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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 1 month

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because this has been on my mind wrapping up the epilogue, here is a little story about how writing fanfiction for very silly sometimes awesome sometimes genuinely terrible SYFY show the magicians changed my life for real.

i started writing help, i’m alive in may 2020. as i have stated many times on this blog, the overarching goal from which this story sprung was my passionate desire to give quentin coldwater each and every last thing he deserved: i wanted to follow him all the way through a downward spiral, and then i wanted to figure out what it would take for him to climb out of the darkness and make it to somewhere he actually wanted to be. the first part of that, the part that became damage control, was some of the easiest writing i’ve ever done, even accounting for the hours spent google mapping the most depressing road trip of all time. the second part was harder, and not just because it wound up being more than four times as long (lmao). it was thornier; there were more threads to weave through; and, frankly, quentin was so fucked up that it took a lot of effort even to outline what it was he needed in order to change. i had written one story already in which the pivot happened entirely internally, an act of self-forgiveness that proved transformational, and i knew that this time i needed to give him more: actual wants, actual actions, an actual life, with actual ties not just to the people already in his circle but to the world beyond. once i had that outline, the first four chapters flowed pretty easily, anchored by the goal of hitting the story’s first big win, which is when quentin finds a way to fix something for the first time since his magic broke; chapter five was where i got stuck.

by that point, it was fall. i had quit my teaching job mid-pandemic with some modest savings, no back-up plan, and a growing realization that after five years in the classroom, teaching was no longer something i could see myself returning to; working obsessively on this story was, among other things, a great way to quiet the constant humming freak-out of what the fuck i was going to do with my life. in october doing some jump squats after sitting in bed all day i threw my back out so badly i couldn’t walk to the bathroom unassisted and paid a hundred dollars to talk to a telehealth doctor for fifteen minutes for some muscle relaxants. the pain sucked, but so did not knowing whether i was going to be better by election day — i’d signed up to be a poll worker, and i really could have used the money.

i’d started dipping my toe in some local volunteer stuff when i quit, but it was during this time that i signed up for the first time for a particular project i was really excited about joining. i did the zoom training with my camera off because my back still hurt too much to sit up; the follow-up involved scanning and emailing some personal documents and signed agreements. i didn’t do it the next day because, whatever, my back fucking hurt; i didn’t do it the day after that because…? and then, well — then i started feeling like i had missed my chance, and it was too late now.

now, here’s the thing: i say feeling like because by this point i had learned enough about the world that i knew — like, knew — that, objectively, taking a few days to send an email (during a pandemic, while i was having previously established health issues) is not considered by most people to be an unforgivable crime. i knew that i should still send the email. and i also had learned enough about myself that i could actually recognize the thing happening in my brain as an example of the kind of overly self-protective mechanisms in which i have many years of practice; i knew by then that i was an absolute expert at finding reasons to not do things that felt like they were based in truth but were really just cleverly disguised manifestations of fear, because if you do things then bad things might happen, but if you don’t do things then nothing bad happens, except that you ruin your own life. i knew all of this!! i could diagnose and analyze exactly how i was once again perpetuating the same anxiety-driven patterns that had governed so much of my life. i was conscious of the workings of my own unconscious. but i still couldn’t bring myself to send the fucking email. instead i was spending 16 hours a day alternately lying in bed and gingerly pacing in my apartment to regain mobility, feeling like shit about the fact that i wasn’t sending the email and also trying fruitlessly to unpack whatever was going on in chapter five.

the election came five days into this mess, and i did feel well enough to go work the polls. this was a great way to experience election 2020, by the way; i had to leave my apartment at like 3:30 in the morning and by the time the returns started coming in i was too delirious to have any emotions about them whatsoever. it was also, not to be a shill for electoral politics, genuinely kind of inspiring: all these people lining up to Do Democracy, the deployment of translators to assist across languages, the columbia undergrad from the neighborhood we were in i was paired with at the info desk who told me he wanted to go into politics and said very seriously, upon hearing i had a friend in the grad school there, “you should tell them to join the union.” plus, you know, the high of doing something, surrounded by other human beings, at a time when that sort of thing had been in short order for the work-from-home crowd for months, and i personally had recently been confined to my bed for several days.

leaving the site that night, entering my twentieth consecutive hour awake, i felt this weird mix of spiritually rejuvenated and psychologically worse. i had just lived through this physical proof of how doing things is both not that scary and kind of awesome, i had spent a day living in alignment with the kind of person i wanted to be, i felt a fresh rush of love for my city and its people — and i still couldn’t imagine sending the fucking email! it was like i was looking at the thing i wanted most through a pane of glass, and the glass was actually really easy to break, so the only thing stopping me was that i was too much of a baby to do it.

and the thought that i had then, i fucking swear, was: i would be such a fucking hypocrite if i wrote quentin coldwater into a happy ending i’m too cowardly to give myself.

which is, first of all: SOOOOOOOO corny, like omg. unbelievably cringe. embarrassing as hell. but it was also my truth at that moment in time. i had no faith in my own ability to change, but i had spent five months and counting thinking about almost nothing else except the story i was writing in which quentin also has no faith in his ability to change but is brave enough to do it anyway, and i really felt like — i could not live with myself putting these ideas out into the world and refusing to integrate them into my own life. i could not write this promise that something better was possible for quentin if i wasn’t even going to try to make it possible for me. i could, apparently, live forever with my constant self-sabotage, but i couldn’t live with myself making this story a lie (this story being, again, fanfiction for a TV show that was, at its best, so great, and also, at its worst, so, SO stupid).

and like… that worked. i emailed the documents the next day; i attended my first monthly zoom meeting that weekend, during which the election was officially called, which felt like a good omen. i summoned the idea that had presented itself to me that night — don’t be a hypocrite! do what you would want quentin to do! — again a while later when my email got lost in the shuffle and i had to send a check-in following up, and again every other time something came up where my fear had to war it out with my desire. (or, well, most other times — it's a work in progress, and yes, i do still find myself calling upon this logic to this day.)

my life now looks more like the happy ending i wrote quentin into than it did almost four years ago, when i started this story, or even three years ago, when i finished it. it looks more like that future than i ever imagined my life could look when i was writing it, and not just because, as i have mentioned before, a few weeks after my election night revelation, i did do as quentin did and befriend a community-minded extrovert who invited me to join a book club. even the fact that the final part of the epilogue has taken me so much longer than expected is a funny case of life imitating art, because while i have had work and illness and travel and general life stress, i have also had many days in the past few months where i was not very productive because i was simply too busy doing something fun — the kind of never-quite-solved balancing act quentin was set to deal with in the epilogue back when i first started kicking it around, well over two years ago at this point, but which was not really applicable to my own life until basically now. and it sounds even to my own ears so, so, so insane to say this, but it’s true: i can trace every aspect of that shift to the fact that i wrote this story, and that writing it fundamentally changed something inside me for the better. (shout-out to the people in the comments who noted that the story was, in a meta sense, my own version of quentin’s coffee maker; i knew you were right, but i don’t think i knew how right until this recent bout of reflection.)

i don't really know that there's a take-away here, because "quit your job and write four hundred thousand words about a weird TV show with a niche audience" is not exactly universally applicable advice. but if i were to try to find one, i think it would be something like: i felt really crazy and kind of embarrassed the entire time i was writing this story, not because i was writing fanfiction, or because it was incredibly horny and wildly self-indulgent, but because it mattered to me so, so deeply. it was one thing to have a fun goofy hobby, even a fun goofy hobby i took semi-seriously and poured a lot of time and effort into, but it was another to actually, like, care, and to care a lot, which i did. but if i hadn't accepted that this story mattered to me, i don't think it could have been as personally transformational as it wound up becoming. the heart wants what it wants, and you're only going to find out what that is if you're willing to listen to whatever rhythm it beats.

i solved chapter five on the way home from the poll site, by the way. i knew there needed to be some problem with quentin’s first semi-successful attempt to mend the coffee maker, but i couldn’t figure out how it tied in thematically with where he was in his life. on the bus it hit me: quentin and the coffee maker were both trying to remain unbreakable. an appealing idea if you’ve been broken, but one more conducive to stagnancy than to growth; you can stay there for a while, but eventually you need to let yourself want more.

#writing tag #the magicians #isabel 2k24

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

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Consumerism won't defeat Georgia's Jim Crow

In the 1970s, progressives discovered a shortcut to political change: the boycott. Boycotts had been around for a long time, to be sure, but with industries in relatively weak states, with lots of competitors, the threat of lost business could spur fast action.

Politics were slow and unreliable. Lawsuits were expensive, slow and unreliable. Boycotts were fast, and involved direct, tangible steps that every person could take: redirect your spending from one company to another, make the change.

But as progressive movements ceded the political realm, reactionaries conquered it. Reagan and his successors (including pro-business Dems) enacted laws and policies that encouraged monopolies and weakened labor unions.

40 years later, boycotts are dead.

Hate excessive packaging?

Good news: the grocery aisle has minimal packaging alternatives you can vote your dollars on.

Bad news: these "alternatives" come from the same companies as the high-packaging products you're "voting against."

Boycotts only work when there's competition. As this Simpsons screenshot demonstrates - Duff Lite, Duff Dry and Duff all come from the same pipe.

Likewise: Fox Studios, who made the Simpsons, are now part of Disney.

Don't like Fox? Vote with your dollars on Disney!

Right-wing politics have a problem. If your fundamental belief is that a small number of people should have more (money, power, influence) than everyone else, then by definition, your politics only benefit a minority, and you win elections with majorities.

The right has three tactics to overcome this.

I. It relies on antimajoritarian institutions, like the Electoral College and the Senate. That's why the Dems should *absolutely* kill the filibuster, which protects Senate power, which is minority power, which is plute power.

II. It suppresses the votes and power of working people, through gerrymandering, poll taxes, voter-roll purges and anti-union rules that shatter the collective power of otherwise atomized and powerless workers.

III. It convinces turkeys to vote for Christmas. Performative culture-war bullshit, white nationalism, transphobic panics, etc - none of these are intrinsic to the right-wing project, but they bring a lot of scared bigots out to vote for dead-eyed corporate rule.

The new Jim Crow law just adopted in Georgia is a perfect example of how these three tactics deliver power to corporate power. It's a voter suppression law, passed by a gerrymandered statehouse that represents a minority of Georgians, which exploits white nationalism.

Remember, the reason corporate America is worried about Georgia is the Black, working-class-led political machine that threatens to enact majority rule in a place whose state and national leaders are essential to inequality-boosting, plute-enriching, worker-destroying rule.

The reason all these red states introduced nearly identical voter-suppression bills is that they all get their laws from the same place: ALEC, a business-backed thinktank that writes and pushes "model legislation" in state- and local governments.

https://www.salon.com/2021/03/27/conservative-groups-are-writing-gop-voter-suppression-bills---and-spending-millions-to-pass-them/

ALEC finds its wins in GOP legislatures, but it gets its funding from a broad cross-section of corporate America, including companies that publicly brief for racial and gender justice.

https://www.commoncause.org/democracy-wire/who-still-funds-alec/

Now, ALEC has faced something of an exodus, losing members like AT&T and Google, but that doesn't mean that they've divested from ALEC policies.

The politicians who carry water for ALEC are 100% dependent on campaign contributions from orgs like the Chamber of Commerce.

These politicians brief for policies that hurt the majority of Americans, and can only get elected through voter suppression, gerrymandering and appeals to bigotry. There's no other way to win electoral majorities while espousing antimajoritarian policies.

This doesn't mean that corporate execs and employees aren't horrified by Georgia's New Jim Crow law - it just means that they can't do anything about it. Companies that halt donations to the GA GOP will *still* financially support them, through their industry associations.

It's a perfect macrocosm of the consumer's dilemma: if you rely on money, rather than politics, to accomplish political change, you will never make a change that reduces the power of money in politics. It's impossible to spend your way out of monopoly capitalism.

At best, it's merely useless. At worst, it's a net negative, sucking up the hours you could spend on political change with comparison shopping. As Zephyr Teachout points out in BREAK 'EM UP, what you do matters more than what you spend.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/29/break-em-up/#break-em-up

If you're organizing to support union drives, don't waste time shopping to "buy local" for posterboard and markers - they're all manufactured by anti-union monopolists, no matter who sells them. Get whatever's easiest and then go fight the companies in the *political* realm.

Stop conceiving of yourself as an ambulatory wallet, whose only power comes from where and how you spend - if you only vote your dollars, you'll always lose, because the rich have more dollars than you and so they get more votes.

Keep your eyes on the prize: smashing corporate power. Far more exciting than the MLB boycott of Georgia is the Republican response: GOP hardliners want to take away baseball's antitrust exemption.

https://twitter.com/matthewstoller/status/1378103553437360131

If this happens, it will be the absolute best possible outcome - because it represents the shattering of the coalition that makes antimajoritarian politics possible. If the right starts siding with bigots and AGAINST companies, they'll cut their own supply lines.

The voter suppression, gerrymandering and bigotry that the GOP relies on is expensive. It can't exist without corporate power. The reason it exists in the first place is corporate power.

Reinvigorating antitrust as an act of performative culture-war bullshit is the political equivalent of pointing a gun at your own dick to own the libs and then blowing your actual dick off.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/27/literal-gunhumping/#youll-shoot-your-eye-out

These are the fracture lines we need to exploit. They've been proliferating for years. The modern antitrust revival comes out of these fracture lines.

It's an open secret that much of the money and energy for anti-Big Tech trustbusting comes from the cable industry.

Comcast and AT&T hate Google and Facebook, but not for the same reason you or I do. In their view, the billions Googbook make from surveillance, rent-extraction and manipulation have been misapproriated from the telecoms industry.

They have made the catastrophic blunder of betting that if they awaken the slumbering antitrust giant to smash Big Tech, that it will then go back to sleep - and that it *certainly won't turn on *them*.

This is such galaxy-brain idiocy. Like the public will watch a new army of trustbusters arise to rip apart Googbook and then say, "You know what? I just *fucking love Comcast*, so whatever you do, don't give them the same treatment."

A bet that after the dust settles, the hard-fighting lawyers, activists, politicans and workers who smashed corporate power in Big Tech will realize that they were only worried about "surveillance capitalism" but were totally cool with all the other kinds of capitalism.

Consumer power is a dead letter. Political power is a live wire. Boycotts are a distraction, even - especially - when giant corporations engage in them.

But the other stuff - strikes, trustbusting, ending financial secrecy - that's where change comes from.

The problem with the world isn't where you shop.

You're not an ambulatory wallet and don't let anyone convince you that you are.

#pluralistic

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electronicgrowth · 3 years

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Can’t Get Enough- Prologue

I’ve had probably about half of this fic just sitting on my computer for over a month now. Maybe if I start posting it, I’ll find the inspiration to finish this. So, here’s a Lee Bodecker x OFC fic. I say OFC because I feel weird not having it in there plus I think it’s weird to make characters of parents and still make it a reader insert (I don’t know your parents!), but feel free to pretend that it’s you, or imagine yourself as Billie. It will have smut, mentions of violence, time period typical sexism.

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other?

Lee Bodecker’s life fell apart the day his sister died. His thoughts were plagued by everything he should have done different. He should never have let Sandy marry Carl. He should have forced Sandy to divorce the miserable man. He should have killed Carl himself. But he didn’t do any of those things. And now Lee was left with no family and a severely bruised ego.

The kid— Arvin Russell— shot Lee, he got him in the shoulder. It wasn’t enough to really hurt Lee, but the fall knocked him out and the kid got away. The optics were good for Lee. He was shot and injured trying to protect the town. It would probably help him with the election. And without Sandy, he was free to arrest the men involved in pimping out local girls. It would look good to shut down such a widespread underground business. But never had Lee been so alone. It turned him more vicious. He was constantly angry. Shouting at deputies and his secretary. Drinking himself half blind almost every night.

But tonight was not one of those nights. Just as Lee was about to leave the station, he got a call about a man dead from a car wreck just on the border of Knockemstiff and Meade. Lee went with two of his deputies to the scene. The man had already been taken away by the coroner. The car had rolled multiple times, it didn’t look like another car was involved in the wreck. The deputies who were first called to the scene said that they instantly knew the man. You can’t live in such a small town and not know most folks. It was Mr. John Dechswaan. And he left behind a large farm and a large family.

The Dechswaan family was one plagued by tragedy. Joseph and Wilma—John’s parents— moved down from Columbus. Both were born in the Netherlands and immigrated as young children. After they married they desired to settle down and raise a family in a more rural area. Joseph worked for the state building highways. Wilma stayed home. Wilma was pregnant no less than 8 times. She only gave birth to five babies. And only two of those made it past the age of two. Everyone in town pitied her plight. How awful that must be for her.

Two boys, Ray and John. Ray moved away after high school. Met a nice girl in California and stayed there. John fought in World War II. When he came home he met Joy. For a while it seemed the family’s luck had changed. Joy gave birth to six children with no issue.

The eldest son was young Joseph, for his grandfather. He’d married a local girl named Marianne. They had two boys of their own and she was pregnant again.

The next eldest child, Thomas, married a nice girl from a few towns over named Paulette. Thomas would have preferred to stay closer to Paulette’s family, but he worked for John at the family’s farm. And now Joseph would need all the help he could get from his younger brother.

The oldest daughter was named for her great-grandmother, Wilhelmina, but she went by Billie. Billie made no secret of her disdain for Knockemstiff. And she had always planned to move away as soon as she could. She worked as a librarian in New York. But the Dechswaan family curse reared its ugly head. She met a guy who she thought was a good man, but he wasn’t. It took Larry next to no time to start hurting Billie. Rumors touched Billie like no other member of the family. Many said that Billie had left Knockemstiff because she got herself knocked up. Her family didn’t speak of her much after she left, which only added to the intrigue.

Sylvia came next. She was too beautiful and too gullible for her own good. She fell for the quarterback and he was quick to promise her everything she wanted. They married quickly when Sylvia was nineteen, much to her parents pleasure. Tim, the husband, joined the county police department. Just a five months after marriage Sylvia had her first baby. A girl named, Rose. She was as beautiful as her mama. But everyone knew that Rose wasn’t a baby conceived in holy matrimony. Everyone whispered about Sylvia as she walked by. But she bore it. She finally grew up enough to realize that you can’t always get what you want.

Wesley was the youngest boy at just seventeen. He was the high school’s star quarterback. He was rambunctious and headstrong. He never thought things through. But he didn’t have to. He was a young man after all, with his whole future ahead of him. Who cared if he stepped on a few girls on his way to the top?

Then there was Clara, fifteen, nearly a young woman, but she could barely speak. Doctor said it was because she was just shy. But when she worked up the courage to speak she stuttered and stumbled over her words. Her father bitterly thought about how he would be stuck with her forever.

Yes, Sheriff Bodecker knew all about the Dechswaan family. He had always paid close attention to Billie. She was beautiful. Long dark blonde hair that she bleached bright blonde—trying to look just like Marilyn Monroe but she could never get it quite light enough—as soon as she could and bright blue eyes. She’d been a cheerleader for the football team her senior year. Lee had never thought about those cheerleading uniforms until Billie put one on. It was a good thing she was 18 at the time or else Lee would have been obliged to feel guilty. But he never looked at her until she was legal, and he’ll maintain that until the day he dies. And once he started thinking about her, he couldn’t stop even after she took the uniform off for good. She was a spitfire. She stayed out late, drank with boys in cars, and just generally did whatever she wanted. But she kept good grades, never did anything beyond kissing a boy, and never missed a church service, so no one could say much. Lee was bewitched by her. And the problem was that she knew it.

#lee bodecker #lee bodecker x female reader #lee bodecker x y/n #lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker x ofc #the devil all the time #tdatt

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deja-you · 4 years

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foreign affairs | part three | d.c.

m. de lafayette x reader

summary: In 2020, Representative Y/n L/n is up for reelection. Lafayette, Y/n’s former best friend and current French socialite and playboy, decides this is the time to walk back into her life.

word count: 5.3k

author’s note: this is the last chapter of this series! it’s been so much fun writing this for you guys, hope you’ve enjoyed it. fair warning, this chapter/ending is pretty melancholic.

trailer | previous

Although his grandmother had wanted him to be, Lafayette wasn’t Catholic.

Like any other Parisian, he might attend a special Christmas or Easter service, but he wouldn’t call himself a Catholic. His grandmother had always wanted him to be more devout in his faith. Since his father had died when he was young and his mother was a young woman just starting off her political career, his grandmother raised him for the most part.

She was an organist and would play for different churches every weekend, never finding a church she liked well enough to stay very long. His grandmother had even taught Lafayette to play a few songs. At one point, she had bought Lafayette a crucifix on a chain to keep with him.

It wasn’t one of those cool, sleek chains you would see people wearing proudly. It was a silver chain with dark beads on it, something you might see an old lady wearing. A silver chain with a tiny Jesus on a tiny cross. He had lost it almost immediately.

Lafayette had always had a habit of misplacing items. In high school, he had conveniently lost his homework on multiple occasions. He was always losing just one half of a pair of socks. Could you imagine how stupid he looked walking around with one black sock and one white sock on? He couldn’t even remember how many times he had woken up hungover with no idea of where his wallet or keys were.

The point is, Lafayette was a grown man who was used to losing things. Yet, no matter how many items he lost, he still wasn’t prepared to lose Y/n.

And yes, he knew it was all his fault. Everything seemed to be his fault these days. Lafayette wasn’t even denying that he had made another huge mistake. What kind of idiot sleeps with the secretary of the girl he was in love with? Seriously, why did I write such an idiot?

It had been eight years since Paris. After all this time, Lafayette was just as proficient at destroying his relationship with Y/n as he had been when they were younger. You would think that he would learn from his mistakes, or Y/n would have been able to forgive him, but no. Maybe they were young and stupid then, but they were still very much young and very much stupid.

Lafayette had made a stupid decision. If it hadn’t been clear to him the night before, it was blatantly apparent to him the next morning while Sybil was getting dressed.

“Last night was a mistake.” He cringed at his words as soon as he said them. Last time he had woken up next to a girl and told her it was a mistake, it didn’t go so well.

“Not in a bad way, I mean,” Lafayette quickly amended. “I am sorry, was that rude to say?”

Sybil gave him a look that he couldn’t quite read. “No, it’s alright. I agree with you.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “it was unprofessional, and by the looks of it, it didn’t help you get whoever she is off your mind.”

Lafayette rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking at the bed or the floor or the window or at anyone but her. “You are right. I just... Anyway, this can’t happen again.”

“No, never. It was a bad idea to begin with,” Sybil muttered.

There was a silence that fell between them, neither of them knowing what to say until Lafayette awkwardly said, “I’ll see you around, then.”

“Right, right. Are you going to Congresswoman L/n’s election night party?” It was more of a way to fill the silence than actual curiosity.

At the reminder of Y/n, Lafayette had to stop him self from outwardly groaning, but he couldn’t help but grimace. If things with her hadn’t been messed up before, they definitely would be now.

“I should attend that, shouldn’t I? I’m just not sure Y/n will want me there.”

“You are a major donor,” Sybil pointed out. “It would make sense. If you and the Congresswoman don’t get along, why do you come around the office so often and make contributions?”

He didn’t even know how to respond to that, and his silence was telling. Suddenly everything clicked for Sybil. The frequent visits to Congresswoman L/n’s office. The disappointment on his face when she had told him Y/n specifically didn’t want to talk to him. The woman Sybil had asked him about last night. The way he called her by her first name.

“Oh no. The woman you’re in love with is Congresswoman L/n, isn’t it?” Sybil pieced it together.

Lafayette’s mouth hung open silently, his eyes told her she was correct.

“I never would have kissed you if I had known. I never would have done a lot of things with you if I had known. My boss? Please tell me I’m wrong about this.”

“You’re not.”

She groaned. “And it was so obvious, wasn’t it?”

“It’s obvious?”

“Of course! How did I not realize until now? I don’t want to get in the middle of anything, I just didn’t know.”

“You’re not getting in the middle of anything.” Lafayette shook his head. “I ruined any chance I had with Y/n long before last night. I really think she wants me out of her life this time. I should get on the next plane back to France, shouldn’t I?”

“Are you asking me, your one night stand, for advice?” Sybil said. “Not going to lie, this is a first for me. You’re going to miss the election night party if you leave.”

“Does it matter if I go to this event? Y/n doesn’t want to be with me, showing up to a party isn’t going to change that.”

“Look,” Sybil said firmly, “if you really love her, does it really matter if she wants to be with you or not? If you love her, you should want what’s best for her and her career, even if that means she still doesn’t want to be with you.”

He bit his cheek and thought her words over. “I get that, it’s just...”

“It’s your decision. Regardless of whatever happened between the two of you, she could use your support at the election party. Think about it, okay?”

John Adams was going to win the race, he had been ahead in the polls for weeks now. Thomas Jefferson had run an admirable campaign, well, as admirable as a campaign could be that outwardly trashed congress members in the media. Y/n never took his insults personally, even though she knew Jefferson wanted her to.

Tonight she wasn’t going to let thoughts of Jefferson get her down, even though the news anchors on the television would continuously bring him up. Tonight was going to be a big win for the Democratic party. Jefferson was trailing Adams in electoral votes, and there were only a few states left to be accounted for.

Y/n has spent most of the night talking with voters and showing off some of her bartending skills at the venue they had rented out for the election party. She was having a lively conversation with a single-mom when Lafayette walked in the door. Suddenly, it was like she had tunnel vision. Everyone else was dark and blurry, but everything about Lafayette seemed to be vibrant and in focus.

Since the last time she had seen him, Y/n had been doing her best not to waste her time thinking about him. Not that it was an easy task to do, Lafayette had a way of being memorable. Still, Y/n had bigger things to focus on than an old flame.

Now election night had finally rolled around. No politician was bothering Y/n because they were too focused on the presidential election or their own reelections. And at this time at night, the polls in Y/n’s district had closed. There was no more campaigning she could do at this moment, so she had nothing to distract her from her former best friend who was staring at her from the other side of the room.

Saying a brief apology to the woman she was talking to, Y/n began weaving her way through the crowd until she was standing a foot a way from Lafayette. Her red lips formed a cordial smile, and to any onlooker, it looked like a kind greeting between two acquaintances.

“I didn’t think you would show up,” Y/n said cooly.

He bit the inside of his cheek and tilted his head to the said ever so slightly. “I almost didn’t. I know things have been awkward between us lately, but I wanted to show my support for your success. No matter what happens between us, I’m always going to have your back Y/n.”

Her mouth parted slightly, a little surprised and touched by his response. When she didn’t respond, Lafayette quickly added on, “but I can always leave if you don’t want me here.”

“No, no.” She closed her mouth and shook her head. “No, stay. I want you to stay.”

A small smile began making its way across Lafayette’s features. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Nathan had appeared at Y/n’s shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Nathan said, adjusting his glasses. “Good to see you could make it, Monsieur de Lafayette. You think I could borrow the Congresswoman for a moment?” He turned to face Y/n. “They’re about to call your election.”

“Of course, I’ll see you around, Lafayette.” She gave him another smile before Nathan ushered her to the front of the room where a local newscaster was announcing the results for her district.

The room went quiet and the volume on the tv was turned up. The anchor smiled at the camera and announced, “...and it looks like Representative Y/n L/n has won her reelection campaign by a large margin. Horatio Gates trailed the congresswoman by...”

Y/n wouldn’t know how much she had beaten Horatio Gates by until the next moment. Everything after the anchor announced she had won reelection went unheard. An upbeat victory song had begun playing somewhere in the room, yelling and cheering warmed Y/n from her toes up to her head. Her mouth hung open for the longest time, and before she knew it, she was pulling the nearest person, Nathan, into a tight hug.

At some point, reporters had swarmed the venue and Y/n began giving out answers to all the questions they threw at her. There were a lot of congratulations and thank yous going around, and Y/n nearly lost herself in all the wonderful chaos. There was more wonderful chaos when John Adams was announced the next president of the United States later that evening, but Y/n hadn’t even been given enough time to soak in her own victory.

Don't follow men out to the street at 3 a.m.

The election party officially ended at midnight, but that didn't stop people from staying for a few more hours. At 3 a.m. there were maybe five people left at the party. Now that most people were gone Lafayette decided he would approach Y/n one last time.

“Hey, I just wanted to make sure I congratulated you on your win again before I head back to France,” he said.

Y/n blinked. “You’re going home?”

“Early tomorrow morning.”

Y/n’s mouth hung open slightly, but she didn't say anything. Lafayette gave her a thin smile, a polite nod, and then headed out the door.

He had already exited the venue when Y/n processed what had happened. Not heeding my earlier warning, she followed Lafayette out onto the street at 3:00 a.m.

“So that's it, then, is it?” She called after him. “That’s the end?”

He turned around and raised an eyebrow. “The end of what?”

“The end of us. You're just going to leave?”

“Us? What do you want me to say, Y/n? That I regret what I did? That I'm sorry? Because I've already tried that.” He sounded exhausted. “You are just tormenting me now. Do you know how much this is hurting me?”

“You?” Y/n couldn't believe he was acting like the victim. “This is all on you. I can't count how many times you’ve hurt me

“What, you think I don't know that I messed up? You think I don’t regret the decisions I made every day?” Lafayette ran a hand through his hair. “Chèrie, I've used every kind of soap I have, and I still don't feel clean.”

The raw honesty in his words struck both of him deeply. A heavy silence settled between them. Eventually Lafayette reached into his pocket and pulled out two items. He desperately thrusted the objects into her open palm.

“I've been holding on to those for years. I don't want to keep them any longer.”

Y/n looked at the items he had given her. One was an old, worn ticket from a concert. The other item was a necklace. The one she had worn on their one shared night together. Y/n thought she had lost it and never expected to see it again.

“I dated lots of women when I was younger,” he admitted. “It never ended well. I've never been good at being sincere. Every relationship I've been in I ruined. You want to know why we never dated? Because I loved you. To the moon and back.”

“To the moon and back?” She repeated.

He nodded. “I loved you since I've known you. I couldn't let you be another girl I ruin things with. I guess everyone knew we were in love with each other except for us. Even Molly figured it out. That's why we broke up.

“Why didn't we ever tell each other?”

“We were just kids,” he suggested. “We spent all our time watching lovers in rom-coms tell each other what we were too afraid to tell ourselves.”

Y/n stared at the items she held in her hand. She let the ticket and the necklace fall from her hand onto the dark street below.

“This doesn't change anything.” She shook her head. “You walk in dreams. Dreams of what once was, what could have been, and what never will be. You hold onto the tangible things a ticket stub from our first concert, the necklace I lost years ago. You hold onto these objects because they make your dreams feel a little more real. Something you can touch or see, but in the end? It's all in your head.”

“What are you saying, Y/n?”

“Lafayette, I don’t doubt for a second that you loved me. Maybe you still love me. It’s just not enough to make up for all the ways we’ve hurt each other. I’m tired of being hurt, okay?” Y/n tugged at the sleeves of her coat, trying to find the words to tell him what needed to be said. “I’m finally happy and successful. I’m changing the world.”

“I knew you would. I always knew you would.”

In the next few months, Y/n would replay that evening again and again in her mind until it would drive her to the brink of madness. “Out of sight, out of mind” was a proverb Y/n wouldn’t understand until four months after the election night, when the words Lafayette had spoken to her on the street seemed like an eternity ago. When a year passed, that night seemed almost like a figment of her imagination now.

Besides, Y/n didn’t have a lot of time to think about events that had conspired over a year ago now. She had legislation to pass and funding to allocate. There was never a slow day in D.C.

“Y/n, you saw what Fox News said about you this morning?” Nathan asked, setting down a cup of coffee.

More focused on the steaming cup of coffee that had been set down in front of her than anything Nathan had said, she gave him a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know. Was it anything new?”

Nathan considered for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not really. They were just informing the public that you’re a radical leftist who wants to abolish ICE and free healthcare for all.”

Y/n scoffed. “They figured out I wan’t to keep families together and take care of the health of millions of American citizens? Oh no.”

“You’re not bothered by any of this?”

“Well, they’re not wrong? By all definitions, I am a radical leftist.” She shrugged and pulled the warm cup of coffee closer to her. “Besides, anyone who’s watching Fox News already has a biased opinion toward me. We’ve got bigger things to worry about, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nathan agreed. “For one thing, France announced its support for your foreign aid bill. If your bill gets passed, they pledged to match whatever amount we’re spending on foreign aid.”

This seemed to wake Y/n up in a way that her coffee just couldn’t. “Really? That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve lined an interview up for you and a French diplomat in an hour downtown. You ready to go?”

Y/n sat up straight in her chair. “You really sprung this on me! Nathan, I haven’t had anytime to prep.”

He rolled his eyes and handed her a thick binder. “It’ll just be a few questions, mostly just to show the public a picture of you and a French official side by side. You can handle any questions, you wrote the damn bill. Besides, we can prep in the car.”

Y/n figured she had no points left to argue, likely Nathan’s intention. Begrudgingly, she followed Nathan out to the front of the building and they got into the backseat of the car. They began going back and forth, Nathan asking her questions on the foreign aid bill, and Y/n responding with well articulated answers.

“See? I told you you had nothing to worry about,” Nathan said in the elevator, finally closing the binder.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “That’s because I’m just magnificent and well-spoken.”

“Yes, yes you are. You’re going to kill this interview.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They began walking over to a small hair and makeup set up, and Y/n froze when she saw who was already on set laughing with the interviewer. She turned on her heel and jabbed a finger into Nathan’s chest.

“You didn’t tell me Lafayette was the French diplomat!” She hissed.

Nathan’s mouth fell open in mock surprise. “Did I forget to mention that to you? How silly of me.”

“Nathan, I swear to God. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I had known Lafayette would be here!”

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t tell you, huh?”

Y/n scowled at him. “I haven’t spoken to him in over a year, and last time we spoke, well...”

“I know you’re not on the best terms. Maybe this will help bury the hatchet.” Nathan suggested.

“Nathan, we need to can--”

“Oh dear, it seems I’m getting a call. I should really take this. I’ll see you back at the office, Y/n.” He motioned to his phone that was clearly not ringing and retreated back to the elevator.

After quietly cursing Nathan under her breath, Y/n resigned to her fate and allowed for some intern to touch up her hair and makeup. When they were done, she was ushered onto set in a seat next to Lafayette and across from their interviewer, J.P. Martin.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Congresswoman L/n.” J.P. Martin said with a disarming grin. “I’m glad you could make it to this interview on such short notice.”

She forced a smile, “thank you for letting me discuss my foreign aid bill.”

Y/n could feel Lafayette’s lingering gaze on her skin, but she refused to take her eyes off the interviewer in front of her. J.P. Martin said something else flattering that Y/n didn’t take to heart, then someone on the crew began to count down, then they were rolling.

“Today I’m joined with Representative Y/n L/n and Ambassador Lafayette to discuss L/n’s foreign aid bill,” J.P. looked straight into the camera with a wide grin. “Before we get into the details of all that, it’s my understanding that Representative L/n and Ambassador Lafayette have a history. Is this true?”

She froze in her chair. How had this interviewer find out what happened between her and Lafayette? Would this be a scandal she found in the newspaper the next morning? In all the time she had taken with Nathan to prep for this interview, she was already caught off guard by the first question.

“Yes, this is very true. Y/n and I go way back. We met when she was studying abroad in Paris and quickly became close friends,” Lafayette said. Y/n finally glanced over at him, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

“Well how about that?” J.P. directed his next question at Y/n. “Was it intimidating being friends with President de La Rivière’s son?”

Y/n was feeling more relaxed now after the initial shock. “At first, yes. Of course it was. I’m pretty sure I tripped over my feet the first time I met President de La Rivière.”

“You didn’t!” J.P. said with an amused gasp.

Lafayette chuckled and nodded. “She did. I remember my mother asking me afterwards why I was friends with that awkward American.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” J.P. was positively beaming.

“I think my mother understands now that Y/n is the youngest woman serving in the United States Congress,” Lafayette was subtlety pointing out Y/n’s accomplishments. “And speaking as her son and an official ambassador from France, I can confidently say President de La Rivière was impressed with Y/n’s foreign aid bill.”

“So impressed that the French government has promised to match the amount the U.S. is spending if the bill gets passed.” J.P. turned to face Y/n, his expression turning more serious. “Tell me, Congresswoman, why do we need to increase the amount of money we spend on foreign aid? We’re already spending 39.2 billion on foreign aid.”

Y/n smiled when he asked this. Really smiled. These were the kind of questions she had prepared to answer, and she knew she had Lafayette to thank for the topic change. “J.P., most Americans think 10% of government spending should be spent on foreign aid.”

“Yes, that seems reasonable,” J.P. nodded.

“39.2 billion might seem like a big number,” Y/n continued, “but that’s less than one percent of our federal budget.”

“Is that true?”

The rest of the interview went fairly well. Y/n had intelligent answers to each question J.P. asked, and Lafayette was there to assure J.P. that France was in full support of Y/n’s bill. Before she knew it, J.P. was saying they were out of time and thanking both her and Lafayette for coming to the interview.

The crew began to disperse quickly once the interview had commenced. Now that the interview was over, the realization that Lafayette was standing beside her begun to sink in. She loved the idea of walking off the set and never seeing him again, but unfortunately, they were both headed in the direction of the singular elevator.

“I assume you’re going to the lobby as well?” Lafayette asked, pressing the down button on the elevator.

Y/n nodded. “I am.”

The elevator opened and Lafayette gestured for her to step in first before following behind her. They stood in silence for a moment. Y/n hated how slow this elevator was moving, a fact that she hadn’t noticed on the ride up.

Finally, Y/n caved and she spoke to fill the silence. “I didn’t know you were back in the United States.”

He gave her a sideways look, doing his best to hide a smile. “I’m the French Ambassador to the United States now, Y/n. Did you really not know that?”

She clicked her head and shrugged. “I might’ve read it somewhere, I guess I just forgot. I’m a busy person.”

“Oh, I know.”

Y/n turned to face Lafayette and considered him for a moment. “I suppose you’re a busy person as well, now. How’d you get this gig, nepotism?”

Lafayette laughed and leaned against the wall of the elevator. “Believe it or not, I’m extremely qualified. I’ve served as a representative for France in the EU for a couple years, worked in the state department, long with other places.”

The elevator finally opened up to the lobby, but now Y/n wasn’t ready to end their conversation. “Huh. I guess I forgot that you’re actually a pretty intelligent person under all those layers.”

“Layers of what?” He asked with an amused grin.

“Layers of stupidity.” Y/n shrugged.

Lafayette chuckled and held the door open for her. “I guess that’s fair.”

“It’s more than fair,” Y/n sighed. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “So what is it that ambassadors actually do? I’ve always been curious.”

“A lot of ceremonial gifts and handshakes,” Lafayette admitted. “But very important handshakes. I met with President Adams last week, and I’m headed to meet with Washington at Mount Vernon now.”

“Sounds luxurious. Maybe I should’ve considered becoming an ambassador if it meant I get to spend time with President Washington.”

He paused. “Well, meeting with Washington is more for personal reasons than anything to do with being an ambassador.”

“Oh yeah?” Y/n raised an eyebrow. “I forgot you were best friends with every prominent American.”

“You’re not wrong,” he grinned. “Can’t help it that everyone loves me. Democrats and Republicans. I’m planning to have dinner with Jefferson next month. And I used to be best friends with the illustrious Representative Y/n L/n.”

His words were teasing, but he noticed when Y/n tensed when he said “used to be.” She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, Lafayette cleared his throat and asked, “What’s next for you?”

She considered him for a moment before responding earnestly. “The Oval Office, eventually.”

“Really?”

“Are you surprised?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not really. I always knew you were destined for great things, Y/n.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes, in fact,” Lafayette reached into his pocket and took out a checkbook and a pen. “Let me be one of the first investors to your presidential campaign.”

He handed her the check he had just written. Y/n stared at the check she had been handed, still not entirely processing the extra zero written on the dotted line.

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it takes a lot of money to run for president.”

“I know that, but why would you…” She trailed off, then narrowed her eyes as a thought occurred to her. “This is just you trying to win me over by spending absurd amounts of time and money on things you don’t actually care about. I’ve seen this before.”

“You’ve seen what?”

“This exact scene.” Looking around seemed to solidify Y/n’s conception. They were standing on a sidewalk. Maybe Y/n and been young and naïve in the past, but now she knew how to recognize patterns. She recognized this one. How many times before had the pair of them ended up on a sidewalk together? And how had it ended for Y/n each time?

She counted five times now. The first was the day she had met him. It was Paris, and he had a completely disarming smile that made Y/n trust him immediately.

The next time it was late, both of them were drunk, and they were laughing in the dark while they waited for a cab to drive by.

The third time was in New York, ice cream cones in both of their hands and heartbreak on the agenda. That night she had remembered especially well.

The fourth had been about a year ago now, and although she had tried to forget it, it had been burned into the back of her mind like a scar that would never heal.

This would be the fifth time, and this time she knew better.

Each sidewalk rendezvous went the same way. Every time. And worse yet, they always ended the same.

“What is this scene?” Lafayette asked, genuinely confused.

“It starts innocent enough, doesn’t it? Just two friends on a sidewalk. But this is how it goes,” she laid out the scene for him. “You’ll reach into your pocket and pull out a cigarette. I’ll tell you how unhealthy it is, but you’ll smoke anyway. We’ll smile and laugh, until it gets to the point where we don’t want to be friends anymore. Then you’ll lean in and kiss me, or, at least, I’ll be wishing you’d kiss me.

Not such a bad scene, is it? Except every time it ends the same. You’ll wake up in someone else’s bed and break my heart. I’m just so tired of letting you do this to me! I’ve finally figured you out, and it’s not going to happen again. You’re my best friend, Lafayette, but I can’t keep letting you hurt me.”

When she had finished her rant, a quietness settled between the two of them. Lafayette watched her carefully, waiting to see if she had anything else to say, but it seemed that she had gotten everything off her chest now.

“That’s not what’s going to happen this time,” he finally said.

She looked into his eyes to figure out if she really believed him. Did she really want to believe him? “No? How can you be sure?”

“There are a few things in your “Lafayette breaks Y/n’s heart” equation that have changed. First of all, I stopped smoking a while ago,” he informed her.

Y/n was beyond surprised. For as long as she had known him, he had always been a smoker. It was part of his personality and was synonymous with his name. If there were two things that she was sure she could count on, it would be Lafayette smoking cigarettes and breaking her heart. Had he really quit?

“Second,” Lafayette continued on, “I’m not going to kiss you.”

“You’re not?” She almost sounded disappointed.

“Not this time. We learned our lesson, didn’t we?” He sighed, adjusted his jacket, and let his eyes fall to the cement at his feet. “You’ve ruined me. I’m never going to be able to love anyone the way I love you. And God, I love you so much.”

His heart felt heavy, like it was sinking further and further into his chest and he didn’t know if he would be able to find it again. There was a moment of silence to mourn something that had been lost. “You know I love you. You know that, right?”

Another certain truth. “Of course I do.”

“Good. I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t know. I love you, and I can’t tell you how much I hate that that isn’t enough.”

She smiled. The kind of smile you give when you know that something lovely is coming to an end. Sometimes there is nothing you can do but smile.

His voice was tender when he spoke again. “No one ever told me that being in love would hurt this much. Am I a sadist for wanting to love you more?”

“No, darling, you’re just a romantic. That’s the worst we could be.”

Lafayette nodded because he couldn’t find it inside himself to smile. His town car showed up to take him to the airport at that moment. He bit the inside of his cheek, considering the different things he had enough time to say. Lafayette shook his head when he came to the decision that there was nothing left to say. He had already made it to the car and opened the door when he changed his mind.

“You know,” Y/n addressed Lafayette once more. “This might be crazy, but no matter what happened between us, I always thought it would be you and I in the end.”

Lafayette paused and pulled away from the car. He hesitated before making his way to Y/n. He gently held her chin between two fingers, looking her deep in her eyes as if he was searching for her soul.

“To the moon and back, remember?” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then parted from her and got in the waiting car.

Not everyone gets the fairytale ending you see in movies. But they loved. Really loved. And that was enough.

Real love isn’t like the movies. No, it’s painful and warm and terribly strong. Mostly it’s good.

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rainbowbutterfrosting · 3 years

Text

Chapter 14 - History

This is chapter 14 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @dramaticsnakes and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur, Tubbo (briefly)

Word count: 2,842

Cw: discussions of death, tension between characters, (verbal) fight

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

Wilbur opened the book carefully, almost afraid the knowledge would vanish right in his hands if he didn’t. It felt weightless as he walked to the table, sitting in the same chair he sat in during the interview. The first page was blank, but after turning to the next page, he saw a table of contents. He mostly skimmed it, the idea of reading being much more exciting than the process itself.

“Local opinions on L’Manberg’s end” caught his eye. He flipped to page 138 and read the beginning. It stated the interview each person was given, explaining how everyone received the same questions on (mostly) the same day. Some bits seemed scattered, as if they were just quick notes jotted down, and the writing wasn’t consistent. It was possible Tubbo had gotten some help writing it all down. Wilbur also remembered how some books had apparently been destroyed, so this likely wasn’t an entirely finished product.

They started chronologically of when they were taken, most of the people at the beginning saying that they weren’t affiliated with L’Manberg, but still felt the despair of those who were. A few questioned his motives along with how long it was planned out.

Wilbur easily skipped over those, the boringness of them making him yawn. A small smirk came across his face when he saw Dream’s name. He read the statement supplied, “I’m not gonna lie or fluff it up, Wilbur was an idiot. He didn’t know how to run a nation at all, but he was so hungry for power that he assumed he could. I would say it’s sad that Wilbur blew it up, but good riddance to that cry for attention.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. No wonder he declared independence against him. He truly didn’t understand the restrictions the world put on him. It really wouldn’t have been difficult for Dream to let them be their own nation, but instead, he had to childishly declare war. Though regardless of the past, Wilbur didn’t hold many hard feelings against the man. Not after what Dream had done for him. He read the next statement. A small look of disgust came across his face when he saw it was Eret.

“I know my history with L’Manberg, but I still wish it didn’t come to this fate. Wilbur was a good person. Perhaps he slipped off the deep-end near the end there, but he held kindness close to his chest. I know I… betrayed them, but I shouldn’t have. If I could go back and change it I would.” A small supplement at the end added that the confession was taken the day of L’Manberg’s explosion.

Wilbur looked at the words for longer than he should’ve blinking at them as if they’d been a trick of the light. A good person? They might have interacted so long ago, but he hoped they would at least remember the bare minimum of who he was. A good person, perhaps once, or at the very least an attempt at one. Though Eret’s words were far too hesitant and sympathetic, and Wilbur couldn’t quite get himself to grasp them. He remembered seeing regret in Eret’s eyes, that Wilbur quickly shoved away. He remembered the hope he once had for when Tommy started pursuing other things. Hope that Eret could act as a vice-president in his place. Or even before that happened, they could be a treasurer or anything that would have helped them in the wars. Perhaps they could have even helped in the elections, using his charm and charisma to ‘woo’ the neutral voters. But in the end, Eret had found a better deal, and throughout the 13 and a half years, Wilbur had found it increasingly difficult to blame her for that.

He let his eyes drift across the page, skipping a few nobodies that just happened to be nearby, before reading Tommy’s. A small note was made to the side saying it was taken three days after the explosion. “I can’t fucking believe him. We fought together for- for- I don’t know how long! But he... we had L’Manberg again and he- he’s gone. I wish I felt bad that he’s dead and shit but it was his decision for all of that to happen. Not a single person pushing him towards that. The war- our lives aren’t even over yet, but he had to leave us already.”

Wilbur shut his eyes for a moment, before rereading it once more. The words and their meanings didn’t change. Wilbur had wanted strong words like it, because words of enemies didn’t sting, and Wilbur had effectively made Tommy his enemy. Though he wasn’t certain if these counted as strong words. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d expected them to say. If he’d expected Tommy to say anything at all. Tommy hadn’t followed along with Wilbur, despite Wilbur once feeling that he was doing exactly what they needed to do. And it was fine, really. Wilbur had left his impact, and while the action now felt distant to him, Tommy did not need to feel bad for his death. Wilbur didn’t know exactly why he’d returned, but a warm welcome wasn’t to be expected. While Tommy’s words were strange and familiar, talking of Wilbur as if he was a person who left, who died to be mourned, rather than an event, a choice, and a legacy, they were to be expected of the child. Wilbur pursed his lips, fiddling with the corner of the page in his hand. He lingered on Tommy’s section for longer than he should’ve. He didn’t know if seconds or minutes passed but he heard Tubbo’s voice from nearby, “You good?”

He turned towards Tubbo, slipping on a grin, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all pretty interesting stuff.”

Tubbo hesitantly smiled in return, “Cool, I’ll just be down here if you need anything.” He did finger guns towards the direction of the stairs and awkwardly walked back down them.

Although Wilbur’s mind was blurred, a small part of him was able to focus on Tubbo’s feelings about L’Manberg. He flipped through the pages, names filled his eyes, but none of them were what he was looking for. He frowned and double-checked, but the same results still occurred. He flipped to the last page of the section, figuring that Tubbo must’ve been at the end, if not the beginning. Instead, he found a small portion that read, “Any statements not present are from the people present only after L’Manberg’s original explosion weren’t available.”

Wilbur knew Tubbo was present during the wars, so it didn’t make sense why he pretended like he wasn’t. Especially because the statement implied he only joined after L’Manberg was over and dealt with. Did Tubbo rewrite history so he wasn’t a part of it? That didn’t seem likely to him, but the lack of Tubbo’s opinion on the paper spoke louder than his thoughts.

He told himself to shrug it off as Ghostbur’s quiet voice popped into his mind, “Hey, Wilbur, can we talk about something?”

Wilbur looked around, trying to ensure Tubbo couldn’t hear him. He mumbled, “Later.”

Ghostbur took in a deep breath, “That’s okay. Just- make sure that I don’t forget to ask about it.”

Wilbur absentmindedly nodded as he flipped to one of the earlier pages. His eyes didn’t focus on the paper, but rather on what he wanted to know. He decided his father’s opinion would be the best choice. He flipped the page once again and spotted Phil’s name near the middle of the text. “It’s been a lot to handle. I wasn’t a part of L’Manberg, but- Wilbur being gone. It means more to me than L’Manberg did to him.”

It was short and sweet in the way Wilbur expected. It washed out most of Tommy’s statement as he flipped around in search of Niki’s. He briefly thought about Ranboo’s opinion, but the book already told him it wouldn’t be there. Even then, the centrist would have probably made something up that would apply to any event.

Niki’s opinion didn’t focus much on Wilbur, but it was still good nonetheless. “I used to care about L’Manberg a lot. I built the original flag and I felt… I felt so close to everyone there. Even when Schlatt came into power. L’Manberg was all I really had to go to, even if it was technically Manberg at the time. Yet, I feel in a way, like time split us apart. Not Wilbur though. I wished he was still here.”

Wilbur smiled softly. He missed her quite a lot, especially during limbo. He would close his eyes, and pretend he was baking with her again. Nothing in particular either, just tossing flour on each other and bumping shoulders occasionally. There was enough room in the kitchen to avoid the latter, but it brought a closeness to the both of them that Wilbur didn’t know how to describe. Of course, that was during the desperate years. The ones where the concrete of the platform seemed to burn his feet, as he let vulnerability slip in, right before he let it grow into something else.

He searched his mind, thinking of who he met after his revival, and his breath hitched at the thought of Fundy. He sat for a moment, contemplating if he should even do it. He flipped the page carefully, skimming for the name of his son.

He found it quicker than he would have liked to. A dread filling his chest that he forcefully pushed away. He read the segment Fundy spoke about. Reading it over and over again, none of it sticking in his head. Disbelief and confusion hit him like a truck. The only words his son spoke about it were, “I feel ashamed to even call him my father.”

Wilbur closed the book. The cover seemed to burn him as he did so. He let it sit on the table, his hands resting on his legs. He robotically stood up, his movements feeling stiff and unnatural. He laid a hand on the book that rested so peacefully. He begrudgingly picked it up, the book somehow feeling much heavier than last time. He slowly shuffled towards the bookshelf, putting it back where he thought it was, not paying much mind if it was in the right place or not.

“Wilbur,” Ghostbur said, his voice sounding a bit apprehensive.

“Yes, what is it?” Wilbur asked, a little sharper than he perhaps intended.

“Wil, why did you lie?” the words came out, with a certain sadness, yet they seemed almost practiced. They were quick, yet each syllable was dripping with concern or perhaps spite, if Wilbur didn’t know any better.

“Lie about what?” Wilbur asked, huffing.

“Tubbo…” he took a deep breath, “Tubbo asked you if there were any side-effects, and you didn’t mention me. You said I wasn’t there. But I am! I know I am, because we’re talking. So why didn’t you say that?”

Wilbur breathed in sharply, like a hiss. “It’s nothing.” he said, “I wasn’t planning lie much after the revival, but what would you want me to say?”

“That I’m here!”

“I can’t just say that!” Wilbur said, trying to keep his voice down, “They can’t know you’re here, because it’ll make it harder for us to find a way to get you out.”

“They can help! Tubbo would want to help.” Ghostbur said, certainly.

“Tubbo isn’t going to believe me, Ghostbur. It’s going to concern him, and we don’t want Tubbo to be sad, do we?” The last words came out a bit more naturally than what Wilbur had wanted them to.

It did seem to make Ghostbur go quiet, for just a few moments. When Wilbur almost thought Ghostbur had nothing more to say, he spoke, “No no no, you don’t understand!” He said, “Sometimes, sadness can be okay, I think. Lying isn’t good at all. It leads to bad things.” The last sentence, held more melancholy than the rest.

Wilbur wanted to laugh. “It’s not that simple.” he said, “Lying is an excellent tool. Sometimes, you need it to survive, Ghostbur. And right now we do.”

“How do you know that?” Ghostbur asked, beginning to sound slightly panicked, “They told me it wouldn’t be bad, but then they lied, and it was! It was bad.”

Wilbur shook his head confusedly, “Who are you talking about?”

A bit of shock came from Ghostbur’s following gasp. “I… I don’t know.” he said, and the confusion told Wilbur it was the truth, “I’m not sure I…” he was breathing a little faster, “I can’t find the memories, but lying is bad Wilbur! It’s not going to lead to anything good, I can feel it.”

“Lying can give you an advantage, and we want to get you out quickly.” Wilbur said. He felt as if the world was momentarily catching fire around him. “It’s just a white lie, Ghostbur. Just to keep everything on track. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“I… I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is a good idea! We should tell Tubbo. We can trust him, I know it!”

“Who are you to say who I can fucking trust?” Wilbur said, a little louder, “This is none of your business! This is my life, even if you insist on invading it!”

As the words hung sharply in the air, the silence that followed became blindingly obvious.

Wilbur could hear his own slow breathing, filling the empty room. “Fuck… Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to say that.”

There was no response.

“Ghostbur, I...” he breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to say that.”

The silence from the ghost stabbed him in the chest. “Ghostbur, it was just a bit of a slip-up. Y’know like when you get tongue-tied?” Wilbur tried to pull off a playful tone, but the concern behind it was prevalent. Wilbur sighed. It wasn’t one out of aggression, but rather a disappointment in himself.

He walked away from the bookshelf and towards the stairs, seeing Tubbo harvesting some melons from his farm. He forgot that the boy was even there, his thoughts consuming everything around him. He faintly smiled as he walked to the lower level of the bunker. He didn’t bother ruining the peace and simply mentioned, “I put the book back.”

Tubbo looked down at Wilbur. “Oh! Alright. Are you heading out?”

“I suppose I am,” Wilbur said, a bit quietly, almost hoping that Tubbo’s voice would bring some response from the ghost.

“Where are you going?” Tubbo asked.

At the words, Wilbur realized he didn’t have a good answer to that. His head was a mess, and it felt emptier than usual. He tried to open any gate in his mind at all, to find a rhyme or reason to his actions and his desires. For some reason, the one purpose he’d assigned to himself, seemed further off than before. It was silly and frivolous of him to bother being affected in such a way. If there was one thing he’d learned as a commander, it was that the war would rage on, whether you felt like it or not. A break, and a moment of silence, was rarely a particularly good sign. Sometimes you needed it to make plans however, and if he couldn’t even do something as simple as that, how could he consider himself powerful anymore? Knowledge. He needed knowledge, and he’d just left all the books behind after looking at one. He breathed in. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re welcome to head to the mansion.” Tubbo said with a shrug, “Ranboo and I are sleeping over again tonight, so if you need a place to stay, you’re welcome there.”

Wilbur froze, and weighed the suggestion in his mind. He heard a faint and familiar breath from Ghostbur that calmed his heart for a moment. “Sure.” he said, a little too quickly, “That sounds fine.” He accompanied it with a smile, to try to make the exchange seem natural.

Tubbo’s expression indicated it hadn’t worked entirely, but the frown quickly turned into a similar smile. “Sweet! I’ll be going there soon enough, but you can go ahead if you want.” Just before Wilbur had the chance, Tubbo looked as if he remembered something. “Oh, also! Try not to tell anyone about this place. It’s a secret to most people.”

Wilbur nodded, unsure why Tubbo would’ve told him about it, if it was such a secret. “Can I come back here?”

Tubbo took a moment to respond. “Make sure I’m with you.” he said, “We have some structural problems, so I don’t want anyone to be here without me being aware of it.”

The words reached Wilbur strangely. He swallowed something in his throat and nodded nonetheless. Then, without further response, he wandered outside, into a much more apparent form of silence.

Tubbo nodded and looked slightly dismayed at Wilbur’s sudden exit, “Alright, seeya later.”

Wilbur took long strides away from the bunker, hoping it would help collect his thoughts for Ghostbur. His footsteps echoed through the halls, making him miss the sound of Ghostbur’s voice. He walked towards the entrance of Pogtopia, quickly exiting. The change of scene didn’t help him think. If anything, it only increased his worries about the ghost as his mind ran.

#c!wilbur #c!wilbur soot #revivebur #the revived #dream smp #dsmp #dream smp fanfic #fanfic #dsmp fanfic #ghostbur #ghostbur angst #wilbur angst

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richincolor · 4 years

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Voting and YA Lit

The November election is getting closer and closer. If you're eligible to vote and need more information, Vote.org is an excellent place to start. The League of Women Voters also has a First Time Voter Checklist that may be helpful. This year there may be additional challenges to voting, but if you are able, please let your voice be heard through your vote.

In the final two months before the election, you may enjoy some related reading. First, a few YA novels featuring elections or voting:

Yes No Maybe So by Becky Albertalli and Aisha Saeed Balzer + Bray [Group Discussion]

YES Jamie Goldberg is cool with volunteering for his local state senate candidate—as long as he’s behind the scenes. When it comes to speaking to strangers (or, let’s face it, speaking at all to almost anyone), Jamie’s a choke artist. There’s no way he’d ever knock on doors to ask people for their votes…until he meets Maya.

NO Maya Rehman’s having the worst Ramadan ever. Her best friend is too busy to hang out, her summer trip is canceled, and now her parents are separating. Why her mother thinks the solution to her problems is political canvassing—with some awkward dude she hardly knows—is beyond her.

MAYBE SO Going door to door isn’t exactly glamorous, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, the polls are getting closer—and so are Maya and Jamie. Mastering local activism is one thing. Navigating the cross-cultural romance of the century is another thing entirely.

The Voting Booth by Brandy Colbert Disney-Hyperion [Crystal's Review]

Marva Sheridan was born ready for this day. She’s always been driven to make a difference in the world, and what better way than to vote in her first election?

Duke Crenshaw is so done with this election. He just wants to get voting over with so he can prepare for his band’s first paying gig tonight.

Only problem? Duke can’t vote.

When Marva sees Duke turned away from their polling place, she takes it upon herself to make sure his vote is counted. She hasn’t spent months doorbelling and registering voters just to see someone denied their right. And that’s how their whirlwind day begins, rushing from precinct to precinct, cutting school, waiting in endless lines, turned away time and again, trying to do one simple thing: vote. They may have started out as strangers, but as Duke and Marva team up to beat a rigged system (and find Marva’s missing cat), it’s clear that there’s more to their connection than a shared mission for democracy.

Romantic and triumphant, The Voting Booth is proof that you can’t sit around waiting for the world to change, but some things are just meant to be.

Running by Natalia Sylvester Clarion Books

When fifteen-year-old Cuban American Mariana Ruiz’s father runs for president, Mari starts to see him with new eyes. A novel about waking up and standing up, and what happens when you stop seeing your dad as your hero—while the whole country is watching.

In this thoughtful, authentic, humorous, and gorgeously written novel about privacy, waking up, and speaking up, Senator Anthony Ruiz is running for president. Throughout his successful political career he has always had his daughter’s vote, but a presidential campaign brings a whole new level of scrutiny to sheltered fifteen-year-old Mariana and the rest of her Cuban American family, from a 60 Minutes–style tour of their house to tabloids doctoring photos and inventing scandals. As tensions rise within the Ruiz family, Mari begins to learn about the details of her father’s political positions, and she realizes that her father is not the man she thought he was.

But how do you find your voice when everyone’s watching? When it means disagreeing with your father—publicly? What do you do when your dad stops being your hero? Will Mari get a chance to confront her father? If she does, will she have the courage to seize it?

There are also a few YA nonfiction books that deal with activism and voting rights:

How I Resist edited by Maureen Johnson Wednesday Books

Now, more than ever, young people are motivated to make a difference in a world they're bound to inherit. They're ready to stand up and be heard - but with much to shout about, where they do they begin? What can I do? How can I help?

How I Resist is the response, and a way to start the conversation. To show readers that they are not helpless, and that anyone can be the change. A collection of essays, songs, illustrations, and interviews about activism and hope, How I Resist features an all-star group of contributors, including John Paul Brammer, Libba Bray, Lauren Duca, Modern Family's Jesse Tyler Ferguson and his husband Justin Mikita, Alex Gino, Hebh Jamal, Malinda Lo, Dylan Marron, Hamilton star Javier Muñoz, Rosie O'Donnell, Junauda Petrus, Jodi Picoult, Jason Reynolds, Karuna Riazi, Maya Rupert, Dana Schwartz, Dan Sinker, Ali Stroker, Jonny Sun (aka @jonnysun), Sabaa Tahir, Shaina Taub, Daniel Watts, Jennifer Weiner, Jacqueline Woodson, and more, all edited and compiled by New York Times bestselling author Maureen Johnson.

In How I Resist, readers will find hope and support through voices that are at turns personal, funny, irreverent, and instructive. Not just for a young adult audience, this incredibly impactful collection will appeal to readers of all ages who are feeling adrift and looking for guidance.

How I Resist is the kind of book people will be discussing for years to come and a staple on bookshelves for generations.

The March Trilogy by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin and Nate Powell Top Shelf Productions

A graphic novel memoir in three parts. It tells of the Civil Rights movement through the eyes of John Lewis. Readers see Lewis and other activists launching campaigns such as the Freedom Vote and Mississippi Freedom Summer. The books lead all the way through to the Selma March.

And finally, picture books aren't just for children. Here are two picture books young adults would likely appreciate:

The Voice of Freedom: Fannie Lou Hamer by Carole Boston Weatherford, illustrated by Ekua Holmes Candlewick Press

A stirring collection of poems and spirituals, accompanied by stunning collage illustrations, recollects the life of Fannie Lou Hamer, a champion of equal voting rights.

"I am sick and tired of being sick and tired."

Despite fierce prejudice and abuse, even being beaten to within an inch of her life, Fannie Lou Hamer was a champion of civil rights from the 1950s until her death in 1977. Integral to the Freedom Summer of 1964, Ms. Hamer gave a speech at the Democratic National Convention that, despite President Johnson’s interference, aired on national TV news and spurred the nation to support the Freedom Democrats. Featuring luminous mixed-media art both vibrant and full of intricate detail, Singing for Freedom celebrates Fannie Lou Hamer’s life and legacy with an inspiring message of hope, determination, and strength.

Granddaddy's Turn: A Journey to the Ballot Box by Michael S. Bandy & Eric Stein, illustrated by James Ransome Candlewick Press

Based on the true story of one family’s struggle for voting rights in the Civil Rights–era South, this moving tale shines an emotional spotlight on a dark facet of U.S. history.

Life on the farm with Granddaddy is full of hard work, but despite all the chores, Granddaddy always makes time for play, especially fishing trips. Even when there isn’t a bite to catch, he reminds young Michael that it takes patience to get what’s coming to you. One morning, when Granddaddy heads into town in his fancy suit, Michael knows that something very special must be happening—and sure enough, everyone is lined up at the town hall! For the very first time, Granddaddy is allowed to vote, and he couldn’t be more proud. But can Michael be patient when it seems that justice just can’t come soon enough? This powerful and touching true-life story shares one boy’s perspective of growing up in the segregated South, while beautiful illustrations depict the rural setting in tender detail.

#voting #election #YA Lit

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arcticdementor · 4 years

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I love NYC. When I first moved to NYC it was a dream come true. Every corner was like a theater production happening right in front of me. So much personality, so many stories.

Every subculture I loved was in NYC. I could play chess all day and night. I could go to comedy clubs. I could start any type of business. I could meet people. I had family, friends, opportunities. No matter what happened to me, NYC was a net I could fall back on and bounce back up.

Now it's completely dead. "But NYC always always bounces back." No. Not this time. "But NYC is the center of the financial universe. Opportunities will flourish here again." Not this time.

"NYC has experienced worse". No it hasn't.

…

Three of the most important reasons to move to NYC:

- business opportunities

- culture

- food

…

Midtown Manhattan, the center of business in NYC, is empty. Even though people can go back to work, famous office buildings like the Time Life skyscraper is still 90% empty. Businesses realized that they don't need their employees at the office.

In fact, they realize they are even more productive without everyone back to the office. The Time Life building can handle 8,000 workers. Now it maybe has 500 workers back.

…

"What do you mean?" a friend of mine said to me when I told him 'Midtown should be called 'Ghost Town', "I'm in my office right now!"

"What are you doing there?"

"Packing up," he said and laughed, "I'm shutting it down." He works in the entertainment business.

Another friend of mine works at a major investment bank as a managing director. Before the pandemic he was at the office every day, sometimes working from 6am to 10pm.

Now he lives in Phoenix, Arizona. "As of June," he told me, "I had never even been to Phoenix." And then he moved there. He does all his meetings on Zoom.

I was talking to a book editor who has been out of the city since early March. "We've been all working fine. I'm not sure why we would need to go back to the office."

One friend of mine, Derek Halpern, was convinced he'd stay. He put up a Facebook post the other day saying he might be changing his mind.

…

People say, "NYC has been through worse" or "NYC has always come back."

No and no.

First, when has NYC been through worse?

Even in the 1970s, and through the 80s, when NYC was going bankrupt, and even when it was the crime capital of the US or close to it, it was still the capital of the business world (meaning: it was the primary place young people would go to build wealth and find opportunity), it was culturally on top of its game - home to artists, theater, media, advertising, publishing, and it was probably the food capital of the US.

…

In early March, many people (not me), left NYC when they felt it would provide safety from the virus and they no longer needed to go to work and all the restaurants were closed. People figured, "I'll get out for a month or two and then come back."

They are all still gone.

And then in June, during rioting and looting a second wave of NYC-ers (this time me) left. I have kids. Nothing was wrong with the protests but I was a little nervous when I saw videos of rioters after curfew trying to break into my building.

…

Summary: Businesses are remote and they aren't returning to the office. And it's a death spiral: the longer offices remain empty, the longer they will remain empty.

In 2005, a hedge fund manager was visiting my office and said, "In Manhattan you practically trip over opportunities in the street."

Now the streets are empty.

…

I co-own a comedy club, Standup NY, on 78th and Broadway. I'm very very proud of the club and grateful to my fellow owners Dani Zoldan and Gabe Waldman and our manager Jon Boreamayo. It's a great club. It's been around since 1986 and before that it was a theater.

One time, Henry Winkler stopped by to come on my podcast. He was the one who told me it had been a theater.

He said, "I grew up two doors down from here and used to perform in here as a kid. Then I went out to LA to be the Fonz and now I'm back here, full circle, to be on your podcast. This place has history." Things like that happen in NYC.

…

I love the club. Before the pandemic I would perform there throughout the week in addition to many other clubs around the city and in the past few months, clubs in: Chicago, Denver, San Jose, LA, Cincinnati, all over the Netherlands, and other places.

I miss it.

…

That said, we have no idea when we will open. Nobody has any idea. And the longer we close, the less chance we will ever reopen profitably.

Broadway is closed until at least the Spring. Lincoln Center is closed. All the museums are closed.

Forget about the tens of thousands of jobs lost in these cultural centers. Forget even about the millions of dollars of tourist and tourist-generated revenues lost by the closing of these centers.

There are thousands of performers, producers, artists, and the entire ecosystem of art, theater, production, curation, that surrounds these cultural centers. People who have worked all of their lives for the right to be able to perform even once on Broadway whose lives and careers have been put on hold.

I get it. There was a pandemic.

But the question now is: what happens next? And, given the uncertainty (since there is no known answer), and given the fact that people, cities, economies, loathe uncertainty, we simply don't know the answer and that's a bad thing for New York City.

…

My favorite restaurant is closed for good. Ok, let's go to my second favorite. Closed for good. Third favorite, closed for good.

I thought the PPP was supposed to help. No? What about emergency relief? No. Stimulus checks? Unemployment? No and no. Ok, my fourth favorite, or what about that place I always ordered delivery from? No and no.

Around Late May I took walks and saw that many places were boarded up. Ok, I thought, because the protesting was leading to looting and the restaurants were protecting themselves. They'll be ok.

Looking closer I'd see the signs. For Lease. For Rent. For whatever.

Before the pandemic, the average restaurant had only 16 days of cash on hand. Some had more (McDonalds), and some had less (the local mom-and-pop Greek diner).

Yelp estimates that 60% of restaurants around the United States have closed.

My guess is more than 60% will be closed in New York City but who knows.

Someone said to me, "Well, people will want to come in now and start their own restaurants! There is less competition."

I don't think you understand how restaurants work.

…

If the restaurants are no longer clustered, fewer people go out to eat (they are on the fence about where so they elect to stay home). Restaurants breed more restaurants.

And again, what happens to all the employees who work at these restaurants? They are gone. They left New York City. Where did they go? I know a lot of people who went to Maine, Vermont, Tennessee, upstate, Indiana, etc - back to live with their parents or live with friends or live cheaper. They are gone and gone for good.

And what person wakes up today and says, "I can't wait to set up a pizza place in the location where 100,000 other pizza places just closed down." People are going to wait awhile and see. They want to make sure the virus is gone, or there's a vaccine, or there's a profitable business model.

Or...even worse.

…

If building owners and landlords lose their prime tenants (the store fronts on the bottom floor, the offices on the middle floors, the well-to-do on the top floors, etc) then they go out of business.

And what happens when they go out of business?

Nothing actually. And that's the bad news.

People who would have rented or bought say, "Hmmm, everyone is saying NYC is heading back to the 1970s, so even though prices might be 50% lower than they were a year ago, I think I will wait a bit more. Better safe than sorry!"

And then with everyone waiting... prices go down. So people see prices go down and they say, "Good thing I waited. But what happens if I wait even more!" And they wait and then prices go down more.

This is called a deflationary spiral. People wait. Prices go down. Nobody really wins. Because the landlords or owners go broke. Less money gets spent on the city. Nobody moves in so there is no motion in the markets. And people already owning in the area and can afford to hang on, have to wait longer for a return of restaurants, services, etc that they were used to.

Well, will prices go down low enough everyone buys?

Answer: Maybe. Maybe not. Some people can afford to hang on but not afford to sell. So they wait. Other people will go bankrupt and there will be litigation, which creates other problems for real estate in the area. And the big borrowers and lenders may need a bailout of some sort or face mass bankruptcy. Who knows what will happen?

…

I lived three blocks from Ground Zero on 9/11. Downtown, where I lived, was destroyed, but it came roaring back within two years. Such sadness and hardship and then quickly that area became the most attractive area in New York.

And in 2008/2009, much suffering during the Great Recession, again much hardship, but things came roaring back.

But...this time it's different. You're never supposed to say that but this time it's true. If you believe this time is no different, that NYC is resilient, etc I hope you're right.

I don't benefit from saying any of this. I love NYC. I was born there. I've lived there forever. I STILL live there. I love everything about NYC. I want 2019 back.

But this time it's different.

One reason: bandwidth.

In 2008, average bandwidth speeds were 3 megabits per second. That's not enough for a Zoom meeting with reliable video quality. Now, it's over 20 megabits per second. That's more than enough for high quality video.

There's a before and after. BEFORE: no remote work. AFTER: everyone can remote work.

…

Everyone has spent the past five months adapting to a new lifestyle. Nobody wants to fly across the country for a two hour meeting when you can do it just as well on Zoom. I can go see "live comedy" on Zoom. I can take classes from the best teachers in the world for almost free online as opposed to paying $70,000 a year for a limited number of teachers who may or may not be good.

Everyone has choices now. You can live in the music capital of Nashville, you can live in the "next Silicon Valley" of Austin. You can live in your hometown in the middle of wherever. And you can be just as productive, make the same salary, have higher quality of life with a cheaper cost to live.

…

Wait for events and conferences and even meetings and maybe even office spaces to start happening in virtual realities once everyone is spread out from midtown Manhattan to all over the country.

The quality of restaurants will start to go up in all the second and then third tier cities as talent and skill flow to the places that can quickly make use of them.

Ditto for cultural events.

And then people will ask, "wait a second - I was paying over 16% in state and city taxes and these other states and cities have little to no taxes? And I don't have to deal with all the other headaches of NYC?"

Because there are headaches in NYC. Lots of them. It's just we sweep them under the table because so much else has been good there.

NYC has a $9 billion deficit. A billion more than the Mayor thought they were going to have. How does a city pay back its debts? The main way is aid from the state. But the state deficit just went bonkers. Then is taxes. But if 900,000 estimated jobs are lost in NYC and tens of thousands of businesses, then that means less taxes unless taxes are raised.

…

What reason will people have to go back to NYC?

#james altucher #linkedin #new york city

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canyouhearthelight · 4 years

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The Miys, Ch. 99

Here we have the aftermath of the Warlord Bowl.

Here, we finally... FINALLY get to see Jokul as a person and not a far-off mysterious bad guy. Consciously, there was never any intent to compare Jokul to people who don’t understand how politics work: @zommbiebro isn’t even American, for one thing, and therefore neither is Jokul. However, reading it on the last pass before posting, I realized how it could be taken.

The part that isn’t relevant to the chapter: While I didn’t mean that comparison, please make sure you vote in any local elections available to you, if it doesn’t risk your life. No matter how much you feel your vote doesn’t matter, it does. If everyone who didn’t vote decided to do so, it would change the world.

In my own country, I’ll be taking time off work - because I have that ability - and taking local people to polls that ordinarily would be inaccessible to them within their district.

Back to the chapter relevant stuff: Thank you to @zommbiebro for giving me such a good character to play with, @charlylimph-blog for reading to ensure entertainment, and @baelpenrose for beta reading in every way that entails.

After a quick dinner at the first mess we came across - and true to my promise, I didn’t cook anything - Arthur, Antoine and I reconvened with Jokul in my office. As agreed, he brought only two of his own people, who sat on either side of him in a mirror to how I was bracketed by my own friends.

Unfortunately, they entered as I was mulling out loud the possibility of making hot pot for family dinner one night. Even less fortunately, the ginger who I had thrown in the gym was one of the people who walked through my door while I was debating the logistics of meat versus vegetarian options.

“She doesn’t even take us seriously!” the nasal voice complained, interrupting me.

Simultaneously, several things happened. I opened my mouth to retort, Arthur put a hand over my mouth, Antoine pushed my shoulder back into the chair.

And Jokul spoke up.

“We agreed to meet with them if Farro beat me in combat. He did, we are here, and there will be no further argument on the matter.” If anything, he sounded weary rather than angry. “She did not even request that we cease acting against her, only that we meet as equals. It is the least we can do.”

I didn’t even know forehead cramps were a thing until I gave myself one with the speed of my eyes widening. Slowly, Arthur lowered his hand so I could speak. “Right,” I coughed. “So, there are a few things I want to know.”

“Such as?”

“Why am I your target?” I blurted out. Of everything, this was the one that was weighing heaviest on me. I felt if I could understand that, I would know how to tackle the rest.

To my frustration, he fucking shrugged. “You are emblematic of everything that will destroy our chance at a new start,” he stated calmly, like he was telling me his name.

I sputtered before regaining my composure. “How? How am I doing something badly?”

“You only want to consolidate power, rule over the masses!” the red-haired toady honked at me.

The overblown statement and Jokul’s subsequent glare at his own man was a level of ridiculous I couldn’t handle at that moment. Laughing ruefully, I wiped away a tear that warned me I was close to hysterical. “I don’t want to rule over anyone, dude. If I had my preference, I would only decide what I want to eat once or twice a week for the rest of my life.”

“But you rule over the Council,” Jokul pointed out in a confused tone.

“I don’t rule anyone, buddy. I am on the Council largely against my will, and mostly because no one else who is qualified even wants my job. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Gods had I tried.

His next statement was significantly less confident. “But you took the reins of power…”

“I am a glorified event coordinator and human resources officer. I have a staff of exactly two. One is my sister, who has been in her role longer than I’ve been in mine and only listens to me when it’s convenient. The other is my assistant, who is British as hell and listens to me on about equal level with my cat.”

“The Baconists! Your assistant was part of that rebellion! You must have known and hidden it from our hosts!” I had to give him some begrudging credit. Even he didn’t sound like he believed his own words, and if the smug look from Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber on either side of him was anything to go by, that wasn’t his own theory.

Time to set the record straight, it seemed. “Okay, quick reminder: that bitch tried to kill me,” I enunciated carefully, leaning forward as I spoke. “She nearly succeeded. That wasn’t a cover up, it was her realizing that I talk to myself in the shower and listening long enough to hear me think through what was going on. As far as hiding her intent from our hosts… You’re only half right. Miys doesn’t read minds, contrary to what people think, they only read intent. That nutjob really did think she was doing the best thing for the universe by wiping humanity off the proverbial map. Nothing for Miys to pick up, she actually had what she thought were good intentions.”

“You have built yourself to be this legendary hero -”

“I didn’t build myself to be jack. Effing. Shit. If I had my preference, I would give you my position, and open a restaurant that does cooking classes.” When he opened his mouth to interject, I held up a hand to stop him. “Miys likes me because I talk to myself, even in my head, and so badly that they can still hear what I am saying when I don’t move my lips. I only survived being attacked by a crazy person because I treat the person who saved me like, you know, a person? Make sure he’s okay, give him his space when he wants it, sass him back when he wants to be sassy. It was just sheer, dumb luck, and I’m not even sure it was good luck, because voila!” I flung my hands wide at the current situation, forcing both Arthur and Antoine to duck. A quick glance at Antoine only rendered one of his eloquent shrugs. Must be handling the situation okay if he doesn’t think I need help.

I was less concerned with Arthur’s opinion, not because I didn’t care, but because I knew he would jump in when he felt it was needed, without prompting or permission.

“So you do not want to rule over us all?” Jokul asked carefully.

“I don’t even want to top one of my boyfriends consistently.”

“Sophia!” Antoine hissed with a miserable expression, while Arthur burst into a coughing fit. I wasn’t sure if the latter was trying to cover a laugh of choking.

Jokul, on the other hand, seemed to take that at face value “Then why are you in power? Explain that.”

With a heavy sigh, I tried again. “I’m not in power. Decisions are voted on by the Council. If someone brings me an idea for a class, or an architectural project, or a medical possibility, I pass it off to the Councilor who handles that and let it go from there.” Emphatically, I pointed at my own face. “Again, glorified events coordinator and HR.”

“And yet, you have your pet warlord sitting beside you. Explain that away,”Tweedledumb - the brunette on Jokul’s other side - accused.

I whipped my head to look at the subject of that statement before looking back across the table. “Arthur?” I asked, jerking a thumb in his general direction. “You do realize he’s a teacher first, right? Warlord out of need, but that ‘need’ was protecting the students in his history class when everything went to shit? Don’t get me wrong, we butted heads like you would not believe when we first met in person. But we realized halfway through what looked to be one hell of an argument that we knew each other for - fuck, like, a decade? Maybe less? - before the End. I didn’t ‘win him over.’ We just realized we’ve always been friends.” With a shrug I glanced back at Arthur, who also shrugged before nodding.

“Too convenient, Councilor.” Tweedledumb gloated. “You just happened to be friends with someone who - “

“Oh for FUCK’s sake!” Annnnd there it was. Someone had reached his limit for diplomacy and stupidity. “We met on a fanfiction site writing a crossover of two of the worst pieces of science fiction ever written and mutually infected each other! FUCK!” Crossing his arms, he started muttering to himself. “Not like finding someone to kick your asses is hard…”

After a glare at the darker-haired idiot, and with an expression that looked like he was entirely regretting his choice of people for this meeting, Jokul schooled his features before addressing me directly. “Fanfiction?” he asked in a skeptical tone.

And the dirty truth comes out, I thought with another sigh. “StarDoc and Warhammer 40K, okay? It was fun, no fandom to cheese off, nothing smutty. Just… fun.” When the nostalgia threatened to overtake me, I shook my head vigorously. “The point is, we knew each other for years Before the world went to shit, and only realized when one of my friends landed in his class and there was a data error. I don’t even like violence.” Antoine gave me a skeptical look so I clarified. “Usually.”

“And yet you are a combatant!” Jokul stated with certainty, clearly on more familiar ground.

Angrily, I scowled at Tweedle-the-ginger before leaning forward to look into Jokul’s eyes. “Look. I don’t know how it was in Canada, with your mooses and shit, but I really, really want to know: Do you honestly believe that anyone who got through the After did it without learning how to defend themselves? Even more, that any woman who made it, didn’t learn to fight dirty?”

“Not if you know how to have people defend you - “ Jokul tried before I cut him off.

“They don’t defend me because I’m helpless, let’s be clear. They defend me because I will only fight back if I know my life is on the line. But, on the same page, I will protect my friends and family from anything, without reserve, and die for them. No hesitation.” With a deep breath, I sat back rather than jumping over the table. “I have my flaws, and my sister will tell you the biggest among those is that I trust too easily. I assume the best in, literally, everyone.”

“Except smartass teacher, apparently,” Arthur said in a fake cough that fooled exactly nobody.

After making a face at my friend, I turned back to the moose in the room. “What that means is, I don’t try to defend myself until it is literally your life or mine. Or both. I don’t really care at that point, because I assume I’m not going to make it. I just want the person I’m fighting to go down with me.” Trying to imitate Charly’s most savage grin, I put on a forced-cheerful tone. “Now, tell me, Jokul. Who would rather have faced in that fight, knowing that?”

His eyes darted between Arthur and myself as he swallowed hard, mulling the implications of that. “You would kill and die for your friends’ safety and health, even if you would only protect yourself at the last moment?” Here, he scoffed. “There is nothing exceptional or even special about that. Many who were in power in the After felt the same.”

“Except I don’t want power,” I repeated in a tone that I previously reserved only for small children. “I just told you that.” In the corners of my eyes, I saw both of my friends nodding so hard I was concerned for their spines.

Before I could try to reason with Jokul any more, Arthur jumped in. “If you’re both done arguing righteousness, let me explain a few things. Jokull. First off, Soph actually doesn’t want to rule, or be on the Council. She told you this. She’s also bitched about it to me, her sister, and anyone else who will listen, at length. On top of being too trusting, her biggest flaw is actually an impulsivity problem, in general. But she’s not an autocrat.” As he gestured, I saw his eyes glaze over, his voice taking on a serene tone that was entirely too familiar. “If Soph was a real autocrat, she’d have let us have our little duel armed, with my sword and - I presume you’d have had an ax? Maybe a broadsword? You look like a broadsword guy... any rate.”

“However,” he continued, leaning forward with a thoughtful expression, like he was puzzling something out. “she made me promise not to kill you. Think about that. After you’ve been nothing but a headache and a threat to her and her family for months, she makes me promise not to kill you. I wanted to, you know.” The wistful sigh that accompanied that statement was entirely unnecessary and I was certain he only did it to irritate me. “I wanted to kill you and have your lifeless corpse thrown out of the airlock like trash, not because of the Council, not because your Viking gimmick wears out in a hurry, but because you made the mistake of threatening a friend, then slapping a student. I had no idea if you were actually going to seriously harm any of them, and I didn’t care. The threat alone was enough to make me decide I wanted you dead.” Tapping his chin briefly, he pointed at Jokul without actually looking at him. “Because you were an unknown quantity, but no matter whether or not you were actually the threat you claimed to be, your corpse would be harmless.”

Arthur shrugged before looking Jokul in the face. “That’s how warlords handled things in the After, isn’t it? When someone threatened your people, or when someone threatened mine? I didn’t negotiate. I didn’t warn. I doubt you did, either. I took them at their word, and I did unto them first. And I’d bet you did the same. ‘Peace’ was what you called it when everyone who wanted to make war on you or your people was dead. That’s what the After taught me, that’s what it taught you.” After emphasizing his point by gesturing between the two of them, he shook his head. “And that impulse, that set of lessons? That's not what humanity needs right now. Our skill set as leaders is not what humanity needs right now. If you want humanity to have a fresh start as you claim, drop the hostility, drop the self-righteousness, and actually try listening. Do you want a genuine peace with the Council?” Thoughtfully, he stroked the hilt of his sword where it laid across his lap.

I knew it was the fondness of being reunited with a long lost limb, but Jokul didn’t know that.

“Or a warlord’s peace with me?” In a creepy way, Arthur’s tone was downright perky. “I prefer a genuine one. A warlord’s idea of peace is one of the things I want to leave in the ashes of the After. That’s why it’s the Council who make the rules here - not warlords.”

With an alarmed expression, Jokul very slowly glanced at me. “Did he just threaten to kill me and shove me out an airlock?”

“No, he’s pouting because I wouldn’t let him do that,” I answered honestly. The topic had come up, for a solid fifteen seconds. I was even reasonably sure Arthur had been joking.

“I don’t - “ Arthur started indignantly before being cut off by Jokul.

“He makes a good point. Our skills as warlords are not what is needed in this new world. I let myself believe people who told me that the Council in general and you specifically wanted to hoard power and privilege over us, just like the people who led Earth to where it ended up.” He glanced nervously at Arthur, who was still stroking his sword, before forging ahead in a somewhat squeakier tone. “If someone who has had real power agrees that you and the Council are the best option, then I will at least try to see how that would work.”

Here, Antoine joined the conversation. “Militant strength and ruling by force aren’t the only forms of power. We do not want that sort of power over us anymore. The Council leads because the people on this ship largely want to follow them. That is the kind of power no one can force. It has to be earned.”

“But the Council still makes decisions without our will - “

Shaking my head, I angrily flicked open my datapad and shot a file to him like I was thumping off an insect. “No, Bjornson, we don’t. I was elected to my position - without my knowledge, might I add - by the people I represent to the Council. Every decision we make, the people on this ship get a vote with the exception of an emergency like what happened on Level One. There wasn’t time to have a vote on how to handle that.”

“Although, we have had a lot of emergencies lately, so I understand the confusion,” Arthur interjected.

Is this what hallucinations feel like? I wondered. There was no way in frozen hell Arthur just made a point in Jokul’s favor, but the calm, resigned look on his face told me that, at some point, he seemed to have made peace with having to treat Jokul Bjornson as a sentient being. I was going to pass out if I kept sighing, though. “Okay, true. But everything else - Insert Winter Holiday, the swimming area, the diving docks, food festivals, permanent low stimulation areas throughout the ship, Galactic Core education - those were voted on by the people on this ship, with an overwhelming majority in favor.”

“What about the alarms?” Jokul pointed to his own head for emphasis.

“Also voted on, believe it or not,” I confirmed. “ And most of the ship agreed that there was more benefit in not running into people who would react badly to unexpected touch than there was discomfort at the alarms going off.”

“I tested them myself, monsieur.” Antoine offered. “So I am well acquainted with the volume they are calibrated for, and I do not appreciate you disabling them. My staff have had to work around the clock to treat the damage your people have caused to others on this ship, who are terrified to leave their quarters now.”

Jokul looked a bit guilty at that, as well as his entourage. Looked like he hadn’t considered that. “Would you believe me if I told you that was originally an accident?” he admitted sheepishly. “One of the engineers thought it would be funny to shock another one in the neck with a low level electrical current, right behind the ear.” He turned his head and pointed to a small burn scar in the same place. “It took days for them to notice that the proximity alarm didn’t work anymore.”

To my shock, Antoine started swearing angrily in French, so fast even the translator couldn’t keep up. “Sophia, if I find out Charly Harper is the cause of this…”

Jokul shook his head vigorously. “I can assure you it was not Miss Harper.” His focus slid over to me, eyes wide.

Either this motherfucker just lied to keep Charly out of trouble, or she really was innocent.

“That explains why Derek and Zach couldn’t figure out how they did it,” Arthur pointed out. “You can’t hack into something that’s shorted out.”

Jokul spoke up again. “It also… may? Have caused some translation inconsistencies?”

“So the shock corrupted more files than just the alarms,” I stated in clarification.

“Several, in fact, yes…. Specifically signed languages and tonal languages.”

“That’s… that’s at least a third of the ship…” I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to sob in horror or laugh hysterically.

Jokul groaned before cradling his head in his hands. “I am aware, yes.”

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#the miys #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #apocalypse #found family #earth is space australia #hfy #aliens #science fiction #original fiction #my writing

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eretzyisrael · 3 years

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Has Joe Forgotten Joseph?

Now there arose a new king over Egypt, who knew not Joseph – Ex. 1:8

Ever since the day there arose a Pharaoh in Egypt who “did not know Joseph,” the dialectic of the Jewish people in diaspora has been the same. The Jews are first welcomed and treated well, but in time they grow numerous, and acquire wealth, influence, and position in society. They do exceedingly well. The reason for that is fraught with controversy, but the fact is undeniable.

And then the locals become unhappy with them. Perhaps they feel threatened, perhaps envious, perhaps greedy for the possessions amassed by the Jews. Perhaps they simply are repelled by the stubborn otherness of the Jews. Then the majority rises up, places restrictions on them, persecutes them, impoverishes them, expels them, murders them, or all of these.

It happened in Egypt, in the Roman Empire, in England, Spain, Byzantium, the Russian Empire, Iraq, and of course 20th century Europe. Over and over. Finally the Zionists realized that the only way to break out of this dialectic was to return to Jewish sovereignty, create a Jewish state of, by, and for the Jewish people. After a difficult struggle and a particularly horrific episode of large-scale mass murder, they succeeded to build a state in the historic homeland of the Jewish people.

But then the dialectic did not disappear. Rather, it raised itself to a higher level of abstraction, with the whole world playing the role of the diaspora nations and the Jewish state that of their Jewish communities; hence the expression “Israel is the Jew among nations” (usually attributed to Golda Meir).

Just like the various kings, princes, and sultans who adopted or spurned the Jews, the nations of the world took positions about the Jewish state. But as she became stronger and wealthier, and her people happier and more successful, resentment against her rose up throughout the world. Just as the Jews were accused of murdering Christian children to obtain their blood, the Jewish state was accused of horrendous crimes against Palestinians. A notorious parallel, called a 21st century blood libel, was the allegation that the IDF had murdered young Mohammed al-Dura, which became a cause célèbre for Israel-haters worldwide. Just as Jews were seen in medieval Europe as evil creatures for their refusal to accept the doctrines of Christianity, today Israel is called a racist and apartheid state.

What has happened is that while traditional Jew-hatred (although growing strongly under the radar, especially among lower economic classes in the West) has become at least publically unfashionable, misoziony, hatred of Israel no less extreme, irrational, and obsessive than Nazi antisemitism, is burgeoning. International institutions like the UN have adopted it as a pillar of their “moral” edifices, and it has become a litmus test for ideological purity on the left.

This didn’t happen by itself. It was a deliberate consequence of Soviet cognitive warfare. Starting in the 1960s, the KGB deliberately amplified anti-Israel sentiment, and worked to create it with every means at its disposal. The Soviets, well understanding the power that misoziony inherited from its Jew-hating roots, emphasized the demonization of Israel in its propaganda, contributing greatly to its strength and spread. In particular, the false identification of Zionism with racism and apartheid was a KGB creation.

Official American policy has been relatively non-misozionist since Harry Truman played the role of Cyrus the Great to the Jewish state in 1948. Elements in the State Department have always been biased against Israel to some extent, but in general US policy was rational, even friendly unless American interests (mostly connected to oil) dictated otherwise.

With the Obama presidency, America’s Mideast policy became driven by more than strict considerations of US interests. Barack Obama saw himself as motivated by moral concerns, but his moral principles were those of the contemporary Left (with a contribution from black liberation theology). He absorbed the Soviet conception of Israel as a colonialist exploiter of people of color, and saw Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu as a personal foe.

But he knew that the American people, especially including Evangelical Christians, weren’t ready for a president who would explicitly denounce Israel as a state that ought not exist. So he employed a dual strategy. On the one hand, he repeatedly assured Americans that he was committed to the security of Israel (“an unbreakable bond”), and he supported military aid to Israel, which sent a message of support while it provided leverage to control her, and weakened her domestic military industries.

On the other hand, he worked to weaken Israel and strengthen her enemies, including the PLO but especially Iran. The nuclear deal (JCPOA) with Iran, which had the effect of protecting Iran’s nuclear program instead of dismantling it, was a direct threat to Israel’s continued existence. And yet, the tortuous explanations of how this arrangement would benefit the US didn’t hold water. What is there about “death to America” that he didn’t understand? What is there about Iranian-sponsored drug trafficking that is in America’s interest? Had the Iranian regime ever done anything in response to the gifts it received from the US other than increase its support of terrorism and push harder to expand its sphere of influence, so as to surround its intended victims (Saudi Arabia, Israel, Jordan, and Egypt)?

The answer is that Obama had replaced the traditional interest-based policy with one based on his understanding of morality. Unfortunately his ignorance of history and skewed ideology produced an equally skewed morality, in which there is no room for a Jewish state. American policy had sometimes been less than supportive of Israel when the perception was that US interests required it. But for the first time, it became ideologically anti-Israel.

Obama was replaced by Donald Trump in 2017. Whatever his motives, Trump’s actions in both the symbolic and the concrete realms were consistently pro-Israel. In particular, he took the US out of the dangerous JCPOA and increased pressure on Iran, both by means of sanctions and by assisting the targets of Iran’s aggression, Israel and the Sunni Arab states. Trump’s policy severely weakened the highly unpopular regime in Iran (Obama had supported the regime when it was challenged domestically by the Green Movement in 2009).

Trump and his movement were defeated in a remarkably rancorous and brutal election struggle that left the US bitterly divided. The Joe Biden administration has chosen its foreign policy team almost entirely from former Obama Administration officials, and has appointed some particularly anti-Israel individuals to key positions, including those that will be concerned with Iran. In his first days, Biden has reversed several of Trump’s actions relating to the Palestinians, restoring aid to the Palestinian Authority and UNRWA, the UN Palestinian refugee agency, reopening the Jerusalem consulate that was the unofficial US embassy to “Palestine,” and pledging to allow the PLO office in Washington to reopen.

But it is in connection with Iran that the intention to continue Obama’s policies are the most concerning. Although Secretary of State Anthony Blinken (the “good cop” in the administration) has said that Iran will get no sanctions relief until it “returns to compliance” with the JCPOA, Biden has already given Iran several important gifts: he has said he will remove the Iran-sponsored Houthi guerrillas in Yemen from the list of designated terrorist organizations; he will no longer sell arms to Saudi Arabia in support of its war against the Houthis; and he has suspended the impending sale of F35 aircraft to the UAE, an Iranian enemy and recent ally of Israel.

Israel has been waiting for Biden to call PM Netanyahu, because Netanyahu wants to present evidence about Iranian nuclear development, and argue that rejoining the JCPOA as it stands or with minimal changes would be a serious error. Biden apparently would prefer not to have this conversation, which might result in an open break with Israel. So far he hasn’t called.

I don’t know where Biden himself is at, or indeed if he is at anyplace at all. But it seems certain that the new administration has returned to Obama-era policies on issues of concern to Israel. I wonder if any of them have questioned the rationality of helping the misogynist, homophobic, dictatorial, terror-propagating, expansionist Iranian regime get nuclear weapons?

Does the existence of a Jewish state bother them that much?

Abu Yehuda

#Jew Hatred #US-Israel Relations #Zionism

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harley-sunday · 4 years

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Things We Lost in the Fire [02]

Summary During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a nationwide crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language. Mentions of a miscarriage.

Word count: 3399

AN: Time for part two :) Would love to hear what you think, so don’t be shy about leaving a comment! Enjoy ♥

Masterlist

The drive from his mother’s house to yours is short, with only a quick stop for dinner at the Italian place you’re pretty much a regular at. You like it there because they know not to bother you with any small-talk and they always let you eat in peace. It’s also where he took you on your first date, so...

The first thing you do when you get home is text Bert, giving him some lame excuse about how this is all much tougher than you thought and how you need more time to recover. You ask for two weeks off, because that seems reasonable, and of course he agrees. Tells you to look after yourself and makes you promise you’ll let him know how you are doing sometime next week. It feels bad lying to Bert, but it appears your morals left you at the same moment those robbers left the bank.

Next, upstairs in your bedroom, you grab a chair to pull out an old battered cardboard box from somewhere deep in your closet and set out looking for your senior yearbook. You find it easily enough, even though you’re not sure why you think you need it.

It sits in your lap now, the fingers of your left hand absentmindedly tracing the embossed letters on the cover. Your right hand is holding a glass of Scotch, because that seems to have become your go-to drink every since this started. You swirl the ice cubes around in your glass, letting out a sigh, finally opening the yearbook.

You find the page that has pictures of the senior prom quick enough and you feel a sad smile forming on your lips when you see the picture of Sebastian and you as the homecoming king and queen. God, you were so happy then. You remember being giddy all night but especially after you two were crowned, because never in a million years would you have thought you’d be elected king and queen. To this day you still wonder if Josh had anything to do with it. He must have. There was some shady shit going on during the election that you know the principal tried to get to the bottom of but couldn’t and so he had no choice but to validate the outcome.

Sebastian and Josh were thick as thieves and best friends for as long as you could remember, their families living next to each other long before both boys were born. They were troublemakers, but never in a bad way, not really anyway. They got really into graffiti at some point, but nothing more than that. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

It wasn’t until a few years later that you found out Josh was into some pretty shady shit during senior year.

Your fingers caress the picture gently and there’s a quiet, “Oh, Seb,” escaping you because what the hell ever happened to you two? It’s then you remember the envelope his mother gave you and you reach for your purse that’s sitting on the ground next to the couch. You take out the envelope and spot his handwriting on the back immediately, a hastily scribbled Lubirea Mea in the center.

My Love

There’s something wet dripping down your cheeks and it takes you a moment to realize you’re crying. Weird. Must be the Scotch. Or the trip down memory lane you’ve embarked on today. Or the fact that even now you still you remember the few Romanian words he’s taught you and how he’s still calling you this after all these years.

You became friends in sophomore year, when Mrs Ellis sat you next to each other in art class and you admired the drawings he had decorated his binder with. Then, in senior year, he asked you to be his girlfriend on New Year’s Eve. He had taken you on a few dates in the weeks before that, but nothing compared to the big party Josh hosted at his parents’ beach house that evening.

Just going there and being seen together made it official to the outside world.

Sebastian waited until it was almost midnight to confess he had a crush on you and kissed you passionately for the first time just as the clock struck twelve and fireworks erupted all around you. It was romantic as hell and would set the standard for your relationship the next three and a half years. Because if anything, he was a hopeless romantic. The envelope you’re holding now telling you he probably still is.

When you went away to Columbus State University after high school and he stayed in Savannah you still found ways to make it work. After your second year you found a cheap apartment close to campus so he could stay with you without a roommate to worry about. The first couple of months of that school year were everything you wanted it to be because he came to visit you almost every weekend and you could see a future together slowly starting to form. He told you he’d been saving money, even though he wouldn’t really tell you how, just that he was working together with Josh on a couple of projects. It didn’t matter to you. All you wanted was to follow him into this dream of buying a house on the coast somewhere and raising a family together.

You trusted him to do what was best for you two. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Because everything changed on your three-year anniversary.

Josh hosted another one of his infamous parties at the beach house, which was now his after his parents decided to spend their retirement in the Bahamas, and, like every year, he invited you even though you hadn’t seen Josh since you left for university and weren’t as close to him as you once were. You knew by then Josh had a reputation in Savannah, his parties often raided by the police because they suspected drugs were being dealt and used. They never caught anyone and sometimes it almost felt like Josh was taunting them.

You were hesitant to go to the party but Sebastian took you out to dinner first anyway, a fancy restaurant on the other side of town that was way too expensive as far as you were concerned but that he deemed fitting for your anniversary. Dinner was nice and not for the first time during your relationship you felt like everything was as it should be. And so when you finally gathered enough courage you told him the big news.

You were ten weeks pregnant.

You’ve never seen him that happy before and you’ve never seen him that happy again since, because when you eventually made it to the beach house you were met with an awful sight. The house was completely engulfed in flames, police and firemen swarming the area, ambulances taking away the injured to nearby hospitals. You heard him curse quietly as he drove up to the house and it was then you saw Josh being wheeled out on a stretcher, unconscious, his body badly burned. Without saying a word you followed the ambulance to the hospital, waiting there for what felt like days even though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours until the doctors informed you of his condition.

Josh suffered third degrees burns on his face, chest, stomach, arms and legs, and the doctors could already confirm he’d lost eyesight in at least one eye, the second one being dangerously close to following. He would have a long road ahead of him, they warned you, if he even would make it out alive. You stayed in the hospital until his parents arrived the next day, but even then Sebastian never left Josh’ side.

No matter how hard you tried, he wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t leave the hospital in case Josh would wake up, and so you had to go to there to say goodbye to him when you went back to Columbus after the winter break was over. He seemed distracted, but you figured he was still in shock from everything that happened and sort of admired his loyalty to Josh.

You talked on the phone a couple of times after that, but you never saw him after that last goodbye. Not when you told him you were stressed out about your upcoming exams. Not when you told him you missed him. Not when you begged him to please come see you.

Not even when you told him you’d lost the baby somewhere in the early stages of the second trimester.

He was slipping away from you and there was nothing you could do.

Eventually the findings of the police made it clear that the fire was drug-related and even believed to be an attack on Josh’ life. By then you had learned that Josh had woken up from his coma and that crime still raged in Savannah, some sort of retaliation of what happened that night. There were a lot of gang-related incidents and people were getting beaten up and left for dead almost daily.

You called Sebastian some time in April of that year, fed up with everything, and ended things. You told him you were done. Well, you told his voicemail, because he never answered his phone anymore, and he sure as hell never called back.

You saw him only once after you broke up, in the local CVS of all places on one of your rare trips back to Savannah. You tried to avoid him, tried to make it outside without having to talk to him, but like always he found you easily enough. He tried to apologize for everything that happened, but all you could focus on was how terrible he looked, his face sunken in, his knuckles scraped and bruised, and you couldn’t help but wonder just how much he was involved in all of this. The crimes and the beatings and maybe even the drugs.

You dropped out of university shortly after, needing time to make sense of everything that happened in the last six months, promising the student counselor you’d keep in touch about finishing your last year. You never did. You moved to Atlanta to get away from everything, but mostly to get away from him and the memories of him. Atlanta was a nice distraction, at least the first couple of years.

It took you three years to not think about him every single day. Five years to pretty much forget about him and be sort of happy again. You made it to ten years before you started longing for Savannah again. Made it to twelve before you finally decided to move back.

And now here you are, back in Savannah and back to thinking about him again. You wonder why he still has such a hold over you, because you are sure every normal, sane, person would just turn him in. But not you.

No.

You are sitting here, ten minutes after midnight, on your third glass of Scotch, still turning that fucking envelope over and over in your hands, the melancholy of it all settled somewhere deep in your chest. You put the glass down on the coffee table and sit back, taking a deep breath and then you open the envelope, carefully taking out the piece of paper that’s inside.

You’re not sure what you expected, but not this.

Vă rog.

Please.

You don’t make the drive to Pawleys Island right away. Not in the least because well, you’re definitely over the limit, but also because after reading his plea you suddenly feel so, so tired. You barely make it to bed, stumbling over your shoes that are lying on the floor somewhere and taking your sweet time trying to conquer the stairs while the world is spinning all around you. You vow right then and there never to drink again. Not that much, anyway.

You sleep for at least twelve hours, waking up somewhere in the middle of Wednesday, the afternoon sun shining through your window way too brightly for your liking. By then it’s too late to make the drive, and so you decide to clean your house. It’s your go-to method of dealing with things when you’re upset and it’s quite useful to be honest. Once that’s done you find your trusted duffel bag and pack some clothes. You tell yourself it’s just in case, but somehow you know you won’t be back here for at least a couple of days.

Once that’s done you order a pizza and decide to call Detective Johansson to let him know you’re leaving for at least a week, just to get him off your back. He doesn’t seem very interested and you wonder if you should have even bothered.

You’re up early, nerves keeping you from falling back asleep and so you’re on the road before eight, hitting a little bit of traffic on your way out of town, but things immediately quiet down once you cross into South Carolina. The sun is out and from experience you know it should take you about three hours to get to Pawleys Island, a beautiful drive, the memories of those endless summers coming back as you make your way down the 17, getting closer to the coast after Charleston.

You stop for a coffee and something to eat in Georgetown because you doubt he’ll take you out to lunch once you get there. Panic hits then, because what if he isn’t even there? He doesn’t know you’re coming. It’s not like you made an appointment to go see him. Jesus, what if this was all for nothing? You try to calm yourself by reasoning that his mother must have let him know that you’ve come to see her and that he probably figured out you would come out some time this week.

Wanting to get it over with you ask for a to-go cup at the counter and pour your coffee over, leaving your half-eaten sandwich on the table as you rush back to your car. It’s only about twenty minutes from here, but traffic is slow and so you quietly curse everyone on the road with you.

A wave of nausea hits you when you pull up in front of the beach house. It’s been completely demolished after the fire and the house that stands there now doesn’t have any resemblance to the old house if not for blue window panes. Well, what once were blue window panes anyway. The exterior of the house is in decay, paint is chipping pretty much everywhere and the shrubs have grown so high they’re now covering the porch. It’s weird to think the last time you were here was over sixteen years ago.

You sit in your car for a while, gathering up the courage you need for this. You wonder if he knows you’re here, if he’s already seen you from somewhere behind a window. How free does he feel here? Is this just where he hides out after a robbery or does he live here? Do the neighbors know him? Is Josh with him? God, you don’t even know if Josh is still alive. You shake your head to get rid off all the questions that are now going through your mind in a never ending loop and take a deep breath. You grab your purse from the passenger’s seat, finding the key his mother gave you in the side pocket, and get out of your car.

Looking straight ahead you walk up to the house, a small path cleared in between the shrubs wide enough for you to pass through. You hesitate for a moment when you get to the door, but then you mutter a quiet, “Fuck it,” and open it using the key in your hand. It’s light inside, far from the dark drug den you were expecting, and it throws you off a bit. Closing the door behind you, you take it all in. It’s weird how normal it looks inside compared to faded exterior. It’s completely furnished and almost homely and it’s then you wonder if this is where he lives. You half expect a kid or a dog to come running at you from somewhere then because it’s been pretty bold of you to assume he’d still be single. God, there’s a lot you don’t know about him, you realize, and you wonder what version of him you’ll find here.

“Hello?” you call out, but there’s no reply. Curiosity drives you forward, passing the kitchen on your right, to the living room in front of you. Strangely enough the layout of the house is the same as before and so you find your way effortlessly. The far wall of the living room, on the other end of the house, is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sliding door on the left side.

The door is open and leads to a deck outside and it’s there you see him, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs. He looks relaxed, a cup of coffee in his hand, today’s newspaper on the table next to him. You tap on the glass of the door, not wanting to startle him even though you know you really should care less about his general well-being. But you want answers and those are hard to come by if you scare him to death, you reason.

He looks up and over his shoulder, a smile creeping onto his lips when he sees it’s you.

“Fuck,” you mutter quietly, because honestly, he looks as good as ever and your knees, your fucking knees, actually go weak. Using the door frame for support you step outside and see him stand up.

“Dragă,” he says, his voice smooth as butter.

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back, because does he really think he can still call you ‘babe’ after all these years.

“I’m sorry,” he says, actually dropping his head and you feel yourself getting angry because what is he, an actor now? No way does he actually feel sorry. It’s all part of this act of his, you’re sure. His way to get redemption.

But is it?

Because when he looks up at you again there’s this sincerity in his eyes that you’ve seen before. You’ve seen it every time he told you he loved you. Dammit. You decide you need some distance and so you walk back until you bump into the railing, leaning against it you cross your arms defensively, letting him know you’re not here for his bullshit. You take him in, all of him, and are surprised to see he hasn’t changed much. His eyes are still the same. A few wrinkles around them, sure, but still that same striking blue that you could get lost in for hours. His hair’s a little shorter than it was back in high school and there’s a little grey around his temples and in his beard but it suits him.

He still has a lean physique but he’s much more muscular now, and you wonder how many hours a week he spends at the gym. He’s wearing a simple white and blue striped t shirt, his biceps stretching the fabric just enough so that you can tell he’s flexing. The jeans he’s wearing are dark blue, his sneakers so white you wonder if they’re new. He looks nothing like the hardened criminal you made him out to be, and much more like a happily married father of three that you hope he isn’t.

God, what if he isn’t involved? What if he’s just like, their accountant or something? You shake your head you know he’s not.

“Coffee?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s standing up, but keeping his distance as he walks to the door.

It sounds like a normal question but this whole situation is absurd and so it takes you a while to reply. “That depends,” you finally say, one eyebrow raised, “am I just here for some small-talk or are you actually going to tell me everything?”

“Dragă, please,” he says, but realizes his mistake and quickly adds, “You’re here because I need-” he looks at you, “I need you to know everything.”

“Then I’m going to need something stronger than coffee.” And, because you’re still angry, a sneer, “Babe.”

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Things We Lost in the Fire #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

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globe-trotter-80 · 3 years

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Stories of a Linguistics Minor in Customer Service During a Pandemic

A key component of any service industry job is being able to alter your tone, word choice, and other aspects of communication depending on the customer. Subtle manipulation, it may be, but my experience this past year has proven it a necessary skill. Linguistic anthropology offers a way to explain the differences both in the question’s phrasing and the responses from customers based on gender, ideology, age, and other factors. By drawing conclusions from my own experiences, I hope to highlight how these factors influence certain responses from customers.

“Hello! Can I offer you a mask?”

A simple question, right? You would think so, wouldn’t you? However, if the past year has proven anything, it is that anything can become political. In the 2020 election, my county voted 53% Biden to 45% Trump, though Trump had more support in the suburbs where my store was located. If there was a Venn Diagram of anti-maskers and Trump supporters in my area, it would almost be a circle. There are two stories that demonstrate how being an anti-masker is automatically associated with being a Trump-supporting Republican.

The first example came from one middle-aged woman who came into guest services to make a return. She did not have a mask on and seemed not to notice this until halfway through our interaction when she froze and immediately exclaimed, “Oh! I forgot my mask! I swear I’m not a Republican!” We then gave her a mask as she continued to apologize and swear to us that she was not an anti-masker. In her mind, to not wear a mask signified one was a Republican, which makes sense given the area we live in. My coworkers and I were grateful she realized this herself and we were not forced to ask her to wear one because, as a whole, we’ve had terrible experiences, as you will see.

One example of a less than stellar interaction was with a middle-aged man wearing a Blue Lives Matter shirt, who when asked if he needed a mask, responded that no, he would not be needing a mask, because he was not an idiot. Now, this is an interesting response for two reasons. First, if there was any correlation between wearing a mask and intelligence, you would think wearing a mask would signify higher intelligence. Apparently not to this man. Furthermore, his response indicated he thought I was an idiot for wearing a mask. Second, Blue Lives Matter is associated with the Republican party, especially in response to the Black Lives Matter movement’s growing support. Because of this association, I concluded that this man was a Republican and any further attempt to persuade him would be futile and could potentially evolve into an altercation. Therefore, I did as I was instructed by my superiors to do- I let him walk off with no mask.

This story also highlights another aspect of linguistic anthropology that I want to highlight- the importance of gender in the way conversation is instructed. As a twenty year old girl with coworkers that tend to also be young women, we are accustomed to the attitude some men tend to give us. Men as customers tend to talk down to employees, especially female employees, through interrupting (Dent, Parallelism and Gender). Moreover, there have been times when it seems they simply disregard any instructions in favor of doing it their way, which is normally completely wrong (Dent, Parallelism and Gender). This behavior is also seen in response to the question asking men to put on a mask, regardless of ideology.

For example, a younger man came in without a mask on. I could not be sure if he subscribed to a particular political ideology, but I could tell you he did not respect female service workers. In response to asking him to put on a mask, he instead said, “No, I’m good. And you shouldn’t wear one either--” Here, he paused for dramatic effect, before continuing, “You’re too pretty to cover up half your face.” Now, I cannot say for sure whether or not he would have said this to my male coworkers, but I have a feeling “pretty” would not be his word of choice. Additionally, I am still not sure what his goal was when he said that other than to make me uncomfortable. He effectively used his position as a man and as a customer to demean me as a woman and an employee. However, I concede that he still would have said no to a mask, even if a male coworker had asked instead.

Service industry employees, regardless of gender, tend to utilize “women’s speech” as defined by sociolinguist Robin Lakoff (186). These include:

Tag questions in place of declaratives

Empty adjectives such as cute or charming

Hedges such as sort of, kind of, and I guess

Intensifiers such as so and very

Sounds to indicate sympathy or listening

Generally “indirect” forms.

Because of these phrases and forms of speech, men tend to register this as being indecisive or hesitant, which leads to the interrupting and/or disregarding of instructions. However, in the case of the customer-employee relationship, I assert that female customers are also likely to interrupt employees.

In this next story, a fairly old, albeit spry, woman came up to guest services and began her story with “Now I just wanted you to hear it from me first before they made it up here.” This woman was a proud mask-wearer and made sure to make that explicitly clear to me, my coworker, and my manager, who she insisted we call over. It turns out that she had made this opinion also clear to a family of anti-maskers by taking a Nerf Gun and shooting the children in the head. My female manager frequently hummed sounds of sympathy and nodded her head at all the right moments to indicate she was listening. My manager said, “I kind of see your point” and “I guess I understand where you’re coming from” and “No, they were being very disruptive.” Each time, my manager would start a sentence, this woman would just keep interrupting to continue her rant about anti-maskers. In the end, she made the statement that all these anti-maskers must have been raped at gunpoint. How she connected that to confessing she shot two kids with a nerf gun, I am still not sure, but she continually interrupted my manager, just as male customers continually interrupted me. It seems that my manager’s authority in this case is superseded by the customer’s authoritative tone.

Authority in terms of linguistic anthropology is interesting in a customer service frame. Knowing what I do and don’t have the authority to say is a delicate balancing act, even more so with my managers. So, when there is already the precarious position of talking to a customer and there is the addition of a highly charged political issue during an election year, there is sure to be some ambiguity on who has the authority and when. Technically, Target is ‘doing its best to enforce state and local regulations concerning mask wearing,’ but this is merely corporate jargon used to deflect blame for sick employees and keep customers happy. This mindset is then passed from corporate to middle management to entry-level employees. At the end of the day, my job is to make customers happy.

So, what happens when one customer is upset over people not wearing masks and another customer is upset over having to wear a mask, such as in the example above? Most disgruntled customers do not turn to Nerf Guns, but instead track down the nearest employee to make their opinion clear. Both sides seem to believe that employees are completely on their side and, more importantly, have some control over how store policy is enforced. Despite this idea, I and other entry-level employees do not have any real authority over other customers’ actions. The extent of my authority when it comes to mask-wearing is changing how I ask customers to wear one, but I cannot force them to wear one. My managers’ authority is also limited; they can essentially only ask people to wear one and attempt to explain to concerned customers why their hands are tied.

In my experience, when I try to give the illusion of authority, I tend to adjust my manner of speaking and leverage the frame of the customer-employee relationship (Dent, The Monologic). Factors like confidence and force have impacted the successfulness of asking someone to wear a mask. Additionally, by attempting to emphasize my position as part of the company rather than a low-level employee, I can give the appearance of representing the company and its interests. By doing this, I subconsciously shift away from “women’s speech” as addressed early by being very direct in my speech and actions. While it is never entirely effective, I take comfort in knowing that I am doing my best to enforce regulations and protect not only myself and my coworkers, but other customers as well. Though some may find gratification in having manipulated customers into complying with certain actions despite using “women’s speech”, I find it to be counterproductive to my goal and hardly empowering (Hall, 1995). By consciously choosing to embody more masculine ways of talking and giving myself more authority in my tone and word choice, I am trying to assert agency over my linguistic patterns in order to obtain a specific goal: to get more people to wear a mask (Zimman, 2019). Another point of note is how I use specific words to index that I am asking on behalf of the company and others by using “we” versus “I”. By shifting to third-person pronouns, I can leverage my authority in a way that seems like others support me, even if Target seems to barely care about enforcing their mask policy.

When it comes to balancing the different identity factors of guests and answering the question of just how much authority do I have, asking people if they could wear a mask is a daunting task. Some of my coworkers have given up trying to enforce our policy whatsoever, which makes sense given the political affiliations of my area, while others, such as myself, are still trying our best to weather this pandemic. Certain phrases and attitudes seem to have some effect on the efficacy of carrying out our policy, but I have needed to be careful of knowing the boundary. Given that men tend to automatically disregard me as a woman, especially if I use “women’s speech,” I have started to utilize more direct speech with male customers. Some still ignore me, of course, but it is amusing to see them stare at the ceiling so they cannot make eye contact with me. With women, there are less cases of anti-maskers, but they tend to make more complaints about either violations or attempt to gain sympathy for “having to endure wearing a stuffy mask.” In response, I do tend to use more “women’s speech,” in order to make them feel as though they are being heard and their concerns are valid. However, in the end, my authority is what I am relying on to get more people to comply with our mask policy. It is fascinating to see aspects of linguistic anthropology at work in my daily life and how I can use my knowledge to positively impact my community.

By: Savannah, A Very Tired Target Employee

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purplesurveys · 3 years

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1046

Does it annoy you when people make their default of them kissing someone? I don’t mind kissing photos or icons. But hmm, I can imagine being a little grossed out if it’s an image of them kissing with tongue or if it’s generally a little on the sloppy side.

Are there any names you can think of that just go well together? Well there’s...a lot of names in existence lmao, so there’s a lot of combinations out there that I like for sure. I just don’t rank them and I don’t have a name combination of choice just yet.

Do you enjoy museums? I’m obsessed with museums. In every single one of our family trips, my dad has always made sure to book at least one museum visit for me so I can return back home happy, hahaha. I also visit and revisit museums in my own time, and I’m open to going to any kind of museum whether it’s natural history, art, science, ancestral homes, etc.

Have you ever met anyone famous? One of my coworkers plays the drums for a local band that’s got a bit of a following, so it was definitely a shock when I first saw his name in our work group chat. Someone I used to be close friends with in the local wrestling community is now an actor/influencer and doing a billion gigs and photoshoots all day. We’re still mutuals so every now and then I’d comment on one of his posts and congratulate him on how far he’s come.

Describe the scariest dream you can remember? I never like it when someone I love is shot in my dreams. The scariest dream I had recently is probably the one where I watched three planes drop to the ground all at the same time and explode.

Have you ever been to a mint where they make money? Nopes. I think the BSP had been part of one of Nina’s field trips before, but my batch didn’t get to have the itinerary.

Do you ever get really, really hyper? Occasionally.

Are you left or right handed, or ambidextrous? Right-handed.

If ambidextrous, do you prefer writing with your right or left hand?

What is your favourite subject at school? Any history elective, biology, political science.

Do you ever use Yahoo! Answers? For seriousness or for trolling? I used to read both serious (when I have a legit question) and funny (when I was bored and just wanted to lurk on the site) items on it. These days, when I have a genuine question, Google usually pulls up a Quora link which I find has been more helpful than Yahoo! Answers ever was.

Have you ever stepped on a thumb tack? No, but my brother did when he was a baby and was first learning how to walk.

Do you have a username you use for everything? Or does it change each site? I use my first name + surname for more serious, professional websites. Then I have a go-to for everything else.

Are you in Miami bitch? :D No. Not really interested in going to Florida at all, to be honest.

How did you break the last bone you broke? I’ve never broken a bone.

Have you ever used Nexopia? Never used, never heard of it before.

What has been the best year of school for you so far? Junior year of both high school (2014-15) and college (2018-19) were really great for me. There was a string of good events that happened in both, and I was able to have a lot of fun, gain friends, and have a number of positive learning and growing-up experiences.

Do you have any disorders or disabilities? I’ve always worried that I have BPD, but from the time I started considering it until today I’ve only done self-diagnosis, so idk. There’s definitely a lot more to unpack when it comes to me, mentally and psychologically.

Do you ever watch How To videos? Not really. How It’s Made videos are fun to watch though.

Do you enjoy trolling? It doesn’t even sound fun.

Have you ever been to an emergency room? If so, what for? Never been.

Which emoticon face do you use most often? Things like: :) :( :D :P :L D: Most of the time I’ll use the open- and closed-mouth smileys. I use the sad face as well, and occasionally I’ll pull out the :3 and :/ emoticons.

Are you a musical sort of person? I mean, are you musically talented? Yeah, not at all. I can’t sing, read music, nor play any instrument.

How did you break the first phone you broke? So my mom hooked my first phone to a lanyard that I was made to wear as it was the surest way I wouldn’t be able to lose it (I was 7, which really should not be an age for kids to receive their first phones lol). One day I was being a little more rambunctious than usual, and while moving around the hook to the lanyard suddenly came off, and the phone crashed to the ground. It messed up the screen a bit and the hook also got a little fucked from there; eventually the phone came off during my 1st grade field trip and I never realized, and I lost the phone.

Did you have a tree house when you were a kid? If so, did you ever fall from it? We did not have a treehouse. My grandpa surely would’ve been the type to make one for his grandkids as he’s great at building stuff and working with wood, but it just wasn’t plausible considering most trees here are crawling with fire ants and other weird and potentially dangerous insects.

Have you ever been on vacation to a snow field? I don’t know what that is but I’ll go ahead and say no as I’ve never seen snow anyway.

When you go on vacation, what mode of transport do you usually use? We take road trips most of the time because my dad likes to drive. But if it’s gonna be on another island in the country, like Palawan or Batanes, then we obviously have to take a plane.

What is the worst show, in your opinion on MTV? The best? I don’t care for any shows on MTV and I typically think most of them look like they suck. The few ones I’ve seen, like Teen Wolf and Scream, certainly didn’t help.

Do you like Jason Derϋlo? Eh, some of his hit songs are catchy but I’m not a fan fan.

Are there any movies that just creep you out so much? Aside from everything about it being creepy, Eraserhead is just so depressing to watch. Midsommar is also a freaky film.

Have you ever had a close encounter with a shark? I don’t think so.

Do you have any hotties on your walls? I have a poster of Nam Joo Hyuk that Angela got me when she went to South Korea, but he’s more cute than hot to me tbh.

Do you ever wish dinosaurs came back to life and there were cute and snuggly? Not really. But it would’ve been interesting to see how they would look like in real life, and know their temperament and things like that.

How many countries have you been to? Aside from having been around my own, 6.

How many states have you been to? In all the countries you’ve been to? We stayed in one city/state for each country I’ve gone to - Bali, Singapore, Johor, Shanghai, Jeju, and Fukuoka.

What is a song you heard long before it became popular and everyone liked it? Idk about songs, but this was me with The Crown lol.

Do you enjoy designing things? Anything? Not my thing at all. This is more of Nina’s specialty. Girl can make anything look pretty.

Do you know anyone who has gotten themselves into a serious accident? Yeah. Off the top of my head, I remember my aunt getting involved in a hit-and-run with a motorcycle and needing to get a number of stitches on her head. My cousin Joelle also got into a bad car accident a few Christmases ago that totally wrecked her vehicle.

Can you play anything on the violin? Nope, I never learned how to play. It’s one of my favorite instruments though.

Do you know what a raincheck at stores is? Never heard of that. I’ve heard some people say “I’m gonna have to take a rain check” whenever they abruptly have to bail on a plan at the last minute, but I think you’re talking of a different raincheck here.

Whose funeral was the last you went to? Nacho’s wake. Never been to a funeral.

Who got married at the last funeral you went to? That’s pretty fucked up.

What do you think of excessively long names? What about their shortenings? I don’t have an opinion on either.

Do you ever get hay fever? No.

Do you know anyone with the last name Pilbeam? Never heard of that surname before.

When you were little, did you have those magnet letters on your fridge? We may have had those? I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the fridge I grew up with for a while now. I do know Athenna had those magnet poetry phases on her family’s fridge and we used to try to make poems with them.

Have you seen the Techno Jeep video on YouTube? I have not, and it doesn’t sound familiar.

Does your house have a wood fire? No.

Do you know what a Pibgorn is? I don’t think so. I can’t recognize the term.

Can you learn the lyrics of a song by ear, or do you have to search them up? It’s 50/50 for me. Sometimes it’ll be easy for me to recognize the lyrics, and other times it’s incredibly difficult.

Do you like the name Amy? It’s a pretty name. I’d consider it as a second or third name.

Have you ever got an x-ray? How about a brain scan? Just an x-ray.

#survey #surveys

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yasbxxgie · 4 years

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This year’s clashes between protestors and the police from Portland to Atlanta to Kenosha are the latest flashpoints in the long history of policing in America. While the police today emerged from a hodge-podge of national and international iterations, one of the United States’ earliest and most storied forces, the New York City police, offers modern Americans a lesson in the intractability of problems between the black community and the officers sworn to uphold the law. That long history is both bleak and demoralizing. But this past also reminds us that real change will only happen by learning from the collective American experience, one in which those who supported systems of oppression were met by others who bravely battled against them.

As the nation’s most populous city for most of its history, New York has been uniquely affected by this dynamic. In the decades before the Civil War, when Gotham’s police force was becoming regularized and professionalized, Manhattan routinely erupted in riotous violence over the very meaning of equality.

No one individual embodied the brawling roughness of New York policing like Captain Isiah Rynders of the U.S. Marshals. Born in 1804 in the Hudson River town of Waterford, New York, Rynders was a gambler on Mississippi River steamboats. He reportedly killed a man after a card game and fled to his home state around 1837. Known for his thunderous voice, a powerful memory, and a penchant for histrionics, Rynders made an immediate impact on New York City. Black New Yorkers became his main target, and for decades, he patrolled the streets looking for runaways who had escaped enslavement in the South and who, against tremendous odds, had found freedom in Manhattan.

The Constitution’s Fugitive Slave Clause required northern free cities like New York to return the self-emancipated to their southern enslavers, and the NYPD and officers like Rynders were only too willing to comply, conveniently folding their hatred of black people into their reverence for the nation’s founding document. Armed with the founders’ compromise over slavery, Rynders and his fellow officers, men like Tobias Boudinot and Daniel D. Nash, terrorized New York’s black community from the 1830s up through the Civil War.

And, even worse, it often mattered little whether a black person was born free in New York or had in fact escaped bondage; the police, reinforced by judges like the notorious city recorder Richard Riker, sent the accused to southern plantations with little concern and often even less evidence.

Thanks to Rynders, Boudinot, and Nash, the New York police department had become an extension of the powerful reach of southern slavery, and each month—and often each week in the summer months—brought news of another kidnapping or capture of a supposed runaway. Black New Yorker John Thomas, for example, was claimed by an enslaver from Louisville, Kentucky. Thomas purportedly fled slavery along the Ohio River, then travelled through Canada, and ultimately found a job as a porter in a Manhattan hotel. In late 1860, Thomas was arrested as a fugitive by the Manhattan police. While in prison, Thomas hastily drafted a note, dropped it out his cell window, and asked a passing boy to give the note to his employer, who submitted a writ of habeas corpus.

Unfortunately, the marshal on duty was none other than Rynders, who produced a different black man in response to the writ, and the judge declared the writ satisfied. In the meantime, Thomas’ employer and friends learned, too late, that one of Rynders’ deputies had taken the real John Thomas to Richmond, where he would be transported to Kentucky, lost in the darkness of American slavery, like untold numbers of other kidnapping victims.

Fortunately, New York’s black community was not without heroic defenders like David Ruggles, the tireless activist and journalist. Ruggles led the city’s antislavery community while the likes of Rynders, Riker, Boudinot and Nash, a group so wicked that Ruggles had labeled them “the kidnapping club,” patrolled the streets and docks in search of their next prey. Joined by activists like Horace Dresser, Arthur Tappan, Charles B. Ray and other antislavery protestors, Ruggles fought relentlessly against those officers and marshals who threatened black liberty. Just as modern protestors decry the role of the police in the quest for order, black and white activists in pre-Civil War New York claimed that the force was little more than a vigilante expression of the worst tendencies of white residents. A more professionalized police force, however, did not mean one more suited to the protection of black civil rights. On the contrary, in the early 1800s, the police proved sadly and persistently indifferent to the black lives they were supposed to protect.

By modern standards, the early NYPD was a ragtag band of barely organized and only partially trained officers. The daytime police remained inadequate to deal with the robberies, violence, prostitution, gambling and other crimes of a city approaching 300,000 people in the 1830s. Only 16 constables, elected by citizens of each ward, along with about 60 marshals appointed by the mayor, patrolled the city. Only constables and marshals had the power to arrest under a magistrate’s orders. Armed with warrants issued by Riker, marshals like Rynders could terrorize Gotham’s black residents, who came to fear the police presence in their neighborhoods.

Part of the fear emanated from the fact that Rynders’ confederates Boudinot and Nash did not wear uniforms or carry any kind of badge signifying their authority. The familiar dark blue uniforms of the NYPD were not instituted until the 1850s, so African Americans harassed or arrested by the police could not even be sure that they were being accosted by legal authorities. Equally problematic was the fact that neither Nash nor Boudinot earned regular salaries on which they could depend; their ability to support themselves and their families came from fees set by state law, which virtually required officials to arrest as many people as possible. The situation almost guaranteed corruption, and tied the financial interests of the New York police force to the financial interests of southern slaveowners. Not that they needed any push to over-police the black community, but patrollers like Nash and Boudinot had every incentive to use their blanket writ to arrest as many accused fugitive slaves as they possibly could. In fact, their financial well-being depended on it.

Boudinot and Nash operated almost like independent agents in a police force that was itself in disarray, an institutional chaos that only rendered Black lives even more vulnerable. Fernando Wood, elected mayor in 1854, controlled the police department and relied heavily on Irish immigrants to man the force. But by the 1850s, anti-Irish politicians were trying to establish a new police force, soon to be called the Metropolitans, that would replace Wood’s Municipals. A clash erupted in 1857 when Wood refused to back down, and for months, the city actually had two competing police departments who battled each other as much as they combatted crime.

Both Wood’s Municipals and the state’s Metropolitans were guilty of malfeasance and dereliction of duty. In fact, the Municipals, led by police chief George Matsell, had been called “slave catchers” by the city’s black community and its allies in the Republican press. Matsell, a member of the NYPD since 1840, himself was suspected of corruption, and rumors spread that he extorted money from criminals, seized stolen property for his own use, and skimmed the profits of illegal activities. By the time the Municipals and Metropolitans vied for control of the New York police, Matsell had managed to build a sprawling summer mansion within a vast vineyard in Iowa, where local landmarks still bear his name. New York politician Mike Walsh labeled the heavy-set Matsell a “walking mass of moral and physical putrefaction.”

The crisis between the Municipals and the Metropolitans was only resolved when Wood and the Municipals finally backed down and the Metropolitans emerged as the city’s permanent and only official police force. Yet, the new police force proved no more respectful of black lives. Boudinot became a captain in one of the city’s main wards and Rynders became a Democratic elder statesman during and after the war. In fact, New York City, always ready to defend the cotton trade with the South, voted against Lincoln in 1860 and harbored racial conservatives like Wood during the war and after. Embodied by newspapers like The New York Weekly Caucasian, one of the nation’s most prominent promulgators of white supremacist ideology, the city remained an unfriendly place for African Americans.

One hundred and fifty years later, policing has changed a great deal, particularly in its militarization and organization, but the tensions between the nation’s black communities and the police are still very much evident. Black Americans have been fully aware of this history for generations because they have been the objects of so much of the violent quest for law and order. Although many people might assume that Riker’s Island was named after the city recorder, it appears that the name originates less from an individual and more from Manhattan’s general Dutch heritage. But though their origins may be different, both the prison and the city recorder share a similar past of neglecting the plight and suffering the New York’s most vulnerable residents.

Now, with some white Americans learning the fraught history of policing for the first time, have they come to realize that the last moments and utterances of Eric Garner, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and untold others are but modern expressions of a deep and deadly struggle that stretches back to America’s earliest beginnings.

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ao3porcelainstorm · 3 years

Text

poison ivy & stinging nettles 26

On Ao3

Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 25 - Chapter 27

Chapter 26 - Fall

The Journal of Amelia Brenner

My therapist suggested I try writing down my thoughts. She said it might help me reflect on all that’s happened, a way to take on the grief.

I don’t really have a lot to say. I don’t think. I’ve never really been a writer, words are hard to come up with. It’s fair easier to throw a bottle of red paint at a wall and call it anger.

So I’ll just write down what I know.

John’s started up with his therapist again. I guess he’d stopped since meeting Sherlock, but since everything- he’s not doing well. I don’t think any of us are.

We moved out of Baker Street. There’s too much there. Everything just radiated Sherlock Holmes and I think the memories are still too fresh for both of us.

Ruthie is letting us rent the apartment above the old flower shop. The whole building was rebuilt and renovated. It’s better than it was before the fire- if I’m being honest. Not to mention, it’s bigger and doesn’t have the distinct smell of human flesh and sulfur.

John’s at work a lot more. When he’s home, he goes straight to bed. Sometimes he’ll come home stumbling from the pub.

I get it. I’d done my fair share of drinking alone, watching Doctor Who reruns all day.

Molly won’t answer my calls. I’m worried she’s not doing well, but I can’t find the energy to get dressed and visit in person. I can’t find the energy to do much anymore.

I tried painting the other day and ended up kicking a hole through the canvas. John came home and found me with a bottle of Merlot, laying in the middle of my room- the walls coated with thrown bottles of paint.

He suggested I get a day job to pass the time. Maybe he’s right.

All of my free time had become Sherlock.

I followed him to crime scenes, talked to him, laughed with him, slept with him. Everything was him. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t bad at all. For once, it was nice to feel important, to help bring happiness to others. I was spending time with the man I love and my best friend, every day.

Who could ask for anything better? I loved my life and now it’s careening off the rails and no matter how long I stare at the cliff I’m headed toward, I refuse to accept the reality for what it is.

Sherlock Holmes is dead, and there’s nothing that will change that.

(--)

Amelia had been through her fair share of no-win scenarios.

It wasn’t missed that the majority of them had happened since Sherlock stumbled into her life, but she wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. Life lessons and finding love; all that nonsense.

So, when Moriarty wasn’t convicted for his part in the large crimes he’d committed in broad daylight, she realized that once again, they’d fallen into his game. A game where there were never any winners in the end.

Sherlock didn’t handle the news well. He was short-tempered, distracted, and when the little girl screamed as she’d recognized him, Amelia didn’t miss the murmurs and rumors that stirred after he fumed out of Scotland Yard.

She didn’t miss the uneasy look John shot her, or the other officers’ eyes boring into her back- more rumors that connected dots regarding her relationship with the detective.

He’d had a meltdown before they tried to arrest him, ranting about Moriarty making his move.

He was in the spotlight now, John had mentioned so much after the painting had been returned and Sherlock’s photographs peppered the front pages of local papers.

It was a wise time to strike, on Moriarty’s part, even Amelia had to sheepishly agree with the logic.

When Sherlock, and soon John, were arrested, Amelia hurried out to watch the men run off- Sherlock acting like he’d lost his mind.

She sprinted after them, promising Greg she’d calm them down. Figure out what happened.

Clear his name, was the unspoken promise between her and the unnerved inspector.

The boys moved fast, reminding Amelia exactly who she was working with. They were a step ahead of her the whole day.

Sherlock was getting desperate and did his best work in those cases. People tended to underestimate those at the end of their rope, and she’d almost fallen into that trap.

Thankfully, John shot her a text after an hour into her search.

An address tied to some reporter Sherlock had mentioned during the trial.

It was something, and she hoped the detective hadn’t mucked up the whole thing. The media would have a frenzy with his seemingly insane actions of the last twenty-four hours. She already was dreading the newspapers in the morning.

The British media was a brutal, cruel monster.

She arrived at the address, electing to listen to the voices inside bickering when a familiar voice commented behind her.

“You know what I love about a tragedy?” Moriarty purred when Amelia spun around. “It’s always preventable. Some miscalculation, some overzealous emotional decision- but the hero overlooks the obvious solution.”

Something snapped in Amelia. Fueled by a rage she’d ignored in lieu of healing, she shoved him back against the hallway wall.

He seemed genuinely surprised by the outburst, laughing quietly when she pinned his neck under her forearm, cutting off his breathing.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” she snarled. “I have every reason to.”

“They’ll think Sherlock did it-,” his face was turning blue, but still he grinned at her. “Fraud.”

Amelia hissed an insult under her breath and pulled away. He was right. Of course, he was right. This was his show, his story, and they were all playing their parts perfectly.

“Keep an eye out for the papers tomorrow, love,” he coughed, grabbing a grocery bag off the ground, humming a familiar tune under his breath.

Something clicked in Amelia’s brain and before he could unlock the door, she whirled around and slammed a fist into his gut.

It wasn’t the most powerful hit, but he still reeled over in pain, and that was enough for her.

“You’re not going to win,” she snarled in a low voice. “I’ll kill you myself if it comes down to it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he smirked and slipped into the apartment.

(---)

John met up with Amelia at the Diogenes Club.

He was thumbing through paperwork that he’d taken from the reporter when she’d arrived, frowning deeper with every word he read.

“He was sold out,” he murmured, handing her the files.

“What?” Amelia blinked in confusion, reading through the intimate details of Sherlock’s life.

A twisted review of the good he’d done, skewed by some distorted story about some actor named Richard.

Richard, whose face belonged to the monster from her nightmares.

The whole thing reeked of Moriarty, but the details...

They involved things only she or John would know and included some things she never knew. Intimate details. Personal details that only family might know.

“You think Mycroft told him?” she whispered, handing the file back to her friend. “When he in custody? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know he did,” John stated firmly. “Who else? We didn’t.”

The thought sent a chill up Amelia’s spine. His own brother. No wonder Sherlock seemed like he was slipping. The whole world was attacking him at every side.

“Is he on his way then? Mycroft?” she asked and John sighed, shrugging.

“Apparently,” he murmured, shaking his head at something he read. “They said he’s usually here by now.”

Amelia nodded and stood up, hand on her phone in her jacket pocket.

“I... I’m going to wait outside,” she mumbled. “I don’t think I could look Mycroft in the eye if he actually did this. We can... Just let me know when you’re done.”

John wasn’t paying much attention when she slipped out and started dialing Sherlock’s phone.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Sherlock?” she inquired quietly into the line.

“Are you safe?” he quickly questioned.

“Yeah I’m- I’m with John,” she replied. “Where are you?”

Amelia swore she heard a breath of relief through the line.

“Hospital,” he answered briskly. “Molly is... She agreed to let me stay out of sight here.”

“What’s your plan?” Amelia asked.

“Not yet,” he replied tersely. “I can’t tell you yet.”

“Then you know whatever it is, I’m here to help,” she stated firmly.

“I know,” he paused. “Just stay with John. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Amelia shoved the phone back in her pocket. She paced around the sidewalk in front of the Diogenes Club, head ringing.

Moriarty’s words kept playing in her head. A tragedy.

It was clear what was happening, between the story and the doubt the maniac had sowed in everyone’s heads. The public would slaughter him alive when that bullshit story hit the shelves the next day. Sherlock, while a difficult and moody person, was sensitive to the opinions of others, no matter how he tried to play it off.

This had the potential to break him.

Amelia didn’t like the thought of where this could lead. She didn’t like the thought of losing what little peace she’d cultivated in her life. She was scared shitless and shaking when John found her waiting outside.

“I was right,” was all he said before tucking her under his arm and pulling her into a hug. She sighed, wishing that all her worries could wash away with the brief respite. When John pulled away, he looked at her directly.

“I’m scared too.”

(---)

The trio reunited at the hospital laboratory.

“The computer code,” Sherlock explained, bouncing a ball between cabinets, eyes fixed forward. “Somewhere in Baker Street... on the day of the verdict, he must have hidden it.”

“What did he touch?” John asked, approaching, eyes following the ball as it bounced between the floor and counters.

“An apple, nothing else,” came Sherlock’s response. He stood up, fist-clenching around the rubber ball, eyes scanning the air as if the answer would appear.

John tapped idly on the counter, throwing out ideas when Amelia saw Sherlock suddenly tense.

It was subtle, but she watched him glance at the pair before turning away, fishing his phone from his pocket and quickly typing out a message.

When he turned back around, John had been oblivious to the action, but he met Amelia’s questioning look with a frown.

He wasn’t going to tell them his plan, she realized when he started wordlessly bouncing the ball again.

A few hours passed, with John falling asleep about halfway through their waiting. Amelia sat propped against the cabinets on the ground next to Sherlock while her phone charged in a nearby outlet- just watching him.

She watched him fidget and check his phone from time to time. She watched him pace, eyes searching for something not present.

Occasionally he’d mumbled under his breath or bounce the ball again.

She watched him do everything in his power to avoid looking at her or John.

That deep, unnerving feeling she’d felt at the Diogenes club had re-emerged.

This wasn’t going to end well, she predicted. She didn’t know how or what was going to happen, but she knew Sherlock well enough to understand when he was a dozen paces ahead and he didn’t seem pleased.

He knew the endgame, and he knew she would immediately be able to tell that something was off. That’s why he didn’t say anything about his plan.

John’s phone rang, pulling the doctor out of his brief nap. A few quick words and bolted up, looking to the pair while he threw on his coat.

“Paramedics, Mrs. Hudson they say she’s been shot,” he explained breathlessly, tossing Amelia her coat off a nearby chair.

“What? How?” Sherlock’s response came coolly. Unphased. Unsurprised, even.

“Probably one of the killers you managed to- Jesus, she’s dying, let’s go,” he started for the door, Amelia following behind without question.

“You go, I’m busy,” he stated, staring off in the distance.

That wasn’t the right response. Amelia stared in shock, looking to John then Sherlock, for someone to say something else.

John’s expression shifted in awe- anger, surprise, frustration all bubbling to the surface.

“Busy-?” he choked out, hands shaking at his sides.

“Thinking- I need to think,” came Sherlock’s short reply.

This didn’t read right to Amelia. He wasn’t that heartless-

“You need to- doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John’s voice broke slightly. “You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

“She’s my landlady.”

“She’s dying- you machine,” John spat out, hands body shaking. When he realized the truth to his own words, something crossed his features and he backed away “Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, be alone.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” Sherlock replied, still unmoving.

“Friends protect people,” John snapped. “C’mon Mia.”

Amelia sent a final look to Sherlock, her expression falling when he wouldn’t break away from his selected spot on the wall in front of him. Avoiding her.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

Hurrying after John, he was about to slide in the cab when she felt her pockets, realizing her wallet and phone had been left behind in the lab.

“Go ahead,” she called to him, turning back to the hospital. “I’ll be right behind you!”

John took off without a second thought, while Amelia raced back to the lab, stopping when she saw Sherlock in one of the back halls- headed for a staircase.

To her surprise, he didn’t notice her, his expression lost in thought while he marched forward, almost trance-like. She stood and watched until he was out of sight, her heart thrumming against her sternum.

Something wrong. Her mind repeated over and over.

Her gut said to follow him, but against her instincts, she let him be. She slipped back into the lab, spying her phone on the counter with a new message from John.

Mrs. Hudson is fine. Somethings wrong.

She knew it.

Racing up the hall, she could hear a closing door above her when she reached the stairs.

Rooftop, her brained supplied, and she sprinted up the steps two at a time, pausing at the metal door leading to the roof.

“...nice you choose a tall building, nice way to do it.”

James Moriarty.

There was a beat before Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“Do it? Do what?” he asked. “Yes of course... my suicide.”

Amelia’s chest tightened.

“Genius detective proved to be a fraud, I read it in the papers so it must be true. I love newspapers,” Amelia could hear the voices stepping away. “Fairytales... and pretty grim ones too.”

What could she do? What was there to do?

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t supposed to be listening.

She fumbled with her phone, shaking hands trying to type out a coherent message to John.

Sherlock in trouble. Moriarty here.

Anything-! But before she could send, an adrenaline rush sent a hitter through her arms and the phone tumbled out of her hands and down the stairs.

Nononononono

This was like her nightmares. Her inability to save anyone. Her curse being forced to watch while-

A gunshot rattled the door and Amelia decided she’d had enough. She’d face whatever awaited on the other side, regardless of who pulled the trigger.

She didn’t expect to find Moriarty, dead on the ground, Sherlock looking panicked, and a gun in the maniac’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock was on Amelia in a heartbeat, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him. “You’re supposed to be with John.”

“My phone-,” she stammered gesturing toward the door, eyes still wide. “Sherlock, what’s happening?”

Moriarty dead. Sherlock on the roof. Suicide.

“No, no, you can’t be here,” he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia, you need to leave. You can’t see this.”

“He’s dead, what are you talking about? He’s gone,” she tried putting words into sentences that would make sense, but the way he was stumbling around made her second guess her attempts at calming him.

“He’s going to kill all of you, he hired assassins to-” he finally managed, his expression resolved in the information. “Unless...”

“You jump,” she whispered, a hand moving to cover her horrified expression. “Sherlock, think logically, there’s- he’s playing on your emotions. He wants you to think there isn’t another plan- we can call Lestrade or your brother-.”

“There’s no time,” he explained, grabbing her arms. “Please, do this for me. Go downstairs. Forget this, forget all of this.”

“Sherlock you can’t be serious,” tears sprung up in her eyes. “You’re being irrational. Let John and I help, we’re your friends-.”

He cut her off with a frantic kiss.

It was a desperate last kiss that would have normally swept Amelia straight off her feet.

Instead, she clutched into the front of his jacket when he tried to pull away and back toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Please, Sherlock,” she begged. “You can’t- I love you. So many people love and cherish you and I... please.”

He was on the edge of the building, legs wavering slightly when he looked down. He took a breath, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling John,” he stated, hand holding the phone up for her to see.

Right. John.

John would talk some sense into him. He’d see reason when John-

She didn’t hear much of what was said. Her mind was racing, running through ways of saving him.

Pull him down, stop the jump- anything, but every scenario still ended with him plummeting to his death.

Amelia felt so useless. So pathetic. So helpless.

He was determined to make things right and, in his mind, this was the right path. He’d do what he had to in order to see this through to the end.

She stepped closer while he was distracted, and when he turned to drop the phone, he gave her a final look, a sad smile.

“I love you, Amelia,” he said. “And I beg you, please, don’t watch.”

And before she could reach for him, he jumped.

An inhuman noise escaped her, and though every temptation was there for her to watch his descent, she threw herself to the rooftop and buried her screams in her knees.

Screams filled the street. Onlookers yelled for help.

Her heart felt like it’d been ripped clean of her body. Disbelief danced with the reality of what just happened in front of her own eyes.

Everything felt like a dream after that.

Mycroft ended up being the one to find her, his agents approaching the scene first.

Normally, Amelia would have given him a piece of her mind regarding his place in all of this, but she numbly let him guide her to where John was on the street below.

She caught snippets of conversations. People being interviewed by the police, the random clicks of journalists documenting the famous detectives fall from grace, EMTs murmuring about what it all meant.

Her mind was trying to make sense of it all. Trying to pry some semblance of sanity from the chaos around her.

She found John sitting on the back of an ambulance with a patch on his head.

She didn’t say a word as she approached, instead just wrapping him under her arms and letting him choke out a few tears into her jacket. They’d both been left behind.

The tragedy of Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the unpoetic end he’d faced, it was the guilt and questions he’d left behind in those who cared the most for him.

Chapter 27

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