bandages. “Grab an empty sack and round up five teddy bears, some cars and dolls, and maybe a few of the wooden animal carvings. Might as well give the younger residents at the Fort something during this visit.”

Nodding, Riley walked over to the toy area and began filling the sack with Travis’ request. “Did you make these figures by any chance?” he asked seeming to recall a time when Travis mentioned he liked to carve things in his spare time. The wooden carvings were very well made and he was impressed with the variety of dogs, yao guai, and deathclaws as well as some animals he didn’t recognize, but figured they were typical to the Mojave.

“Yeah,” Travis replied as he shoved a final handful of Rad-X in the bag and zipped it up. “One of the little talents I discovered I had a few years ago. Don’t know where it came from, but I reckon it’s probably some kind of long forgotten memory.”

Riley nodded solemnly while he looked over a carving of a deathclaw which was quite different in looks compared to what was in Boston. He remembered Travis talking about the differences, but that didn’t make the beasts any less threatening. Putting the figure in the bag, Riley began to meander around the suite amazed at Travis’ accomplishment. “It’s nice to see you also have books to offer to people,” he commented while looking over a small selection of literature lined neatly on a shelf. “I’m glad to see that you pass out written works like this. Some of these sound pretty interesting and I might have to borrow some one day.”

“You keep finding the books, don’t ‘cha?” Travis snickered as he closed up the medical bag and made his way towards the door to leave. “The Boomers really like books. They can be next on the donation drop-off list if you’d wanna pay them a visit with me. Gotta take the motorcycle, though. It’s a ways off past Hoover Dam.”

“The Boomers, eh? I seem to recall you mentioning them. They’re the folks with the functioning war planes, right?” Riley asked as hoisted the bag full of toys over his shoulder and joined Travis and who were waiting patiently in the doorway.

“Yeah, they’re really self-sufficient and got crops and stuff. I usually only take them things like scrap and weapons, but they also really like tech books. Maybe when we go I can convince them to take us for a ride in the B-29 they got. Barter with ‘em...books for a bomber ride. Maybe they can fly us to that Mile High Club you mentioned last night if it ain’t too far. I know I’d sure love to check it out if you remember how to get there.”

Bending to set the bag down on the floor of the elevator, Riley paused hearing what Travis said and bit his lower lip as he felt his cheeks warm with a blush. “Umm...well...that might not be the best thing to ask them, babe. You see, it’s kind of like a private club. I’ll explain it all to you on the way down to the casino,” Riley said with an alluring tone to his voice and gave a wink as the elevator doors slid shut.

To be continued...

#travis blackfox #riley white #courier six #sole survivor #fallout new vegas #fallout oc #writings

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thebrochtuarachs · 6 years

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Gotham’s Writing Workshop: Week 7 - Woe is All I Possess

Hello awesome people in the Outlander universe!

A/N: This is my first Outlander fic that I am posting in the world wide web. I am very nervous about this but I am rather empowered by @gotham-ruaidh‘s writing challenge and encouragement, everyone’s work as well in this exercise, so I decided to jump the gun. I wrote this in what is a rather dull work day today, so thanks to that I was able to write this short story. I hadn’t had anyone else see or proofread this before posting this, haven’t written (or even practiced writing) any fic in years so I am rusty at this - so all mistakes are mine and any comments/suggestions/violent reactions for improvement are most welcome. :) .

Woe is All I Possess

I was sitting in my desk, hacking through another edit on my book – a second of a trilogy about the Jacobites and the 45’ Rising. I’ve been at this the since three in the afternoon and I permitted myself to some well-deserved break. I put my pencil down, stretched my neck and grabbed my whisky from the coaster to my left.

The room was dark, except for the small light emanating from the lamp in my table and the clock’s ticking sound echoed around the room. I used to not notice it but now, its sound brings me dread and puts me in a trance with my thoughts. It was reminding me of my life passing by without really me really living it followed by a punch in the gut of the emptiness I suddenly felt in my soul.

I found him. Him. The man who my wife loves, the man who fathered her child.

I hadn’t meant to look or find him. Why would I? As far as I know, he asked Claire to forget him, I asked Claire to forget him and opening that door would just be tempting fate even more. But at the arrival of Colonel Hal Grey’s journals in my office - a gift from one of my Harvard colleagues in the hope that it will help in providing more insight in my book – had changed everything.

I had seen his name in his logs and what happened to him immediately after the war. The first entry mentioned him being sent home to the highlands with a grave injury, after that, curiosity got the better of me and I fell down the rabbit hole - chasing him through every note and paper trail I could locate - and now I know where he is. Ten years after the Battle of Culloden, I am certain that James Alexander Malcolm Makenzie Fraser is alive.

Should I tell Claire? It’s the question I’ve been asking myself back and forth for the last hour and a half. I remembered how crazy she ran through Reverend Wakefield’s books in the library hoping to find a sliver of his existence in the aftermath. If she knew of these documents currently in my possession, I have no doubt that she’ll run back to Scotland, take Bree with her, and find him without giving it second thought on what the state of his life is now. If she didn’t, she’d continue to live her and Bree’s life with me where everything is settled and familiar. Call it selfish, but I would say that I’m the latter option that looks like the lesser ”win-win” situation for the both of us – even if it mean probably living half a life forever.

Answering that, the next question I had is can I live with my selfish choice?

In choosing to be a historian, I thought that the details of the past meant the studying of lives lived and knowing their story to teach and educate the present – whether it’s for the influence of the good or the prevention of the bad. Moreover, accepting the consequences of history was at the inspection and discretion of the now and was never meant to directly touch.

However, thirteen years ago, history decided to play on my fortune. It took my wife, to her back two hundred years, to a time closest to my academic heart and expertise, only to return three years later, married and in love with another man and pregnant with a child that was supposed to be born and live in the 18th century.

With accepting Claire back came with a blessing and, if I was really going to be honest with myself, a curse.

Bree was an unexpected blessing in my life. I never thought I’d be able to love someone so wholly who was not my own flesh and blood and yet, the moment I held her in my arms, she crept her way to my heart. I could not, even for the all the hurt I feel, consider Bree a mistake but rather the complete opposite as she is the only one that keeps me going nowadays.

On the other hand, with her here, I was given a direct, tangible, and living reminder of the past – Claire’s past. Every movement Bree makes, every milestone she surpasses, every flicker of the eyes or toss of the hair, Claire would see him and weep.

One night, I came home late and decided to check on Bree before heading to our bedroom. I opened the door softly and saw Claire hunched over a sleeping Bree who nestled herself in the protective shield of her mother. With her elbows propped and her back to me, Claire didn’t seem to notice or feel my presence. I observed them for a while – hoping to make a sweet memory of my girls.

She was just looking at her, memorizing, caressing her hair away from her face and suddenly I saw her brush her hand through her nape that I knew would elicit a drowsy smile from Bree just as I discovered a few years ago. Claire gave a sad chuckle and said “Oh, you’re so much like your father”. She lied down and pulled Bree to her embrace and I abruptly left, stunned at her sudden revelation – not even bothering to close the door.

The clock continued to tick along with my running mind and thoughts. As soft as the sound, it felt like a scream with every movement of the hand. It was too much to handle. I walked over to my mantle and threw it across the room to a loud crash that broke the item into hundreds of irreparable pieces. I chuckled rather bitterly in the irony of my situation.

I downed my drink in one gulp and ran my hands through my face and hair. In the now absolute silence of my study in my Boston home, my mind had one thought: How the hell did I end up here?

You know how because you agreed to this. She gave you an out and you were too honorable to refuse. Said my conscience’s snarky reply.

“That’s what good men do” I said out loud to the universe in the faith that it would make it a little bit more true and alleviate the dismay I was feeling.

And it comes at the sacrifice of your own happiness. You did this and chose this for yourself.

I sat back down to my chair to try and calm my thoughts and assess my emotions. I looked up at the clock to see how long I have until Claire and Bree would arrive home but then remembered I no longer had a mantle clock. I opened the drawer to my right grabbed my monogrammed stainless pocket watch - a gift from Claire in the first year of our marriage. It was 6:50PM – I have, at least, ten minutes to compose myself.

I placed my elbows in the desk and held my head in it, closed my eyes, considering and allowing all my emotions to show and release itself. Love, hurt, joy, pain, good, bad - combining them all left me feeling one final sentiment: woe.

“Woe is all I possess” I muttered under my breath.

I let the tears building in my eyes to overflow and allowed himself to feel everything for the first time in a long time.

Woe in the realization that Claire would never be mine again, that she would never love me the way I see her love and devote herself to him even after all these years, that we’d settled in a life of domesticity for civility and show; woe in the realization that Bree – with her fiery red hair and blazing blue eyes - would never be thought by anyone as mine in any way, shape or form, that our bond would never be just ours forever when the time comes that she learns the truth about her real paternity; woe in the reminder of my own inability to sire children; woe in having to give in to affairs just to fill a physical and emotional void that will never or could never be truly filled again; woe in the knowledge that my family history is tainted by a darkness that made me slightly sorry that I found real, historical truth; woe that I had resorted in forcing Claire into an agreement to forget him and everything about that part of her life even though I knew it would break her spirit.

I needed protect myself and save myself a little dignity in this circumstance – even though it means forbidding a certain name to be mentioned in the next century.

Woe is all I possess.

So yes, I can and will live with my own selfishness.

I hadn’t heard the door open until Bree called me out.

“Daddy!” she ran towards my chair and hopped on my lap. “Look what we made in school today!”

Bree laid her artwork on his table - a rather exceptional profile of one of her classmates – as she rambled on how her teacher taught drawing techniques and said that her work was the best one in class.

I glanced up to find Claire at the doorway of my study staring at us. In another parallel universe of our lives, I’d see light and happiness in her eyes as I held what would have been our child. Looking at her, even I can’t deny the sadness and longing in her eyes as she imagined a life two hundred years back where her daughter is held by the man she loved who would’ve raised her if it wasn’t for the massive obstacle of history.

“Claire” I called out immediately putting her out of her trance.

“I’m making meatloaf for dinner. It will be ready in 30 minutes” she replied embarrassingly as she knew I caught her in moment faraway. I nodded as she left for the kitchen.

Woe is all I possess – but as long as Claire is cooking in the kitchen and Bree continues to talk about her day – there is still that small flicker of the life I once envisioned to be living. A small claim it might be but one I lay hold on even for a little while, just enough to push away the pain in my heart and move forward on to the next day and the next day and the next.

#hope you enjoy reading as much as i had fun writing #especially after so many years of not writing #gotham's writing workshop #week 7 #woe is all i possess #outlander #frank randall #This is the first time i wrote something about Frank for all the OL FF drafts I have - which totally surprised me #personal #holy moly i cant believe im doing this #cant believe i am posting this #here we go

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differentnutpeace · 3 years

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Vaccine Passports: 'Scarlet Letter' Or Just The Ticket?

It's happening millions of times a day. Pharmacists jab an arm with the COVID-19 vaccine and hand over a paper card certifying that the shot was administered, and when. หวย บอล เกมส์ คาสิโนออนไลน์

"This is your ticket to freedom soon," smiles pharmacist intern Ojashwi Giri, as she hand-writes the name and birth date of another newly vaccinated customer on one of the coveted cards at Union Pharmacy in Newton, Mass. "I'm sure you're going to want to treasure this."

It's the low-tech version of the "vaccine passports" that have become the latest pandemic wedge issue. As states and businesses are debating and using them, Americans are deeply divided on whether businesses should require them to prove a person is immunized before boarding a plane, or entering a bar or a baseball game. What some see as a commonsense safety measure, others denounce as a violation of privacy and civil liberties.

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To many, it's no-brainer — a ticket back to normal life. Linda Simansky clutched her vaccination card, and beamed at the prospect of being able to venture out again with greater confidence. She says she's all for the idea of vaccine passports, and would definitely be more likely to patronize places that ask for them at the door, ensuring everyone else inside is also low-risk.

"I know its awkward," she says, "but they're not asking for [anyone's] life story, they're just trying to keep people safe, and trying to also keep their business. So, I think it's a win-win."

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"If we're going to end this nightmare, what we need is information," agrees Peter Wilson, a musician from Pheonix. "Some people pose less risk than others [...] and if people are making unsafe choices, the rest of us deserve to know. There's no sense in blindfolding ourselves."

Wilson sees it as no different than requiring students to get vaccines in order to attend school or camp. "We're just extending that to adults to keep everyone safe."

That's the idea behind New York state's "Excelsior Pass" that allows residents to flash a code from their phones which would earn them entry into anything from a Broadway show to a gym or even a private wedding. The nation's first such state-wide system, the Excelsior Pass has already been used at Madison Square Garden, Yankee stadium as well as smaller venues around the state, and while privacy features make it hard to pinpoint, state officials say hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers downloaded or at least started checking out the system in the two weeks since it launched.

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Judy Lisi, president and CEO of the Straz Center for the Performing Arts in Tampa, says a tool like that would be "essential" to reopening mass gathering venues like theaters that depend on a full house to survive.

"Why do you think these seats are so close to each other together behind me?" she says, pointing to the empty 2,640 theater seats on the image she uses as her Zoom backdrop. "Theaters [need] to put as many people in a space [as possible, in order to] pay for what's on stage."

Lisi says she was in the process of drawing up plans to use vaccine passports to screen patrons, when Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis preemptively banned businesses from requiring them.

"He's a pro-business proponent," Lisi says. "Why doesn't he allow businesses to do what we need to do then? The whole industry is relying on this. It's so frustrating."

But DeSantis and Texas Gov. Greg Abbot, who's also banned vaccine passports, as well as others argue they're a violation of privacy and civil liberties.

"It's completely unacceptable for either the government or the private sector to impose upon you the requirement that you show proof of vaccine to just simply be able to participate in normal society," DeSantis said.

Audra Young, from Haverill, Mass., who says she's not vaccinating because she doesn't trust it, agrees the passports are a bad idea.

"Just like it's your choice to own a gun, I mean, this is America, where we should have choice to pick what we want to do with our life," Young says. Vaccine passports "feel like it's going to be like a restricted society. It's like wearing the scarlet letter. It's crazy."

While much of the opposition to vaccine passports comes from those on the right who see it as a kind of Orwellian nightmare, there is concern on the left as well.

Judy Greenberg, of San Antonio, describes herself as "very liberal." She says she got the vaccine and hopes everyone else will too, but she's uncomfortable making people prove it for the privilege of dining out, for example.

"Being Jewish, I've always had this apprehension about [anyone saying] 'Show us your papers!'" Greenberg says, because it harkens back to the horrors Jews experienced in Nazi Germany. She's quick to acknowledge a vaccine passport is hardly the same thing, but she worries it would be prone to abuse. "It'll create two classes of human beings, almost like a caste system of vaccinated and unvaccinated. So then, what's next? It just makes me a little bit uneasy."

John Calvin Byrd III, has similar qualms. The self-described "far-left militant black man" lives in Los Angeles, and says he cringes at the thought of being seen as sharing the same concerns as "Trumpers," but he believes vaccine passports would impinge on his civil liberties. He says he and his family are not vaccinating, because they don't trust how fast the COVID-19 vaccines were rushed through the emergency authorization process, and because he doesn't trust Big Pharma.

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But he thinks it's unfair to penalize people like him, by restricting his ability to go out for dinner, travel, or visit a park, museum, or grocery store.

"It's not like we committed a crime," he says. "We should be able to go and play and do whatever we want." He's also feeling pressure from his boss to vaccinate, and fears his decision not to, may cost him his job.

More broadly, Byrd worries that vaccine passports will exacerbate inequities for Black and Brown people, who are still less likely to be vaccinated — either by choice or because of lack of access.

"It puts people into separate groups, and one group has privileges and the other group does not [...] That keeps myself, my family and people like us in the margins," Byrd says.

Another concern is privacy. New York State Assembly member Ron Kim, says his state's "Excelsior Pass" is especially troublesome, given that it was developed in collaboration with a corporate giant, IBM.

"We're already dealing with big tech companies like Facebook and Google exploiting and extracting data without regular people even knowing that it's happening every day," Kim says. "Now we're allowing another path for companies to extract data and profit without our knowledge."

Both IBM and New York state officials, however, insist no personal data can be accessed or used for any such purpose. And no individual information is stored, or tracked. They say the Excelsior Pass only reads data that states already collect, to offer users the QR code that bouncers can scan to get a quick, clear green checkmark or a red "X." The same code can also indicate whether a user has recently tested negative for COVID-19, which many establishments screening customers may accept in lieu of a vaccination. For those without smart phones, results can be accessed on a computer and printed out instead.

Contrary to what many may think, given all the controversy, no state is mandating use of a vaccine passport; the Biden administration is also against any federal mandate, though officials say they're helping to develop guidance on privacy and equity issues. States can and do require large venues to screen customers for the coronavirus, but whether to do that with vaccine passports is still up to individual establishments.

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Some venues see the apps as an easier, more reliable way to verify that patrons are low-risk for spreading the coronavirus. Digital apps may well be more difficult to hack than vaccination cards are to forge, and they'd likely be more effective and efficient than what many are doing now, which is taking everyone's temperature and reviewing health surveys that patrons answer on the honor system.

But other businesses, especially in the hospitality industry, are proceeding with caution. A "no shirt, no vaccine, no service" policy may come across as inhospitable, many say, and may turn of customers who restaurants need now more than ever. Also, many bars and restaurants are loath to take on the burden of vaccine enforcement, on top of what they already do, checking ID's to make sure everyone's legal to drink, and constantly policing customers who may have had too much to drink.

That said, establishments that are still struggling to survive a year into the pandemic are not ruling it out. Doug Bacon, president of Red Paint Hospitality Group, owns eight bars and restaurants in Boston; four remain closed, and four are open, but still unable to make money because of pandemic restrictions limiting capacity. If requiring vaccine passports would mean he could fully reopen, he says, "I might have to give in to that. "

Bacon says he's more open to requiring vaccine passport checks for staff. In the past year, all four of his open places had to shut down for a week or more, because an employee tested positive.

"We had to sanitize the whole restaurant and have everyone tested," he says. "Perishable food had to be thrown away, and I had no income, and I paid my staff and all my suppliers and my landlords while were closed, so it's been a tremendous additional financial burden on top of everything else."

Ultimately, some are hoping vaccine passports, will prove one last bitter pill to swallow to help hasten a return to normal. It may be the carrot that induces more people to vaccinate. Or, as with so much else that's been politicized during this pandemic, it may be seen as more of a stick, that only deepens divisions, stokes resentment and leads those who've been vaccine-hesitant to dig in their heels even more.

"This is just one more thing to throw in the mix that's going to divide our country even more," Young says.

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caddyxjellyby · 6 years

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Alcott Readathon 2018: An Old-Fashioned Girl (1869)

Alcott’s third or fourth depending on how you count Good Wives novel, featuring cane-shaking, a menage a trois, and America’s favorite fighting Frenchman. Polly Arrives Fanny tells Tom to pick up Polly from the station. Tom says "She'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she'll be about right, too." Fanny says "If I was the President, I'd make a law to shut up all boys till they were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world." I wonder what Tom means by wearing a thingumbob? A veil maybe? The naughty boy tells Polly the hack-driver is tipsy so he won’t have to sit with her. It boggles my mind that a fourteen year old would refer to herself as a “little girl.” I suppose back them children didn’t have to bend over backwards to be taken seriously. That is, if you refer to yourself as a little girl people won’t take you seriously. But if they just do it as a given you don’t bend over backwards to earn it. Polly sings for Madam Shaw, the grandmother, and they talk about how they were brought up properly unlike the Shaw siblings. Madam Shaw doesn’t approve of children calling their father Papa. What the fuck. I bet “the old man” would make her spontaneously combust. The girls see a vulgar play; Polly doesn’t understand half the jokes, and the girls on stage are dressed as jockeys, which I think means wearing trousers. Scandalous. Madam Shaw praises her innocence.

New Fashions

Apparently eyeglasses were trendy in 1869. Polly follows Fanny to school, where the girls gossip about Carrie who ran away with an Italian music teacher.

Fanny: "I like to read about such things; but it's so inconvenient to have it happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you could have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to school with me every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I come all right. Did you ever?"

Belle: "That's because it came out that Carrie used to forge excuses in her mamma's name, and go promenading with her Oreste, when they thought her safe at school. Oh, wasn't she a sly minx?"

Trix: "I think a little fun is all right; and there's no need of making a talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do as they like; and I don't see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully close. I'd like to see anybody watching and guarding me!" GO TRIX KEEPING GIRLS THE SLIGHTEST BIT “CLOSER’ THAN BOYS IS PSYCHOLOGICALLY HARMFUL AND DISRESPECTFUL. ...I have a lot of feels about gender and child-rearing, okay? Okay. The constant ads for the Blockers movie keep bringing it to mind. (Kathryn Newton, the most recent Amy March, is in it.) The Bostonians gush over some exciting novels; Polly doesn’t know them. Polly: "My mother says a real gentleman is as polite to a little girl as to a woman; so I like Mr. Sydney best, because he was kind to me." I want that embroidered. “Polly was not a model girl by any means” Sure, Louisa. The kids say ain’t a lot. Creosote sent my mind straight to Discworld. Polly’s Troubles Polly wished the children would be kinder to grandma; but it was not for her to tell them so, although it troubled her a good deal, and she could only try to make up for it by being as dutiful and affectionate as if their grandma was her own. Awww. The fact that they name their sleds is adorable. Me, I’ve never been a person to name inanimate objects, other than occasionally referring to something as the precious. Fan reads Lady Audley’s Secret. "I shouldn't think you'd make him laugh, when he's always making you cwy," observed Maud, who had just come in. Good one, Maud. Little Things Polly is a perfect child who can do no wrong, except spend some money on bronze boots instead of presents for her family. We learn that she has a dead brother named Jimmy. They studied Latin together so she helps Tom with his. Tom falls off his new velocipede and hits his head. Polly holds it while a doctor gives him stitches. Scrapes AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom's mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid "something was going to happen to them." I kind of loathe this line of thinking? If you want children to be good, don’t insult them by not trusting them. Polly, if you’ve never had to lie to your parents then you know you have good parents, and not everybody is like you. A boy sends Fanny flowers and that’s unacceptable. “I'll send you to school in a Canadian convent,” says Mr. Shaw. Oh boy. Tom dresses up in Fanny’s outfit, then they and Maud look at Polly’s journal, which is full of sketches of the family and friends, and Polly’s thoughts on Fan. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she isn't kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I shouldn't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she didn't do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly." Grandma Tom was reposing on the sofa with his boots in the air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast away on desert islands, where every known fruit, vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in boundless forests, where the young heroes have thrilling adventures, kill impossible beasts, and, when the author's invention gives out, suddenly find their way home, laden with tiger skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess. The Shaw kids find Polly up in Grandma’s room, listening to her stories. They’re like you never told us that story and Grandma’s like you never asked. "At eight o'clock on the appointed evening, several of us professed great weariness, and went to our room, leaving the rest sewing virtuously with Miss Cotton, who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud, in a way that fitted the listeners for bed as well as a dose of opium would have done.”Surprisingly snarky Grandma. "Wait for your turn, Tommy. Now, Polly, dear, what will you have?" said grandma, looking, so lively and happy, that it was very evident "reminiscing" did her good. "Let mine come last, and tell one for Tom next," said Polly, looking round, and beckoning him nearer. Oh come on now Polly. Tom wants to shoot cats? Okay. Polly asks about a glove; Grandma tells the story of Lafayette kissing the glove with his picture on it and then kissing her on the cheek to avoid that. Grandma’s Aunt was married to John Hancock, just like Abigail Alcott’s grand-aunt was married to him in real life. Also she thinks leg o’mutton sleeves are beautiful and becoming. Let’s not hold it against her. Colonel May, that’s LMA’s grandfather. Next we go even further back in history - Grandma produces a letter “written by Anne Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian.” How she acquired this letter is not explained, and it does seem to be the original letter and not a copy. Good-by [sic] We get it, Louisa, you think fancy clothes are sinful. They hold a going-away party for Polly, inviting some girls to keep Maud out of the way and Tom’s school-friends, Rumple, Sherry, and Spider. Polly and Tom open the redowa; he’s bad at keeping time to the music, like me. She doesn’t know how to dance the German so she plays with the little girls in the library. Aww, they snuck presents for her family in Polly’s trunk. Six Years Afterward "WHAT do you think Polly is going to do this winter?" exclaimed Fanny, looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading. She’s returning to Boston to teach music. Mr. Shaw respects her for being independent. Tom says she’s pretty in a moment of foreshadowing. Madam Shaw has died. "Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom, Polly?" asked Mr. Shaw, as his wife fell back in her chair, and took out her salts, as if this discovery had been too much for her. "I learnt it here, sir," answered Polly, laughing. "I used to think patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth having, but I've got wiser, and to a certain extent I'm glad to use whatever advantages I have in my power, if they can be honestly got." What is this, the Shaws doing something good for once? Holy hell! “You must come and see my pets, Maud, for my cat and bird live together as happily as brother and sister," said Polly, turning to Maud, who devoured every word she said. "That's not saying much for them," muttered Tom, feeling that Polly ought to address more of her conversation to him. Geez, Tom, entitled much? Tom is engaged to Trix. Polly keeps bees at her country home. It must be so nice to be able to clean without the paranoia that you’re going to get mocked for doing it wrong. All hail living alone! Lessons Polly finds her drudgery a bit harder than she expected but her pupils love her. She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hair-dresser, who was doing his best to spoil her hair, and distort her head with a mass of curls, braids, frizzles, and puffs; for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description, still, judging from the present fashions, I think one may venture to predict that six years hence they would be something frightful. The problem with writing books set in the future. Polly comes home one day to find her landlady, Miss Mills, sewing a dress for Jane, who also lives in the boarding-house and tried to kill herself because she couldn’t find work that paid enough for the rent. Polly goes to visit Jane. Brothers and Sisters Polly’s brother Will visits her every Sunday and they’re BFFs. Tom hates being called Carrots; I want an Anne of Green Gables crossover. Maud informs him that Polly thinks he’s handsomer than Mr. Sydney. "Don't make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully," said Fanny, fretfully. "Girls' heads always do ache," answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle. Um, fuck you Tom. He suspects Trix of wearing makeup because she won’t let him kiss her cheek, only “an unsatisfactory peck at her lips.” That’s less satisfying than the cheek? Whatever you say, Tom. Fanny confirms it. He doesn’t approve. Will arrives to take Maud to Polly’s; LMA gets a dig in: “They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a "dig," and Tom a "bird," or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who didn't like it, and showed that he didn't by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to "sky-lark," not to study.” We'll see more of that when we get to Jo’s Boys. Polly talks better than other girls who are coquettes. Seriously. Jesus Christ. Maud has “a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public” and “a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company.” Huh. Needles and Tongues Fanny’s sewing circle meets at the Shaw house. Polly listens to them gossip. “Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.' s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion.” That’s pretty funny. Polly and Trix butt heads over giving charity. “[Trix] felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever.” I am not entirely unsympathetic to Trix. Polly tells them about Jane and they’re very moved and resolve to hire her for sewing. Forbidden Fruit Polly, Fanny, and Tom go to the opera. Polly buys new gloves for the occasion and their dog chews them up and she’s like serves me right for buying something I didn’t need. Her new bonnet survives, though, and Tom mentions how becoming it is. "Dress that girl up, and she'd be a raving, tearing beauty," he whispers to Maud, and Polly overhears. A bit of sarcastic fourth wall breaking: I deeply regret being obliged to shock the eyes and ears of such of my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by expressions like the above, but, having rashly undertaken to write a little story about Young America, for Young America, I feel bound to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers permit. Otherwise, I must expect the crushing criticism, "Well, I dare say it's all very prim and proper, but it isn't a bit like us," and never hope to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of "An Old-Fashioned Girl" the dirtiest in the library. Polly wears her hair down, holy shit. Maud comments on what a lovely bride she would be, Tom refers to her as “Mrs. Sydney,” and Fan goes to the carriage “in an usually lofty manner.” Love triangle ahoy. And who should appear at the opera but Arthur Sydney? Polly, on her reaction to heartbreak: "That's not my way either," she said decidedly. "I'd try to outlive it, and if I could n't, I'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment needn't make a woman a fool." Sounds like Rosamund. We are reminded that French novels are evil, and Polly calls Tom a modern Beau Brummel. The Sunny Side Fanny and Tom discuss Polly/Sydney. Tom thinks being a fine lady wouldn’t suit her; Fanny disagrees. Tom realizes his sister likes Sydney and says nothing about it. Polly introduces Fanny to her friends Becky and Bess, two artists who live together. Becky is sculpting “the coming woman” and needs to put a symbol in her hands. Fanny suggests a queen’s sceptre, Polly a man’s helping hand, and Bess a child. Becky turns those down. Kate, an accidentally successful author, suggests a ballot-box. They have a lunch of sardines, oranges, crackers, and cheese, on mismatched plates which one 1860s reviewer found too unfeminine to be realistic. We learn that "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." Kate wants to put Polly in a book. Very funny.

Nipped in the Bud Polly inner monologues about how she can’t love Arthur Sydney as a wife should, so she ought to tell him before he proposes. Particularly since he and Fan would suit each other. She changes her route home so as to avoid meeting him, then he sees her coming home from Fanny’s one day and they talk. He says that Fanny hasn’t improved with her years and Polly defends her friend. “She puts on that dashing air before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults, though she won't own it, and will surprise you someday, by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got." Breakers Ahead Tom gets expelled for knocking down the Chapel watchmen. At least he didn’t need that degree for a job. And Mr. Shaw’s business has failed, and Tom has acquired a significant amount of debt. Oh no. Polly comforts him and then Fanny, who doesn’t actually need much comforting, being glad for the distraction from her unrequited love. Indian cake . . . is that cornbread? A Dress Parade The big house was given up as soon as possible and the little house taken; being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the auction, several persons tried to show the family that, though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one bid in Fanny's piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw's comfort; and a third saved such of Mr. Shaw's books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious integrity. Maud enjoys herself learning to housewife. Polly gives Fanny advice on freshening her wardrobe, such as turning her grey suit. Fanny used to give Maud her old dresses for tableaux. Polly’s story is based on real life. From LMA’s ”Recollections of My Childhood”: People wondered at our frolics, but enjoyed them; and droll stories are still told of the adventures of those days. Mr. Emerson and Margaret Fuller were visiting my parents one afternoon; and the conversation having turned to the ever-interesting subject of education, Miss Fuller said,-- "Well, Mr. Alcott, you have been able to carry out your methods in your own family, and I should like to see your model children." She did in a few moments,--for as the guests stood on the doorsteps a wild uproar approached, and round the corner of the house came a wheelbarrow holding baby May arrayed as a queen; I was the horse, bitted and bridled, and driven by my elder sister Anna, while Lizzie played dog and barked as loud as her gentle voice permitted. All were shouting, and wild with fun, which, however, came to a sudden end as we espied the stately group before us, for my foot tripped, and down we all went in a laughing heap, while my mother put a climax to the joke by saying with a dramatic wave of the hand,-- "Here are the model children, Miss Fuller!" Playing Grandmother Tom has a harder time than his sisters. He’s too bad at business to help his father so he hangs out with Mrs. Shaw. "I'd cut away to Australia if it wasn't for mother; anything, anywhere to get out of the way of people who know me. I never can right myself here, with all the fellows watching, and laying wagers whether I sink or swim. Hang Greek and Latin! wish I'd learned a trade, and had something to fall back upon. Haven't a blessed thing now, but decent French and my fists.” Oh my gosh I think Tom’s a millennial. Polly teaches Maud how to make raisin cake for Tom’s birthday. He receives two letters: one from Trix dumping him, and one from Arthur Sydney saying that’s he’s paid Tom’s debts. Tom, unwilling to owe him, decides to go West, young man, like Polly’s brother Ned. The Woman Who Did Not Dare POLLY wrote enthusiastically, Ned answered satisfactorily, and after much corresponding, talking, and planning, it was decided that Tom should go West. Never mind what the business was; it suffices to say that it was a good beginning for a young man like Tom, who, having been born and bred in the most conservative class of the most conceited city in New England, needed just the healthy, hearty, social influences of the West to widen his views and make a man of him. Polly goes home for the summer, Maud to the shore with Belle, and Fan stays home. I’m pretty sure Polly lives in Concord. Does she know the Marches? She returns to Boston in the fall and Fanny says have you been sick? No, it’s love. Polly gives vague answers and Fan replies that she thinks Sydney is starting to like her. She shows Polly a photo Tom sent and Polly’s face makes her go Aha. Winter passes, and in May Fan and Sydney get engaged. Tom’s Success "Come, Philander, let us be a marching, Every one his true love a searching," would be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on. Tom comes home and tells Polly he loves her. "Now, Tom, how could I know you loved me when you went away and never said a word?" she began, in a tenderly reproachful tone, thinking of the hard year she had spent. "And how could I have the courage to say a word, when I had nothing on the face of the earth to offer you but my worthless self?" answered Tom, warmly. "That was all I wanted!" whispered Polly, in a tone which caused him to feel that the race of angels was not entirely extinct. I suppose if I liked Tom more the romance might work for me but I don’t and it doesn’t. Neither pairing seems to happen naturally, the narrative forces them together. Will marries Jane and Maud remains a spinster, “[keeping] house for her father in the most delightful manner.” The End and I’m glad of it! Next is Little Men.

#an old fashioned girl #louisa may alcott #alcott readathon 2018

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ondownthemountain · 7 years

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Been a year

Kinda wanna write about this in a non-urgent way.

I’ve been home for the summer, and it’s been nice. I get to do so much stand-up and practice so much martial arts with my oldest friends. I eat burritos and hug my grandparents and went rafting and watched a meteor shower with my brothers.

And when I feel motivated I go for a run. I did it a few times this summer. I feel like if I don’t watch it I’ll “get fat.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I wanna stay lean.

Anyway.

Being home is hard. Not just because there’s no privacy, because I worry I’m the only one who cares about maintaining my oldest friendships, because my mom is raging and rude and my dad is a jello cup of shame. All that is tough, but it’s always tough.

What’s really hard, what hits me like a dump truck, what makes my ears hot and my lungs as tight and empty as a crushed up bottle of water, are the memories.

Memories of my ex. First love.

I don’t want to be with her, first off. Let’s get that out of the way. Being with her would mean letting go of a lot of stuff we’ve both worked really hard to build.

Doesn’t mean I don’t remember her, though. And last year, when I was living here, we... crossed paths... just for a few months. And it was surreal, it was a tornado, and it didn’t end on good terms.

And for months, even as I was faraway in Boston, the guilt would come up and squeeze me, and I wouldn’t be able to smell, or see, or breathe, and I’d black out, or fall asleep, or need to squinch shut my eyes and count and think and do something. Like picture my little brother, when he was a fat baby, gurgling in the bath. Something like that. Pure, you know? To bring me back.

Anyway. Being here is tough because the last time I was here... she was my world. I haven’t lived here and not had her be, you know, it. My lens, my friend, my hope. Literally, not since like, 2009.

It’s exhausting. I love my hometown so much and I wanna be able to walk around and see it unvarnished by my love for her. But instead of My High School, it’s The Old C Building Stairwell Where We Cuddled and I Skipped Track. Instead of Nations, chill late nite burger joint, it’s Diner Where Her Dad Took Me to Eat Pie and Talk Politics While She Sulked, Where She Hugged Me Just Last Year.

My mom always lashes out at me, tongue dripping venom, when I come home.

“Why do you want to come home? To see your brothers? Your friends? I’m reeeaally worried that they’re holding you back.”

And I tell her that is my reason-- which is true-- and that they could never hold me back-- which is true-- but that’s not the full truth. Because half the reason I’m so insistent on coming back is to normalize the place I’m from, the place I love. So I live here, and it’s my life, free and independent and replete with memories that do not. revolve. around. her.

So anyway. I’ve been running.

I ran from my house up to Panoramic couple weeks ago. Pretty far, and I fuckin did it. And it was easy til I started to crest the hill.

Because I rounded the first bend and could hear her teasing me as we drove down it in 2012. I could smell the weed on her breath as she, chill as fuck, drove us down around that tight curve in 2011.

And I muscle past that bend, and the next, and then on the long brown grey stretch before the next big hill I remember driving, just last year, my right hand clenching hers, as neither of us looked at each other and she talked slow and even and told me about the bad things that happened to her in college, when she was away, when we weren’t talking.

And it hits, not just the memory but the shame. I should’ve pulled over and hugged her. I should’ve listened harder. I should’ve left, then and there, knowing I’d just hurt her again. Should’ve done anything but keep driving, holding her hand.

The red-hand of that shame, raspy and rough, claws at my larynx. Doesn’t make cresting this hill any easier. But I push on, on and up, thinking if maybe I can see the violets and agave plants of the hillcrest, the ones I took a picture of my girlfriend in front of just last month, I’ll be here, in the new memories--

But no dice. Instead it’s me and her, sitting just on the other side of the railing, in the dead straw grass, smoking. Me angry, her sad. 2 days before we go back to college. And break up for the final time.

And she turns her head sideways, and looks at me with her little slit eyes, and exhales out the thinnest stream of smoke. I’m cold, I have my plaid-shirt’s sleeves rolled down and buttoned, but again, she’s chill as fuck, and she looks and gulps and pauses and says--

“You look really cute with your sleeves rolled down. I can’t believe I never knew that. You always rolled em up. But you look so cute with your sleeves rolled down.”

Back here in 2017 I’m hacking and coughing. That weedsmoke. Shit.

I run harder now, harder even though I’m tired, down the side of the hillcrest to the big rock. Think about my girlfriend-- my current one-- and my best friends sitting here, planning jokes and feeling free. I have to think about it. Have to, as I cradle my hot head and cough up phlegm. That’ll keep me here.

That run was rough. Didn’t try to run anything in the hills again til today.

I knew I needed to work off the soreness from rafting and knew I wanted to feel fast, feel free-- also knew that I needed a hill to really get that feeling. Like back in high school, when I ran with Eugenio. I saw him last night. He said I was the best friend he ever had. Smartest guy, too.

Yeah, that’s right. Fuck it. I’m gonna run a hill. Like he and I used to, together.

But I know what it means. The only hill to run, the only route I know that’ll let me make it to work in time to finish this memo, is Indian Rock.

Indian Rock. Where we first kissed.

Yes, I’d kissed another girl up there before her, and yes I kissed like 3 girls there after and yes it’s just a rock, but... it still feels like hers. Sometimes. She used to live right next to it, you know. Sometimes in high school I’d run that route and just bump into her. Sometimes I ran it on purpose. Knowing, just knowing, she’d be out walking and I’d see her.

I know I won’t now, though. She moved, and probably avoids that place anyway. Her friends aren’t really the pipe-n-burrito type anymore and she probably just has bad memories of me there anyway. Still, though. I’m kinda scared I’ll see her.

Fuck it, though. I’m gonna run it.

And I lace up my shoes and go--

and it’s instant. Boom, my old house, where we had our first time. Boom, the school, where she refused to show me her stories and I showed her mine. Boom, the park she met me in one night, warm, in january, and I, unbothered for once, dozed off up on a tree branch like an ocelot, waiting for her.

Boom, the corner she left me on with our first public kiss-- good luck-- before I ran off to rehearsal for some silent play where I played a rabbit. Boom, the street we walked-- walked up to her house. And the one time where we walked on different streets, parallel, and I beat her to her house and she called me, angry, cuz she was still a few blocks back, waiting where I forgot I’d said I’d meet her.

You see what I mean? It’s exhausting. Relentless. Every crunch of grass, every smooth slap of my feet against the deep black pavement reminds me, in a rhythm-- you fucked up. you fucked up. you fucked up. you hurt her, hurt her, hurt her. Weak, weak, weak.

And I try to steady myself. Focus on my form. Remember the track team trading jabs, the seniors teasing me, as I struggled to keep up on this route, to even make it halfway to the rock. Remember my coach telling me the middle of the street was actually a softer impact than the sidewalk. Remember picking my little brother, the gurgly one, from school-- his elementary is on this street.

But like one of those insistent radio stations that follows you, even after you cross county lines, she came back. Cuz I remember how fast I’d tear up this trail to get to her house, and how fast I’d tear down from her place once I realized I was late for my brother, for practice, for something.

Remember being so cut, nine pack abs and bleeding all the time from my own brittle skin, my pimples on my chest, her nails on my back, remember never feeling tired and always feeling ready and showing up at her place sweaty and licking each other clean and man I had never felt so alive! And when you’re a law student, and you’re always sleepy, and you’re outta shape, man oh man is it tough to feel that alive.

But I keep running, dude, cuz I’m gonna feel alive. Alive alive, on my terms, alive. Believe it.

A right, a left, and there it is; the tunnel, and the giant stone stairs.

I hit the stairs like a bullet, like some kinda bug. Scuttle up em, fast. And now I’m smiling cuz I remember taking Robert and Mateo up here and showing them just how fast I was, after one semester on the team. Remember them getting tired and stopping on these steps. Remember how they convinced me to pee off em. We tagged every bus that came out the tunnel.

And then, the traffic circle. If I make the first right, I’ll end up at her old house.

It’s my first time up here in a long, long time.

And being up here I kinda start thinking. Bout how we said we’d always love each other. How we’d carry each other inside.

This is the intersection where Eugenio had to carry me home, crying, when she wouldn’t say bye to me before leaving to college. The intersection where, a year later, her dad paid me n my boys to help them move, and his old red truck stalled in the intersection, and he said “Oops!” in a way that made everyone crack up and just, like magic, started that shit up again.

I’m remembering all these memories and I’m like, dude. I don’t hate her.

I always knew but never said. This time I said it, tasting the dried salt on my lips from running, from sweating.

Hm.

Why do all these memories sting me? Slice into me, slice in a way that makes me wish some assassin, some riptide blade, would actually come slice me in those some places, those same ways, to deaden the pain?

Cuz I hurt her. Cuz I know she hates me. Cuz I know she wants nothing to do with me ever again.

Right? I insisted she love me and when she finally tried to I discarded her love. Over. and over. again.

That’s it. That’s only why it hurts. Not because she hurt me. Cuz she did. She did. She lied and kept secrets and kept me a secret and, and... it never changed a thing. At least about what I felt for her.

And I jog along, and cut in front of some green van, and it’s like, hm. She stabbed me a hundred times and all I can think about is the hundred times I stabbed her. Hm.

I run and run and run, up the hill to Indian Rock.

I love this run, dude. Even before I knew she lived up here, I loved it. The slope, it’s so strong. Gradual, graceful, challenging but good. I loved it. Come to think of it, I think that’s what made it so special, when I finally learned where she lived. Cuz I already loved the run.

Something about the air, the smell of eucalyptus, the dark grey clouds and the mist just fill me up and I realize.

She doesn’t hate me.

She might’ve lied about a couple things but she never lied about how she felt about me. She refused to tell me she loved me til she meant it. And then she did mean it. And when she said always she meant it. And when she said no more, it’s too much, she meant it. And I did too. I did too.

I get to the rock. It’s beautiful. Towering and jagged and grey, and I climb it. Pick my way up dainty, taking the narrow ways, the ways only kids can fit.

And I hop and jump and get to the top. And there’s a ton of fog but way far away, by just its belly, I see the Golden Gate Bridge.

Yeah. Yeah, we had some firsts up here.

So did a lot of kids.

Looking down the slope of the rock I see some cans. An empty case of Bud. I shuffle down the rock, grab the cardboard case, and make my way about the rock, picking up all the loose cans. It’s only about four.

Then I climb down the rock, the way I came. Check the secret cave underneath, pick up one more can and a swisher wrapper.

I go to the garbage can and dump it. There’s in’n’out in the garbage can. Makes me smile. The closest in’n’out is miles away. That means some kids really knew that they wanted for a perfect night. Those burgers, those shakes, and this view. Must’ve been nice.

For real. It makes me grin. Teeth and everything.

I turn and run downhill.

After a while, running became about her. It started off as a way to show how good I was. How fast and in control. And then, for a sweet spot in the middle, it was brotherhood, and connection to my town, and nature. And then after her, through her, it became about being primal. About pushing my limits and craving red meat.

I used to love to run to her place. I loved running everywhere. Running like that meant I was burning fat away, clean, and shredding up my abs and my whole body so that I was ready to be held, to be washed.

Running, running to her, meant being and becoming strong for her, meant never tiring, never getting sore.

And my feet swirl over and over like a bicycle, like my friend’s hands when he practices wing chun, like two trout. I roll down the hill.

And it makes me smile because running still means the same thing. Running here, running through the same old memories... it’s still being strong. It’s still loving her, by being strong.

But this time, I’m not running to her, like she wanted. I’m running forward, like she wants. Like I want. Like everyone who loves me wants. I run up here, and I run back, and it means being strong, strong as I always was, and it mean running forward, finding something new.

I run up and I feel her and I run back and I feel her like sweat flying off my brow behind me as I run and I feel nothing, hold nothing, carry nothing. I’m running forward and I’m being and learning and staying strong. For me. For everyone.

#love #moving on #running #prose #prose poetry #anxiety #writing #creative writing #story #short story #flash fiction #stream of consciousness

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thenightisland · 7 years

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explanations/updates under the cut

i haven’t been able to maintain much in the way of interaction with most of the people i care about, also haven’t been able to do much more than get out of bed every day because it’s one thing to be depressed and another to have just had such a goddamn terrible few months that there’s no way your antidepressants can keep up with all the awful

i already had several weeks without my second in command because she’s cursed and had to have another surgery. our unit lost two of our main techs (for new people inexplicably reading this, i charge a locked acute psychiatric ward, and losing techs is a /massive/ loss). the admin demons have been instituting various new things that have been having terrible effects on the units which i won’t get into because that would be a really really long explanation with a lot of jargon in it. one of the things though is the fact that the “do not readmit” list has been low key thrown out the window, so all the pts who were on that list /with good fucking reason/ are of course, now coming back, and spoiler alert they’re just as terrible still.

this one bookstore closed which sounds stupid as fuck but that place was the closest thing i had to a church and it literally kept me alive when i was in high school like i say that completely without exaggeration so it closing was the equivalent of someone hacking off one of my limbs because it was still the main place i went to when i was upset and wanted to feel less miserable and i don’t have it anymore and you wouldn’t believe how hard it is like imagine if your church got demolished or whatever you believe in like it destroyed me and i feel unmoored i don’t have that safe space feeling now because it’s gone

meanwhile the person i spent seven years of my life in love with had a baby with the boyfriend she described as Guy Karen, named me godmother of their firstborn son, and unknowingly made his middle name the pen name i’ve used for a decade because fucking of course this might as well fucking happen too. but i have other romantic bullshit going on now that’s honestly fucking me up worse.

also somehow i still can’t escape a little life like it has haunted me every waking moment since march 2016 and i hate how much i am like the protagonist and it’s kind of fucking with me??????

a fucking garbage man bashed off the side mirror on my car which i still haven’t had the fucking time to get fixed that was great

spent my whole vacation anxious having panic attacks like what is the point in having a long vacation if you’re going to be constantly stressed over nothing like goddammit can’t i just have this

within the last month and a half five people i know have died. three of them were our patients which like doesn’t sound like a thing that would cause that much distress, but due to the nature of our unit, we’re the only family a lot of our career patients have most of our pts are homeless, schizophrenic, intellectually disabled, just plain unwanted people of varying illnesses, like we literally look after the people no one else wants so when we hear one of Our Patients has died it fucks us up so badly. and it’s even worse because it’s not like they died in their sleep or something all of them have been post-discharge suicides like our work already feels like a revolving door exercise in futility because that’s the nature of the field unfortunately but it still hurts like i spend forty hours or more a week with these people i literally see them than i see my friends and family our patients are mostly so close to us that like when the day shift charge nurse came back from maternity leave, pt who had been there when she was pregnant who were there again were asking about how the baby was doing so three of our pts killing themselves in the last month in a half is soul crushing

then the closest thing i had to a friend in nursing school, well, she died too. out of the fucking blue, out of nowhere. she was a 28 year old healthy woman with two young daughters. she worked so hard for her and her girls she went to nursing school to build a better life for them and she genuinely wanted to be a nurse meanwhile i originally got into it for the money like she only got to live her dream working in L&D for two and a half years. and then she was on vacation in florida with her girls who were doing like a cheerleading camp. and she just. went to sleep and never woke up. and i still don’t know what killed her no one has posted it on facebook, and unfortunately, all the people who might know are the people that i cut out of my life because the rest of our class was a toxic mess so i can’t very well be like heyyyyy so i know i deleted you years ago and all but what killed linda? so still no closure. i just hope to god her girls didn’t find their mother dead. like it wrecked me.

i also say that every time i come back from a vacation something awful happens like when i came back from boston/nyc i discovered i was the only nurse left on my shift and when i came back from st louis last fall my dog died a very traumatizing [for me] death, so when i came back from dc i was like hmm what next.

well, another fucking person died is what next. /one of my coworkers/ my alpha tech from my original 11-7 team one of the people who has literally saved my life and kept so many people from getting hurt this is someone i saw five days a week for the last two and a half years of my life. he was already going through a lot because him and his wife split, so he was staying at a friend’s house, a friend who happened to be an NP for one of the psych docs, and the NP’s sister who works as an internal medicine assistant. and then on cinco de mayo we got word that his car had flipped and killed him. and a lot of people attributed it to a classic cinco drunk driving fatality but it gets worse because of course it does because lol it wasn’t /his/ car that flipped. it was the NP’s sports car. and apparently, the NP was driving, and the sister was following. the sister and NP were off the grid for a couple days and then the sister came back to work, but the NP has been taken off the on call list “indefinitely” so not only is one of our team members dead, but he is probably dead from a /drunk driving vehicular homicide done by another team member/ because apparently the world was like fuck our unit specifically.

then i got to spend several days being targeted by a pt who was a behavioral case [aka they’re not actually mentally ill, they’ve learned to play the system to avoid going to jail, basically] and that involved her being in seclusion for seven goddamn hours and her literally endlessly threatening to kill me for days to the point that i was confined to our walled in nurses station because she was you know trying to kill me and just constantly standing on the other side of the glass throwing around some of the worst verbal abuse i’ve ever experienced like i’m already exhausted and fatigued and miserable can’t you shut the fuck up i need to find some kind of meaning in my job because it’s all i have and you’re making it very hard for me to feel like i’ve done any good for anyone

all of this built up nicely into a good old fashioned nervous breakdown to the point that i had to call in sick because lol turns out that that is a lot of fucking shit to deal with in the span of a month and a half and emotionally things are only going to get harder from here this year for a variety of personal reasons that suffice to say have literally kept me up at night and upset me enough that i even had some nightmares break through the medication because i’m seeing so many of my friends find their happiness and i hate that i can’t feel that happy for them because i’m so tired and when the fuck will it be my turn i don’t want to resent my friends’ happiness and successes i’m just fucking exhausted and would really like for some good goddamn things to start happening here any time now i’ve been under so much stress i’m just a human version of the song running on empty at this point it’s all too much and i still can’t write i’m still stuck in the same hell from a manuscript i wrote nearly four years ago all i’ve been able to write is Coping Poetry to keep from going off the deep end and honestly everything in my life just feels completely out of control and i’m just tired of so many bad things happening in such a short amount of time like i can handle my own emotional problems until you dump all this other fucking nightmare fuel on top of them then it’s too much

so for the unfinished ao3 wip i’m sorry for the sheet music requests i’m sorry for the unanswered messages i’m sorry i’m safe i’m not in any danger of hurting myself or anything but i’m overwhelmed and i barely have the energy to get through all the shit that’s been happening lately so i can’t even promise when my interactions with anyone will be back to normal especially given my already awful skill at withdrawing from the people who care about me because i don’t want to bring them down any so just. tolerate the queue’s work. if you see me posting more but not answering you it’s not you it’s me i just cannot manage even talking to more than like three people max right now hence the until further notice psa you’ve seen at the top of my blog

the worst part is that there’s actually /more/ but it’s also three in the morning and i have to work tomorrow so here’s the highlights turns out averaging one death a week takes a toll on a person who’s already isolated and exhausted

hopefully at some point, things won’t suck as much and i can go back to being regular me. till then, apologies, and enjoy the queue

#karen's adventures in trying to sort her life out #you know if i pull that tag out that it's bad tbh #it's long but it Explains #i should be asleep

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solrika · 7 years

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This is gonna be rambly because it’s late, but oh well. Here’s my ideas on omnic mobility and what makes Genji special from a robotics and processing standpoint.

@littletoughpuff and @logicalfangirl, I’m betting you’d be interested in this.

I’m trying not to get too technical, but lemme know if anyone has questions! I come from a STEM high school and I’m still playing with robots in college, so some of it just slips into my language.

You’d think they’d build Genji like an omnic, but instead he’s got a body that mimics muscle fibers and (I’d bet) has an internal skeleton. Omnic frames support themselves--they don’t seem to really have bones like we do. The closest analogue is an ectoskeleton like a bug, but it’s not quite right either. Anyways. Long story short, they don’t look like Genji.

Therefor, there has to be a drawback to being built like an omnic.

ON TO OMNIC MOBILITY:

Based off my own understanding of robotics (rudimentary, but I’ve built a ‘bot or two), I’m guessing omnics have a more limited range of motion. Getting organic motion is really hard, and bipedal walking/balance/stairs is a big deal. Right now, the only really good walkers I can think of are Boston Dynamics’s robots, and they’re funded by the US military for the US military.

It’s obvious that Overwatch robots have gotten over this hurdle, but we don’t know if they’ve done it well (especially in the context of most of them being civilian units that were militarized by the omniums). I wouldn’t be surprised if Zen floats because it’s easier for him. It’s possible he can’t actually run, or has trouble getting up if he falls, or bad balance (these are all real-world robotic problems). Zen might not be able to handle stairs (look up Asimo falling down stairs).

Bastion probably does better with uneven ground and being pushed around because she’s actually military tech. And look at the way her legs are designed--digitigrade means more springs, more ways to react to imbalance in ground.

However, based off the short, while she’s definitely fast to shoot, she doesn’t have the same overall dexterity and reaction time that we see out of Genji. Bastion couldn’t somersault worth a damn. And since she’s a big battle-bot who’s more a seige machine--dig in and blow ‘em away, slowly move forward--than a saboteur, that’s okay. She doesn’t have to be able to run, she just has to be able to swivel her upper body quickly to track targets. If she wants to move places quickly, she can just turn into a tank and drive her way there. From a robotics standpoint, it’s much more efficient.

This isn’t just a mechanical issue, but also a programming one. Movement that mimics biological modes of transport are hard, because there are so many moving pieces. The computer has to track its center of gravity, figure out how to correct if it’s about to fall, know where that fall point is, figure out where the actual ground is and how hard to hit and how to roll off the foot... And then, for our omnic friends, they also have to process input at the same time they’re outputting motion.

This might not seem like much to us humans, but that’s because our brains are a wonder from a programming standpoint--we can take in million points of input (touch taste sound changing every second every shift in body every wind change) and we automatically filter it, discard what’s not important, save stuff to the memory banks, run our life support system, and walk. All on autopilot. And then we have conscious thoughts. And we’re talking. All at the same time. For a robot brain, this is super hard.

HOW THIS RELATES TO PROSTHETICS IN OVERWATCH:

It’s possible that a lot of the limb-only prosthetics we see in Overwatch get around this programming issue by more advanced connect-to-nerve technology. Our brain is amazing, and if you could get it to do the work instead of the limb, you’ve got a lot of the issue taken care of right there. All the limb has to do is have something that converts nerve impulses into electrical signals for an onboard computer to read and make into output, with another onboard computer handling the input of touch/temp/whatever.

The limb’s connect-to-brain doesn’t even have to be perfect. Jesse McCree might not get temp input, or perfect grip feedback. The thing about human brains is that they’re extremely good at adapting, and even if the result is never going to be the same as the original limb, we make do. Just look at what people using current prosthetics can do. It takes practice and it’s sometimes painful, but it’s entirely possible for Jesse to have a limb that’s not original-perfect and still be a perfect shot.

Circling back around to Genji, he still doesn’t look like the prosthetics we see, either. He doesn’t have joints like Satya (I’m assuming she’s got the best on the civilian market) does, he’s got... well... muscle things.

SO THIS LEADS ME TO GENJI:

There are these really cool things called McKibben air muscles (you can look them up) (used them in a project this semester, actually) that closely mimic biological muscles. They’re tubes, and when you pressurize them they contract. They can work around corners, twisted, and they’re best at pulling when they’re under a little bit of tension. They are great. Much more durable than motors.

Something else cool about them? As I found in my project, if you mount them to a ‘skeleton,’ you can get something that (loosely) works just like a biological limb. Mine was a very hack job, but if we accelerate into the future, I can see Genji’s body using this kind of actuator to move.

Pneumatics react very quickly, making them ideal for a ninja, and they’re surprisingly strong depending on how you pressurize them. My little muscle could pull twenty pounds at 60 psi--not bad for something I made out of cheap plastic tubing. Get Genji air muscles made out of some high-tech-future-thing and ramp up the pressure in his system, and hey-presto--you get human or better strength, fast reaction time, and that cool muscley look. The vents on his shoulders might be used to release air from the system if he needs to adjust pressure or something.

Genji’s prosthetic is probably wired directly into his spine and brain stem, allowing for more input and output, and for quicker response times when he ‘outputs’ a command. If you can use nanotech to take each nerve and turn it into a ‘pin’ (input or output point) for the microcontroller (tiny computer) (like an Arduino) for each limb, you give Genji more choice in motion, too. For example: I had six pins for my robot, so it had one input (one kind of sensory feedback, in this case black and white sight) and four outputs, which in this context gave it five positions it could be in. Maximizing the pins maximizes Genji’s sensory feedback and all the things he can do.

He’s got a whole spine full of ‘pins’ and what amounts to a biological supercomputer to handle it all. We talk about Genji having the most limited feedback of all, but if you compare his prosthetic experience to the other characters, he’s got the potential to be the one who can actually feel the most. Whether that potential has been exploited is another story--he needs all sorts of sensors in his limbs for that--but it’s there.

#overwatch #genji #omnics #zenyatta #bastion #overwatch fanfic

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sonderfulrose · 6 years

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mredwinsmith · 7 years

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Universe Point After Afterword: Part 2

Looking for Part 1? It’s over here.

I got back to Pittsburgh knowing that I had a month or so to improve my wind and endurance, which I thought were fine going into regionals but obviously needed some work. So I obsessively sprinted the hill in the alley behind my house, 70 yards up, 70 yards back down – every day. Get home from a rough day hauling lumber and drywall up three flights of stairs? Run the hill. Exhausted from chasing around a three year old all day? Run the hill. 95 degrees out? Run the hill. I knew it might be my only shot to play at nationals and I wasn’t going to waste it by being unprepared.

As for my family, we used nationals as an excuse to go visit Jessi’s parents up in Wyoming, which meant that my little boy Henry would be able to see daddy play. We flew into Denver two days early, visited friends and went to dinosaur museums – all awesome, totally fun stuff that I nervously fretted through waiting for Friday morning to arrive.

And then finally, graciously, Friday morning did arrive. We got to the Aurora Sports Complex to see by far the largest collection of ultimate fields and ultimate players the world may have ever witnessed. All seven divisions of open, women’s, mixed, grandmasters and great grandmasters were spread out over an area so large the place needed giant towers marking each compass direction. There were over 2,000 players on 79 teams from all over the country. It was massive. So massive in fact, I immediately regretted telling Jessi it was cool to just drop me off at the entrance and that I’d “wander around to find my team.” I’m relatively certain that if she hadn’t shown back up with the car fifteen minutes later, they’d have eventually found my skeleton along the road with my cell phone pressed to where my ear used to be and Black Tide Matt still attempting to give me directions….

“We’re over by the merchandise tent and…..I mean you should see….ok, there’s a green team playing a white team next to us. Do you see that? Cramer? Are you still there? Cramer? Do you see the green versus white game?”

“We’re sorry, the Verizon customer you’re attempting to reach is no longer available….”

“It’s field twenty-two. I think. Twenty uh…..just look for the green vs. white game. Cramer? Cramer?”

Eventually I got there alive, received my uniform, (#95 for the first year I started playing ultimate), warmed up, and in a blur, the game started.

After all the planning, all the hoping, all the dreaming about first setting foot on the fields at nationals, I don’t really remember lining up for my first point. I really thought I’d go out there and suck it all in for about thirty seconds, looking around at the mountains and the blue sky and having a quiet introspective inner monologue like, “You did it. You’re here. You’re on the field at nationals. All the hard work has paid off. Suck it in. Remember this moment forev….”

“Cramer, you have number seven. Force flick. Let’s go.”

And I was running.

Our first game was against a Boston team called Critical Mass. On my first point, they turned it and a 5’6” guy rotated to cover me so I shot deep. I was twenty yards behind him streaking for the end zone when we decided to throw away a swing pass.

“Oh, goddammit.”

Now I had to decelerate and chase him from a 20-yard disadvantage. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would become a microcosm of my entire weekend.

On my next point, we were coming out of our own end zone when I lost the 6’4” guy that was on me on an in cut. Our handler spotted me but the throw went sailing way up to the left. I had to slow down and jump, but probably would’ve caught it if the big dude didn’t go straight through my back to get the D. I really don’t like to make calls so I talked myself into shrugging it off – which even the dude who’d hacked me found quite surprising.

I’d describe my teammates as “quite baffled” by the non-call. Luckily we forced turn in the end zone and marched down to score. As I came off the field, Brody put his arm around my shoulder.

“You didn’t get fouled on that catch down there?”

“Nah, I definitely got wrecked. I just didn’t want to be a dick.”

“Cramer. This is nationals, man,” he said with a wry smile that replaced the flick to the forehead he obviously wanted to give me. “Not summer league.”

I nodded. It was a great point. “Not summer league. Got it.”

As for Brody, he was a bit jetlagged after arriving from Israel the day before. He’d participated as a counselor and photographer at a camp called Ultimate Peace, which brings together Arab, Palestinian, and Israeli children for a weeklong ultimate and friendship spectacular. Kids who are often raised to be enemies are put on the field in mixed-culture teams and have to practice, play, cooperate, and jointly work out their differences. In the first nearly fifty years of ultimate, it might be the singular best thing that the game has brought to the world. Some day the Israeli Prime Minister and the Palestinian President could sit down and hammer out a long lasting peace because of a friendship that Brody helped foster that week. I mean, he could’ve legitimately helped usher in centuries of worldwide prosperity never before seen on Earth.

And yet it still wouldn’t excuse his first pull of the tournament, which went 60 yards straight sideways out of bounds into the parking lot, hitting a minivan and giving Boston the disc two yards from our goal line. In fact, as I imagine the 2057 Israeli Palestinian Peace Accords, I believe there’s a good chance they begin as such:

Israeli PM: “I’m not sure my country is going to like this.”

Palestinian Prez: “I don’t think mine will either. We’re going to get a lot of heat. A lot of heat.”

Israeli PM: “Well, nothing can be as bad as Brody’s pull against Boston. If he can rebound from that and still have a spectacular tournament, we too can forge ahead no matter what the circumstances.”

Palestinian Prez: “We can indeed. Hand me the pen old friend.”

BAM – Age of Aquarius.

Despite virtually spotting them that goal early on, we cruised and won pretty handily 15-5. My favorite moment of the tournament actually came in the 2nd half when I got a fingernail on the tall guy’s throw for what I’d hesitate to call a point block – more like a point skim. Either way it forced the disc into the ground and off the turnover I ended up with a hockey assist as we went up 10-3. As I came off the field, Henry comes sprinting down the hill with his hand raised in the air.

“Good job, daddy! Great playing! High five!”

And I high fived him – and picked him up and spun him around there at nationals, an old guy playing the sport I’ve loved for over two decades, there at its highest old guy pinnacle – and my boy was there to see it. Whether he remembers it or not is somewhat irrelevant. He was there. And that is the top moment of my entire ultimate career to this point.

As it turned out, I desperately needed that moment the rest of the day. Flying high off our ten point opening game victory, we mentally lollygagged through our next game against Chicago’s Old Man Winter. Nothing went right. We couldn’t complete wide-open dumps. I swear we had double digit uncontested drops. Unforced error after unforced error and we fell 14-10. All you need to know about that game is from a picture an Ultiphotos photographer captured of Black Tide Matt standing on the sidelines with a look on his face as if trying to pass a kidney stone just moments after learning his kid totaled his car. It pretty much sums up that game.

We were 1-1 and now had to match up with the best team in the pool, a bunch of monsters out of Minneapolis named Surly. All through our second round game, dark clouds were creeping in from the south as everyone kept an eye on the skies and hoped their approach would be slow enough to get in our third round games – which turned out to be a tad optimistic.

Surly was up 2-0 when a flash of lightning hit close enough for everyone to sigh, look at each other, and reluctantly begin trudging to our cars. USA Ultimate had mini tornado sirens that started going off and (to use my favorite British slang) everybody just sort of cocked about. I don’t believe it ever actually rained. Me, Surfer Bryan and Defensive Dennis all tried to go take naps in my rented Kia Soul before realizing how hard it is to nap in a fucking Kia Soul and giving up entirely.

Unlike the east coast where trees block your view of damn near everything, in Aurora, Colorado, you can see for sixty miles in each direction. Which is awesome until you’re trying not to see lightning. For ninety-four minutes every player there went, “Ok, it’s been at least ten minutes since the last bolt. They’ve got to be starting the games here pretty (flash)…..damn it.”

It was an odd break that nobody seemed to know what to do with. Do we crack open the beer we brought or not? Should I stretch? I should stretch, right? Fuck, I really want a beer but I also really want to win this game if we play it. But do I want to win as much as I want a beer right NOW? Hmmmm.

Anyway, after a long delay that took everyone’s heads right out of the game, we resumed play against Surly in what amounted to a wind tunnel. I was guarding this big dude with glasses not long after the lightning delay mercifully ended. During a stoppage of play, we both noticed the sky light up off in the distance. I glanced at him. He glanced at me.

“We didn’t see that,” he said.

“See what? I was looking at the clear blue sky over to the east. We’re all old. If you saw a flash, it could’ve just been your vision going. Cataract maybe.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Totally possible. I really oughta get that checked out.”

Having been placed on the 2nd defensive line, I wasn’t getting to play much. In critical situations the captains simply put guys on the field they knew and trusted more. And my mind was honestly starting to drift. Through the Chicago game and later into the Minneapolis game, I just didn’t feel part of it all. Then on my third point of the Surly game, our zone forced a turn in the gale force winds. Brody was tired from running around in the cup, so he asked me to switch to popper from my normal deep receiver position. One of our handlers, a dude with a bright red hat named Jessup who somehow could huck right through the wind had it on the goal line. I shook one of their wings and got open. Jessup spun a brilliant little backhand through the cup that was right at my knees.

And I dropped it. Hit my hands. Didn’t stick. Broken finger or not, I let the team down. When you’re not playing much, you want to stand out when you get on the field. Dropping a wide open catch on your own goal line is not how you want to do it.

We actually gave eventual champion Surly a good game losing just 10-7 but after the game I felt empty. Like I didn’t belong. Three games and somehow I didn’t end up with a single stat. No goals, no assists, no D’s. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for by a long shot. I just….didn’t fit.

Weirdly the thing that helped regain my confidence was that goddamned Kia Soul. Captain Ryan and Black Tide Matt had reserved a couple tables for the team at a pizza place in what I believe was western Kansas. I’d planned on just taking a shower and hanging out in our room at the Embassy Suites to sulk and mournfully shake my head all night, but because the restaurant was so far away nobody wanted to get a taxi or ride share. So I was damn near forced to drive people there. As the miles stacked up, my teammates got more and more thankful for the ride. And suddenly, oddly, I had a purpose. Even if it wasn’t for something on the field, my teammates were glad I was there. I got them to and from the pizza place. And that was something at least. I wasn’t totally useless.

The next morning was our critical crossover game. We finished #3 in Pool B and Kalakala out of Seattle finished #2 in pool C. Winner would finish in the top eight. Loser couldn’t finish higher than ninth. In a lot of ways, the whole tournament rested on what we did in that first game of Saturday morning.

Now I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention some of the awesomely creative team names there that weekend. Great grandmasters led the way for the men with teams like Boulder “Old and in the Way,” San Francisco Relics, and Cincinnati “Age Against the Machine.” But personally I’d give the top three to the women’s division for Seattle iRot (a fantastic play on Seattle Riot), Atlanta Atlantiques, and the hands down winner New York “I Thought This Was a Wine Tasting” who lands the top spot and it’s not particularly close.

But the one name that confused damn near everybody was the team we were about to play. So before the game I approached one of their guys.

“Hey man, so I gotta know…..”

He chuckled. “What’s Kalakala?”

“I imagine you guys are getting that a lot.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “It was this ferry boat that was sleek and luxurious back in the 40’s. And then some guy towed it down to Seattle from Alaska but couldn’t get the money to fix it up so it just sat there in the water slowly falling apart.”

“Ah,” I said, the light going off in my brain. “Just like us. Where once we were young and sleek, we’re now just rusting hulks of our former glory doing all we can not to sink.”

He smiled. “And we’re all in the same boat.”

I laughed. “I like you guys.”

In what would be one of the most exciting games I’ve ever played in, we came storming out of the gate and surprised them. On the second point, we made a D and on the resulting break out, Guillermo threw an around backhand way out in front of me. I laid out, tipped the disc up to myself and caught it as I flipped over, wasting three seconds of my stall count searching for my glasses and hurriedly jamming them back on my face. Guillermo cut out then shot back in and was the first thing I saw when clarity returned. I flicked one to him and took off up the sideline as he put up a huge hanging huck for one of our bigger guys, a wide-bodied defender named Dan. Dan was one-on-one with a guy about his size but I’d seen him play enough to know he was coming down with it – which he did just in front of the goal line. I hadn’t slowed down since I flipped the disc to Guillermo and was wide open in the center of the end zone. Dan turned and saw me, letting go a soft backhand.

As the disc was in the air my only thought was if you drop this one, just keep going up the hill and straight to the airport. But I didn’t. I pancaked it in front of my stomach. We were up 2-0 and at long last by the grace of the lord had a stat at nationals. An important goal in an important game no less. I could finally, finally relax.

We were up 4-0 when I went back into the game. Halfway up the field, my tight mark forced a bad throw that got undercut by funny, happy dude named Dom who like a lot of guys at the tournament looked as if he used to be all muscle….before he had kids. His abs were still there, just buried under a layer of dad.

Anyway, when Dom undercut the disc, he immediately flipped a five-yard backhand up to me. Seeing he was going to be wide open for a power position huck, I put a little lob on a platter for him up the sideline. With a receiver streaking wide open deep for the 5-0 lead, he wound up a mega-backhand and…..for some reason thought better of it, awkwardly jerking the disc across his waist and letting go a flick completely against his momentum. The resulting throw had the flight properties of a bad hairpiece – a floppy blade straight out of bounds that didn’t even give the receiver a chance.

Dom stopped and watched the disc sail off toward the water coolers with his mouth wide open. He turned to me, his hands pulling his eyelids down his cheeks as a Kalakala guy went to retrieve it.

“Why the hell did I do that?”

“I don’t….uh, know,” I said, still squinting toward the end zone. I knew he felt awful. It was exactly how I felt at the end of the Surly game. I just patted him on the back and turned to play defense. It sounds shitty but I was sort of glad to have a kindred spirit who was having just as lousy a tournament as I was. Although I’d have traded it for a 5-0 lead in a heartbeat. “Let’s get the D.”

Even at the time, it felt like a turning point. Soon afterward they started to score. And we got nervous. We flubbed a catch at the front cone that would’ve put us up 6-2. Next thing we know it’s tied 7-7.

My favorite two moments of the game came in the 2nd half. Tied 8-8, Seattle put a curving backhand up the line in front of our tents. One of our best players, a lanky yoga freak (and former club champion with the Santa Barbara Condors) named Gav tracked it down and extended to tip it away just in front of the Seattle receiver. While the disc was in the air, another Sunset guy, a short, stocky handler in a backwards Kansas Jayhawks hat named Katz raced over from the center of the end zone and laid out as well. The three of them, all coming to the disc from different directions had a demolition derby in the air, Katz undercutting the Seattle dude, Gav’s ribs landing on the Seattle guy’s head and the Seattle guy’s knee somehow nailing Katz in the groin. When it was all over they looked like extras in a movie about Omaha Beach, squirming, rolling, limping, and crawling away.

From the center of the end zone, Dom looked at me and pointed to Katz, who was rolling on the ground in pain.

“What happened to him?”

For some reason instead of answering him in English, I decided to play charades and lightly cup then punch an imaginary set of balls.

“What the hell was that?” Dom laughed. “That gives me no information!”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to yell across the field that he got hit in the junk! That was the first thing that popped into my head!”

In the end zone, Dom mimed what I’d done. “I’d have never got ‘hit in the balls’ out of that!”

Katz grunted and crawled to the sideline tent. “I’m fine by the way guys. Thanks for the concern.”

I turned to him. “How’s your (miming cupping and punching testicles)?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“He’s totally ok!” I yelled out to Dom.

There was a rather lengthy discussion about whether the play was dangerous and constituted a foul, but the Seattle dude after his initial irritation at having his head landed on was really spirited and said no foul. Gav had made a spectacular play to get the disc and all contact happened afterward. So all seemed well. Although we’d learn later that Gav had cracked a rib, thus seriously limiting one of our better players – which really didn’t help our cause the rest of the way.

I didn’t find out about my other favorite moment in the game until the party later that night as I chilled with one of our best cutters, a bull of a dude named Adam who at 48 was somehow always open.

“Sometime during that game against Seattle there was a point with like four straight turns,” Adam laughed. “I was dead. The guy guarding me was obviously dead too. We’re both there with our hands tugging at our shorts so I just looked at him and said ‘hey man you wanna just…..pretend for a while?’”

“What like a truce? You don’t run too hard, I don’t run too hard?”

“Yeah,” Adam heaved.

“I’m fine with that.”

So they pretended. Ladies and gentlemen, I present grandmasters ultimate.

Anyway, the soft cap went on with the game tied 11-11. Game to 13. Seattle scored. Then our offense came back and tied it on a beautiful stall nine backhand from Brody to a tall receiver named Doug. Our sideline went berzerk. I sprinted onto the field with high fives at the ready hoping to be called in for the resulting defensive universe point. I was fired up. But all our screaming and hollering had drowned out the fact that back near the throw a stall had been called. Brody swore he got it off but the defender swore he hadn’t. Goal came off the board. If we wanted to tie the game, we’d have to do it again.

Off the reset, Brody managed to get a dump off but three passes later one of our most sure handed guys dropped a wide open pass with nobody around him. Seattle took the gift and scored to go into the top eight and send us into the “ninals” bracket. It was a disappointing result but after such a fantastic game against such a great bunch of dudes, it was really tough to fly off the handle afterwards. All we could do was regroup and play on.

Our next game was against the #16 seed, a team called Team Helm out of Columbus, Ohio. We won a fun, somewhat lighthearted game 15-9. But the very best part of the experience came in the spirit circle after the game when their captain explained the reason they were named Team Helm.

“For those of you that don’t know, we’re named for Paul Helm, our teammate, friend, and…..in a sport filled with good people, one of the best. We um, lost him earlier this year. He battled and battled and battled but the cancer eventually….” he trailed off and choked up a bit. “This game today was competitive but also spirited and fun. A lot of laughs out on the field and even more on the sidelines. And it’s just a beautiful day and…..this was his type of game. He’d have loved this. He’d have loved this.”

Standing there in the circle with my arms around two of his teammates who were nodding and biting their lips trying not to break down, I went to a place that’s so rare to go, to a moment of full and complete clarity – a pure, deeper understanding of my own mortality and just how lucky I was to be standing in that spot with those people. To be there, win or lose, to compete, to smile, to shake hands, to fist bump, to dive, to jump, to run – to still be able to do what we do. I’m sure everyone in the circle felt it. A connection. A shared sense of purpose and community as if for ten or fifteen seconds there was not only a single team comprised of players in different jerseys, but in many ways a single player. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I’m the only one whose very existence, whose very atoms briefly touched another plane just out of our reach, but I doubt it. It was a very moving experience.

When their captain was done with his tribute, Captain Ryan brought us all in together. After every game so far at both regionals and nationals, we’d crunched in tight with the other team and yelled in one voice “Ultimate Forever!” And I occasionally jokingly yelled “Ultimate until entropy completes its inevitable march toward the nothing from which we came!” But this time instead of shouting “Ultimate Forever” to the sky, San Diego and Columbus came together to yell….

“Paul Helm forever!”

I raised my hat to the clear blue sky in tribute. I didn’t know the guy. But I knew the guy. We all know a Paul Helm. Rest in peace, buddy, wherever you are. Thanks for helping me to see and appreciate the bigger picture.

After that, our final game of the day was a 15-10 loss to Raleigh Hootenanny just before I lugged my gear back to the Kia Soul to find the rear passenger’s side tire completely flat. So after sprinting all day I got to lug the spare out of the back, change the damn thing on a sweltering blacktop parking lot, and drive to the Denver Airport – where everyone in line at Avis curiously avoided the dude in the white #95 jersey who smelled like sweat, sunscreen, and more sweat. Like ten people made eye contact as if to ask, “So what’s your deal,” before catching a whiff of my jersey and quickly realizing how little they truly cared.

Anyway, because of the flat tire I got locked out of my suite. On the way to the fields I’d forgotten my key and by the time I got back, everyone was already at the tournament party and thus not there to open the door. So I got to show up at Dry Dock Brewing smelling just as wonderful as I did in line at Avis. I planned on staying about twenty minutes tops, just long enough to use my meal and beer tickets before bumming a key and heading back to shower. That was before I sat down.

The back patio at Dry Dock was moderately populated when I arrived and I immediately spotted Guillermo and some of our great grandmasters guys because you can see our jerseys from the space station. So I hit up the food trucks, got myself an Apricot Blonde and chilled. And of course about ten of us start swapping stories about Poultry Days in 1988 and Mardis Gras in 1999 the Kalakala game earlier in the day and next thing I knew I’d been there for two hours. So Guillermo buys a round of beers. And we finish them and I buy a round of beers. And the party is slowly filling up. I look around and it’s all so damned familiar. Scruffy dudes with long hair and visors and hippie women with dreds and sarongs, slowly tamed by fatherhood and motherhood, work, and family, but still with that familiar ultimate party twinkle in their eyes. The music was loud, the beer was flowing, and the laughter was constant. Though everyone there was over thirty and we may have collectively traded in our pure youthful wildness for something a bit more subdued, it was still an ultimate party. Which meant anything could happen.

To demonstrate my point, Dom, Guillermo, and I were swapping stories with one of our great grandmasters players, this gray-haired dude named Al when a younger woman in a pink tank top came over and tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed at a few empty chairs next to him and asked….

“Are you using these chairs? Ok if we take them?”

Al, being an old guy of course says, “Well that depends. What do we get in return?”

And I swear to you the girl looks him dead in the eye and with the face of a lawyer negotiating property rights goes, “I’ll suck your (nickname for Richard).”

Of course Al, being in his 50’s doesn’t get even remotely flustered. He just chuckles and says, “Go ahead and take them. We’ve got plenty.”

And the girl walked off with the chairs.

After witnessing the exchange, it took me and Dom a second or two to regain our faculties. Finally Dom threw up his hands in exasperation. “Al, what the fuck was that answer?”

“Eh, what was I supposed to say?”

“You say deal, Al!” I shouted, palm to my forehead. “You have yourself a deal! That’s what you say!”

And what made this party different than all the others came via his reply. “Eh, I’ve been married to the same woman for thirty-three years now. My sense of fantasy died a long time ago.”

And Dom, Guillermo, and I banged on the table in solidarity, toasted Al’s marriage and drank well into the night.

The next day brought our final game for 11th place against a team called Sick Hammers out of Texas. And it ended up being a great game – back and forth the whole way. Throughout the first half they were scoring on us easily because well, for some reason we couldn’t figure out that a team named Sick Hammers might ya know….constantly look to throw a bunch of fucking hammers.

“Guys, seriously, they’re not called Sick Backhands or Sick Push Passes,” Black Tide Matt said. “There’s a clue about how to defend them literally right in their name! C’mon!”

My final point came halfway through the second half when I burnt my guy to the end zone, didn’t get the disc and cut in toward the goal line. I was wide the hell open – and the thrower put it almost straight into the grass. I laid out anyway, hitting awkwardly on my ribs and my hip. As I stood up and prepared to play defense, it was like someone jabbed a fire poker into the middle of my back. I went down to a knee.

“Ooooh, shit. Hold up, guys.”

I’d tweaked my back and bruised the living hell out of my ribs, something that made me grimace for going on two weeks. And it was a fitting bookend to the weekend. I swear that out of the twenty or so passes thrown to me in those seven games, I had to lay out for fifteen of them. I started to seriously wonder if somehow I was an optical illusion, appearing like I was always seven yards away from where I actually was. It was the only thing that made sense.

That aside, the weekend was amazing. Frustrating or not, I can’t look back on it with anything but absolute joy. All my years dreaming of playing at nationals and I got to do it. And when Captain Ryan caught a four-yard flick to the corner on universe point to beat Sick Hammers 16-15, suddenly it was all over. Just like that my first nationals was no longer in the future or the present. It was part of the past. It was something I’d done. One bucket list item completed.

We took team pictures, checked out of the hotels, and came back to the fields to watch Surly beat Boulder’s Johnny Walker in the grandmasters final at almost the exact same time Minneapolis Surly COUGARS won the women’s championship on the adjacent field. So that was cool to see. And one field over from that, my old friend Barefoot Ben (who’d had to completely relearn how to throw after shattering his right elbow in 2014) was helping his Washington DC team finish second in the masters division – ensuring that he’d get to play at the World Championships in Winnipeg in 2018. All his hard work and painful rehab had paid off. I couldn’t have been happier for him.

As for me, I wandered around, talked with a couple old friends from Pittsburgh who were playing for various teams around the country, said goodbye to my Endless Sunset teammates and just like that I was on I-25 headed north to Wyoming.

I finished the tournament with one goal – and that was it. We came in a disappointing 11th. And like I imagine happens with just about all Grandmasters players, my mental state fluctuated wildly between, “Ya know, I’m still pretty damn good. I could play this sport another fifteen years, easy,” and “That’s it, I just don’t have it anymore. Maybe it’s time to give this shit up.”

Often those thoughts occurred on consecutive points.

But I can honestly say that now I can hobble away from this sport without any regrets or what ifs. I have plenty of friends who had to give it all up at 28 because of work, kids, or injuries without ever getting to nationals. So I truly am lucky to have lasted this long.

At 40, I now wake up in the morning and my back hurts no matter what I did the day before. My ankles, my right elbow, and my neck pop like firecrackers at random times throughout the day. Where once I could easily touch the top of the square on a basketball backboard, I can now barely scrape the underside of the rim. After all this time, I can honestly envision a future not so far away where I put my cleats away for good. And I’m ok with it. I’ve done enough. Soon it’ll be time for someone else to take my spot in this wonderful game.

But who am I kidding. In 2027 when I get an email from Black Tide Matt that says, “Cramer, we need a guy for our Great Grandmasters team. Are you 50 yet?”

I’ll sigh, smile, and answer, “Yeah. Yeah I am. See you at regionals.”

Photo by Dominic Scarfe

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this final chapter, please consider purchasing Universe Point by Skyd Press, available now on Amazon. And a special thanks to everyone who has bought the book, enjoyed it, and reached out. As any writer or artist will tell you, it means more than you know to realize that all the work (in this case six years) you put into a project has been worth it. And if you think a friend or fellow ultimate player would enjoy it, please let them know! If we’re being honest here, that’s 99% of our marketing campaign. So far it’s been successful beyond my wildest dreams so a heartfelt thank you to anyone who has contributed to the success of the book by recommending it to others.

Thanks and see you on the fields – uh, if my body holds up. – Cramer

Universe Point is available now on Amazon!

The post Universe Point After Afterword: Part 2 appeared first on Skyd Magazine.

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backroomblogs · 7 years

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Kyrie Irving is now a Boston Celtic - Matt

It seems like this whole transaction happened in a matter of minutes. The move was rumored, twitter erupted for only a couple of hours with multiple potential deals tweeted out by both credible and many non-credible users, and then it happened. Kyrie Irving was traded to the Boston Celtics in return for Isaiah Thomas, Jae Crowder, Ante Zizic, and the 2018 Brooklyn Nets pick (Unprotected). I have mixed emotions about what the Celtics gave up in this move, but overall I definitely think it was the right move.

The primary part of this trade that I am down, as I’m sure is relatable to many others, is seeing IT go. Isaiah Thomas was so good for the city of Boston and the Celtics organization, surely more than he will be given credit for. Not only was he our best scorer in his two full years with the team (25.5 PPG), an ignitor for our offense, a better passer than given credit for, as well as living to the nickname ‘King of the Fourth’; He embodied what it means to be a Boston athlete. He didn’t take harshly to the bright lights, obnoxious fans, media scrutiny and everything else that makes it difficult for some athletes to play here. Instead, he embraced it all. Being the 60th pick in his draft and being one of the smallest players in the entire league he was used to playing with a chip on his shoulder. Every time he took the court for the Celtics, he went out and played with such intensity that it was easy to single him out as one of the leaders of the club. He took it to the basket as if he was 8 inches taller than he was and hand problem finishing it off. At any given time, he could go on a scoring burst where he would shoot lights out, stopping on a dime and shooting it with such confidence that it definitely resonated with his teammates. He would dive for loose balls, get hacked and hammered any time he had the ball, and a lot of the time draw the opposing teams best defender. Most of all, he was a man of confidence on and off the court, that cared about the fans and the city of Boston. He understood what the importance of hoisting banners is in this city and he showed consistently that he was driven on helping us raise another one. Everything Isaiah did I am infinitely grateful for as a fan, and the Cavaliers are beyond lucky to have a guy like him on their roster.

Zizic could possibly develop into a fine rebounder in the league, and maybe even a decent all around big, but I don’t think his ceiling was all that high. So really, other than the fact that losing him decreases our big depth (the Celtics most glaring issue going into next year) I’m not in any sort of dismay seeing him go. Crowder, on the other hand was a solid player, and one offer better defenders. A solid addition for the Cavs, but not somebody that I am too sad to see go either. He is young, but so aren’t the other two young men (Jaylen Brown and Jayson Tatum) that play his position, as well as the 2 and 4, but Both are very capable of playing the 3. I see more promise in the both of them than I do in Crowder, and obviously, so didn’t Danny Ainge, who seems like he had been willing to deal him for a while now. Not only do we have young depth that can help out at that position, we also grabbed another wing to fully takeover the starting SF role, Gordon Hayward. That was the icing on the cake as far as demonstrating that Jae Crowder’s days were numbered in Boston. What he did was definitely appreciated, but he simply wasn’t someone who the Celtics should have been hesitant to pass on, so I like that move. The 2018 Brooklyn pick may even be more valuable to the Cavs than IT in the long run, depending how this year as well as next summer goes. Brooklyn should definitely be one of the teams at the pit of the NBA next year which is something that our conference foes will look forward to this year. However, while next years draft seems to be stocked with some talent, I really don’t think that it will match this years high level aptitude of this years crop of players. The Celtics have a lot to work with in terms of draft picks, so shipping off what is most likely the best of your remaining picks to help piece together wealth of other great young talent and a potential championship core, seems like it is most certainly the right move to me.

What we got in return for this heap of players and a probable top 5 pick next year, is Kyrie Irving. A 25 year old 4x all star, former Rookie of the year, and 2016 NBA Champion. He is a bonafide superstar already, a proven offensive juggernaut. Again he is only 25 years old. With the addition of Kyrie after we already landed Gordon Hayward, the Celtics have precisely what the consistently lacked last year; multiple people that are creating their own shot. Irving is honestly probably better than any other person in this league at that already. He had his best scoring year yet last year in his early career (25.2), and he put up these numbers while playing alongside Lebron James. Now I am fully aware that on the court, there is literally almost no better person to play with than Lebron James, who is excellent at creating buckets forms teammates. However, Lebron was absolutely more of the point guard for that team, in terms of controlling tempo and reading the floor. Here in Boston, he will have many more chances to be that guy, and expand his game beyond being just a tenacious scorer. Although he is not a bad passer by any means, actually to the contrary he is very efficient in that part of his game, being able to read the floor at the start of almost every possession will help him reach his true potential as a passer and floor general. Being the offensive’s best option for putting the ball in the basket, while also being the teams true point guard I feel will really benefit him because it isn’t like he has to change his game, but he will almost automatically enhance it. He has made a name for himself as the league’s premier scoring point guard, and he is still improving in that facet. His time in Boston will only make him better in all parts of his game, most importantly like the ones he isn’t nearly as proficient in, and I am speaking almost entirely about his defensive play. Honestly, I feel like most of his struggles at that end of the court are a matter of effort. Hopefully his role as the leader of this team will make him want to take on what any true leader should, being a force at both ends of the court. Due to the size difference between the two, he is already an upgrade from IT, who struggled mightily at that end of the court when being forced to go against the leagues much bigger and talented athletes. Kyrie isn’t a liability at that end of court when he chooses to actually defend his opposition, so I’m not too worried about that although it could be a concern. Nonetheless, he is a supreme talent, and I am very excited to watch him lead this team come the fall. Trading away multiple key members of your roster is always risky, but when the return is pure talent, that has proven that they have what it takes come playoff time, and aren’t afraid to close games out for their teams, which he has already done on the biggest stage, it is much easier to have confidence in the move.

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