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keravnous · 3 years

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- agent 14/agent steve haines; american money

It's a Thursday and it's raining. The raindrops are heavy and loud on impact, running down his windshield like tears. He's on his way to the set and he prays that it'll clear up soon.

"This show will kill you", Warren sits on his bed, sheets lazily draped over his legs. Steve can see where his pubic hair begins and his mouth waters. Warren takes a long drag from his cigarette, blows the smoke into the air.

"It fucking won't, nothing can", Steve's leaning against the door frame, coffee in hand.

"Fuck yes, it can. And it will, lurking around at Forum Drive all day and for what? Two minutes of frightening pictures that will make Karens all over LS go buck wild."

"Who's Karen?"

"Forget about it. Let me suck your dick, Haines, c'mere."

As he arrives near the recreational center and pulls into one of the lots it has indeed stopped raining. The streets are still wet but the sun's coming out again and the air is already mushy with the reblooming heat. There's a lanky man with a dog and he's yelling into his phone - the man that is, not the dog.

He knows who the guy is, even though he most likely doesn't know him, probably he doesn't even know that Steve exists. He's an associate of Franklin Clinton and the Bureau keeps a close eye on him, due to the nature of Clinton being so close with Townley and Philips.

Steve watches Lamar, leaning against the hood of his car, the remaining rain wetting his thigh through the denim.

"Man Frank, you just ain't around no more, homie. That's all I'm saying. Yeah - Yeah, sure whatever, dog - Yeah, fuck yourself too, homie."

He hangs up and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. The dog looks at him. "Man, you get the fool more than I do, Chop. Wassup with him, can you tell me? He always been that fool, but something ain't right there."

Steve knows what ain't right there. Franklin must've picked up by now, or maybe Townley told him, what they were up to that one afternoon at the warehouse. And for what he knows about Clinton and what the intel tells him, the young man probably isn't much of a big fan of government-approved interrogation techniques.

And he probably also won't like what Steve has next in stock. Warren was a little careless the last time around, tongue loosend by sweet kisses and a hand around his dick, when he spoke about a securicar delivering important IAA files soon. It won't hurt 14 but it would definitely aid Steve an awful lot, so he decided to send the boys on the road again, maybe on Tuesday.

The production team's van rolls up next to him and they swarm around him like a stock of bees buzzes around their queen and then there's sound and light checks being run and a woman applies powder to his face. Lamar Davis has not moved a single step. Their eyes meet.

"What are you idiots doing here?", he hollers. Steve wonders if he could be of use.

"We're shooting a show", he replies, while the attach a little microphone to his collar, "The Underbelly of Paradise, you surely have already seen an episode or two."

"You're that Haines-guy then?", something in Lamar's voice makes his skin crawl, his files told Steve that he too is a gangster after all, killing and robbing are some of Davis' favourites. The look he shoots him isn't much friendlier.

"In the flesh", Steve dusts of the sleeves of his polo shirt.

"Yeah, aight. Fuck you then, man. C'mon Chop, we best be leavin', homie. Imma take you back to Frank's crib", oh, there is something in Lamar's voice that Steve definitely doesn't like at all but he just smiles politely at the man, until he's around the corner and out of sight. Steve's smile drops.

"Can we hurry this up a little, people? I don't got all day!" The bees start buzzing again.

The raid on the Humane goes by easier than expected. They are in Warren's living room, as the news inform about the incident. Steve is just pouring himself another glass of wine and Warren looks at him.

He knows, that the other one knows. It's a cover story the IAA will buy, but not Warren. Pain shoots through his legs as he slowly makes his way towards the sofa.

Warren mouths a few words at him. Be careful. Steve nods and leans over, places a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"Learned from the best", he whispers and Warren jerks.

"What?", there's panic in his voice.

"The Rashkovsky Job? The breakout and then his research goes missing?"

Warren blinks at him in disbelief.

"So, did he let you know if he likes it in South America?"

They laugh and Steve feels light, his fingertips tingle with it.

Steve's on his balcony. There's a saxophonist a few meters down the road, playing some Sinatra pieces and the music wraps itself around him like a blanket. The musician's interpretation reaks of melancholy and reminds Steve of the golden days of Vinewood cinema, noir films and cigarette smoke. Musicians playing at street corners isn't something foreign in a city where everyone has dreams of being the next big national superstar, but Steve usually hates him with his guts. This one's different. It touches him and he finds himself enjoying the dark, warm tunes that float through the cool air. It will be autumn soon and Steve's glad that the heat will be gone.

Warren watches him from the inside, leaning against the kitchen counter, lips curled in a smile.

Steve has always hated Michael's bloated and ugly, fat face and now he even gets to point a gun at it. It feels like his birthday and christmas fall on the same day.

"They know or they think they know that I'm the one that was behind the incident."

They stare each other into the ground, guns raised. Steve's ready to fire, has been from the minute Townley walked onto the plaza for the first time.

"Put the weapons down, boys. Fun time's over!", Steve wants to sigh. This is not happening. And then they are suddendly surrounded by their own man Sanchez has sent and then fucking Merryweather's there, too. This is not fucking happening. And so he does the only thing he's always been good at.

"We all know you Agency boys are balls deep in a plot to drive up your fundings by any means necessary", he shouldn't have said that. Warren trusted him with that info, even showed him the intel. He sees something moving behind Agent ULP's eyes, it's fear. He's got him.

Suddendly there's a loud pop and then pain shooting through his left leg. "Same goddamn leg", he blurts out as hell starts to break loose around him. Sanchez blood sprays the concrete in a bright red as the bullet pierces his skull. Steve wishes it would've been Michael instead.

He runs until he can't take the pain no more, then cowers on the ground, slowly robbing behind cover, as Dave and Michael pick up the gun fight. He's bleeding heavily, red liquid rushing out of the wound and drenching his cargos. It seems like the bullet is stuck and maybe has wounded some arteries. He figures that he probably hasn't that much time left. He strips himself out of his shirt and wraps it around his leg, adding pressure on his thigh, just above the bullet wound.

He thinks about Warren. Oh dear God, don't let me die today.

"What did you do?", it's Warren, he's sitting at Steve's kitchen table.

"Did you let yourself in, pretty boy?"

"What happend?", he sounds furious now, gets up and his eyes bore into Steve's. He's dizzy with it, with what Warren's gaze tells him, let's him know without saying a word.

"Nothing, it's nothing."

"You got shot!"

"Yeah, the same leg."

"That's - you're-"

Steve wraps his arms around him and presses him close and Warren releases a surprised noise. "I'm still here", he says and it's more for and to himself, than for Warren but the other doesn't seem to care, burying his face in Steve's neck.

The world's a little brighter and warmer and Steve doesn't feel that threatend anymore. He has to make a phone call, but that can wait a few more minutes.

He has a team on the way to the plant, it will be alright. They'll be gone for good, just another casualty. He sighs, takes a deep breath and throws the script on the seat across from him.

"Are the cameras rolling? Yes? How do I look, the chin's sharp?"

Warren looks at him, eyes still a little hazy from his last orgasm and Steve turns his head and looks at him. He's so pretty and Steve's heart misses a beat.

"I-", his voice breaks and Warren blinks.

"Yeah?"

"I hate you."

Warren laughs. It's deep and dripping with amusement, running down Steve's body like hot honey. He rolls himself over, on top of Warren, who's still laughing deep in his chest, burying a hand in Steve's blond hair.

"No. No, you don't."

They look at each other and their gazes turn soft. "Sometimes I do", Steve's voice is quiet, honesty seeping through his words, "But sometimes I-, I would burn the world down to protect you."

Warren's hand caresses his neck. "My life would be so very boring without you, Haines. It nearly makes me forget that I just really want to skin you alive, sometimes."

It's not really an I love you - I love you too, but it's as close as they can get without hurting their egos. The kiss is soft and sweet and a promise.

"Hi, I'm Steve Haines. I've tracked down killers, attacked incompetence and taken down terrorist cells, and tonight -"

The gunshot rips through the night and the camera man throws himself back, lands unpleasently on his back.

"My god! The guy! What's-his-name! Fuck, shit, they shot him!", he stares down at the dead man, blood rushing out of the bullet wound in the back of his head. The impact had torn some skin and skull apart and there's a nasty opening, his brain leaks out of it. The camera man vomits out of the gondola as sirens erupt in the night.

Warren has his feet up on the coffee table, mindlessly zapping through the programs. It's all shallow and boring and he hopes that Steve will be home soon. Home.

His stomach does a funny little flip and Warren smiles to himself, wraps the blanket around him tighter. It smells of him, his perfume. He closes his eyes and he can practically feel Steve's hand creeping around his neck, resting on his shoulder, heavy and warm. It's always like that, when he comes in on Warren sitting on the sofa. He will lean down and place a feather light kiss on the back of his head, maybe rest his nose there for a moment, taking the other man's scent in for a few seconds, before getting up again and ranting about Norton or another colleague. A fuzzy warmth spreads in his stomach and Warren sighs. A sudden noise interrupts his daydreaming and he lazily opens an eye at the TV. It's a Weazle Broadcast.

"We interrupt our nightly program for an important message. We just recieved notice that FIB Special Agent Steve Haines has been shot on duty at the Del Pierro Pier. Agent Haines died a hero, doing what he loved, which was presenting a TV show. He helped combine the chaos of anti-terrorism and the mindlessness of network television into one highly successful career. Mr. Haines, who was not married, leaves behind his mother."

The world goes silent.

He's not moving. Has not in hours, maybe it's even a full day at this point. He has not eaten, has not showered, has not moved at all.

Warren feels like a dead man. The thought makes a bitter laugh splutter over his lips and then has him break out in tears immediately after.

It's a scary thought that people continue to live their lives, acknowledging that an agent passed away last night but they are now out and about, at their jobs, maybe seeing friends or family. A lover, even. They are busy living their life's while Warren's just dissolved in a matter of seconds.

It's a scary thought being ripped off of something so dear so abruptly, it's scary how it ripped a hole it Warren's chest that is now filled with a black, emotionless but equally painful void that nags, tears and claws at him.

It's a scary thought that he's alone again.

His body, his throat gives in and he's rolling on his side, screaming and tearing at the blanket, fingers grabbing at the fabric, as his knuckles turn white. He's screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat is sore and his eyes burn and the only noises that leave his mouth are little pathetic whines of exhaustion and the gasping for air. The pain in his chest takes his breath away, chokes him and makes him want to curl up, bore a knife into it, twist and turn it until it goes away. He feels like vomiting.

It's Sunday. It's been a little over 30 hours. Warren is tired, but everytime he tries to close his eyes he sees him, hears his laughter ring in his ears. It hurts. It hurts so much, he has hardly any words left to describe the agony he is going through.

His head hurts too, so does his throat and his stomach, with the constant throwing up and the lack of hydration. But he can't bring himself to get up, to grab a glass of water and drown some pain killers and go to bed. His legs are heavy and he just doesn't have the energy.

Warren feels like dying but he's also so painfully alive.

He's wide awake. He'll need to find a solution for how he's going to be able to go to work tomorrow.

But for now he's wrapping himself in Steve's blanket, the one he sleeps in when he's been over, inhaling the fading scent.

"Agent 14?"

His eyes are red, bloodshot and his fingers are trembling, seconds away from shaking. He had powder this morning to just make it somehow and it's slowly wearing off. He hasn't been on coke since college and it sent him on a murder high, blood pumping like a race horse only to now let him dive head-first into a killer hole.

It's been three days since Steve left his life both, quiet and eardrum-tearing loudly, and it feels like a nightmare, eternal and burning hot. He's empty inside but there's also just so much pain, it feels like he's breaking into pieces. His stomach clenches and his heartbeat is heavy, vibrates thickly in his chest and he just wants to die, too.

"Mrs. Rackham", his voice is rough, it doesn't bother to hide that Warren had been crying and screaming his lungs out every night since Steve's brain had been splattered onto the ferris wheel.

"I need to talk to you."

This is about Avon and Clifford, he's sure. His hand shakes and coffee spills on his desk. He curses under his breath and reaches for a tissue but Mrs. Rackham grabs his hand with force. They look at each other. Warren blinks.

"You are not in a good condition. I don't need explanations or lies, 14. I want to offer you my sincere condolences on your loss, Mister Jones. "

Warren takes a deep breath but he can't keep his eyes from tearing up.

"Take the week off, Agent", as he's not moving, shocked and dumbfounded, she starts to pick his jacket up, "Go now, I'll cover you up."

He gets on his feet, knees weak and body shaking, takes his jacket from her hands.

"Thank you, Phoenicia", he means it.

She looks at him. "I'm sorry", and she means it, too, "The IAA could've done some-"

"Don't."

She nods sharply and then looks at him once more, eyes piercing.

"I lost my husband in service as well, Iraq in 2004."

And then they're hugging, Warren is burrying his face into her neck and wailing like a little child.

It's a weird feeling and it fucks with his head as his gaze falls on the door of his apartment. He could've sworn that he heard the key turning the lock. He stares and stares and stares and it feels like his brain is readying for Steve to come through the door anytime.

He doesn't.

It's midnight and he had five more moments like the door-lock one earlier. He feels like he may go insane.

Warren fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and opens up Eyefind, types his thoughts into the searchbar.

At the end of his research he's left with two possibilities: it's either a stage of grief (denial they call it - dying's more fitting, Warren thinks) or the sideeffects of the coke slowly wearing off.

It's raining. It's like the heavens above are pissing down on him. Warren's crying while the rain relentlessly pounds on his umbrella.

He's standing a few meters away from the funeral party. Steve's mother bails her eyes out and he would like to go over to her and wrap her im his arms but he would just be a stranger to her.

There's a saxophonist in front of the cementry. He's playing Sinatra's Summer Wind, sounding sad but warm nonetheless. Steve's family probably thinks of that as a weird coincidence but Warren has spent two full nights finding the man again, who has played down at Steve's street corner all those months ago. It was difficult and time consuming, but not impossible.

There's a new wave of tears making their way out of Warren's eyes and he has to clasp a hand on his mouth to stop the painful noises from making their way into the soft air of spring. He feels like he's breaking apart, torn into two pieces.

He cries and cries and cries until the funeral party is long gone any the sun sets. The saxophonist is still playing.

When Warren comes home the sun's gone for some while and it's dark out. There's a light burning in his kitchen. For a moment, just a split second, it feels like Steve will swing around the corner. But he doesn't.

He walks into the kitchen to find a bouquet of white lillies sitting on the countertop. He checks the card attached to them.

Sorry about your loss.

He doesn't recognize the handwriting, it looks like it could've been written by someone who's older than Warren, male maybe, but his last Hand Writing and Letter Indentification Course was two years ago. He figures his cleaner, a nice elderly lady, had put them there. He thinks about her seeing the bouquet on the door step and carefully carrying them inside, placing them in the only vase Warren has at home. It makes him both sad and glad, glad that at least she's still around.

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.

14 would've liked to ask Robert Frost if he was just stupid or naive or both.

Two days later he's so angry at the world that he grabs the vase and throws it across the room, where it collides with the wall and breaks in a thousand little pieces.

The anger keeps on coming, rage that boils hot and white in his stomach, makes him lash out at colleagues and scream his lungs out, throwing things and fits like it's nothing.

He finds himself beating into walls and furniture until his knuckles bleed.

Mrs. Rackham puts him onto another break, Temporarily Suspended Until Further Notice the record reads.

Warren's awake, restless but exhausted, again. It's three in the morning. His head hurts, his bones hurts, his whole body feels heavy.

"I should've stopped you from going", he whispers into the night and his mind conjurs up Steve's voice, consoling him.

"No, really. I should have been more persistent. If you just would've stayed with me that night."

Steve answers him again, but it sounds washed out in Warren's ear.

Oh, please don't let me forget his voice.

He's not moving again. Hasn't done so in two days.

Mrs. Rackham continues to call him, but he won't pick up. He can't handle her, can't handle her sorrow and her advices. He doesn't want to hear it. She would probably also bug him about not showing up for work again and that's just something he really doesn't want to hear right now.

It's phone rings again and he picks it up to throw it against the wall with all the force he can possibly muster, so it would just shut up, but it's not Phoenicia calling this time. It's Lester.

"14? This is Crest." He doesn't sound good. Warren doesn't know what to say.

"I am, ehrm, calling to see how you're doing?" Odd. He can't bring himself to say anything back. "You know I, err, saw you didn't clock in to work for a few days? Are you doing, ehrm, well?"

"Yeah", it sounds as broken as he feels. There's an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, maybe even for a full minute. He hears Lester's inhaler.

"I, well I err heard about Haines."

It should send him into a rage, a fit, maybe even crying manically but there's just nothing. Just the casual numbness that hangs above him like thick clouds these days.

"Yeah, a shame, isn't it?"

There's coughing, then deep breaths being taken. "You're not doing too well, Crest?"

"Can we meet up, 14? I", another cough, "I know a place."

The sun's out and it burns in Warren's eyes, on his skin, even though he's wearing both, a jacket and sunglasses. Crest sits across from him at the table, not touching his iced coffee. So isn't Warren, he is neither thirsty nor hungry.

They are at a bean machine on Vinewood Boulevard. It's one of the stores Steve used to buy his coffee at. There should be stining pain at the thought but there's just sadness, blackness wandering through Warren's mind.

"You don't look too good", Crest says.

"You neither", Warren says and to mask the shaking of his voice he takes a sip from the coffee. It tastes like nothing, like liquid paper.

"I don't feel to good either. But you also don't, so what's the matter, 14."

Warren just shrugs. Lester looks at him, a steady and stern gaze, as if he's looking for answers in Warren's eyes, in his fucking soul.

"What are we doing here?"

"Just looking after a, err, friend."

"We're not friends, Crest."

"Associates then, maybe?", the look on his face is a little sad, offended. Warren can't bring himself to care.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Any lead, yet?"

Warren lifts his eyebrows in suprise. "A lead?"

"Yeah, you know", Crest clears his throat and leans in a little, "Who did it, you know."

Maybe Warren's mind is playing tricks on him again, but Crest looks a little concerned.

"No, none. Nothing."

Crest nods and leans back. Lester doesn't offer his help, so Warren decides that he then won't ask for it. Still confused and mouth already opened he wants to know why, as Lester's lungs throw a fit, his body cramping and being thrown forward and then back again by his dry coughs. Warren's up on his feet in a matter of seconds, his heartbeat picking up a fast rate he hasn't feeled in weeks, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He grabs Lester by his shoulders and holds him up, while he coughs coughs coughs. At the end of it there's blood on his chin.

"You're not planing on dying as well, are you?"

The look Lester shoots him, slumped in his chair with other guests on the terrace staring at them in shock, makes Warren's skin crawl.

He hasn't been at an attorney's office ever. It's a weird experience.

The people are nice and calm and so is Mister Allan, who has Steve's testament laying in front of him.

"So, Mister Jones, shall we get started then?"

Warren nods. It still confuses him. He wonders what Steve's mother thought, when she heard that she won't inherit everything. Warren doesn't want money, money won't replace anything.

He must've said that out loud, because Allan chuckles.

"Mister Haines hasn't left you money. No need to worry, Mister Jones."

He leaves the office with a black box tucked safely under his arm. He doesn't open it, not in the office, not on the way out in the elevator, not at home. He tucks it away in his closet, deep down where he keeps a ski puffer, that he never wears anyways.

He finds himself talking to Steve, or what his mind conjurs up of his memories, more often. It helps him, or so he hopes.

He misses him and the soliloquy is a good substitute, at least for now.

They are at a clinic just above the hills and behind the Vinewood sign, far away from the city, the air is dry and crisp nonetheless. Lester sits in a wicker chair, wrapped in a blanket and stares at the fountain in the middle the perfectly trimmed meadow. Warren sits next to him, craving a cigarette, but not lighting one. He'll have to wait a couple more minutes, until the nurse will bring Lester back into the clinic.

"Thank you for stopping by", Crest means it.

"Am I the only one?"

"No, oh no. There's, ehrm, Franklin's coming over too, once or twice a week."

He looks better, rested. Warren doesn't know who Franklin is, but he nods politely anyways.

"That's nice."

"Yeah, he's a good kid." A crook then.

"Are they treating you well up here?"

"It's fine, I- argh, fuck it. The dinner's horrible but the doctor's are good enough. Won't make a difference anyways."

"That's what they're saying then?", Warren looks into the setting sun. From up here Los Santos seems peaceful, quiet, a big, glorious and shining city. It's a hell hole full of shit, Warren knows that now, but he can't leave. Not yet.

"Yeah. No. They don't say it, but they mean it. It's in their eyes." Lester takes a sip of his water.

"Don't say that, Crest."

Lester looks at him. He doesn't say it, but the look on his face says it all. You've been through enough, I won't tell you that I'm dying soon.

"Yeah, well, it was nice seeing you. Getting better and such", Warren gets up, the wicker creaking, his phone in hand and sunglasses back on. They look at each other for a long, quiet moment and then Warren nods, turns around to leave. A surprisingly strong hand grabs his arm.

"I have a project, it's happening right now, Warren."

He stops in his tracks. From somewhere behind the fountain laughter sweeps up the hill. There's an old lady on the meadow with their grandchildren and they're playing ball. She has a bandage around her head.

"A project?", Warren doesn't turn around.

"Yeah, I'd like you to take over. You need something to do."

"I still have a job, Crest."

"That reminds you of him." It's like a kick into his guts and there's sudden rage boiling inside of him, but there's also something else. A certain calmness, that wraps itself around his shoulders like a white blanket. T feels a lot like clarity.

"That it does, yeah."

"I'll have Paige bring you the details."

"Sure. Good night, Crest."

He walks over the little path out of bark mulch, that is overgrown by trees, back to his car. He feels oddly content.

See, life does goes on. It's a weird thought that strikes him out of nowhere. He's afraid of forgetting everything that was, since forgetting always seemed easy. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week but who knows what will be in a year? Maybe he'll catch himself sooner or later, not thinking about Steve for a few weeks, months, years.

He's afraid of that, sincerely so.

The air in the bunker is cold and damp. Some of his people are moving out the old equipment. He doesn't know Crest's newest associate, it's most likely no one from the Hertz/Clifford-Incident.

I'm sorry I called him a buffoon, if I had only known back then.

He thinks of Phoenicia's concerned face and suddendly he finds himself smiling.

"Oh, he was a buffoon, you weren't wrong, Ma'am", he says to himself and hears a quiet chuckle errupting from his chest. There's sadness floading him, but it's warm and sweet and feels like an old friend.

There's no time for tears as the door of the bunker suddendly beeps loudly, informing him of a visitor arriving.

"So, you're getting along, then?", Crest sounds better. Warren lets go a breath, he doesn't even know he held in the first place.

"Yeah. They are quiet, but I appreciate the effort they are putting into it."

"I told you, they're are reliable."

"So you did."

There's a long pause, silence.

"Listen, Crest. I gotta go, speak to you soon."

As he hangs up, he's confronted with his lie, standing alone in his quiet living room.

The next time Lester invites him over, he says yes. He lives in a bigger, cleaner house now and Warren can only guess, that he was indeed involved in the robbery at the Casino his team is trying to solve right now. He'll offer them a false trace. Maybe they'll pick that one up.

"Georgina's not home, you just missed her", Lester wobbles down the stairs to the living room, crutch in hand.

"Who?"

"Georgina, he lives with her", Warren looks up, from where he is securing Lester's arm with his own hand and looks into the face of a young man. He looks younger than himself and wears expensive street style clothing.

"Who are you?"

"That's Franklin, Warren. Franklin, that's the friend I've been telling you about."

"Pleasure", Warren's voice still on the edge, while the man's handshake is firm.

"You lost your man, dog? Lest been telling me."

"I did, eight months ago."

There's something moving behind Franklin's face but he's quick to cover it up. Warren wonders: what and why.

"Shame man, I'm sorry to hear that, homie. My girl left me, too."

"He didn't leave me. He died."

Franklin looks at Lester, confused and a little reproachful, too. Then, it seems to click, as Franklin looks at him again. He now looks a little terrified, actually.

"Franklin was just leaving anways, weren't you?", Crest sits down in a beige armchair. Warren notices that he has new glasses.

"Yeah, shit. I mean of course, I was on my way out. Nice meeting you man, I hope you're, you know, doing better soon. See you around."

"Thank you", Warren recieves an awkward pat on his shoulder and then Franklin's steps distance themselves, until the front door falls shut.

He didn't leave me. He died.

His own words echo in his skull but they don't throw him into a manic tantrum, he's not crying, not screaming. He's oddly calm.

Is this how it feels, when one comes to terms with something, he wonders. Maybe, it is.

He died.

That he did and it must've been fucking ugly. Blood and soupy brain everywhere. Warren wishes he could've held him during these moments, when the body is slowling shutting down, when something mysterious, unknown happens to the human consciousness.

He died.

And Warren had missed him every single day since then. He leans himself against the closed bedroom door of his apartment and then makes his way to his closet.

The box is still where he has left it.

He died. He died. He died.

"I miss you, Steve", he whispers into the silence of his flat and then he smiles, it's small and sad, and he sinks onto the ground, box clutched in his hands, "Fuck, I wish you were still here."

There's silence but Warren likes to think that something of Steve's mind, his soul is still left on this earth, stayed with him. It's a nice thought, even if it's unrealistic. It's still consoling.

Steve's gone for good, but just because his body doesn't walk the dirty streets of LS anymore doesn't mean that he left Warren's life completely - he still existed, left his footprints behind. And Warren's ready, willing even, to take carefully aligned pictures of them and hang them on his wall. He's ready to look at them every day that may come and maybe he'll stop crying at some point. Or maybe he won't. He'll be fine.

It's an odd feeling. His life still feels empty, incomplete since Steve passed and so does Warren. He feels empty, shallow and sad, but it will pass and he will take the time. It doesn't mean forgetting him, quite the contrary maybe.

He flips the lid, puts it aside carefully with a quiet thump on the carpet below. He takes a look inside and bursts out laughing.

"Did he leave you something?", he hasn't seen her in years, since college. She used to be his flat mate.

"Yeah", he smiles to himself.

"What is it?", she looks moved and Warren would love to tell her, but he can't. He really can't. Not all of it, anyways.

"A letter."

"A letter?"

"Yeah, a fucking love letter."

"Warren! Don't say that! It's very heartwarming!"

It's been a year. He still misses him. "He wasn't the type for it, that's all."

He thinks of the envelope he keeps in his safe. It's a document, FIB header and logo, completely official.

Reference: Counter Espionage, Crimes Against National Safety, A Report By Steve Haines to be handed to Misses Phoenicia Rackham In Relation "To Agent 14", Mister Warren Jones

"Oh, was he not, you know, a little a romantic?"

"No, it must've taken a lot for him to write a love letter." It was really sweet and it went well with the attempt to put Warren in a High Security Penitentiary.

"Really?", she looks a little concerned, but she doesn't get Steve, their relationship as it was, like Warren does.

He looks up from his coffee cup and lights a cigarette. He hasn't had a smoke in a long time but at least he stopped with the cocaine.

"Yeah. Sometimes", there's a smile tugging at his lips, "Sometimes I think he would've rather seen me locked away."

#i'm sorry but i had to #my writing #steve/14 tag #steve haines/agent 14 #agent steve haines #agent 14 #gta v #gta online

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colemacgrathtkz · 3 years

Text

Play along?

Previously. Next?

Disclaimer: Another long one and fair warning on this.

"This is much more gushy than your last book"- Piniet

Lilith: "I do not appreciate being bait for you two."

Shortly after Luz's recent visit to the Owl house, two schemers made contact.

Willow: "You're a pretty obvious target. If she's too far gone, you'd be the first to know."

Gus: "Besides, we were watching... from a safe distance. If she tried anything..."

Lilith: "Enough! Just take your ingredient and go."

The Clawthorne sister handed the brown bottle Luz drank from.

Gus(grossed out): "Score one for back wash."

Willow: "Thanks again for your help. We want to believe Luz is back. But just in case..."

Lilith: "I'll inform my sister of tonight. So, if you two don't mind?"

Taking their cue to leave, the young duo set off. Gus would take their "prize" while Willow got Amity ready for the next ruse.

[A few nights later, in the woods]

Tonight, the first official date for Amity and Luz.

Noceda was still insistent on meeting with everyone. But there was one request that kept popping up since day one.

Luz had been pestering her girlfriend about a date for a while. The Blight girl had been putting it off. Until the lass discovered Luz's new masked alter ego. The all powerful witch was still feared around town. But with a disguise, she preformed illusion plays. Most notably, Lumity's biggest hits. Some children would run up to the New Coven leader after seeing one of the shows.

Not wanting to be embarrassed again, Amity agreed to the date, in exchange for canceling Lumity theater shows.

Now, dressed in casual wear, she waited what her date had planned.

Amity: "I can't believe I'm doing this."

A purple haze creeped around her. Knowing full well what this was, she called out to her theatrical partner.

Amity: "A young girl, all alone in woods, with purple smoke floating around. Someone's pretty confident?"

Her date emerged from the clearing.

Luz: "I like to make an impression."

Expecting to see her in a "Good witch Azura" outfit, this was different.

Luz stood in something close to her old grom outfit. But the tutu skirt was replaced by top hat.

Luz: "Now, if you'll just let me take the lead?"

Amity took her escort by the arm. Walking together, she couldn't help but notice Luz's constantly twirling finger.

Amity: "Should I be worried? I was expecting..."

Luz: "The good witch, Luzura? Too obvious. Figured 'Amity in wonderland' was the way to go."

Her date didn't get it.

Luz: "I'll show it to you someday."

Coming to a halt, a vine picked them up and set them on a branch.

Luz: "See down there? That's where I first saw you. Witch drama with a hint of foreshadowing."

Luz created illusions to recreate the memory for them. While the show carried on, she leaned closer to her lady friend.

Luz: " Look at us! Top student and her new favorite abomination, sitting in a tree. The stories people could write about us!"

Amity brought her hand up, blocking Luz's advance. Playfully pushing her off, she knew Luz wouldn't get hurt on the way down.

Luz(overly dramatic): "Ah yes, how tragic. These two wouldn't know how they felt until it was possibly too late."

Summoning a abomination creature (much like the one that beat Grometheus), the two were swept away on to the next stage. The forest appearing to clearly be distorted. The land and trees twisting into a single path.

Luz(smirking): "But what if things were different?"

And just like that, Hexside stood before them.

Luz: "What do you say? A do over?"

Before she could answer, her date ran inside.

Amity( under her breath): "I'm pretty sure they locked this up for the night."

Stepping in, the flares lit the way. She heard Luz's echoes; narrating from somewhere. Just a single door seemed to be around throughout the entire hallway.

Luz's voice: "Just another day at a magic school, nothing out of the ordinary."

The green haired girl cautiously entered. Inside, she saw her date in two corners. One tucked behind a curtain and the other sitting at a desk.

Real Luz: "Pay no attention to the cool fox behind the curtain."

The other sat staring out the window. But her hair was shorter, like it was originally. She also wore a purple and white sailor uniform. Luz was an anime fan, after all.

Amity, once again not getting the reference, stood back and watched.

Another Luz walked onto the scene. This had her hair slicked back and wore a darker uniform.

Bully Luz: "Hey, Luuzer, stopping mucking up the place and get lost already!"

Real Luz: "What's this? This cute as an otter school girl is getting bullied. Will anyone stand by her against this juvenile foe? Preferably before I run out of things outta this thesaurus?"

Taking her cue, it made sense Luz would set this up. A redemption for a former bully.

This was still weird, though. The false punk faced the intervenor.

Bully Luz: "What?! Got something to say, little miss... sorry. I can't do this, even if we are just pretending. You can see where I'm going with this, right?"

Nodding, Amity used an abomination arm to punch the "bully" right in the gut. She poofed on impact, attracting the other one's attention.

Student Luz: "Well, who are you, my sassy savior?"

Amity: "Luz, maybe this isn't such a good idea?"

Bolting from the curtain, her date seemed startled by the question.

Real Luz: "Ok, so maybe I shouldn't have gone anime on you. I thought for sure high school magical girl was a safe bet.

Fear not, I have a back up plan!"

A ball of fire hovered outside the window. Luz picked her date up and tossed her out. Amity slid down what appeared to be a slide made of ice. A little shaken, she almost didn't notice her wardrobe change. Her grudgby uniform, in all its glory.

Luz stood by her, showcasing hers as well.

Luz: "Behold! Powered by nothing but their bond, two partners face off against painful dilemma."

Amity sighed at two abominations who looked suspiciously like her siblings.

Amity: "Why abominations this time?"

Luz(winking and nudging): "We can have more fun this way. Grudgby is about getting down and dirty, right?

Besides, we both know you like this. Just us up against Edric and Emira. Ready to blow off some steam?

Amity(trying to hide a smile): "You need three for grudgby."

Luz: "It's a personal match. Stop sweating the small stuff and take down your brother and sister."

For the next ten minutes, things went pretty well. Amity even called for a rematch.

But things died down after a half hour. True to form, Luz brought them to a new setting. Clearly not wanting the fun to end, new attire came with it.

Both wore what appeared to be a blend of knight armor and witch robes.

The giant Otabin mutant was poised before them, in a burning library.

Luz: "Well, what do you say us fearless champions defeat this... monstrosity?! Come, it's the only way to return it to it's original form."

Amity: "Ok, that's enough."

Raising two abomination arms, she handed this date a hiatus.

Both Otabin and Luz were held for a chat.

Amity: "You've been getting pretty good at making illusions."

Luz: "It's important to keep up with shows. You know, for the kids."

Amity: "You know, I get it. The themes and trips down memory lane. You have no idea what you're doing."

Luz blushed after realizing she'd been caught.

Luz: "I didn't date much before I came here. Even after I 'left', experience wasn't happening. So, this is my first ever date."

Amity: "Our first ever date! Now, let me lead!"

Releasing her girlfriend, Amity walked over with a new suggestion. Or rather, an old one.

Amity(reaching out): "Well then, if that's settled, may I have this dance?"

Grinning from the nostalgia, the two joined hands and grabbed shoulders.

Luz set her phone down and started a playlist. And with that, they lost track of time.

However, it became obvious that something had been on their minds.

Amity: "Listen, I know things have been hard for you. We-I haven't exactly made it easy. But I'm just afraid. I wanted you back for so long. When you came back, I didn't see you. I was too scared of the monster you used to be. So afraid... I thought about using these."

The young Blight lady pulled out memory tweezers from her pocket.

Amity: "I just had to know. Where is it? What are you hiding? Who are you really?

Well, now I know. You're still that weird human girl who cares alot. Which is why I can't call you my girlfriend until I ask. Luz Noceda, will you be my... mine?"

Embarrassment caused her to mess up the ending. Luz blinked for a couple of seconds. She couldn't help but let out a short laugh. Amity's face was red enough. She quickly tried to explain herself.

Luz: "Querida, I've been yours for a while now. But yes, just to make it official. And since we're sharing, there's something I want to ask you.

I love being back and having magic at my fingertips. But I want to see my mom again. I meant what I said. I came back to ask for help in that department. Since magic, witches, and demons isn't really a... credible story, where I'm from. I need you guys to come with me.

So, what I'm asking you is... do you want to meet my mama?"

Amity's fearless champion was nervous about a "meet the parents" scenario.

Amity: "After tonight, you might want to teach me a crash course on your life back home?

I mean, yes, I'll do what I can to make that happen."

Filled with joy, once again, Amity became caught in a famous Noceda hug. But this time was different. Just as Luz began to pull away, Amity surprised her with a kiss.

Dumbfounded, Luz just stared at her.

Amity was on the verge from being happy to worried.

Amity: "What?"

Luz: "It's just I'm usually the one who..."

Giggling amongst themselves, they couldn't help but remember the books they used to read.

Amity: "Yeah, well, take a look around."

No longer standing in a library of ash and kindling, they were standing at the center of Hexside's gymnasium. The very spot where they both originally were supposed to face Grom.

Luz's illusions had faded without her even realizing it.

Luz: "I guess, show's over?"

Amity: "Not yet."

Whispering in instructions, Amity finally made Luz blush( on purpose).

Illusion magic changed their appearance to that of their first grom night.

Amity: "One more dance."

This time, Luz's hands went to Amity's waist. Meanwhile, Blight arms rested on her shoulders.

Luz: "I think I want to tell you where the staff is."

Bonus:

Willow and Gus anxiously waited in the manor.

Willow knew, Amity was the only one Luz would give her undivided attention to. They used the date for some much needed time to complete their mission.

Now, they needed to report what they learned to the girl at the dead center of all of this.

The door opened and a certain green haired witch walked in, with delight.

Gus: "Where have you been?!"

Amity: "On my date with Luz. And the real question is, what are you two doing waiting in my house for?"

Willow: "Your family let us in before they stepped out."

Amity: "They left? You two? By yourselves? In a manor?"

Gus: "Your parents warned us not to touch anything. Then your brother and sister told us to take something. Honestly, those are some mixed messages.

Now, can you please just listen to what we've got. You really need to know what Luz's up to."

Willow: "Wait, what's our code word?"

Gus maybe the illusionist of the trio. But Willow was picking up on some suspicious vibes.

Amity: "I can't really remember that, right now."

At that moment, Willow caused every plant in the manor to whip towards Amity.

Willow: "There wasn't one."

Dodging plant creatures and Gus clones, the illusion came apart.

Luz stood before them.

Luz: "Well, I wanted to see you guys, again. How have things been?

...

What have I been up to, hmm? Just what were you going to tell Amity?"

That familiar glow appeared, causing her dear friends to gulp at the sight.

Luz: "Come on, guys, it's me. I'm not going to hurt you. I want us to be friends, like we used to be. You can trust me on that."

Not buying that, they managed to corner her. She was holding back, not even striking back once.

Luz: "Willow? Gus? Come on, I thought we were still friends?"

Right then, they went for their shots. But as the blows landed, she disappeared in a blue puff.

Luz: "Now I gotta know."

Before they had a second, a sleep spell was cast from behind.

The duo was unconscious before the real empress. Who just so happened to pull out a pair of memory tweezers from her pocket.

Empress Luz: "What have you two been up to?"

#Broken! Luz AU #lumity #the owl house #amity blight #luz noceda #lilth clawthorne #lilth #willow park #willow #agustus porter #Gus #toh #amityxluz #luz x amity #story I pieced together

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a-bear-at-hogwarts · 5 years

Note

Psst how about “That doesn’t look good.” ? You could add Sammy or not hhh I just love Dahlia -Alyx 💜

knjbhvgcyf Alyx I owe you my l i f e thank you so much ;A;

(Tw for blood and injury again)

———-

It wasn’t every day you found yourself stumbling out of the forbidden forest bleeding profusely. But then, if you happened to be one Dahlia Goldman it wasn’t exactly an out-of-the-ordinary sort of thing either.

Because some nights, oh some nights you just couldn’t sit still because your brain was abuzz with a thousand needling thoughts that wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t rest. Some nights all that could be done was to drive them out by force. The man who had said you couldn’t run from your thoughts was a liar; the only caveat was that you couldn’t stop running, not until your very soul ached. Then, only then was your mind forced into ease. Only when there was no room for anything but pain, but exhaustion, but weary numbness.

Of course, ‘weary numbness’ wasn’t exactly helpful when it came to dodging the various beasties in that made the forest forbidden in the first place. Hence why she was bloodied, bruised, and quite possibly the begrudging consciousness attached to not one, but two broken fingers. Festive.

Idiot. Should have brought your wand.

It was difficult to ignore that snide little voice in the back of her head when it was right. Bastard.

Every other step a strangled hiss of pain escaped her. Whatever had managed to nip her while she’d been running, it’d gotten its fangs clean through her leg - absently, she bent down to toy with the rough binding she’d made around the wound with her tie and jumper. It’d better hold. Filch’d kill her if she trecked a path of blood through the halls, then Pomfrey would kill her again for getting hurt badly enough to leave that much blood. Did… did that make any sort of sense? People usually only died once, right?

… what time was it again? Because whatever was bouncing around in her head like a ping pong ball in a running bath was starting to sound like sleep-addled nonsense. Now she thought of it, the ping pong ball analogy sounded a lot like 3 am thinking too.

Jeez, you carry wide-eye potion every hour of the day but soon as you actually needed it you find you’d forgotten it with your wand. Just typical.

What with everything tumbling about in her head with as much order as a bingo-ball filled with cats, it took longer than normal for Dahlia to recognise the rhythmic sound of padding feet on stone that met her ears meant there was someone coming. Had she not been doing the mental equivalent of dragging several toddlers on a single child-leash, she’d probably have been able to avoid the small figure who turned the corner mere seconds after she considered throwing herself out of the window to avoid the horror of social interaction in this state.

But no, no she was stuck with a train of thought that was really more of a horsedrawn carriage pulled by shetland ponies. So rather than slip by whoever this was, she was caught square, dead-center in the middle of the corridor.

And as though fate was laughing at her, it was someone she recognised too. For anyone else that might have been a relief, that it wasn’t a stranger encountering them in a moment of vulnerability. But in the case of Dahlia, the opposite was true.Because if they knew her, they had cause to try and find out what had happened, how it had happened, why it had happened; dangerous questions that could lead to the eventual discovery of things she wanted to keep sheltered in the dark, where they belonged. Some things had to be buried deep enough in damp earth that they never saw the light of day, for the sake of all around her.

“Should have known, should have known, buried secrets only grow”

Ah, but while her stricken mind had been running away with her, the small figure she recognised as Samuel Gabeheart had stopped in his tracks in order to properly blink at her, owlishly.

“Dahlia? I- wow you’re up late, not like I can talk but what were you…”

It took him a moment. To look her up and down, to notice the dark stains on her clothing, the ragged tears in the fabric, to notice how she was trying her best not to put any weight on that one leg because every time she so much as nudged it pain bored through her, flesh and bone.

Being looked at like that set her teeth on edge.

“Look, I know. I’m going to sort it.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Sam’s eyes immediately flicked back up to her face with an incredulous look, even as he took a step towards her.A step she mirrored in reverse.

“No no no, no we need to sort that now. Merlin Dahlia, what happened?”

There was only so much room to back up before she hit the wall, which really should have been an obvious fact. Despite that, the sudden impact against her back when there was no more empty space to traverse caused her to flinch, and hard.

“Nothing, I’m fi-”

“No, you objectively are not!”

Another flicker of pain dug into her, as she accidentally knocked her leg against the wall she was now pressing herself into. The resulting wince really didn’t help her case, but it was a shitty lie in the first place. Aching bones each clamoured individually for attention, scratching at her like so many nails on chalkboards. All she could really do about it was screw her eyes shut for a moment, and try to ignore it best she could.

Hey, it worked with most of her internal issues.

It had felt as though she’d only closed her eyes for a second, but a second wouldn’t have been enough time for Sam to close the distance between them and reach for her scratched up arm - which she denied to give him.

“Hey, look you need help. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but-”

“Already told you, m’fine.”

She didn’t have to be looking at him to know that response only invoked frustration, which was a good thing considering she was staring at the floor. Hellfire, she really had to be tired if the floor was swaying.

Sam, sweet little fluffy-haired Sammy, who was usually the last one of what Dahlia cautiously called her friends, seemed to be about thirty seconds from trying to carry her stubborn ass to the Hospital wing. Saying… something, something or another. Why wasn’t she listening again?

“- not to mention you’re starting to bleed through it! Please, I know you’re not big on being vulnerable and all, but you need to let me help!”

Wait. Bleeding through it?

Dahlia glanced up at that, brow furrowed, before looking back down and sticking out her leg so she could see it.

Ah. Fuck. She’d been a fool.

Because dripping from the wound she’d thought she had bound securely, the one that had gored a hole straight through her calf, the one she’s silently marked as the first to fix because if it got infected it would kill her - that one? Yeah, it had bled clean through both the jumper and the tie she’d used to bind it.

…. hey now she thought about it, weren’t the symptoms of blood loss markedly similar to-

Before she could finish even that thought, her knees buckled beneath her. Had she not already been leaning against the wall she’d probably have toppled over and crushed poor Sam, who looked like he was in the process of deciding whether or not this was actually happening or if he was just having a nightmare.

Her head hurt. Shit, everything hurt. Before she could blink Sam’s arm was under her own, trying to support her (a sweet but pointless reaction) and she noticed that against her skin he felt like flame. Slowly, in a silence that felt like eternity, she ran down a mental checklist of her current injuries as she chewed on a too-dry lip.

“I- fuck. Okay, maybe I could use a hand-”

“Hospital wing. Now!”

Dahlia opted not to argue this time.

#jhiugyu jeebers this took ages to just d o I really hope it's okay!! :0!!#And I really hope I got Sammy right enough bkjhvg I'm love the boy!!#Asks!!#Jacobs sibling #hphm

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franciscretarola · 4 years

Text

South Philly: A Love Story

(Photos by Francis Cretarola) The names of some (but not all) of the people in this otherwise truthful account have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent, as well as my own ass.

As Cathy and I rounded the corner on Morris and turned onto our block of 13th (the “Miracle” stretch that, from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year’s, becomes a tourist destination that can be seen from space), I noticed the ambulance parked midway up the street. And my heart sank. They’d already loaded in whomever it was they came for, but I saw that it was stopped pretty much in front of Joey’s house. Joey is what I call an “original,” one of the people who were here when we first arrived more than twenty-three years ago, the mostly Italian-American neighbors who’d created this neighborhood and for generations defined it. Most of my block is still comprised of originals and their spawn, but it would be accurate to say that their impact on the character of the neighborhood is growing ever more muted.

I’d not seen Joey much recently. Just the odd sighting of him doing his constitutional walk around the block, moving a lot slower than he once did, and seeming a bit preoccupied. When we first arrived in the neighborhood Joey was already in his sixties, but a force of nature. Just over five feet tall, thin but solidly built, looking exactly like men of that age I’ve seen all over southern Italy, Joey’s physical stature belied the massive impact of his personality. He was generous, quick to offer a hand, free with his opinions. We never dove into politics, but we might not have been on the same page. At block parties he danced (to doo-wop, the “Grease” soundtrack, dance hits from the ‘70’s), in Cathy’s words, “as if no one was watching,” his arms punching the air in front of him, his legs pistons that fired in place. In these moments his face always revealed angelic contentment. Joey was a hell of a lot more comfortable in his own skin than I’ll ever be. His voice, again out of proportion to his diminutive size, boomed. From the inside of our house, I always knew when he was on the street.

His voice boomed in disconcerting ways when he harangued my brother and me for our ineptitude at bocce. Though completely inexperienced, we’d joined the street’s team playing in a league at the Guerin Rec Center (sponsored by a chiropractor, our team was called The Backbreakers). One of the teams we played was made up some of the guys from Danny and the Juniors. When they’d win, they’d sometimes break into a verse of “At the Hop.” It chapped our asses. It was meant to chap our asses. Breaking balls in South Philly is an honored and cherished tradition.

It was before one of these games that I learned something else about Joey. We were huddled outside, waiting for the doors to open and whining about the winter cold when he, out of nowhere and offhandedly, told us a story that stopped our bitching in its tracks:

“When I was in the army in Korea, it was so fucking cold our rifles froze. Couldn’t load ‘em. Couldn’t shoot ‘em. We had to piss on the works to get them working again.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that an old guy from South Philly had dealt with stuff that would’ve put me in a fetal position. These are tough people. And this was a good reminder.

Cathy and I arrived in this neighborhood in 1996. Coming here changed everything for us. Without exaggeration, I can say that had we never settled here I’d never have become proficient in Italian, we’d never have lived in Abruzzo, and certainly never opened Le Virtú (our neighborhood trattoria dedicated to the cuisine of Abruzzo). We owe South Philly everything. And we’ve seen and been a major part of the changes to the neighborhood and East Passyunk Avenue, changes that have been breathlessly celebrated and discussed in local media. The demise of old South Philly has been frequently, enthusiastically, and prematurely reported in stories that have ranged from sensitive, thoughtful treatments to obnoxious, oblivious hit pieces. It’d be disingenuous for us to say we’re not happy about some of the changes. But it’s equally true that we miss a lot of what’s been lost, have mixed feelings about what’s filled the void (including our own roles in that), and would miss what’s left were it to vanish. When old South Philly goes, the country will have lost one its last original and truly great places. Were it to go during our lifetimes, we’d probably pull up stakes. There’d be no “here” here. We came to South Philly because of what it was, not what we thought it could become.

Rowhome life is familiar to me. I was born and raised up the Schuylkill in Reading, PA, in a blue-collar, predominantly Polish and Slavic neighborhood on the city’s southeast side. My mom’s parents, who also lived in our neighborhood, were “shitkickers” from rural North Carolina who’d moved to Reading for jobs in the textile mills. My dad was Italian-American. When I was a boy his father, from Abruzzo, lived in the house with us. Six of us - including my brother and one of my sisters - lived in a rowhome that would fit inside the one Cathy and I now occupy alone on 13th Street. Reading’s Italian section was gone by the time I was born, but my dad’s friends from that old neighborhood, a tightly knit group of half a dozen guys - partners since grade school in activities both benevolent and (mildly) nefarious - were more a part of our lives than blood relatives. We referred to them as “uncles.” From my grandfather, I got stories about the old country and about being an Italian immigrant when nobody here wanted Italians (he arrived in 1909, one of over 183,000 paesani to make the voyage that year). He explained why he changed his name (from Alfonso Cretarola to Francis Cratil) to avoid prejudice, warned about the KKK who hated Catholics and immigrants like him, spoke reverently of FDR, and taught me and my father before me to root for the underdog. From my dad’s friends I learned a lot, too: how to argue passionately without forgetting you loved the person you were arguing with; how to instantly forgive and when to hold a grudge; how to relentlessly and inventively break balls (the pedestrian insult can boomerang, resulting in a loss of status); numerous mannerisms and off-color Italian expressions and hand gestures; that morality ran deeper than legality; and - above all else - how to show up when a friend was in need.

They had a pinochle game that rotated from house to house. Games would often go on into the early morning. These were raucous, intensely competitive affairs, and master classes in Italian-American culture: music (Sinatra, Prima, and Martin); language (I heard “minchia” so often that I took to using it in conversations with school friends, not knowing it meant “cock,” often playing the role “fuck” does in English); casual volatility, sudden explosions of anger and joy; and food (platters of sausages, meatballs, provolone, capocollo, sopressata). Once, during a game at our house, the doorbell rang, and I went to answer. (I was in about 6th grade). I opened the door to a cop. He asked if the local district justice, one of my dad’s friends, was in the house. I led him to the game in the dining room. He approached the table, hand on his holster, and yelled that the game was busted. For a beat or two, the men at the table looked up at him in silence. Then the judge exploded with a “Vaffa…” and the room erupted in laughter. The cop sat down, had a bite to eat, and left after a few minutes. He’d just wanted to break balls.

So I felt prepared for South Philly. But it still surprised and (usually) delighted me.

We moved into our house in November of 1996. Coming from the paesano-deprived wastelands of Washington, DC, where we’d been living and working, the neighborhood was a paradise. Everywhere I turned were ingredients and foods that could then only be found in specialty stores in the District. There were six bread bakeries within a five-minute walk of my house - good bread, too - and three pasticcerias. There were three butchers inside that radius, including Sam Meloni’s a half a block away on Tasker. We had the Avenue Cheese Shop, Cellini’s, and Phil Mancuso’s as provisioners and, for rarer stuff, DiBruno’s and Claudio’s not too far away on 9th. The hoagie options were overwhelming. Fresh fish was a block away at Ippolito’s. And I’m just talking about the east side of Broad. Ritner Street west of Broad was, and remains, an oasis for anyone seeking Italian flavors. Dad’s Stuffings, Potito’s, and Cacia’s bakery (the tomato pie, but not just) are regional treasures. Cannuli’s Sausages is a full-service butcher shop, where they make a liver sausage taught to them years ago by women from Abruzzo. North of Ritner, on the 1500 block of South 15th, there’s Calabria Imports: sopressata sott’olio, provolone and pecorino cheeses, condiments from Calabria. I gained ten pounds the first few months in the house. And I didn’t care.

But South Philly’s more than a colorful, urban food court. There were/are rhythms, ways of being, and a specific sense of community. Oft-disparaged, stereotyped, and dismissed, the originals in the neighborhood made - and still make - it singular. They’ve provided some of my favorite memories.

My first night out drinking in the neighborhood, I went to La Caffe (now defunct, even the building’s gone) at 12th and Tasker. It was a typical, no-frills corner joint. There were three guys at the bar, all of whom gave me the side-eye as I bellied up. This was long before dedicated hipster ironists started mining the neighborhood for material. My hair was halfway to my ass then, and Italian American wouldn’t be the first, second, or third ethnicity you’d guess when taking in my mug. I wore a vintage Phillies jacket to at least establish some bona fides. I ordered a double Stoli. The guy closest to me gave in and asked what my story was, and a pleasant conversation ensued. We’d reached the point - which used to be a thing - of doing shots of anisette (a practice that, while amicable, often turned a pleasant night’s buzz into a pitiless banshee of a hangover), when the door opened, and a hulking guy, already in his cups, came in clutching a big paper bag under his arm like a football. He was warmly greeted, so, I construed, a regular. He set the grease-soaked bag on the bar, pulled it open and announced: “I got pork sandwiches for everybody!”.A round of roast pork with sharp provolone and broccoli rabe, Philly’s true classic sandwich (the cheesesteak is a pretender to the throne). Welcome to the neighborhood.

The days leading up to Thanksgiving, decorations start to go up: lights; inflatable Santas, snowmen, and Grinches; lights; wreaths; candy canes; nativities; Christmas balls; more lights; plastic holly; tinsel; real and fake evergreen trim; ribbon; additional lights; a giant Snoopy; some elves; and then, finally, the serious lights. This was all pretty much spontaneous, nothing like the organized/enforced effort that now creates the so-called “Miracle on 13th Street.” On Christmas Eve, we were more or less forced at the ends of loaded cannoli into the homes of neighbors to drink wine, anisette, sambuca, rum, and whiskey, and to make our own “plates” from vast spreads of Italian comfort foods. The warmth and good feeling were contagious. And the desire – a need, actually - to share, the humbling generosity, was something I’d only experience again when we began traveling in Abruzzo. My neighborhood in Reading had been close, but nothing like this. The New Year rang in with neighbors returning from dinners and parties in time to bang pots and pans in the middle of the block. The next day, houses up and down 13th and on the cross streets were open, offering neighbors and sometimes complete strangers hot drinks, food, and a bathroom as the Mummers strutted up Broad. It’s never been the same since they changed the parade route.

Our first spring in the house, I was in the kitchen making dinner - roast pork, spaghetti and meatballs - and looking longingly out the window. It was the first real beautiful day of the season. Clear blue skies, about 70 degrees, no humidity. I stepped out into our yard to soak it in. We’ve got the typical tiny South Philly concrete pad; nice for a garden if you’re game, maybe a fig tree (a few of our neighbors still have them). We’d yet to buy yard furniture, and I was regretting it. Cathy stepped out, and I mentioned that, but for the lack of a table and chairs, we could eat outside. “Next time,” she said, and we went back in. Minutes later we heard banging at the metal backyard gate. We opened it to find the old woman who lived in the house behind ours standing in the narrow alleyway. Born in the “Abruzzi” and always dressed in black, she stood less than five feet tall. In heavily accented English, she said “I give you table and two chairs.” She’d been pruning her rose bushes and heard us talking. She led Cathy through her yard and into her kitchen where she had a plain, white plastic table with matching chairs. We were speechless. “I no use anymore. Take,” she said.

The neighborhood landscape was a lot different then. Its mien, too. Before there was the East Passyunk “Singing Fountain” at the 11th Street triangle, the spot was occupied by an old gas station turned hoagie shop, Cipolloni’s Home Plate. Joe Cipolloni was a neighborhood kid who’d been a catcher in the Phillies’ farm system. We hit Joe’s for a medley of hoagies one of the first nights we crashed in the house. Franca Di Renzo’s venerable Tre Scalini was then across from the triangle on 11th. The Di Renzo family’s been serving food on the Avenue almost three decades now. Their departure (announced as I was writing this), is a dagger to the heart. Frankie’s Seafood Italiano (which memorably used the “Mambo Italiano” melody in its radio advertisements) was catty-corner from Franca on Tasker. On East Passyunk there was also Ozzie’s Trattoria and Rosalena’s; Mr. Martino’s Trattoria, Mamma Maria’s, and Marra’s were where they still are today. Walking into a joint meant being warmly greeted with a “Hon,” “Cuz,” or some other friendly moniker. Service was always personable, attentive, and familiar, like you were an old friend. For the life of me, I don’t know what the objection - frequently voiced in amateur and professional reviews - is to this style. Why come to one of the country’s most unique places and ask them to conform to your expectations, change character? Or mock them for who they are? You’re a guest in their neighborhood. Let them be who they are. Roll with it. How self-important, fragile, or far up your own lower digestive tract must you be to be traumatized or offended by “Hon” or the like? What kind of bloodless, sterile, frigid, suppressed, affection-deprived “family” environments produce such specimens? ‘Merigan!

Transactions at restaurants and stores in South Philly weren’t solely financial in nature. They involved human exchanges, real conversation beyond any purchase, interactions that formed some of the neighborhood’s connective tissue. I know that some of the new arrivals in the neighborhood regarded this as a time suck: “Why am I waiting behind this ambulatory fossil while she recounts, for the fifth time, her late husband’s illness, her son’s family’s impending and unapproved move to Jersey, and her plans for the Padre Pio festival? I just want to buy my damned provolone and go!” While an understandable complaint, it was also oblivious. These conversations created and maintained community. Walking into Sam Meloni’s butcher shop was, for me, as much for social reasons as it was to buy meat. The family shop had been at the corner of Iseminger and Tasker since 1938. Sam - in his late sixties and more alive than I’d ever been in my twenties - held court behind the counter, Jeff cap rakishly turned backwards, his expressive faccia usually wearing a wry smile. Entering the store meant immersion in the perpetual, playful, multi-subject argument between Sam and his nephew Bobby - a big, imposing, but sweet dude - and their straight-man assistant, both damn good butchers themselves. You were brought into the fray, asked to weigh in and choose sides, and then identified as an ally or unreasonable bastard. I would go in for some chicken cutlets and walk out nearly an hour later with the chicken, veal scallopini, chicken meatballs, and, most importantly, renewed faith in humanity. Sam’s family was from the town of Campli in Abruzzo’s Teramo province. My family’s also from Teramo. So, we talked a lot about the old country. Once, during my first bought with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I walked over to Sam’s for some cutlets and Italian water, the Lurisia stuff Cathy loved. He was alone in the shop that day. He knew what was going on – I’d had my involuntary “chemo haircut” (much of it had fallen out) and my skin had turned an alluring shade of gray. He rang me up then asked how I was getting home. I lived less than a block away.

“I’m walking, Sam.”

“No. No you ain’t,” he snapped.

He washed his hands, brushed himself off, grabbed my stuff, and locked up the shop. And he drove me home.

We were in Italy when Sam passed. It was an aggressive cancer. Friends of ours, who’d recently moved to the ‘hood and fallen in love with him and his place, went to the memorial. They said that there were photos of Sam from all through his life. A lot of shots from parties. One taken “down the shore” showed him carousing with his friends on the beach, their towels surrounded by “dead soldiers,” empty bottles of booze. Sam had fun. Our friends also mentioned the score of unescorted older women at the memorial. Sam had been a committed bachelor until the end. His nephew Bobby died, also of cancer, only a few months later. The shop closed.

Immersed in this Italian-American bubble, I felt waves of nostalgia, yearnings for the sense of belonging my dad and his friends clearly had in their boyhood enclave (as much as I loved it, I would never be from South Philly, and we’d been transplants to the Polish/Slavic quarter in Reading), and a desire to connect with my roots. Everywhere around me I’d see older, Italian-born guys – hair (or what was left of it) closely cropped; face shaved but casting a shadow by mid-afternoon; height a little over five feet; build thin to stocky, but solid; pants belted and hiked to the midsection; shirt tucked and buttoned to the neck; handkerchief in the back pocket; shoes plain, of leather; sartorial mien somber – who reminded me of my grandfather. These guys and their wives are usually quiet, reserved. They keep to themselves, cook and eat at home. Which is maybe why the newcomers moving in and journalists perfunctorily writing about South Philly often don’t seem to notice them. A lot of them used to congregate at the now-defunct Caffe Italia west of Broad on Snyder. But they’re still around, hiding in plain sight. Many of them, I’d discover, were from villages near where Alfonso had been born. Listening to them speak a language familiar but, really, impenetrable to me became intolerable. I wanted to understand where all this stuff around me had come from, the place that’d shaped Alfonso and, to a lesser extent, my father and myself. So, with Cathy’s permission (she’s a mensch), I quit my job writing and copyediting for a publisher out of Maryland and made the first of my extended trips to Italy to study the language, first in Florence, but later and more intensely in Rome. My studies provided me the key to exploring and understanding Abruzzo - a wild, beautiful, mostly untraveled region, and the point of origin for many of South Philly’s denizens - and penetrating, just a little (the community can be justifiably suspicious and guarded), the native Italian component of my adopted neighborhood.

It wasn’t too long after our return from an extended stay, with our two Jack Russells, in Abruzzo that we met, befriended, and – in a move that determined our future road and made Le Virtú possible but which for a short while caused us crippling anxiety and provided a window to hell – started working with a chef from Napoli operating on the west side of Broad. This guy – let’s call him Gennaro – prepared the real-deal cucina napolitana. No compromises, nothing elaborate, just the genuine article. Working with him was our intro to the biz. Luciana, our opening chef at Le Virtú, was a frequent dining guest and then, after Gennaro ominously disappeared one weekend, his sometime substitute in the kitchen. Gennaro, who we discovered too late had a history with illicit substances and a taste for expensive wine that someone else had paid for (chefs, the little dears! It’s always the Aglianico, Amarone or Barolo, and never the Nero di Troia), gradually went off the rails, slipping into legitimate mental illness. When out of paranoia he asked a busboy to frisk a customer because the guy was speaking in Neapolitan dialect (your guess is as good as ours), we cut bait. My last sight of Gennaro was on my stoop around midnight, asking for the phone number of a former server, a young girl he’d become convinced was the Madonna (not the singer, but Christ’s mom, of immaculate conception fame). When I denied his request, he produced a knife, and I a baseball bat (what else is a vestibule for?). I was chasing him up the street, bat in hand, when I locked eyes with an incredulous cop in his cruiser (not the first time this had happened, by the way). I flagged down the cop and he took Gennaro away. The whole thing was our first restaurant “cash-ectomy,” but my brother and Cathy had developed a taste for the biz. So, we were in, just not with Gennaro.

But before it all turned to merda, Gennaro provided – and subsequently burned – bridges into South Philly’s discrete, native-born community. We frequented expatriate clubs, visited in homes, met, dined with, and came to know many of our Italian neighbors. Language was crucial to that. And it proved crucial to repairing the damage Gennaro’s erratic behavior was continuing to cause in the neighborhood after our breakup. As part of the reconciliation with the neighbors, we were invited for dinner at the home of a family from Basilicata, the soulful, beautiful, but economically and historically screwed region at the instep of The Boot (between Puglia to the east and Calabria and Campania to the west). The head of the household – let’s call him Domenico - had been a semi-regular at Gennaro’s place and had watched his gradual decline. It was Domenico who’d come to us with stories of Gennaro’s increasing madness and how it impacted the street as, in our absence, it all went off the rails. We did all we could to clean up the messes, settling Gennaro’s accounts with purveyors, apologizing to neighbors. In the meanwhile, Gennaro escaped, first to Jersey and the employ of a well-known, native-born restaurateur, and then permanently back to Napoli. Once returned home, his old habits and illnesses caught up with him. He didn’t make it. Domenico’s mother - short, whippet-thin, in her seventies, and a non-English speaker – cooked for us and his family. It ranks among the best and most authentic Italian dining experiences I’ve ever had in the US. The décor of the rowhome was completely old-world, the lighting soft, the house immaculate in the way only immigrant homes are, a purposeful demonstration of work ethic and pride. Nothing she made was remotely elaborate, just all beautifully done. Beyond the perfection of the homemade pasta, the simplicity and delicacy of the grilled and fried antipasti, the generous portions of wine and digestivi, I most remember the image of this woman, visible from our table, relentlessly at work for hours at the kitchen stove, a culinary machine. She produced course after course, never sat down with us, never stopped moving. It had to be nearly midnight when she reluctantly emerged from the kitchen to accept our thanks and unconditional surrender.

By the time we opened Le Virtú in October of 2007, the demographic changes already at work when we arrived had greatly accelerated. Fresh diasporas from Mexico, Vietnam, Cambodia, and elsewhere filled the gaps (and storefronts) left by Italian Americans. The sons and grandchildren of Italian immigrants often didn’t want to carry on family businesses or wanted to pursue a suburban style of life (that I’ll never understand, and the idea of which gives me the fantods). These new arrivals brought with them the energy and entrepreneurial impulse that generally attends immigrant waves. Family-oriented, hardworking, and driven to succeed, they’ve greatly benefited the neighborhood. From my vantage, they remind me of my grandfather and his peers. Others arriving were generally more affluent, white, and college educated. It was in the late 90’s that we began to see folks, obviously from outside the neighborhood, walking around and looking at houses. Browsers. Handwritten notes asking if we’d consider selling our home were shoved through our mail slot. It was hard to know how to feel about it. Priced out of more expensive areas or newly arrived in the city, these folks were attracted by the neighborhood’s amenities, housing stock, proximity to the subway, and convenience to Center City. Prices on our own block increased eight- to tenfold between 1996 and today, providing a windfall for some neighbors with an itch to leave but also pretty much making it certain that their children couldn’t buy in the vicinity if they wanted to stay.

By the mid- to late-aughts, swarms of hipsters, ironic deep divers, beer geeks, gourmands, and self-appointed food critics were descending on the neighborhood as the infrastructure to satisfy them all had developed. Bars began offering vast selections of national and local craft and Belgian beers. Even corner bars started carrying a few crafts and a couple of Chimays. The harbinger for all of this, however, was Ristorante Paradiso, the dream of Lynn Rinaldi, a proud product of the neighborhood. Paradiso departed from the familiar Italian-American narrative and bravely introduced Italian regional themes to East Passyunk. Heartened by Lynn’s success, we opened Le Virtú, digging deep into la cucina Abruzzese and proffering dishes that would have been familiar to the grandparents and great grandparents of our neighbors. And, of course, a diverse host of restaurants and other eateries – most of them astonishingly good – followed. It’s now possible to figuratively eat your way across much of the globe and never leave East Passyunk.

We’d imagined Le Virtú as a love letter to Abruzzo, where we’d lived after my first occurrence of Hodgkin’s and where we returned to annually and, perhaps naively, a gift of gratitude to the neighborhood. Our first menus, created by Luciana from Abruzzo, were straight out of tradition, without any “cheffy” interpretation. And still we’d have guests, some of them locals and neighbors, who were baffled by our fare. One guy, seated at the bar and looking over our offerings, his face a map of confusion, remarked: “Not for nothing, but is there anything Italian on this menu?” So, a little (hopefully unpedantic) explanation often proved necessary. Using ingredients from specific local farms, importing rare ingredients from Abruzzo (buying our saffron involved going to the village of Civitaretenga in Abruzzo and knocking on a farmer’s door; we filled suitcases with rare cheeses from organic farms in the region), and trying to proffer quality wines and digestives made our prices above what had been the neighborhood norm. Without doubt, we alienated some locals. And the people most familiar with our dishes, the native-born Italians living in the neighborhood, never went out to eat Italian. The idea of going out and paying for what you could make at home was, to them, obscene. Only ‘merigan did that. But we gradually found our clientele, or they found us. And watching, as has happened many times. family shedding nostalgic tears over a simple bowl of scrippelle ‘mbusse - pecorino-filled crepes in chicken broth – and remembering the grandmothers from Abruzzo, now most likely departed, who used to make it for special occasions…you can’t put a price on that.

The Italian South Philly that persists is deceptively large, especially if you’re just judging by a count of storefronts and businesses. Philly’s population of Italian Americans is still the second largest in the US, after New York’s, and a lot of that’s attributable to South Philly. Most blocks in the old enclave are still partly or majority Italian-American, even if some - not most, but a sizable number - of the newcomers tend to pretend the originals don’t exist. Or maybe just wish that they didn’t. This disrespect is often palpable and felt among the long-time residents. They talk about it. Early on during East Passyunk’s so-called “renaissance,” a new store owner catering to more recent neighborhood arrivals and visitors to the Avenue remarked to a journalist that his block had three Italian eateries but that there was no way that could last. He sounded hopeful. I can’t count the episodes in which, drinking or dining at a local joint or just walking along the street, I’ve heard visitors or newcomers condescendingly discussing the long-time residents, the Italian Americans, like Margaret Mead describing the subjects of some anthropological expedition. They say these things blithely, indifferent to or unaware of the fact that the locals hear them. A professor at a city university once asked me where I lived. When I responded, she grimaced then asked: “How do you like living down there with them?” Again, I don’t look Italian American. I informed her of my background and ended the conversation.

I won’t whitewash any of my neighborhood’s shortcomings. Except maybe to say that they seem to be painfully evident everywhere in America. We’ve drawn the ire of some of South Philly’s less-accepting citizens for the causes we’ve supported at Le Virtú, the fundraisers for immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. But many, maybe even most of our strongest supporters have also been Italian American and folks from the neighborhood. They’ve shown up when we’ve asked for help. We’re indebted to them. But the easy stereotypes often used to describe Italian South Philly and Italian Americans in general are tired, lazy, and profoundly ironic. They also have a long history. Most Italian Americans can trace their provenance to somewhere in the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the southern realm that lasted until most of the peninsula was unified at bayonet point in 1861. In Italy, southerners were often disparaged, labeled terroni for their connection to the earth and the dark color of their skin. Into the 1970’s, some landlords in northern cities openly refused to rent to southerners. Crackpot theories about their inferiority and tendency toward criminality began in northern Italy in the 19th century and followed them to the U.S. Nativist propaganda and even the editorial sections of papers as reputable as The New York Times attacked their character and lamented their arrival in America. During an earlier, xenophobic freakout in the 1920’s, we changed our immigration laws, in part, to stop the waves from southern Italy breaking on our shores. It’s painful to see how durable and apparently socially acceptable these stereotypes are. Just as it’s painful and shameful when some Italian Americans forget this story and mimic their ancestors’ tormentors.

What the future is for the Italian enclave in South Philly, I can’t say. I’m trying to enjoy as much of it that remains as I can, to savor it. The new immigrant communities, vibrant and essential to the neighborhood’s future as they may be, are understandably insular. And it’s unclear how committed the other newcomers are to the neighborhood, the young families, couples, and affluent professionals making their homes here. Will they stay or, as many do, move on when their kids reach school age? Some have had a real positive impact. Participation in school and neighborhood associations is important and has for sure contributed to the area’s betterment. But those types of organizations aren’t deeply organic. They can and do strengthen a community, but I don’t think that they often create the profound sense of belonging that palpably existed here when we arrived, and that persists among long-time residents. Many of the newcomers turn their eyes from and backs to the street. Their lives occur inside their homes, and they don’t actively participate in their block’s daily social exchanges and rhythms. Is this a suburban mode of being? I wouldn’t know. Since we opened our restaurant, we are also guilty of often hiding behind our door, preoccupied and occasionally overwhelmed as we are (we’ve nobody but ourselves to blame for this; no one held a gun to our heads and forced us to open a restaurant). It seems clear to me and to Cathy that the originals provide much of the social glue that makes our part of South Philly an actual neighborhood. Their emotional attachment to the place, their pride, their events still inform the place’s identity. Without them, this is just an amorphous cluster of streets and homes, meaningless real estate designations. They provide much of the framework that whatever’s to come will be built on.

And, again, the community is stronger than some reports might indicate. If you’re ever lucky enough to happen upon a serenade, you’ll see and feel how strong. Before a wedding, the bride’s street is blocked off, and her and the groom’s families, as well as neighbors, gather in front of the rowhome. The groom “serenades” her from the street. There’s music, wine, food, laughter, an epic party. It’s something brought here from the old country. My brother Fred got to participate in one in Abruzzo, in the mountain village of Pacentro. He held the groom’s ladder as he climbed to knock on his bride’s window. Once arrived at the window, the groom, a musician of note but, by his own admission, not much of a singer, had to belt out an appropriate tune while all his friends and half the town looked on. His musician friends then joined in. They’re more to the letter of the law in Abruzzo. In South Philly there’s often a DJ instead. The couple in Pacentro, dear friends of ours who’ve hosted us in their own homes, reluctantly left Abruzzo after their marriage to realize their dreams. They now live happily in our South Philly neighborhood.

Oh, and by the way, Joey made it. He’s okay.

#southphilly italianamerican philly abruzzo abruzzese southernitalian levirtu #nopassportrequired eastpassyunk

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unholydickweed · 5 years

Text

Jimin x Reader

1/2

Tzzz. Your phone vibrates in your hand and you peer into the dull screen to identify the caller, ultimately letting out an annoyed hiss as soon as you read the name - Jimin.

Park Jimin, your first A-grade- you hesitate to think that word, but well- bully. Jimin has had an eye on you for all the wrong reasons, and for you he had set a clear target. That was to turn your last year of college into his own idea of fun, and what more pleasurable to him than your piqued face? He tags your discontent as a sign of glory, and why that might even be slightly amusing remained alien to you. He wouldn't even be at your school if it weren't for his father's promotion and his damn excellent grades, and this bothered you; all the tables had turned resulting from his appearance, both literally and figuratively, and he deliberately brought into existence trouble to you, you who were supposedly unaffected by everything.

The only reason you had his number saved was because you had to ignore him, and you did. You put your phone on mute for the second time this morning, and it didn't matter to you of you were going to miss out on any other important calls. You slam the locker door shut in pensive aggression and turn to see pair of wood brown eyes glaring at you.

"I was calling to get you to attend my party today," he had managed to show up though, regardless of your attempts to avoid him.

"And what made your moronic brain think I'd show up," you retort.

"Oh, darling, I have my ways," he grins back a flirtatious eye smile. He leaves without a word, only for your phone to flash again a second later, with a text displaying his address.

You're raged to your core now, but you keep yourself collected. This time you switch off your phone completely.

9:02 pm, you see glancing up when you realize your chip packet had run out of chips. You keep the physics textbook away, you were too distracted to study anymore anyway. Your friend hadn't called you since her disagreement with Namjoon hyung, and you were worried.

...Wait. I had my phone switched off. It hit you then, and you struggle off your chair and rampage your bag to turn that contraption on.

Tzzz. It vibrates again, Jimin's name popping up on the screen with a voice message attached underneath.

"Y/N, you will come tonight, won't you?" You can hear his flirty eye smile once more.

There's a knock on you door immediately after, followed Eun-ha storming into your room. "Don't you dare give me the I've-got-morals talk, Y/N. You're coming with me. I'm going to take on every guy at Jimin's birthday party, I swear on my ovaries," she yells, and throws a dress at my lap.

"Hey hey hey, calm your tits. What did Namjoon exactly do? We can talk abou-"

"You have thirteen minutes to get your ass ready," she interrupts, angsty determination overflowing her mouth, as if a moment's delay would break her apart. Denying wasn't an option. Your more reasonable side of the brain certainly didn't want Eun-ha making an appearance alone in that state.

Oh hell, how bad could it even get.

A minute's contemplation exhausts you - you're still unable to put that finger on the doorbell. Eun-ha, growing irked by the second, slaps the door in your behalf, saying, "Get some balls, Y/N, Jimin's not going to eat you even if you wanted him to." You scowl in disgust upon hearing the latter, and as the door swings open you sight your way too unfavourable nightmare.

Park Jimin, your very own A-grade bully, you think without hesitation. I'm going to bury you if you decide to bother me today.

Eun-ha's in the left corner of the bar area, not drunk yet, and making out with two men simultaneously. You're sitting a few feet away on a couch, your favourite bottle of blended scotch whiskey in hand. You've only taken a few sips when Jimin approaches you with an empty paper cup and drops down on the seat next to you, brushing up against you in the process. You gasp at the sudden spark that the skin where your bare arm touches his.

"Told you you'd show up, darling," he beams again, but innocently this time, handing out the paper cup for you to pour in, his oblivion to your abrupt change in guard unsuspecting. "You look pretty."

That's odd. The compliment throws you off track. Am I drunk and hearing things or are you actually being nice? ...But thank you, Park Jimin.

"I'm being nice and you're welcome, Y/N," he replies, as if reading your unstated thoughts, and you're left fazed, eyes widening in discomfort.

"Come on, let me show you something," Jimin speaks again, shattering the unyielding silence. He jumps off the couch and holds out an empty hand. You make an effort in shoving it away and standing on your own, but feel a stinging sensation creeping up a the back of your neck. You think you'd fall, but there's an arm around your waist, nudging you up the stairs.

Jimin opens a door to a dark room, but a small lamp hung from the center of the ceiling is enough for you to distinguish the forms of each object. There's a bed beside the curtained windows, and a tv facing it. And too many books on the shelf above the television. You're a reader.

"Yes I am, I really need to get new books before my guts give out," he says, taking you by shock. A plasma of hysteria snakes through you, but you're perplexed. How are you doing that?

"Doing what?"

I really like you Park Jimin, you decide to trick him.

"I really like you too, Y/N," Jimin says, flushing cherry red as he says those words. Baffled, you let out a groan and stomp into the washroom. "I'll be waiting till you're out." You hear Jimin add.

Okay, okay, calm down Y/N, he is just randomly saying those stuff, you don't need to assume anything more, he doesn't like you and that's it. IS HE HEARING ALL THIS NOW, oh my god, stop thinking you drunk fucker-

Splash. You slap youself with a palm of ice cold water on both cheeks. You can't help but be embarrassed, and worried; he'll surely give a mouthful at school when you're sober again. Please don't.

You head out, spaced out and expecting him to bother you about that.

"Hey, it's alright, I don't kiss and tell, Y/N."

You close your eyes in distress at that phrase, but are hit with a soft pair of lips on yours. Jimin grabs your waist, pushing you against his wall, all while placing on you breathless kisses. Eyes levered open upon impact, you push at his torso, still incapable of grasping what just happened.

You'd thought he wouldn't give up, but his lips part from your's instantly, leaving you in a dumbfounded predicament.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. For a moment in space, your breaths lock. You witness the uninhabitable loneliness in his eyes, now that you are close enough to look into it. It must've been painful, you think, and for a moment, you nurture the urge to do exactly what he wants, and you don't care about your pride or anything or anything, you just want him to never feel the way you've always felt.

So, so utterly lonely.

#jimin #bts jimin #park jimin #jimin icons #jiminiful #party #mochi #chimchim #chimmy #bts jungguk #bts suga #bts #bts jk #bts icons #bts v #jiminie #kookie #jin

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korkrunchcereal · 6 years

Text

Click

Click.

The sound echoed through the woods, met only with the startling silence of abandonment. For the fifth time in the last hour, Toren of Vren cursed Veridan Koss for his current predicament. The latter had come asking for Toren’s assistance in ‘clearing out’ an infestation, as Veridan had called it. A small warband of forest trolls had pierced the borders of Southern Quel’thalas and had ravaged several villages. With war escalating against the Alliance, local defenses were stretched thin.

What Veridan had failed to mention was the sheer scope of land Toren was forced to traverse in search of the trolls. The pay had been good sure, but it was not why Toren had taken the job. He was, after all, already getting paid by the Sunguard. Rather he had mainly done it to test out his new invention, which had made the rather loud clicking noise. Inspired by both the design of his arcanetic pistols and the spellwork the human magi Jaina had used to smash the walls at the Undercity, Toren had constructed an ‘arcanetic’ rifle.

He always found bullets crude and common spellwork amateur, and so just as his pistols fired no solid shot, so too did this rifle. Similar design meant his rifle was powered by the same crystals that his pistols were, though amplified considerably for both more shots and further range. The initial tests had stressed the importance of power, leading him to also create a gauntlet capable of harnessing latent magic and storing it in order to handle the backlash of energy.

All of these preparations however was so far meaning little. For three days he had been tracking the trolls, chasing after shadows underneath the canopy of the forest. He had not been able to have a proper field test yet, and he was itching too. Two months had been spent on the design of the weapon, with a further six months previous iterating on his pistols. It had rained as well, making tracking the trolls that much harder. Frustration and fatigue were close behind Toren’s footsteps, yet now he was finally being rewarded.

He had caught a glimmer in the trees ahead. He thought the trail had gone cold, before he found the elven scalp. Beyond that were tracks; deep imprints into the rain-soaked oaks of the elven forest. He was by no means a Farstrider, but they were busy with the war and Toren had some experience with their methods. Slowly, he had cocked the lever action of his rifle, and aimed at the glimmer.

“Got you now…” He paused, brow narrowing as the object failed to move in any capacity. His eyes squinted, the arcanetic lens that rested over his left eye catching no strange magic anomalies. There was something strange about his target however, and he realized why quickly. A crackle of lightning above illuminated the forest briefly, revealing the glimmer to be a dagger stabbed into the tree.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, Toren falling back onto the ground and creating a portal. As he fell, he hit not the ground but rather appeared several feet away beneath the bough of one of the trees. There was a sharp crack, a massive spear lodged into the position he was just standing. Toren scanned between the trees, frowning. Quickly, he raised his rifle and fired.

Near instantly there was a bright flash of violet, a bolt of arcane shooting from the rifle with the force and sound of a thunderbolt. A whine filled the air as it sailed through, smashing into…something. Toren peered, ears perking as he heard something heavy hit the ground. His long coat fluttered behind him as he ran forward, one hand spin cocking his rifle. The action was not to reload, as was normally the case. It was instead to re-orient the rune scribed casing inside the gun, the sheer force of its arcane payload shunting it out of place.

Click.

His shot had rewarded him with a kill. A troll almost double the size of Toren lay collapsed in the dirt face down, a smoldering hole going through his chest and out his back. Toren couldn’t help but grin, looking lovingly at the rifle. Initial field test was successful. His joy however was short lived, the ground all but shaking as dozens of feet slammed into the ground all around him. Wincing, Toren looked up to find the forest was no longer abandoned. Where moments ago there was nothing, there now stood nearly twenty trolls, each meaner and uglier than the last. Toren opened his mouth to speak, closed it then opened it again.

“Shit.” Toren recognized then the trolls had been leading him into a trap. They had known he was tracking them, Toren realizing they had led him far from any of the nearby elf villages in order to ensure he could not rally any form of support. Isolate, and annihilate. It was a cunning trap, and Toren had idiotically taken the bait in his blind desire to field test. Toren had always said his old compatriot Balasar’s ambition would get him killed; the irony that the reverse might be true was not lost on him.

“Ju.” One of the trolls stepped forward, a large axe in both hands as he nodded his head to the fallen troll. “Ju got lucky little elf.” The troll’s accent was thick, its elvish broken and messy. “Not gonna get lucky second time.” As if taking it as a command the trolls descended on Toren, who gasped and stepped back into another portal just as several blades slammed down aiming for his neck.

“Shit!” Toren had appeared several feet away, now running in the opposite direction of the trolls. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Afta’ ‘im!” The guttural cries of the trolls roared through the forest behind him. Toren craned his neck, watching as several sprung up into the trees like it was nothing, the rest chasing him on foot.

“I hate you, Veridan!” Toren wheeled on the ball of his foot, firing off a shot before rapidly cocking it and shooting off a second. Two trolls collapsed into a bloody mess, their bodies ripped apart by the arcane payload. The brutal deaths of their compatriots made the remaining trolls hesitant, which was all the time Toren needed to fire off yet another several shots in quick succession.

He got up and ran again, leaping into a portal and appearing a dozen yards to the left. Arrows slammed into the dirt where he was previous, the trolls in the trees now catching up to him. He weaved and dodged among the low hanging branches, using them as a natural shield while still running. He had passed a clearing shortly before finding the troll warband and was making a beeline towards it. The woods gave him some protection sure, but it also made sure he couldn’t truly test his weapon.

He turned, firing off a shot at one of the trolls in the trees. The blast splintered wood next to the troll but failed to hit. In annoyance he cocked his rifle and fired another shot straight ahead of himself at a portal he just formed. A cry escaped behind him, the mage tilting his head to see from the corner of his eye the other side of the portal, having formed right next to one of the troll’s legs. The blast had amputated the creature, causing it too to fall.

Searing, sharp pain slammed into Toren’s right shoulder as an arrow pierced his coat and buried itself into his flesh. He let out a cry, nearly stumbling forward from the force of the impact. A lucky shot, but one that would make handling his rifle painful. There was a break in the tree line up ahead, Toren leaping through a portal and appearing in the center of the clearing he had sought. The woods had given way to a small grass circle, a singular man-sized rock jutting out from the dirt. Toren ran and slid behind it, wincing as he brought a hand to the wound.

“Son of a bitch that hurts. Veridan, I bet you’re probably laughing. ‘oh look at me, I sent Toren out into a rainy forest to hunt Forest Trolls. What an idiot.’” Toren sighed as he waved his free hand, arcane dancing on the finger tips. He felt something heavy against his shoulder, the man hissing as he summoned a force of arcane to expel the arrow.

He had no time to dwell on the injury, hearing tree branches crack and the low primal voices of the trolls. He poked his head out from behind the rock, looking at the assembled trolls. There was a dozen trolls now, meaning he had at least picked off some of them. Their leader was still there, its ugly face contorted in anger. Gods he could see the shrunken elf ears strung up around the troll’s neck. Toren would make sure his wasn’t among them.

“Come out, elfy. Ju got no chance ‘ere. Ju-” That one talked far too much. Toren briefly put down the rifle, unholstering one of his pistols as he tuned out the troll’s voice. The troll was still talking, saying all manner of vicious and brutal ways he’d kill Toren. Toren had gotten a good layout of the clearing and waved his free hand to create another portal. A murky image could be seen of the back of the talking troll’s head through the portal. Casually, Toren readied his pistol, and fired into it.

“-and me gonna wear your skin like a clo-“whatever further primitive taunt the troll was going to say became silenced as its head exploded into gory chunks, bits of bone and brain matter splattering over its companions. The silence carried on as realization kicked in.

“Finally…” Toren muttered, dropping his pistol to pick back up the rifle. He watched as a rain drop started oozing down the rock, threatening to drip off a precipice. Taking a deep breath, he got up to aim at the bewildered trolls as the droplet fell. Their reaction was too slow as Toren went to work. Like a well-oiled piston he fired, before cocking again and firing. His hands were a blur with the repeated motion, and despite the pain in his shoulder kept firing until all he heard was clicking.

Click.

The rain drop hit the ground beside Toren’s boot.

Of the twelve trolls, four stood. The other seven lay sprawled in the dirt, arcane magic leaving smoldering entry wounds. It had taken fifteen shots to drain the power crystal he used, something he made sure to make a mental note of. He could feel the gun barrel crackling with raw arcane energy, threatening to explode in a radiant shower. Toren kept the energy in check, grateful for the gauntlet he wore to help re-direct its power.

The remaining trolls simply turned and fled from the carnage Toren left. He didn’t give them time to, unholstering his second pistol and snapping off four quick shots with deadly precision. The trolls fell into the mud, rainwater mixing with dark blood. Toren eyed the trolls, before turning his attention to the crystal powering his pistol. Empty.

It was simple math; fifteen was greater than eight. Technology was all about innovating off of the last successful design to make something better, and he was certain this was the next step. Casually he holstered his pistol, bending down to grab the other one and holster that one. He winced with the motion, still nursing his wound. His shirt and coat were ruined from the hole and his blood. He’d make Veridan pay extra for damages.

Toren sniffed the air, noting for the first time today it didn’t smell of the woods nor of rainwater. It smelled sweet, almost like sugar, and he realized it came from his rifle. Some mages were capable of conjuring treats made of mana, which had always tasted and smelled of sugared treats. Ironically, so did the arcane smoke from his gun. Toren smirked at that, hoisting his rifle over his good shoulder.

Click.

#World of Warcraft #Toren of Vren #Prestige story: Spellbow #Skullcrusha writing

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dsmroleplay · 3 years

Text

#BeautyAndTheBeast Part 12 #DSM #RP #SPN #BtVS

Writers: @HuntersGirlBaby @DeadlyJager @DeanWinchester_ @JulianRyker & @OutcastBrother @Deafenderguard

Colt: -Receiving her message he didn't text back not sure who was around or could read it. The group had left the grounds after Graham's public whipping had been finished but Julian had no intention of letting him live now. He did regret having to get rid of him though, he'd been loyal for many years. Pulling his gun out he put the barrel to Graham's head and was about to pull the trigger when a scent had him alarmed. Dropping his arm he radioed to his guards.- "Someone's on the property!" ::::::::::::::::::: Julian Ryker: -Moving in on the compound they'd broken off into three teams moving in unison to Colt they scaled the exterior wall dropping one guard and two dogs before hitting the ground. Not sure where Alyson was moved into the court yard. Close enough to hear Julian's exclamation drawing knives the assault rifles held on their backs. Heavy steps as the first came around the corner Colt threw his arm around the guys neck and drove his blade home cutting the carotid artery.

Blood spraying with each contraction of his heart, drawing him back out of the way and dropping him into the shadows Julian grabbed the second and did the same. Colt knew @Defenderguard would be here soon. Regardless of whether they were together anymore they had an unbreakable bond and would remain rock solid come hell or high water. As they rounded the hedge the bonfire giving plenty of light. Julian Duval stood there with a knife in his hand. Some poor bastard tied up. Glances at Colt for orders.- :::::::::::::::::::::::: Colt: I got this. Go find Alyson. -The look in his eyes were wild and full of fury.- :::::::::::::::::: Julian Ryker: -Julian didn't have children so he couldn't understand that bond but he knew what it was like to have one of your own taken. He wouldn't insult Colt by trying to talk him out of it. So he met his eyes and nodded disappearing into the shadows to find Alyson.- ::::::::::::::::: Colt: Ghosting Julian Duval: -Blood dripped from the end of knife and splattered on the concrete.- Julian laughed hard. "So... you're the scum behind Blackwater... don't look like much. With the reputation I expected someone "bigger" hell of lot more muscle. After I kick your ass I'm not going to kill you no I'm going to keep you locked up so sweet Alyson minds. She thinks Daddy is Superman but we both know that's bullshit don't we. I told her you're nothing but a fucking psychopath hiding behind some righteous front...

Do you have the balls to put those guns down and fight with some kind of honor? -Colt knew he should just put a bullet in him but this would impact many things once done. Not wanting an all out war with the werewolf factions he lifted the strap holding the assault rifle from his neck and laid it down then pulled his sidearm from his thigh and dropped it to the ground. Moving forward knife gripped in his right hand as he moved counter clockwise to keep Julian front and center. More than likely this son of a bitch was gonna transform on him but that might be a good thing. The wild aggression could be thwarted with a clear head.- :::::::::::::::::::::: Graham: -Graham hung heavy against his bindings, blood was still oozing from his wounds. He lifted his head at the sound of Julian's voice taunted someone. The guy was wearing in black bdu's thinking to himself "This is Alyson's father. With Julian distracted he could focus getting loose. Pulling at the restraints his muscles tightened across his chest and arms. Usually fighting to keep his anger under control it was on his shoulder always poking at him to loose his shit and just rip throats. Tonight it would be what gets him free. Jaw tightened as muscles tore as he worked to get loose.- :::::::::::::::::::: Ethan: Ethan had just returned to Earth with the hint of something or someone was going around killing his brothers and sisters. When he saw he had missed a call from his ex husband Colt Him and Colt weren't together anyone as Colt had moved on but there was more to their t love life but trust in their true friendship over the last twenty years. No matter what was going on My own life or his Ethan had promised Colt he would be there for him no matter what. Ethan stopped to listen to the message from Colt. When his eyes glow white with an anger brewing deep inside his stomach that his daughter Alybee was taken . She wasn't his daughter but in his eyes she was. Ethan bounce from where he was on the beach to head straight to #Blackwater to get his military gears.

Not everyone knew he was angel as had only had a selected few to know the truth what he is as he loaded up with fragmentation grenades, his 9Mm gun on his leg and his trusted blade on the other legs with his rifles, and cabine automatic M41A rifles with his bullets across his body. with his body armor on not like he needed that it was more for the look. He was ready to go and save his spotted daughter and his family with the teams of hunters that were called on this hunt. Know Colt he would have everyone out on his this. Ethan used his powers to sense on Colt. To track him and the teams where in New York when he disappear to the location. When he landed on his feet locked and loaded to begin his assault on any energies of the Winchester family. When he open fired to anyone that wasn't in blackwater uniform making his way to find the teams and track down where Colt was.

#DSM BTVS SPN RP

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ethereousdelirious · 4 years

Text

Whumptober #15 - Possession

Fandom: The U.mbrella A.cademy

Characters: T.eam Z.ero

Pairings: N/A

Warnings/Notes: You know the drill by now, Avengers Tower AU with a side of vigilante justice

None of them were doing very well by the time the fighting was done. They weren't kids any more, and didn't have the advantage of catching their opponents off-guard. Plus, working as vigilantes meant they had to at least try to be subtle. They were no longer public darlings, just damaged adults try to build some meaning back into their lives.

Luther looked around, taking stock of his siblings and hoping in a back corner of his mind that the weather didn't turn. He'd thought that shady dealings down by the docks were a cheap crime-thriller trope, but he'd thought wrong.

Ass-kicking was so much harder in the dark.

"How we doing?" he asked the groaning, collapsed pile of bodies comprised of his siblings.

"Oh, fantastic," Klaus said. "If I hurry, I can grab breakfast before my 6:00 am yoga class."

Luther ignored this. "Everyone else?"

"Vanya's hurt," Allison said, a note of fear darkening her voice.

"How bad?"

"I can't tell; it's too dark."

They'd left their phones at home in the microwave at Five's behest, the better to avoid being tracked. Diego did an unnecessary somersault to get to Vanya faster than Luther could, and produced a flashlight from somewhere on his person.

In the white light, she was wide-eyed and pale, but in control.

"I-I'm okay," she said. "Just got a little bit stabbed."

Luther gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "You're gonna be fine. We'll get you patched up."

Blue flashed in his peripheral vision and left light trails that made him blink. "I'll take it from here," Five said, nudging Luther out of the way. Diego can stay and hold the light."

"No," Allison said firmly. "I'll take that." She snatched the flashlight out of Diego's hands and ran her free hand through Vanya's hair. "You need somebody with good bedside manner."

More blue light, and the sounds of Klaus struggling with something. Luther almost didn't turn to look. Typical Klaus, he never could stand not being the center of attention.

What made Luther turn was the silence. The blue light still flared, a beacon in the darkness, but whatever Klaus was doing, he had evidently stopped.

So Luther turned to look, not expecting much but cautious all the same, and was promptly met by a glowing blue fist to the face.

"What the fuck?" Luther didn't so much as wobble, but he had felt the bones in Klaus' hand break. "Klaus?"

"Just ignore him," Diego said, his attention still on Vanya.

"He's--" Luther grunted as Klaus hit him in the stomach with his broken, glowing hand. "He's attacking me!"

Luther knew the situation was roughly on par with a chihuahua nipping at a rottweiler, but it was still worrisome. Klaus hit him again with the broken hand-- Luther felt the bones scrape against each other at impact, and fear flashed across Klaus' face for a second before it settled back into naked malice.

"Knock it off!" Luther grabbed Klaus by the collar and lifted him up, but Klaus was a wild, rabid animal; he clawed and kicked and writhed until Luther dropped him and then he lunged at Five.

Luther wanted to shout but the noise died in his throat. Five didn't have time to get away and his head thumped hard against the wood of the while Klaus… Klaus beat the shit out of him.

"Do something!" Allison all-but-screamed and Luther stirred. He wrapped his arms around Klaus and put him in a full nelson.

Klaus kicked and bit, more animal than human.

"What the fuck is the matter with him?" Five demanded, sitting up and wiping blood out from under his nose.

Klaus finally spoke. "You killed them! You killed me!"

Diego said, "Fuck."

Luther tightened his grip on Klaus. "What?"

"He's fuckin' possessed. Probably by one of the guys we just killed. Shit!" Diego drove his fist into his leg. "Allison, Five, get Vanya out of here."

"Are you guys gonna hurt him?" Vanya asked weakly.

"Vanya, don't try to talk," Diego said. He made a face at Allison, who rolled her eyes but got in position to carry Vanya.

It was at that moment that Klaus slipped free with the distinct pop of a joint sliding out of socket and rounded on Vanya with unmistakable intent.

Luther panicked and froze, leaving Diego to sprint to his feet and plant both hands in Klaus' chest. He fell backward and Diego shouted "Go!"

"What the fuck do we do?" Luther whispered, coming forward to plant his foot on Klaus' chest. He thought that would be a safe thing to do, but a few ribs cracked under the pressure and agony flashed across Klaus' face again as the blue light dimmed slightly.

"Guys?"

"Klaus, you gotta fight it," Diego said urgently. "Whatever you did to get Ben out of you, you need to do it again."

"I'm trying!" Klaus said, and then he was gone again, blue light in his eyes.

"Fuck!" Luther pressed down again, hoping the pain would stir Klaus, but his eyes remained cold and hateful. He clawed at Luther's ankle with his good arm, his body twisting.

"Can he not feel pain?" Luther asked rhetorically.

"Knock him out or something," Diego said, looking strangely uncomfortable. "That's not Klaus."

"Yeah, but--" Luther swallowed. He didn't want to hurt Klaus, especially not after what he had done to Vanya.

"Fine, I'll do it." Before Luther could even try to stop him, Diego delivered a heavy kick to the side of Klaus' head. His bootlace connected with a sickening thud and Klaus' head snapped to the side.

"You're wearing steel-toed boots?" Luther asked.

"What of it?"

Luther shook his head and directed his attention back at Klaus, who had finally gone still. "I think we need to take him to the hospital."

"Fuck a hospital. Why?"

"We really fucked him up."

"You think so?"

Luther examined Klaus and listed his suspected injuries from top to bottom. "Well, you just booted him in the head way too hard, he dislocated his shoulder slipping out of that full nelson--"

"You let him escape a full nelson?"

"--and he broke his hand hitting me in the face like 20 times," Luther finished with a glare. "Oh, and his ribs crackled like potato chips when I stepped on him."

Diego couldn't help but wince. "Okay, fine. Hospital."

Luther tried not to smile too much. Ordinarily, Diego would have argued with him just for the sake of being right. That was progress. Luther knelt to try to pick up Klaus. "God, I hope you didn't break his neck."

"Nah, I'm not that strong. And he's breathing."

"Maybe we should wait. Or call an ambulance."

Diego looked like he was ready to start an argument, but it was Klaus who spoke. "Oh, god. Why do I feel like Luther body-slammed me into a brick wall?" He tried to lift his head but thought better of it. "Shit."

"Klaus?" Luther tried not to loom over him, but it was impossible not to, given his size and stature. "You okay?"

"No," Klaus said emphatically. "What the hell happened?" He looked at his mangled hand, then at Luther. "Did I punch you in the face?"

"Yeah," Luther said. "I thought you'd finally lost it, to be honest."

"Did it occur to either of you geniuses that I'm left-handed?" Klaus waved his undamaged left hand, then flipped them off. "Jesus."

"Hospital?" Luther repeated, looking between Diego and Klaus.

Klaus made a face. "You don't think I'll miraculously heal by myself do you? I can never fucking sleep in hospitals."

"We'll make sure they knock you out," Diego said.

"As long as they don't do it your way," Klaus grumbled. He tried to sit up and bared his teeth, his left hand balling up into a fist. "Fuck. Which one of you turned my ribs into breakfast cereal?"

"Sorry," Luther said. He extended a hand to help Klaus up.

Klaus took it and got to his feet. He immediately swayed into Luther, leaning hard into his right leg. "Oh, I almost forgot I sprained my ankle during the fight. The first one."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Diego demanded.

"I was getting to it," Klaus said irritably. "I have to make 25 smart-ass comments a day or my heart will stop beating." He took in a ragged, shallow breath and limped in the direction of where the car had been. "Where's everyone else?"

"We sent them home," Diego said. "Vanya got stabbed."

For a moment, the pain lifted from Klaus' face as his eyes widened in concern. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, Five will get her fixed up just fine. Let's focus on you." Diego patted Klaus on his good shoulder.

"So." Klaus continued to limp forward. "We have no car, no phones, and no backup?"

There was a long pause.

"Well," said Luther finally. "Shit."

#whumptober 2020

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peantbutter-honeycombs · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1

Title: Eccedentesiast

Word count: 3, 312

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: bad dreams, panic attack?

Notes: Okay here's the first official chapter. I'll warn you I have a lot of "filler"/character chapters in mind before getting to the actual series episodes. Matilda needs to develop a sound relationship with John before thing get hectic. It's been two weeks since John took Matilda in as his foster child. She's still distrustful. Unsure whether it’s actually worth it to build a relationship with her foster father.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from BBC Sherlock (2010) only Matilda and other oc's.

Rated M - for Treachery.

———————

Eyes a hickory as rich as the earth's soil blew open constricting in the illuminated void.

Matilda stood on a pristine reflective surface, icy chills one after the other creeped up her spine. Her body stood rigid and up right as straight as a stone pillar. The space around her was pitch black save for a single indeterminate white light source that illuminated the area. It seemed she was stuck in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness for miles and miles.

Compelled by some unknown force Matilda began to move forward. Under the weight of her soles the surface rippled. Was it water? It appeared to be liquid glass. A thin cool layer that furrowed and waved with each step. She moved forward at a slow pace, one foot after the other. The silence of the inky void made her blood as cold as the murky waters of Antarctica.

In the black she could sense a seed growing in the pit of her stomach, in her core she knew the feeling. It felt as much a part of her, as the heart drumming in her chest. Under Matilda's lightly freckled exterior, beneath the anxiety, she was... It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. She chose to ignore the feeling. there was nothing that could be done about it. Not now.

Matilda didn't need to look, she kept moving forward. She knew left, right, forward, and back there was nothing. She stood alone in the black nothingness.

The darkness swirled around her petite form pricking her pale skin. A chilling draught of air bit at her nape. It blew in from the west or... perhaps the East. She couldn't be sure. Matilda cautiously turned her head to look over her shoulder. She sensed— she could feel... Matilda brought a single hand to the back of her neck.

Yep.

The hairs stood on end. She stopped dead in her tracks, making a complete 180, the water rippled beneath her.

Bam, bam, bam.

Adrenaline shot through her system. It pumps and beats like it's trying to break through her chest. Matilda's eyes grew wide with fear. Every instinct she had screamed either run fast or curl up in a defensive ball and take whatever came. Matilda usually favored, was the latter. But something told her this time it was better to run— smarter to run.

Bam, bam, bam.

She ran bare feet slapping the reflective ground. The cold air cut her throat as she inhaled deeper and faster. Matilda never was much of a runner. Her short legs betrayed her. She punched away into the darkness, haring forward. She could hear the loud pounding gaining, closing the distance between her and it.

Bam, bam, bam.

Aimlessly she sprinted forward. She recognized the sound. It poured gasoline onto the spark of fear stabbing between her ribs. Fear torched her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Her lungs began to burn making Matilda's breathing shaky and labored. Her legs felt like churning cement.

Bam, bam, bam.

Matilda's feet slipped out from under her. The world rushed by in a blur and she knew the pain was coming. The world went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Then impact. Every muscle in her body knotted up, weighed down by the icy hands of the darkness and exhaustion.

The sound was closing in, so loud now it made her ears bleed. The wind viciously blew in from behind, howl more like a wicked cackle.

Matilda pushed herself up on all fours. She couldn't bare to stand all the way but she had to move. She couldn't allow the pursuer to catch her. She couldn't. Desperately she crawled forward.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam... crack.

Looking down from her place in the void, Matilda tried to steady herself trying to comprehend what was going on around her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she eyed her reflection beneath her. Hesitantly she presses a trembling hand against the cold liquid glass. The pounding ebbed into nothingness until, until silence was as absolute as space.

Matilda stared entranced by her reflection. A paralyzing hurt spread through her body like sharp, liquid metal. The face staring up at her was foreign, new. She couldn't hear her rapid breathing, ignored the fogging up of the surface from her warm breath.

A child stared up at her. Her eyes are a bold cunning brown, the color of dark chocolate, and her neat, earth after rain brown hair pushed back by a red headband. Her pale skin was a canvas for her numerous freckles, as if some one had strewn brown chips of marble about frivolously. She wore a dress that stopped above her knees — blood red.

The reflection wasn't hers.

Matilda's eyes, a weak shade of brown, were dim, the color of dying candle, and her curled dirty blonde hair slowly browning from the roots hung in matted knots. Her skin while pale was marked purple and blue in spots, her freckles were rather small and barely visible unless she purposely dotted them with markers. She too wore a dress, however it was one of a different style and the color — envy green.

Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She began to inch back away from the inaccurate reflection.

Crack. A long thin crack followed her and her reflection, growing with each move backward. She immediately ceased her movement. It was too late the crack continued to creep across the surface, sounding like the crushing of bones. It worked and slithers branching off in different directions until it created a circle trapping Matilda in the center. Three large splits fractured the face of her reflection.

Certain the breakage was through, Matilda cautiously stood. Her legs were like jello but she managed. Looking around she saw no way out. No matter where she stepped the ground would break out from beneath her.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

She stood hand covering her ears, in the middle of the void that had become her world, a world decorated by it's own broken cracks. Her brown eyes flickered out, becoming full, glossy. Then all at once she collapsed, tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

She could call for help. What would be the point? Why ask for help when there's no one for miles, to hear you.

In her distress she didn't notice the lone pale inky hand reaching from the depths of her liquid reflection. Icy fingers gripped her ankle in the darkness. Eyes fearfully widened, a gasp escaped her lips. In a moment of pure instinct she reached out, fingers extended.

All at once the glass shattered below her. She opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream but all that came out was air. The realization flooded in, there was nothing to be done.

She went silently. The last piece of her to drown, a hand, desperately reaching out.

JWJWJW

Waking up can be a kind gift, especially when nightmares fueled by her childish insecurities plagued her somnolent mind.

Matilda woke faster than a cat dropped ice-water, eyes flung so wide each iris was a perfect orb of rich hazelnut chocolate. She felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in her chest. It weighed on her, as if she were Giles Corey facing punishment. Cold sweat coated her skin giving it a texture. With a long exhale she felt her limbs flex in shock. Everything was blurry, her head spun. Images of her horrible dream echoed in the back of her head.

She stole a glance at the clock on her end table, rhythmically ticking away the seconds. 1:37am. She blinked, closed her eyes, and blinked again. She wanted to scream, but that's not what she needed.

She sat up, dragging her feet off the bed. Wrapping her upper body in her blanket, she got off bed, dragging the too large single sized blanket behind her. She yawned, ambling down the quiet corridor.

She was only slightly surprised to find John, sitting alone in the dark family room, the dim light of his laptop softly illuminating his face. She had a feeling he'd be up. He always was, going over patient files preparing for his next work day. However he was usually in his room.

She quietly shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb John. She'd be quick, no reason to bother him. She'd get what she needed and return to her room.

Better to be self-reliant.

She stood in the center of the flat's small kitchen, where a kitchen island would be if there was room. Around her shoulders her blanket, worn like a cape, trailed behind her like a wedding train. She sucked on her middle and index fingers, eyes glued on a particular cabinet.

I did this earlier, she recalled. Her eyes bounced around the room, looking for things that could help her situation. She couldn't replicate her trick from breakfast, everything had been moved over the course of the day. The step stool was missing. She needed to think of something. Matilda could hardly reach the counter top on her own. Peanut.

Focusing, Matilda drew in her lower lip. Her eyes lit up, idea after idea flooded her brain, streaming. Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, as she flipped through her concepts as if they were pages in a toy catalogue.

No, no, no, wait... she paused. A particular idea was formulating in the back of her head. Doable, a bit chancy.

Matilda was wrong. (In more ways than one.) John wasn't up going over patient files, well not every night. In the dark room, sitting on the sofa, his typing had a relaxing sound. He'd drowned out the furious noise of the rain thunder against the window panes ages ago. The darkness in a way had become his sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget. Forget about things, people time had abandoned.

His eyes scanned his screen, and read through the typed out text.

"He hasn't got a clue! He's flummoxed! He's bamboozled!

He's stuck...”

03, August. The words awakened old memories he couldn't bring himself to forget. All memories come with a price. Good or bad. You can't go back and fix them. You can't go back and relieve them. As much as you wish you could.

"According to the flight details, he was checked on board. They found the stub of his boarding pass and napkins etc on his body. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn't.

He was in a car boot. In Surrey.

Obviously, I haven't got a clue but neither does..."

He clapped down the laptop. That's enough for now.

Out of complete silence arose a loud clatter, the sound metal colliding against wood. "What the hell?" John quietly muttered, silently cursing as he got up to investigate.

Following the sound he found himself in the kitchen.

Matilda was on her knees back to him rummaging through the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. A mess of pots and pans was chaotically sprawled out across the kitchen tile, the largest pile up blew the counter where Matilda was kneeling. It didn't take a high functioning sociopath to deduce what had happened.

"Matilda what are you doing?!" The little girl froze, all of her muscles went tight. "You can't be climbing on the counter, it's not safe." John took her under the armpits and set her on the ground. She did not like that. As soon as John let her go, she corrected herself. She stood straight, arms at her side ready to take whatever John doled out.

Her brain was a beehive, a buzz with thoughts. She didn't mean to make him upset. She just needed to calm her head after the bad dream. Her heart felt tight. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her hands like claws ran through her hair pushing back her hair.

"You could have seriously hurt yourself," John went on.

Thoughts accelerated in her head. Too many, too fast. She squatted, sitting criss-cross on the floor, trying to make everything slow to a pace her young brain and body could handle.

John's scolding wasn't loud; he had neighbors and thin walls. For Matilda however his voice was so harsh it rivaled gunfire. "What were you thinking?!"

He knew he'd overstepped when he looked down to see the small girl curled up in her blanket like an armadillo. She was curled up in the fetal position eyes trained forward, completely glazed over.

"Matilda? Matilda?" John softened his tone, carefully kneeling beside her. "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Matilda remained unresponsive. He'd have assumed she was dead if not for the repetitive rise and fall of her stomach from beneath the blanket.

He waited. The rain floated down the window pane in gentle waves, the pitter patter is a soft form of music. Pellets of water plink across the asphalt scattering puddles all round the city. The gusting wind blew with great force rocking the trees carrying the droplets in diagonal sheets. He sat in the darkness tenderly stroking back Matilda's browning dirty blonde hair.

John half-asleep woke to the sound of gentle lilt. From Matilda came a humming sound. Her eyes mindlessly darted around the room, never settling on a particular spot. She was chewing on some of her hair, a habit that appeared to be calming her down.

After a while Matilda went quiet, pupils fixing on the man beside sitting on the floor beside her. She pushed the hair out of her mouth. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"Can I have hot cocoa... Please?”

JWJWJW

Was it the best parenting decision, agreeing to let a young child have a rich mug of hot chocolate before returning to bed? Perhaps not. Did it settle the child's shot nerves, melting them like fondue. The little girl swore by the creamy beverage, claiming it was often the simplest things that brought her comfort. Hot chocolate, her comfort beverage.

Matilda sat at the overhang counter, feet dangling over the edge of her seat. She had proved not to be one of those children. You know, the ones who ask every minute "is it done yet?" She wasn't one of those kids. She held herself poised, trying to forget the previous moments events.

Matilda had thoughtlessly been twiddling her thumbs, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Why are you so a miss? You in all your faults. You're a loon, a weirdo, a mistake." There it went, her studio inner dialogue, it was never her friend. She didn't have friends. "Can't even handle a measly nightmare. Such a frea—"

"Matilda," John's voice saved her from her own thoughts. "Here you go, lovely." Matilda flashes him a smile, not a scared one but too tired to be considered a genuine smile.

He placed a mug in front of her. It was the first time he'd been able to make her hot chocolate since he'd taken her in. Despite John repeatedly telling her that his microwave was better than stovetop — and that she wasn't allowed to use the stove — she was inflexible.

Her eyes suspiciously narrowed, this was not her hot chocolate. "Thank you," she murmured, kindly accepting the mug. John chuckled softly, the child was too polite. From the slight crinkle up of her nose he could tell she was perplexed. He could see the little cogs in her brain spinning.

What's this? She cutely tilted her head inspecting, the white whip dollop stacked on top of cocoa decorated with red rectangle flecks. She hesitantly sticks out her tongue, just barely touching it against the white whip. Chills.

For a moment Matilda wraps her small hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat warm her clammy palms. "Thank you," she repeated more sincerely this time. Leaving the mug, with some struggle she managed to get off the tall tool seat without help. She had every intention of retaking her mug — she'd finish the cocoa in the safety and security of her own room — however John picked up the mug before she had the chance.

Matilda bit her lip, nervously twisting the fabric of her pajama top. "Question for the cocoa," John bargained. Matilda's lips pressed together, turned down at the edges, and she nodded. "Why are you up?" He asked delicately.

Matilda's right eye twitched.

Understandably, Matilda was the most reserved and withdrawn child he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was nothing like the children who so boldly so curiously sought the council of Sherlock long ago. She kept to herself. Only speaking when it seemed polite or required.

"Truth please," John requested squatting so he was eye level with the 33.4" girl.

Her self-confidence was basically dead in the water at this point. It'd been brutally grabbed from behind and held under the drink against its will. Not that herself self-confidence had much of a will.

With a shaky sigh, she submitted. "I had a bad dream.

There was always an adorable yet heartbreaking timidness to her actions and mannerisms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John offered, kindly handing the still warm mug off to Matilda. She flinched at first, body readying itself for a scolding blow. But she relaxed as soon as she realized John was only returning the cocoa to her.

She fearing he would change his mind on a dime she swiftly took the mug, cupping it in her hands. "No. No, thank you." she politely declined taking exactly two steps back from John. Weird, he didn't seem mad about her shortcoming.

As she inched toward the corridor, eyes never leaving John, she brought the rim of the, 'Our Clinic Has An Awesome Doctor. True Story.' mug to her lips. Dark, rich and pepperminty the warm hot chocolate coated her tongue thickly before flowing down her throat.

"I'm always here for you, if you need me," John whispered, knowing he couldn't hear him already around the corner.

Matilda May. John couldn't help but care for the little girl. Not only because she was utterly adorable, but also because there was something so endearing about her in general. A bit rigid around the edges, she was sure a sweet little darling. She was broken and scared, she didn't quite trust him.

He was hopeful she'd come around, eventually. He just had to—

Matilda poked her head back from round the corner connecting the kitchen and the corridor. "Goodnight John."

John's mouth twitched, the corners of his mouth lifted up into a soft smile.

—give it time.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #john watson #original character #oc headcanons #john watson x oc!child #platonic fanfic #platonic #mild angst #panic attack #matilda may series #MM Series #sherlock #beginner writer #personal writing #self indulgent?#oc insert

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besthydraulicproduct · 4 years

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junker-town · 5 years

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Ex-Patriots quarterbacks won Week 3 of the NFL preseason

Jacoby Brisssett and Jimmy Garoppolo are back in the spotlight.

Jacoby Brissett and Jimmy Garoppolo are cleared for takeoff. Plus Daniel Jones, Snacks, and the other Josh Allen.

Week 2 of the NFL preseason brought us Lamar Jackson doing extremely Lamar Jackson things, a 74-yard punt, and one miserable Cardinals’ performance in what promises to be a string of them.

Week 3, the closest we’re going to get to anything resembling regular-season football until September, saw stars like Tom Brady, Matt Ryan, and Ben Roethlisberger light up the skies for multiple drives. It was the backdrop for Andrew Luck’s stunning retirement at age 29. It gave us an honest-to-goodness 100-yard receiving day from JJ Arcega-Whiteside.

It also gave us one game on an 80-yard field where no one was quite sure what the rules were.

REMINDER: this is a touchdown because the NFL can't figure out how to effectively convert a CFL field to American football specifications pic.twitter.com/53t2cdwY60

— Christian D'Andrea (@TrainIsland) August 23, 2019

So ... yeah. The league’s latest international expedition leaned harder toward last year’s canceled Mexico City game than any of the contests that graced the British Isles the past decade. It also painted a stout portrait of just how far separated from actual NFL football August still is.

But while Week 3 wasn’t the typical showcase it once was for starters, it still presented some major opportunities for eager young players to show out and older veterans to cement their place on the depth chart. So who wore the NFL’s preseason dress rehearsal the best?

Not considered: Patrick Chung, who turned a potential robbery at his own house into a felony charge for himself

The Patriots’ veteran safety was indicted last Thursday after police officers reportedly arrived at his home to investigate a tripped burglar alarm and found cocaine inside the residence. He now faces a felony charge for drug possession and pleaded not guilty Aug. 26 — 13 days before New England kicks off its regular season with a primetime game against the Steelers. His next hearing won’t take place until November, however.

While the charges will likely result in an NFL suspension of at least four games under the league’s personal conduct policy, the potential loss of a starting safety may not hurt the Patriots’ in their 2019 title defense. Chung is a valued veteran in the secondary, but he’s also begun to age his way out of the team’s future plans. At 32 years old, he’s already hit the annual restructuring/extending phase of his career. Retirement may have been on the horizon even without a drug charge. There’s a chance his legal situation isn’t sorted out until after the season, leaving Chung the opportunity to retire before the league can pass down any discipline for 2020.

If he does miss significant time, New England is ready. The Patriots managed to hold the Rams — 2018’s No. 2 scoring offense — to just three points in a Super Bowl that Chung missed 80 percent of thanks to a broken arm. The club has been prepping for 2019 without him due to that injury and can add some more assignments to Duron Harmon’s homework pile. Chung’s indictment also increases the odds Obi Melifonwu, a 2017 second-round pick once cast aside by Jon Gruden, sticks with the Patriots in an effort to turn his otherworldly athleticism into game-changing defense in the secondary.

Now, onto this week’s actual winners:

7. Matt Nichols, who is still the best quarterback to play in Winnipeg this year

Nichols’ CFL team, the Blue Bombers, played host to Thursday’s Packers-Raiders game — a game in which Aaron Rodgers was set to make his Green Bay debut under head coach Matt LaFleur’s offense. Instead, the two-time MVP was left roaming the sidelines thanks to concerns about Investors Group Field. CFL goalposts, located in the middle of a 20-yard end zone in a 110-yard field, are toward the back of what would have been a traditional NFL end zone. This left a gaping mouth hungry for snapped ACLs:

Officials responded by shortening the field to 80 yards, making the end zone the space between the 10-yard line and the original goal line. Kickoffs were nixed entirely. Touchbacks came out to what was actually the 15, but looked like the 25 if you stared at the field numbers.

The Packers decided to sit Rodgers (and the rest of their offensive starters) and started Tim Boyle in his place. The Raiders countered with Mike Glennon. This may have permanently damaged American-Canadian relations moving forward.

Nichols, meanwhile, has put up a 71.3 percent completion rate, 8.1 yards per pass, and a 15:5 TD:INT ratio in nine CFL games this summer. All hail the quarterback king of Winnipeg.

6. Trace McSorley, who is giving off Taysom Hill vibes right now

McSorley’s path to Penn State was carved by James Franklin, who was one of the few college coaches who saw the 6’0 dual-threat passer as an NCAA quarterback and not a safety. He outperformed expectations en route to 77 career touchdown passes and a Big Ten championship with the Nittany Lions. That track record enticed Baltimore to add him to a roster that already featured Lamar Jackson and Robert Griffin III in the QB room.

The preseason has been the runway for a Swiss Army knife of a player. On Thursday he showed he’s capable of making NFL-caliber throws, even if he can’t yet make them consistently.

Doesn't get much prettier than that, Trace. @McSorley_IX #BALvsPHI pic.twitter.com/nmpWIhTAdX

— NFL (@NFL) August 23, 2019

In the first half of Week 3, McSorley completed 16 of 24 passes for 203 yards and two touchdowns while adding another trip to the end zone on the ground. His overall preseason performance is still lacking — he’s completed only 57 percent of his passes and has thrown two interceptions against a run of second- and third-string defenses — but there’s reason to believe he can stick around. McSorley runs a 4.5-second 40 and was one of the combine’s top performers at his position. That athleticism will give him the chance to make an impact across the Baltimore playbook.

Though he might not be in position to back up Jackson in 2019, the careers of similarly athletic-but-inaccurate college quarterbacks like Hill and Joe Webb suggest he can carve out a place in the league. Maybe he won’t be behind center each time he takes the field, but McSorley’s make-it-work talent should earn him a spot on an active roster this fall.

5. Trevor Davis, who excels on an 80-yard field

The trip to the great-ish white north was a boon for the Packers’ fourth-year wideout, who may have cemented a spot on the roster with a big performance against the Raiders. Davis, typically used as a returner in his pro career, had four catches on five targets for 66 yards in the first half alone Thursday night. He caught a beautiful corner end zone route for a touchdown, which hilariously wound up coming down on the 5-yard line due to the league’s inability to correctly plan for the Canada of it all:

ah yes, the classic corner end zone jump ball at the 5 yard line pic.twitter.com/D7vBCj9RqL

— Christian D'Andrea (@TrainIsland) August 23, 2019

Davis also had a 17-yard punt return, showcasing the versatility that should make him a useful addition to LaFleur’s aerial attack in 2019. All six of his offensive touches for the night — five receptions, one carry — resulted in first downs.

4. Josh Allen. No, the other Josh Allen

Pass rusher Josh Allen. The one your football nerd friend derisively calls “the good Josh Allen.”

For the record, I’m not down with that nickname until we get a couple more looks at quarterback Josh Allen in Buffalo, but I understand the sentiment. Allen went from a two-star high school recruit to an absolute wrecking ball at the University of Kentucky. He represented a major bargain when he slid to the Jaguars at the seventh overall pick. On Thursday he showed he can be the next man up in Jacksonville’s dominant defense.

#WeAreUK Josh Allen was a force in the 1st half #LaFamilia #DUUUVAL #jags #JAXvsMIA #NFL100 #NFLPreseason #NFL pic.twitter.com/hnjrzEPX3B

— Arizona sports fan (@GlendaleCards) August 23, 2019

Allen effectively set up camp in the Dolphins’ backfield, disrupting seemingly every play he was on the field in a 22-7 loss. The rookie looks he can absolutely be a dominant force alongside Calais Campbell and Yannick Ngakoue in the Jags’ pass rush. Though he doesn’t have a sack yet this preseason, he’s got three QB hits and three tackles for loss in roughly four quarters of play — and he’ll be even better when Jacksonville unleashes the full force of its defense in the regular season.

3. The Lions, who made their best defensive lineman happy ...

... while retaining him at a relative discount. Damon Harrison was one of the league’s top interior linemen last season, but he wasn’t paid like one. The former Giant — liberated for the low cost of a conditional fifth-round pick! — made 81 tackles, including career highs in both sacks (3.5) and tackles for loss (nine). Despite that, he was set to make only $7 million.

That led to an offseason holdout. While the burly pocket disruptor made it to training camp, working out an extension was high on general manager Bob Quinn’s priority list. On Thursday, the two sides came to an agreement on a one-year extension that brings $12 million in new guarantees for the man they call “Snacks.”

For Detroit, the extension represents about $5 million in extra cash over the next two years. While that’s a significant increase, it’s still an underpay for a player of Harrison’s caliber. By bumping his 2019 salary up, Harrison jumps from the league’s 16th-best paid DT to a tie for 13th. A scheduled $11 million salary in 2020 won’t even push him into the top 10 at his position.

That’s a major win for head coach Matt Patricia. His second year in Detroit is predicated on rebuilding the kind of defense that made him a rising star in New England. Signing players like Trey Flowers, Justin Coleman, and Mike Daniels can help him get there. Keeping a veteran leader and run-stuffer like Harrison at a reasonable price is a major piece of the puzzle, too.

2. Daniel Jones, who is still making Dave Gettleman look smart

Another week, another rock-solid performance from the maligned Giants rookie. Jones went 9 for 11 with an uber-efficient 141 yards as New York improved to 3-0 this preseason. He’s completed 83.3 percent of his passes this August and has upped his yards-per-attempt average to 12.3 — light years better than the 6.4 career average he carried at Duke. His 140.1 passer rating is the highest in the league this preseason.

That’s all very impressive, but Newsday’s Tom Rock summed up Jones’ unlikely preseason rise with a single image:

The media swarms the Giants’ star quarterback while another nearby player puts his shoes on. pic.twitter.com/BavFoglHFY

— Tom Rock (@TomRock_Newsday) August 23, 2019

Yes, it’s still the preseason ... but the Giants might have been right about Jones this whole time. This could be a banner year for the Cold Takes Exposed Twitter account.

1. Former Patriots backup quarterbacks, who will get the chance to do the damn thing this season

Jimmy Garoppolo is back on the field after suffering a torn ACL last fall. Jacoby Brissett has once again been promoted from understudy to lead with Andrew Luck’s abrupt retirement. Suddenly the two players who made starts for New England during Tom Brady’s 2016 Deflategate suspension are primed for starring roles in the 2019 regular season.

For Brissett, this will be a chance to prove his first go-round as Luck’s replacement was not an accurate reflection of who he can be as a quarterback. In 2017, the second-year pro was thrown into the fire for an Indianapolis team that had few weapons. His first start came just 15 days after he was traded by the Patriots, and he took up residence in the pocket behind an offensive line that allowed him to be sacked a league-high 52 times.

The Colts are a significantly better team now, two years after Brissett went 4-11 as a starter. He’s got better blocking, a strong running game to help suck opposing safeties closer to the line of scrimmage, and an upgraded receiving corps that, for the first time in a long time, isn’t just “T.Y. Hilton and a bunch of fourth wideout types.” With unrestricted free agency looming, a big performance in ‘19 could lead to a massive raise in 2020.

Garoppolo already got paid, but he’s still got nearly as many questions to answer. He’s had the opportunity to realistically earn starts in three of his five seasons as a pro, but suffered injury in two of them. Now he’s back to lead a rebuilt 49ers team to glory — if he can stay healthy.

The Niners QB proved more seaworthy in his second preseason game than his first. His 2019 debut saw him post a pristine 0.0 passer rating while completing just 1 of 6 passes against the Broncos. That brought about varying stages of concern that were quickly swept aside by a 14-of-20, 188-yard, one-touchdown game against the Chiefs in Week 3. If his offensive line can keep him upright and healthy — and clear space for the league’s deepest and most versatile tailback rotation — he can build on the furious 2017 finish that earned him a $137.5 million contract.

Also, Danny Etling led the Falcons in rushing this week. Pretty good!

2019 will be the year the Patriots learn whether they got a good deal for trading away their Tom Brady insurance policies. Of course, that will all be a moot point if the six-time Super Bowl winner continues to play at an MVP level until the heat death of the universe.

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princevolker2788 · 7 years

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Mercy76 Week: Day 2

@xavirne

Right then, this was a kind of quick drabble attempt that became something a little longer than I anticipated. Oh well, its still 11:34 on the 21st so I win!

“Support”

Silence.

That’s all there was.

The mission was a total failure. Someone’s Intel was off, had to be the answer. They’d been sanctioned to assault a Talon base near Siberia. They expected opposition, prepared for it, and it hadn’t been enough.

Reyes’s Blackwatch group was pinned down in the back of the facility, while Jack’s own unit was torn to shreds before they had a chance to get off a shot. The first ORCA was downed in a manner of seconds, forcing the ground team to take cover behind the burning wreckage.

The soldiers screams still echoed in his mind, those who weren’t fortunate enough to die on impact.

He scoffed at that, fortunate, what a poor choice of words.

Silence still permeated the cockpit, every trooper looked vacant eyed, some looked as if they would crack at a moments notice.

Say something dammit! Some big hero you are.

Jack stood, arms crossed and face hard. All eyes turned to him as he began his walk down the centerline. A female sniper looked up, a bandage over her left eye. She attempted to offer a salute, but her arm shook too violently to complete it. Nevertheless, he returned it and took a knee.

Private Riviani…

“Rifle.”

She handed it over without comment, chamber cleared.

“Why full metal jacket instead of pulse rounds?”

The woman blinked, not understanding.

He offered his best ‘winning smile’ and pointed to the leading chamber with his free hand.

“You use a full metal jacket, may I ask why?”

Realization struck her like lightning. Without missing a beat she pulled a cartridge from her bandolier and presented it to the Strike Commander.

“Full metal jacket, depleted uranium core, perfect Omnic ball buster.”

A small chuckle echoed through the ORCA’s interior, spurring Jack on.

“Did Captain Amari teach you that one?”

The sniper smirked and extended a hand. Jack returned the rifle, and watched as she reloaded with a sniper’s cool demeanor.

“Ooh Ra.”

Satisfied, he nodded and stood once again, eyeing the entire compartment.

“Alright, we got our asses handed to us, there’s no questioning that.”

Some of the expectant faces fell.

“But next time, we’re gonna hit them twice as hard, if they think Overwatch is going to be beaten by one loss they’re sorely mistaken.”

“But sir, isn’t the media going to publicize this? We’re the main strike force, and we lost big time.”

Jack nodded and placed both hands on his hips.

“Yes its true, and they will. But I promise you this: We will push these bastards back, hell, I’ll drag them kicking and screaming into the light if I have to. But we will prevail! Who’s with me?!”

A small cheer erupted through the center ranks, he noticed Riviani was among them.

“I said: are you with me?!”

“OOH RA!” came the response.

“WHAT ARE WE?!” He shouted.

“OVERWATCH!”

“I CANT HEAR YOU, WHAT ARE WE?!”

“WE ARE OVERWATCH!”

The cry filled the tiny compartment, seeming to make the metal plating buzz with the power of their combined voices. Jack smiled at his troops, offering salutes, fist bumps, high fives, whatever they wanted. Right now, they were all that mattered. It was then he realized two members of the team were missing, two of the most crucial members.

Excusing himself, he made his way to the cockpit and found Reyes asleep in one of the spare chairs. Angela was in the co-pilots seat, staring straight ahead. Blood still coated her forearms, and half her Valkyrie suit. Her staff lay on the floor, long discarded, also coated in blood.

He swallowed, and approached cautiously, taking the seat next to hers with a careful grace. Her lack of a reaction worried him more than the blood and the vacant stare. Unsure as to what to do, he checked the ORCA’s systems for any lingering damage.

“Does it get any easier?” she asked.

Jack twisted in his seat to find the medic still staring straight ahead with her hair undone out of its ponytail. He couldn’t see her eyes, but the sunlight seemed to create a golden halo around her head, contrasting sharply with the tracks of blood she’d unwittingly dragged through her hair as she’d undone the tie.

“Does what?”

Finally she turned, meeting his sky blue eyes with her sapphire.

“Killing.”

In truth, he’d long forgotten what it had felt like to feel remorse for his enemies. If they were threatening his life or the lives of his teammates, or innocents, then they deserved no quarter. He’d try bring them in if the situation allowed for it but more often then not it didn’t.

Why would she be bringing it up now? Unless…

He looked down and found, to his horror, that her Caduceus Blaster was still clenched in one shaking hand.

“Oh Ang…”

It was his fault in truth, he’d let her try and save some of the trapped troops. She’d got cornered and was rescued by Reyes. Or so he had thought. A small sob escaped her lips, bringing him back to this woman, this... Angel. The one person who didn’t deserve any of this.

Jack moved without thought, calmly disarming the doctor and bringing her in for a tight hug, one hand cupping the back of her head.

“You’re ok Ang, its ok.”

Her sobs had come in full force now, quiet things they were. In a way, they were much worse than regular sobs. It was as if she’d forgotten how to cry at the top of her lungs years ago. Was it because of her parents? God what he’d give to know what to do.

All he could do was seal the cockpit door and hold her close, cooing words of reassurance and warmth as she slowly calmed down. It seemed to take hours, though in reality it was likely only a handful of minutes.

“Y-You never answered my question.” She said, head resting against his chest.

He sighed.

“It doesn’t, for good people, like you.”

She chuckled mirthlessly and sat herself up, eyes locking with his.

“And are you not a good person?”

Jack shook his head, letting his gaze drop to the floor.

“No, I may act it, but I’m no golden boy. Hell, I’m barely holding it together as it is. Reyes should have this job, not me.”

A gentle hand tilted his chin up to meet her tearful eyes once again.

Dammit, way to go Morrison.

“Jack… you are a good person.”

“What?”

She offered that sweet angelic smile and cupped his cheeks.

“You care, that’s more than I can ask for. Than they can ask for.”

He looked down again, who was he? Some Indiana farm boy who got lucky. He could name ten men and women that were better suited to this job than him. All he wanted to do was be a soldier. And—Dammit, he was supposed to be helping her, not the other way around!

“I—thanks Ang.”

With this, he stood, and offered his hand. She accepted without comment, save for a small frown that graced her slender features.

“I’ll do better next time.” He said.

She nodded.

“We all will.”

“No,” he said, setting a hand on her shoulder, “I’ve got you in my sights doctor, and I’ll be damned if I let you get cornered again.”

Angela’s frown deepened.

“Jack…”

“I promise, you’ll never be alone again.”

#Mercy76 week #Day 2 #Support #Angst #Soldier76 #angela ziegler

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swyrhll · 4 years

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Proj 2

Post Critique: I appreciate a lot of the feedback I got from Mason. He talked a lot about control and the different ways it plays a part in my work. He spoke on how I don’t have any control in the work but I actually have all of it. I don’t have to get any of the writing that these individuals give back to me, I choose to. I also chose the people, the place the tattoo goes, how big or how small, or even how visible. He put a lot of focus on that and it got me thinking about how to further experiment with the theme of control.

Reading Response: This reading actually included one of my favorite ever works of art that made me think about so very much the first time I saw it. There’s an ambiguity to the way he speaks on things in the poem and of course he drops the ball at the very end and lets you know that all that terrible, unjust suffering was caused by an aspect of himself that he can’t control or change. If you don’t figure it out halfway through like I did, it hits you hard at the end. The ambiguous language gets you thinking and the graphic language makes you empathize with him and then when you find out he’s gay you either think he deserves it or think it’s terrible. I think a lot about language and how human’s use it. I also think about the potential permanence of words whether it be the lasting impact of what someone says to you or permanently tattooing someone else’s words on your skin.

This reading makes me think a lot more about conveying things symbolically or ambiguously but I don’t like the idea of stepping away from the power of words. There’s something to be said about saying something without saying it and without using words at all but I’m not sure I will step away from that mode of thinking.

Research Journal:

3 Project Ideas: you said i could skip these because I had already began this project independently

Research Journal:

Xu Bing Book From the Sky (1987-91)

This work is an installation that features large sheets of texts displayed on the walls as well as pages being displayed on a platform. There is also three long scrolls draped down from the ceiling. All of these scrolls have a fake language written on them. There is a vast amount of printed matter here but none of it means anything. It may be a commentary on words and how language may be meaningless. It was likely created by constructing a fake set of characters and stringing them together. The artist then printed it all out

Howardena Pindell, Video Drawings: Hockey, 1975

The piece features a still image from a hockey game with drawings overtop. The photo is of three hockey players; a goalie in front of the goal and one of his team mates skating behind the goal, and the third one is on the opposing team in the bottom right corner. The markings look like words and arrows. It reminds me of the types of drawings that would be in a playbook. What she’s actually thinking of is the movement on the screen and mapping that out directly onto the image. This is a work of a larger series. Most are of sporting events but the series quickly turned political. She began working with images of war and presidents so it became more of a political commentary than one about meticulous action like tracking the action of the movement on the screen. The process seems to be just using marker to draw on photos.

Jenny Holzer, For Chicago, 2007

This work is a selection of truisms displayed on the floor using LED lights. She’s thinking a lot about displaying and conveying language in public spaces for her viewers. Her large-scale installations have included advertising billboards, projections on buildings and other architectural structures, and illuminated digital displays. Jenny Holzer does a lot with language and the way in which we digest it. She often calls out the viewer or makes you think about exact;y what you’re reading. I’m not sure what the ins and outs of this work is other than there being LED lights fixed to the ground.

Lothar Baumgarten, Double Center Frog, Susquehanna Wall drawing from the Carbon series, 1989/1990

This work consists of text forming two squares with some other text within the squares and outside of them. All of the red text is upside down and this painting is an acrylic painting done directly on the wall in the gallery space. I’m not sure what the deeper meaning of the piece is or exactly what the text means. The piece is made by painting acrylic paint directly on the wall.

Robert Rauschenberg, Dante's Inferno, 1964

Project Statement: This work is the permanent result of an artistic thought/performance experiment with control, choice, permanence, risk, tattooing and the financial side of the art world in mind.

For this piece, I chose a vast number of participants. Many of those include close friends, artistic minds I admire and that inspire me, coworkers, family members and others. After being chosen, I approach the person and ask them if I can write something on them. If they agree; I write “You are Art” on them in pen or marker. Then they are to write words in response on my person. It can be the first thing that comes to mind, a profound thought, poetry, or something totally crude. It is completely up to the participant but it must be words. Whatever they write, I get it permanently tattooed onto my body in their exact handwriting. The words are not my choice but the placement is. I tend to surround the script tattoos with imagery related to those words. The experiment has been done a total of ten times so far but only four have been tattooed onto my skin.

I came up with this piece while thinking a lot about my first tattoo. I had wanted tattoos since I was in middle school. I had been an adult for three months already and I hadn’t gotten any. I took the choice out of my hands and put it in someone else’s. Another thought that comes to mind is the nature of how art functions as objects to be bought and sold. This piece cannot be bought or sold however. Like the nature of performance art, you can’t buy certain types of performance art pieces. However, this performance piece produces a tangible thing that cannot be bought or sold, either. Some art is only to be experienced, not bought or sold.

There are some spoken and unspoken rules about tattooing and getting tattooed. One general assumption is that the content you’re getting tattooed on your body is meaningful to you in some way. While this piece isn’t void of meaning and sentiment, it’s meaning only occurs after the response has been written. There is no planned meaning. To receive “You are Art as well.” From Jason Ferguson was absolutely heartwarming, and means a lot to me; but he just as easily could’ve picked something else. Another rule is that tattoos should not be spontaneous; they should be planned on thought on for long periods of time. This piece has a lot to do with spontaneity and doesn’t even require a long term plan on my part. The plan is in the mind of the writer and the only thing after that is where I chose to place the tattoo. It requires little thought. Tattoos are supposed to require a lot of thought.

This piece also speaks a lot about control. I set this experiment in place to be out of my control and yet I control so much. I don’t choose what is permanently tattooed onto my body. I do get to control who participates in this, the fact that they’re providing me with words, I get to choose the placement of the tattoo. While a lot of this feels out of control, so much of it is within my control.

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pejifukurou · 6 years

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His boots slammed against the concrete beneath him as he ran into an alleyway, tucked away out of sight. His lungs burned for oxygen and his muscles had begun to ache. He ducked into a doorway, a shadow of darkness enveloping him. He fumbled around, hands finding a worn table covered in a layer of dust. He hit the floor, pulling himself under it.

He did his best to control his breathing, his chest burning underneath his jacket. From where he was curled up, he could see the doorway and out into the alley. If anyone came by, he would see them first. Sure enough, approaching footsteps reached his ears. He tensed up, holding his breath, not wanting the respirator of his gas mask to give him away. The footsteps got louder and a figure came into view.

Their outfit was all too familiar—it resembled a S.W.A.T. uniform, down to the large boots and the thick vest strapped to their chest. The patch on their shoulder didn’t say “S.W.A.T.”, however. It was an “S” centered in a variety of geometric shapes, along with laurels cradling it at the bottom.

Soldirs.

They stopped at the doorway, surveying the alley. They turned to look inside the building, Levi’s blood running cold. Their face was hidden away by an intricate mask detailing some sort of demonic face. It grinned sadistically at him, the corners of its smile seeming to be torn up to where their ears would be. The detail in the smooth material made it seem that it was real carnage that glistened in the low light of the city night. The eyes were two black holes, and that was it. Nothing could be seen inside them, but Levi swore they were staring right at him. That was impossible, though. How could they see him through the pitch black?

Then again, Blacklight was the most “talented” of the agents, as they liked to put it.

Still, it had to be impossible.

They turned away and ran off. Levi listened to their footsteps disappear into the distance, each moment made Levi relax a bit more. Levi pulled himself out from under the table, shakily rising to his feet. He had lost them, and now he just had to get back home. He shuffled back to the doorway, pausing to make sure the coast was clear. It wouldn’t be much of problem, since he had gotten the agent off his tail.

He stepped out, too late to properly react to the violet lightning that raced towards him. It shot him right in the arm, the shock traveling throughout his body and sending him flying. For a moment, his entire being was numb and his limbs twitched and seized. He cursed, willing himself to his feet and struggling to stay standing. At the end of the alleyway was the Soldirs Agent, the dark eyes of their mask staring back at him.

Levi raised his arm, a wall of flame sealing off the alleyway and separating the two. With a swipe of his hand the wall launched forward, slamming right into the agent. The agent didn’t flinch, an aura of violet surrounding them and easily parting the flames, letting them through without fail. By the time they were through, however, Levi has already ran.

The feeling in his limbs had mostly returned, enough for him to sprint down the street. He was once again at square one and had to lose the agent one more time. Except this time, Levi was tired, and his body was still reacting from the shock. He could hear them running after him, the sound of their boots slamming into the concrete. It was too fast, too precise. They would be catching up in a matter of moments. Levi stopped in his tracks, turning to face pursuer. He raised his arms defensively and his forearms became ablaze with flames, swirling around them and curling up to his fists. The other had their fists raised as well, violet lightning sparking out in all directions.

They collided, the lighting striking out at Levi and the flames licking and engulfing the other’s fist. The impact sent them both flying back. Levi skidded across the pavement for a couple meters, somehow keeping his balance as his boots slid across the ground. He had only a moment to readjust himself before Blacklight was coming at him again, their hands cupped together in a way that a ball of spastic energy had former between their palms. Levi raised up a small shield of flame, barely enough to divert the burst of energy. A kick came, and then a punch. They came so fast that all Levi could do was block, there was no opening to retaliate. With each hit the lighting tore into him, and Levi’s attempts to deflect them with flames became less and less effective.

A quick jab from Blacklight kept Levi occupied long enough for the agent to land a solid hook. The energy blasted through Levi’s gas mask and into his head along with sending him flying once more. He was little more than a rag doll, rolling and skidding across the floor, coming to a stop on his stomach. He feel nothing, and in his mind there was nothing but white noise. His breathing stopped, and he swore his heart had as well. For a moment, it was rather blissful, feeling nothing. Pain set in after that, pins and needles searing into him and his lungs crying out as he forced himself to breathe, fighting through the paralysis brought on by the shock wave. Each heart beat sent another wave a pain through out him, and his head felt as if it were going to burst. He tasted iron in his mouth, mixing with his saliva.

He tried to sit up, but a boot came down on his head, pinning back down to the pavement. Levi turned his head just enough to look up at Blacklight. They were practically unscathed, while Levi was bruised, broken, and electrocuted. He watched as they pulled the mask back from their face, staring down at him. Their eyes were dark, just like their mask, but the mask had more life in its eyes then they had. They were cold and unfeeling, staring down at him, a pest they wished to crush under the heel of his boot. Levi felt bile began to rise up in his throat. He had seen eyes like that one before. Whether it was this revelation or his body still reacting to the intense electrocution, was unknown to him.

“Hellfire.”

Even their voice was devoid of any emotion besides disgust. Levi swallowed dryly, trying to keep his nausea under control.

“My name is Dominik Rykov. I’ve been looking for you.”

Levi forced out a growl, trying to show he hadn’t given up yet. It came out more like a pitiful cough.

“I know someone who’s been dying to see you. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear I’ve finally gotten the elusive Hellfire.”

They leaning forward, adding pressure to Levi’s head. Levi let out a whimper, swearing that his skull was creaking under the other’s boot. The pain was mind-numbing and he could feel tears began to well in his eyes. He could only watch as Dominik leaned down and grabbed hold of his gas mask. He shifted his boot over and pulled the mask off, revealing Levi’s face. Strands of copper stuck to his freckled cheeks where blood had already started to dry, and a black eye was forming around his scared eye, swelling it shut. Not that it matter, he couldn’t see out of that one either way.

Levi let out another growl, glaring up at the agent. They only smirked at him, clearly enjoying the position they had him in.

“Hm, what should I be calling you? Hellfire isn’t your real name, of course. I know you’ve been going by Levi. Oh, how about the one your old friend knows you by. What do you think, James?”

Levi felt the bile rise up again and his heart sink. His eyes went wide and he could see the amusement on Dominik’s face. The cold stare, the disregard for everything, the lighting-like energy, his various abilities.

Of course.

He had thought of the possibility before, but he simply refused to believe.

It was easier if he had simply forgotten.

And now it was going to drag him back to what he had tried so desperately to leave behind.

“I’m sure he’s just as excited to see you as you are to see him.” Dominik gave him a sadistic grin. He removed his boot from Levi’s head, finally giving him some relief. “Let’s go see him, yes?”

Dominik raised his boot, slamming it into Levi’s nose. He could feel bone crunch and blood spurt out. Hellfire was out like a light, his head lolling to the side as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Blood streamed down from his now shattered nose. It was messy, but it was the quickest way.

The smile quickly fell from Dominik’s face, replaces by his cold stare as he looked down at his new captive. It was so easy, why hadn’t Lukas done it himself? Was he afraid? There was nothing to fear. He saw the look on the Stray’s face—this James guy was absolutely terrified of Lukas. He could feel it, like static in the air. With that strong of a reaction from simply alluding to the other man, it made Dominik wonder why Lukas hadn’t done this himself.

It also made him wonder, just exactly why he was so afraid? Sure, Lukas was not someone you wished to cross, but the fear still lingered in the air. It was as if James would rather face death a hundred times over then to be before Lukas.

Why?

Dominik scoffed, kneeling down and grabbing James by the arm. He was in no place to wonder such trivial things. With one quick motion, he had the Stray draped across his shoulders. He was lighter than he had expected—much, much lighter. James was tall, yes, easily half a foot over Dominik, but he was rather slender. Perhaps, a bit too slender. Still, not that Dominik cared or wished to care.

He had to get this present delivered as soon as possible.

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jesusvasser · 6 years

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Our Pro Racer Tests the Jaguar I-Pace eTrophy Race Car

The introduction of the Jaguar I-Pace eTrophy Championship occurred recently at the Silverstone motorsports complex, home of the Formula 1 British Grand Prix. Jaguar Racing director James Barclay was quick to reference Jaguar’s storied racing history, and my thoughts went immediately to the legendary Jaguar D-types from the 1950s. Jaguar much later dabbled in F1 in the early 2000s, in Prototype GT racing in the ’80s and ’90s, and nowadays we see the new F-Type SVR GT4 in competition. Jaguar officially entered into the Formula E fray for the series’ third season (2016/2017) with its I-Type2. (Formula E seasons normally begin in Asia around November.)

A handful of automotive companies are involved in racing almost permanently, some never. Jaguar is somewhere in the middle, and its in-and-out approach is linked more to sales and budget rather than to lack of corporate interest. Engineers, designers, and media folks don’t usually make decisions about racing, but the Jaguar team I met at Silverstone showed genuine enthusiasm for the new I-Pace racing endeavor, something that was great to see and hear. Indeed, recent signs have shown Jaguar walking the performance-marketing road again: In November 2017, a “near production”-spec (Jag’s words) XE SV Project 8 smashed the Nurburgring four-door saloon/sedan lap record with a 7-minute, 21.23-second time. That was 11 seconds quicker than the previous record holder, an Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio.

The weather was picture perfect as we arrived at Silverstone, where a tiny one-lane bridge led us over the F1 layout to the Stowe Circuit. Stowe lies completely inside the main F1 track and is used mostly for testing and tuning. It’s an interesting track, in a high-speed-autocross kind of way.

The main reason for being here was to drive the new I-Pace eTrophy electric race car. First, though, I climbed aboard an I-Pace street car for an interesting, gated-autocross-style exercise. An area the size of maybe half of a football field featured eight random gates denoted by cones. The cones flashed green (drive through) or blue (next gate to turn green), then red when the test was over. It was an exceptionally slow-speed course, but handily showed the I-Pace’s “right now” acceleration, braking, and excellent low-speed handling.

Really, though, we were here to better understand Jaguar’s involvement in electric racing. As you probably know, Formula E uses all-electric formula-style race cars, with events held on temporary city-street circuits. In 2018, New York was the only U.S. venue for a series that holds rounds on five continents. The argument in favor of Formula E is that it is directly relevant to the fast-growing trend toward all-electric vehicles. Several major automotive companies are players in Formula E; the series hoped to have four large corporate series sponsors by 2018 yet it already has 10. Six of those 10 are automobile manufacturers: Porsche, Mercedes, Audi, BMW, Renault, and Jaguar. ABB corporation, which specializes in fast-charging technology and recently signed on as title sponsor, has made the official series name the ABB FIA Formula E Championship.

Formula E’s second-generation race car is due next season; apparently it’s a major move forward in design, power, and handling. Also addressed was the present need for teams to utilize two cars during each race, due to battery-life limitations. The irony of this apparent inefficiency compared to the series’ desired “green” image was not lost on the organizers, so the new car will run entire races on one charge.

But those Formula E machines won’t be the only all-electric cars racing on the series’ event weekends. I would have loved to been in the Jaguar board meeting where somebody stood up with a straight face and suggested developing the I-Pace SUV into a race car—with its very own 20-car, I-Pace World Championship racing series. Yet here we are, at Silverstone with an I-Pace e Trophy race car. Jaguar made a three-year commitment to run the series alongside Formula E, and there will be 10 race weekends on the schedule for this season.

Jaguar will keep and maintain all 20 cars between events to ensure parity. It will also provide the crew and an engineer for each car/driver. The cost to run the series is around $600,000 per season, plus a $125,000 annual lease. A team can buy the car for $260,000, saving on extended lease costs. Crash damage incurs additional charges. This will essentially be an “arrive and drive” racing series.

The Jaguar race team worked with the FIA to set up I-Pace safety regulations. In the race car, a standard I-Pace battery pack is nestled inboard of the roll cage to better protect the pack from impacts. There are two isolator switches mounted in the center console, for separate battery shutdown in case of a crash. The race car uses the same 145-kW electric motors found in the street car; they produce the equivalent of 400 hp, driving all four wheels. The motors, along with the 90-kW battery pack, produce 500 amps of juice—you would not want a driver or emergency worker receiving a shock from that kind of power. To help with this, the I-Pace shows a green light front, rear, and on the center dash when there is no live power. If the car instead shows a red or blue light, there could be live electricity around the car. Emergency workers will carry specialized equipment to combat any crash-related issues that may involve electricity.

The interior reminds me of a GT4 race car. You see production switchgear alongside a modern electronic race dash, plus plenty of adjustment switches on the removable steering wheel. Weight distribution is 52/48R front/rear in the normal I-Pace, 48/52 in the race car. The latter weighs 4,320 pounds, a 450-pound reduction compared the street version. Easily replaceable carbon-fiber body panels are found front and rear, but most of the bodywork is the original aluminum. The new hood and front splitter better direct air for cooling the brakes and radiator, and create anti-lift. There is a minimal amount of downforce; if you add up all the aero bits, plus the 1.18-inch lower ride height, you get around 50 pounds of total downforce, which is less than a Honda Civic Type R. The upgraded (twice the capacity of stock) A/C system helps cool the battery pack and the electric motors.

The race and production I-Pace produce the same power; 0-to-60-mph for the race car takes about 4.5 seconds and top speed is 121 mph—similar numbers to the street I-Pace. Those are pedestrian figures for a race car, but I started racing in the mid ’80s in a 50-hp Renault Alliance spec-series car and had a blast, as did the fans who followed that series. Also, there’s never been a boring Mazda Miata race, even if just two cars are running, which has never happened. So I can get onboard with the I-Pace’s output.

Sitting in the I-Pace eTrophy felt pretty much like any other race car. There are only two pedals; no use for a clutch. Note: to launch fast, no brake hold is needed because max power is produced immediately when you bury the “gas” pedal.

As I rolled the I-Pace racer down pit lane, all I heard was rattling anti-roll bars, solid suspension bushings, and anything else not welded together. I now know race brakes make a total racket when not drowned out by a race engine, something I never considered before in my entire driving career. I had to resist the temptation to come in and ask the crew to check every nut and bolt on the car, because it sounded like at least 90 percent of them were ready to fall off. Once I got rolling, though, the can of ball bearings effect was less obvious due to my focus on going quickly.

The Stowe Circuit is quite short, with 11 corners, and several of them were actually chicanes made with cones. The Bosch ABS brakes (15.55-inch front/13.98 rear) allowed aggressive modulation. There is no stability control. The off-throttle regenerative braking can produce up to 0.4 g of deceleration. It’s slightly adjustable and does play a part while trail braking.

The grip of the specially developed Michelin Pilot Sport tires feels equivalent to a PS4S street tire. The race tires are similar in size to the production I-Pace’s 265/40R22 tires and have full tread depth, which avoids the need for rain tires. (Likewise, Formula E uses “all-weather” Michelin race tires.)

My cornering-speed limits were determined by how much I could rotate the I-Pace on entry. It behaves very much like most all-wheel drive cars on a track, quickly exhibiting understeer when you try to add power mid-corner. The more rotation I could carry into and through a corner, the better. You can adjust front to rear torque distribution, but for now the adjustment range only moves torque from 48-percent rear to 52-percent rear. I won’t be surprised if the series’ drivers quickly ask for more adjustment range.

The stiffer suspension setup versus the production I-Pace made controlling the rate of rotation on corner entry a challenge, but not impossible. Personally, I would add some compliance to the suspension if I actually raced one of these cars in the series. Softening up the suspension and antiroll bars would slow down body roll for corner entry and help the driver transition back to power. Anything you can do to increase the roll compliance of a heavy race car, especially one with limited mechanical grip, helps. I learned this long ago while racing street-based cars on regular street tires.

I thoroughly enjoyed my laps in Jaguar’s I-Pace eTrophy race car. As an aside, as I walked away from the car I noticed its outside mirrors: It occurred to me they might last about three turns, of lap one, of practice one, of race weekend one. Keep an eye on that.

The eTrophy Championship races are short, scheduled to run just 25 minutes plus one lap. Google and YouTube metrics say younger audiences prefer shorter entertainment cycles, and Jaguar will focus on finding the correct marketing approach here. Another piece of the entertainment jigsaw will be the willingness of the series’ drivers to race side by side “everywhere” on the tight concrete-lined tracks; nobody likes a permanent pace-car situation.

A world championship street-race series, with 20 equally powered, 4,300-pound Jaguar SUVs, should be something to see. It’s fair to say brand differentiation is alive and well at Jaguar. I’m looking forward to the first race, and my hat’s off to Jaguar for daring to try.

IFTTT

#IFTTT #Performance Junk WP Feed 4

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