#She wants all the children to be assigned to hard labor

[pushing500]

Henry has been following people around to watch them work all day, it's very sweet. He started by hanging out with Wookshys on the fishing bridge but got bored quickly and decided to trot around after Kaz like a little duckling instead.

Stared at this message for a few long minutes trying to work out how on earth Zonovo managed to "tuck a loose strand of hair" behind Baz's ear when Baz does not have hair. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that Zonovo tucked a strand of Zonovo's hair behind Baz's ear, and I could never resist drawing Zonovo with his hair down, so here you go.

Also loved that their smooches were immediately followed by a deep talk about death. Ah, romance...

Fafo is such a wonderful colonist to have. She's very talented, and I appreciate her a lot. Connie has been upset that her shoes are tattered, so maybe a pair of masterwork boots will make her stop complaining.

Then this happened, which was weird for a bunch of reasons, mostly because Andy is three and also we have no beer in the colony. Nothing actually happened after this notification- Kaz continued cooking, and Andy continued playing with the Comms Console.

The only person affected by this at all, in fact, seems to be Fafo, who now has a "jealous" mood debuff because Kaz was hanging out with someone else (even though he wasn't). I guess the pregnancy is taking its toll on her, poor thing.

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#rimworld #gracie plays #The Animist Alliance #art #my art #traditional art #rimworld art #unpolished art #Henry has put on a helmet and now Connie doesn't hate him #Well aside from the fact that he dares to have recreation time #She wants all the children to be assigned to hard labor #Her religion is weird #Zonovo and Baz continue to be very cute #I'm temped to change Zonovo's hair at the styling station #Any excuse to draw him with long loose hair more often #Though I risk getting him mixed up with Kaz if I do that #Too many impid colonists with glorious long sandy-blonde hair in this colony #Not that I'm complaining mind #I love my pretty impid boys #Anyhoo have a lovely day everyone! <3

[tojixz]

Masterlist

Pairing: Jake Sully x Fem!Reader

Notes: First of all I want to thank you for all the affection! Thank you so much for the likes and reblogs, I'm so happy!!! 😭💞💞 And also, I wasn't so happy with this part, I feel like it got kinda shitty, so I'm sorry if it's bad 🥲

Summary: Tuk finally comes into the family, lots of love and affection. I am horrible with summaries????

Warnings: TW!! Labor pain, a lot of anguish on mommy's part, Sully family worried.

Word Count: 3k

Skxawng (n) - Idiot

Sa'nok (n) - Mom Tìyawn (n) - Love

Sempul (n) - Father Yawntu (n) - Loved

Part one | Part two

The sun was high in the sky by now. You were sitting leaning against a tree near the camp, weaving some baskets. After all, it was one of the only activities you were capable of doing right now.

Not wanting to play the victim, which you certainly are not, you were unable to do activities that required much body movement or strength. In the last few weeks you were experiencing many contractions and extreme pain. Your feet were swollen and it felt like you were carrying a Thanator on your back. Honestly, it couldn't get any worse.

Therefore, your only choice was to do simple tasks that were even assigned to children. You felt useless, it really was not a pleasant state.

But what relieved your stress was knowing that your baby will soon arrive. Soon she will be in your arms, babbling something or crying for your attention. You were anxious. Both to get rid of that awful end-of-pregnancy feeling and to finally feel the warmth of your child.

You were quiet, humming songs as you enjoyed the fresh air of your home and the sounds of nature. Definitely a planet blessed by your divinity.

A few seconds later you finished making the last basket of the day. In total there were three, which you considered to be enough so far. Deciding to take your handiwork to the people in the clan who would use it, you got up from the ground to start your way back to the camp. You certainly had a hard time getting up, heavens, your back was killing you, but nothing that a little effort wasn't enough.

That is until you felt a sharp pain in your abdomen and something warm trickle down your thighs.

No. This couldn't be what you thought it was.

A wave of panic began to wash over you as you let out agonized groans from the extreme pain you were feeling.

Why now? Why just now?? Couldn't that have waited a few minutes to happen?!

You had to act fast. You had to go to Mo'at. You had to tell them your baby was coming. But what guarantee was there that you would make it there?

Leaning against the trunk of the tree, you put your hand on your belly and start trying to breathe to calm your heartbeat, but your breath is coming in between cuts. You are losing strength in your legs and the pain is unbearable.

"Hold on baby. Just wait a little longer. We're coming…" Muttering to yourself both as a way to keep calm, and also to keep your focus on the hike, you start walking toward the camp. If you found anyone along the way, that would be good enough. They might be able to help. "Ah Great Mother… I won't make it."

Tears welled up in your eyes. You didn't want to do this alone. You couldn't. You were too afraid of what might happen.

But you also had no strength left in your body. Your legs were shaking, still trying to hold on, and your abdomen was throbbing. It was unbearable. Waves of frustration covered you as your only option was to sit back down on the floor and pray to Eywa that someone would come to help you.

You felt more and more contractions and at this point you could only scream and accept the fact that you would have to deliver the baby yourself.

What an idea of yours to distance yourself from the camp. You could be at home, in your own comfort. But you wanted and needed fresh air.

Jake had become ten times more protective of you, preventing you from going out much, or if you did, was in the company of someone. You understand his concern; you could go into labor at any moment. But it doesn't change that you still missed doing things on your own. Well, that desire of yours led to this situation at the moment.

To make matters worse, you wouldn't have the chance to find your children around, nor your husband. Jake, Neteyam and Lo'ak were out doing their daily training, and Kiri was also studying and learning with her grandmother. They are still children, but it is the best thing to learn at a young age.

With your back resting on the trunk of the tree, you begin to take deep breaths to calm your hiccups and prepare yourself for the next steps. There was no more time, you would have to do it yourself.

That is until you hear footsteps behind you.

It couldn't be a predator. Although you were not exactly in the camp, you were in a nearby location. Wild animals don't go near there because they were aware that there were too many people to deal with. So it is a safe area. But it could also only mean one thing…

It is someone walking there!

And it was just a soul she needed to call for help.

"Grandma told me to get purple seeds, but I've been looking for so long and I can't find anything! Come on…" Kiri was frustrated that she couldn't find the ingredient that her grandmother had charged her to get. But she kept walking.

Until she heard moans of pain and quiet sniffling behind a tree. This startled her a little, but then she thought 'Is anyone hurt?'

Walking cautiously to the spot to check, she came across her mother. She was on the floor looking like she was in pain, sweat covering her entire body as tears streamed from her eyes. It felt like her heart stopped for a second at the sight.

"Sa'nok? What's wrong?!", Kiri crouched down next to her mother, as she started to look around her for apparent injuries. Her eyes fell on her wet legs and her hand resting on her stomach.

"Mom… that's not-"

"Kiri! Oh heavens, thank you. Kiri, my child, go get your grandmother. I need you to get her over here as fast as you can, please!" Her voice was hoarse from crying over the pain, along with the emotion that consumed her that Eywa had listened to her prayers and directed Kiri to you.

"But mother, I can't leave you, not like this-"

"Kiri, it will be all right. I need you to get your grandmother. Now. Hurry!"

Kiri didn't even think straight before her little legs were running towards her grandmother's tent. Even if she gets there quickly, her grandmother won't be able to speed up her steps that much. Seeing her mother in that state terrified her. How long were you there suffering alone? With no one to take away her fear.

Kiri had never run so hard in her life, her lungs were burning for air and her mouth was dry. On the way to the tents, Kiri came across ikrans landing nearby. It was her father and her brothers.

"Hi babygirl, why are you in such a hurry-", Jake was cut off by the pleading voice of Kiri who was gasping for air.

"Sempul! Go to mommy, she needs your help. She's near the tree she usually stands to weave things. Now I need to go to grandma, please take care of mommy!", Kiri didn't even give her father a chance to answer or ask any questions before running back to her grandma. Jake was alarmed by his daughter's tone and her haste. Putting the pieces together, Jake's mind could only think of one thing.

His baby is coming.

Before he could even draw that conclusion, he found himself running frantically to the tree his daughter had said, being followed by his other children. "No, you go back home. Tell Kiri to stay too", Jake shouted over his shoulder, still seeing his children following him.

"We can't stay home, mommy needs help!", Lo'ak tried to argue but only received a warning look from Jake.

"Stay. I'm ordering", Jake spoke in a firmer voice, noticing how his children stopped in their running and just looked at his back. Jake wasn't sure if you would want your children watching your sister deliver her baby and they could only make the situation worse by asking questions. Therefore, he had no choice.

Concentrating on the road ahead, Jake finally arrives at the place informed and is confronted with their pleading and agonized cries. It breaks his heart. If Kiri hadn't found you, what would have happened? Would you have had to go through this alone? He imagines how terrified you must have been.

"Hey, hey, are you all right? I'm here", Jake took your hand and squeezed it gently to convey his support. You didn't have to suffer without anyone anymore.

"I look fine to you-", your speech was cut off by the scream you let out from the sudden contraction you felt. You had forgotten what a hellish pain childbirth was. Even though you had already done it twice, you will definitely never get used to the feeling. "Ah Great Mother… give me strength." More tears rolled down your face as you continued to scream and squeeze Jake's hand.

Jake was never going to get used to this phenomenon either. It was terrifying to say the least to watch the birthing process. He hated to see you suffer, hated that only you had to go through this pain. But he was thrilled at the idea that his baby was finally coming. Jake's heart was starting to soften.

A few minutes had passed with Jake trying to comfort you, his wife, until Mo'at arrived on the scene. When she arrived, she didn't even exchange words properly before going to between your legs and analyzing the situation.

"You are already very dilated. I apologize for not being here sooner, my child. But now I need you to spread your legs wider and push."

You didn't even think long before you pushed it out. You couldn't wait any longer, everything hurt. Your body felt like it was going to break in half. Jake knew you had such strength in your hand at the birth of your first child, but man, he really was always scared. It's amazing that his hand didn't break.

Your throat hurt from screaming so much, and your lower half was numb. Mo'at said that she was already starting to see the child, so she encouraged you to continue.

But how? Frankly, you were running out of strength. This is definitely the most difficult labor of the previous two. You wanted to scream at Eywa and ask her to get it over with, but you could only let out shaky sighs as you continued your labor.

This baby will be a blessing, you will love it as much as the others, you couldn't wait to hold it in your arms. But it's Jake's fault that you're lying there on the floor in pain.

After a lot of sacrifice, a lot of effort, a lot of tears and pain. You were finally able to hear your son's cry. Or rather, daughter.

It was a girl, a beautiful little girl.

You laid your head down on the support Mo'at had placed for you, while you stabilized your breathing. You were exhausted, feeling like you might pass out at any moment. Your body was disgusting and sticky, covered in sweat and blood. It was a little frustrating. But what kept you from exhaustion was the beautiful cry of your daughter. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you had ever heard.

Mo'at handed the baby into Jake's trembling hands as she thanked Eywa for the blessing. There were tears in her eyes and a wide smile on her lips.

Jake held his daughter in his arms with the greatest care in the world. Tears ran down his cheeks as he talked to the baby to calm her down. "She's so… beautiful."

You let out a weak laugh, more tears filling your eyes. You were thrilled to see Jake's infectious smile, to see your beautiful baby standing there. "Thank you, Big Mom. Thank you."

Jake brought the baby close to you and gently placed her on your chest. She was fussy, crying, but the moment she felt your mother's warmth, she calmed down. Jake helped you support the baby, since you didn't have much strength to hold her. He laughed at the way a small smile settled on the baby's mouth, resulting in an even bigger one from you.

"What's it going to be named, yawntu?", Jake asked, depositing a delicate kiss on your forehead. It was so soft that you thought you had imagined it.

Analyzing the little face of your daughter, you mentally thanked Eywa once again for blessing you with another pure little being in your life. You were very happy.

"Tuk. Tuktirey. That is the name of our new star."

"Mom, can I hold her?" Lo'ak was on his side, just looking at his little sister sleeping on the cloth that was pinned to his chest.

He was not one to admit or call others cute. But in this case it was inevitable. His new baby sister was so cute and cuddly! Her little hands clasped tightly near her mouth to bite, which looked disgusting since she had no teeth.

"If you hold it, you'll knock her over, skxawng", not even looking at her brother, Kiri said with her usual debauched tone. She couldn't take her eyes off her little sister either, her chubby body being too cute to look away.

Neteyam, like his brothers, was inside the small circle they formed around you, who were preparing dinner that day. As an older brother, he was thrilled to gain another sister. He would not speak aloud, but he was afraid that it was another boy, Lo'ak was already enough to handle. Anyway, he was also itching to hold her, but he didn't have the courage to ask like Lo'ak. But not only that, he was also afraid of knocking over or hurting his precious Tuk, so just looking at her was enough. Neteyam already loved her as much as his other brothers did.

"I know you all want to pick up and play with your sister, but she is sleeping now. When she wakes up, you guys can talk to Tuk all you want", you said looking fondly at each of your little ones, noticing the almost nil disappointment in their eyes. You let out a giggle at that.

Jake silently snuck up behind you, slipping his big arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, depositing a lingering kiss on your neck in the process. "Yes. And anyway, only I can hold the TukTuk."

You rolled your eyes at the comment. The children frowned at their father and then said 'That's unfair!'. Jake loved to tease them.

"Sure, sure, Jake Sully", you turned your head to look into his face and deposited a gentle kiss on his lips. "Now go play! You're getting in the way of my food preparation. You too Ma'Jake."

Lo'ak didn't want to leave Tuk's side, she was stronger than he was. But Neteyam dragged him to the other corner of the hut, Kiri saying goodbye to her little sister and following right behind.

Jake and his stubborn spirit, on the other hand, remained motionless in the same place. You sighed and just continued to season the meat to put on the fire to roast later. "And the big baby, will you unglue?"

"I know you don't want me far away", he came closer to you, if it was possible, and began depositing kisses and kisses all over your neck and shoulder. That got you a few gasps and a tickle.

"Pff, how proud you are, huh."

A comfortable silence settled between you, only listening to the screams of the children, probably fighting among themselves over some toy. Neteyam seemed a little lost in the middle not knowing whether to indulge his desire to also fight, or to separate his siblings.

You were more than happy to have this family. You couldn't want anything else in your life. Eywa blessed you with everything beautiful.

Your younger self would never imagine or even think about the possibility of having a family. Your own family. And you're not sure what your former self would think. But your younger self is definitely very happy now. You can only thank Great Mother, and Jake, for coming into your life.

With each moment your heart was filled with more and more affection. So much love that it overflowed and you didn't know what to spend it on; Jake and you have surely raised the most beautiful and sweetest children in all of Pandora.

"We could have one more."

And then silence. Your movements simply stopped and you turned your face to look at him in shock.

"Jake, are you kidding? We just had another baby!"

"What? We can always do more, right?", Jake sank his face into the curve of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent as he listened to your incredulous laugh. "I can always fill you up with more."

"You are unbelievable sometimes, Jake Sully." You didn't know how to react to your husband's comment. He says that, but when your kids get ready, the first thing he says is 'No more kids!'

You removed Jake's arms from around you, turned around and put your hands on his face, then murmured, "Maybe on our next date night."

There wasn't even time for the man to react before you added to your previous sentence, "Now help me with dinner. I need to finish for you before Tuk wakes up."

Jake pulled himself together and let out a loud laugh before giving you a hug, taking care of the baby on his chest. You were startled, but couldn't stop the smile that was forming on your lips as you heard him whisper, "Thank you, for everything, my love."

"I who thank you, tìyawn."

I believe this is the last part of this story, which at the beginning I didn't even think there would be more 😭 thanks a lot for everything!!! If you want to send suggestions of what I can write or extra scenarios for this story anyway, feel free!

｡･ﾟ♡���･｡🍓｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡🍒

#jake sully #jake sully x reader #avatar jake sully #avatar jake sully x reader #avatar x reader #avatar the way of water #neteyam sully #loak sully #kiri sully #tuk sully #tuktirey sully #atwow #atwow fluff #atwow x reader #avatar 2009 #avatar 2022 #avatar 1 #avatar 2 #avatar twow

[sirdolraan]

Compassion

(Daily writing challenge August 2022, Day 2, Forever/Displaced. CW: Refugees.)

@daily-writing-challenge

The troupe of Darnassian refugees made their way along the canals, carrying luggage and wrangling children and pets as best they could under the watchful eyes of the guards assigned to ensure their safety. The nervousness and worry in the group of kaldorei and gilneans was palpable, so when Vasily stepped forward to meet them, he put on his most winning smile and filled his voice with joy.

"Hello my friends! I am most glad to see you all this morning! I hope you are excited to be setting off on your journey!" the barrel-chested anchorite bellowed, throwing his arms wide in greeting. The troupe's leader, Teyana Leafsorrow, stepped forward and embraced the draenei warmly.

"Indeed we are, anchorite. These many months have been quite a trial, and we're all looking forward to a more welcoming place." she answered, doing her best to control the sadness in her voice.

"Yes, Stormwind is a glorious city, but any one place will be having the limits! Happily, we are working very hard to find space for all who require it. Your new neighbors are most excited to be meeting you! In fact, some of them have come to provide you with escort!" Vasily beamed as he motioned the group towards the trade district. As they wound through the streets into the main square, they came into view of a wagon train, at the head of which sat a man in shining silver armor. "Hello friend Braghaman! Please to be meeting my friends!" Vasily stepped forward as Braghaman hopped down and submitted to Vasily's bear hug of greeting, before looking over the refugees.

"Morning folks. The name's Braghaman, Bragh to my friends. We've got plenty of space for you in Duskwood and I suspect some of you might prefer the shade of the forest to this rocky city. Should only be a couple days in the wagons before we can start settling you all in." he stated, patting the wagon behind him. "Let's get you and your things loaded up so we can set out before the noon sun peaks out from behind those clouds, hm?"

The assembled Darnassians all but surged forward, loading luggage, children, and pets into the wagons, filling the square with even more noise. As he lifted a young kaldorei into one of the wagons, Vasily turned on hearing his name. "Can I be of further service, Priestess Leafsorrow?" he asked.

"You have done much and more for us, so I wanted to extend a final thank you, Anchorite. And… I wished to ask, how long do you think until places are found for all?"

Vasily stroked his tentacles in thought. "It is a large duty, and one that must be addressed with care. There are, sadly, those who would be seeking to take the advantage over the suffering, and we must be working with worthy peoples to prevent this. But fear not! We shall not cease the labor until all may be enjoying comfort and safety, be it here or back in Kalimdor. I hope you and yours are able to find such in Duskwood." Vasily answered, smiling and offering his hand to guide her up to the wagon.

"Elune bless you, Anchorite." she offered, accepting his hand up to the wagon's head.

"And may the Light be with you and yours at her side, Priestess." he replied, stepping back and waving goodbye as the wagons began to trundle towards the gates, and eventually, some new semblance of home. Vasily exhaled in satisfaction, before turning back towards the Cathedral district. Many believed there was no rest for the wicked, and perhaps they were right. Vasily could never be sure, but he certainly knew there was very little rest for the kind, and the world would be made better for it.

#DWC august 2022 day 2 #prompts #Vasily #The Light #My alts #Refugees #Stormwind #Kaldorei #Gilnean #Braghaman #Friend characters #my writing

[sickbaysaturdays]

Have Mercy

By Kit @solacearchiveWhen Medic is kidnapped from her job at a mining camp to serve as conscript labor for the Imperium, she learns that survival means different things to different people, and doing no harm is never that simple.

While this story can stand on its own, it will make a lot more sense if you’ve read “Succor to the Brave,” available in the February archives of this fine blog.

Content warning for suicidal ideation (mentioned, brief) and torture (non-graphic, throughout).

“Get the damn door closed!” Rushka yelled, pulling her coat around herself.

“Sorry, sorry.” Duncan shoved his weight, which was less and less these days, against the barracks door. It thunked shut, sealing out the subzero but breathable air under the cheap radiation dome outside.

“Gonna freeze us all in our sleep,” Rushka muttered, lying back down.

Duncan ignored her and scaled the ladder to my third-tier bunk. “How’s the reading practice, little sister?”

I shut the floppy children’s workbook that one of the guards had given me. “Hard. It’s like being in grade one all over again. Did something happen?”

He shook his head and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “Nah, commandant just locked himself out of his personal computer. The security at her house was insane. Oh, but look what I got for us.” Grinning, he pulled two chocolate bars out of his coat pocket. “Swiped them right off the table when they weren’t looking.”

I squinted at the wrapper in the dim light from the window. “Star-light choc-o-late.”

“See? You’ll be fluent in Dosan before you know it.” Taking his own bar, he swung down onto the middle bunk.

I’d better be. My entire drug cabinet was labeled in the language, and the acceptable number of medication errors is zero.

The chocolate lasted me about four bites, euphoric sugar exploding in my mouth and leaving me wanting more. Chocolate, peanut butter, cinnamon cake, quickbread—once upon a time, before our world ended, I’d told Duncan I’d introduce him to quickbread, Kumitan-style.  

I would never get the chance.

Reveille called us out of bed and out into the razor-cold morning. Pulling too-thin coats around hunched shoulders, we shuffled into line, stamping our feet to keep them from going numb. Cold raked my face as I lined up next to Duncan in the yard, under the naked black sky.

“First work detail,” the guard shouted. He started pointing at people. We didn’t pay much attention; our work assignments were always the same.

The guard finished his work roster. Then he turned to the rest of us, the skilled prisoners. “You and you, follow him,” he ordered, pulling two prisoners out of line. 

I had a brief, nauseating memory of the mining rig cafeteria. The guard continued, picking one or two people out of every dozen.

“It’s going to be all right, little sister.” Duncan bent his knees and shoulder-checked me while the guard wasn’t looking. “Hang on.”

Duncan was in no position to make such promises, but I knew what he meant.

The guard made his way closer to us. I held my breath, sick with fear. I wasn’t even sure which outcome I wanted. Was it better to be picked or left behind?

When he reached Duncan, the guard shook his head. I knew what I wanted then.

“You, with him.” The guard pointed at me, then at a soldier standing by with a laser rifle. “Move!”

Duncan reached for my hand. His fingertips brushed against mine as the soldier grabbed my other arm and yanked me out of line. It was the last time we saw each other.

Different infirmary, same nightmare. No, sickbay. On a ship, it’s called sickbay. That’s what the Dosan characters above the double doors spelled out, s-ih-ck-b-ayee, with an end signifier on the last letter and a place-name marker above the /s/.

There were no other medics on the Enforcer.  The crew made vague, taunting references to what had happened to their last one.

I didn’t have much to do the first week. I studied Dosan from the few computer files I had access to. Marching orders were to sleep in sickbay in case a patient needed my help. A crewman, Suban, brought me food since I wasn’t allowed to mingle with the crew.

She was nice enough, except that sometimes she had plans with her friends and did that instead of bringing my food. I started doing the POW thing and saving the non-perishables in a safe place.

And then a corporal came in with an ingrown toenail. I digit-blocked the toe, removed the offending growth, and provided her with a sheet of care instructions from a file the previous medic had left behind.

“What the hell’s this?” she snarled, waving the slip. “Where’s my off-duty note?”

“T-there’s no r-reason you can’t go to work,” I stuttered. I was so stiff with fear I could barely talk. “The d-digital block—”

“We’re the ones with the keys, flatfoot. Now write me off duty.” Her fingers danced near her sidearm.

The safest way out of this would be to just write the damn note. I went back to the computer. My trembling fingers brought up a blank off-duty note. I made three typing mistakes filling in the blank fields. Baring her teeth, the corporal took her note and sauntered out.

I curled up under my charting desk and hugged my knees, willing the shakes to stop.

The next day, a warrant officer walked into sickbay and, before I could ask him what was wrong, grabbed me by the arms and shoved me into the bulkhead. I barely stifled a scream as he dug his fingernails into my arms.

“You write an off-duty note if someone is in here dying, you got that?” he hissed. “Some enlisted person doesn’t feel like working with an owie toe, you tell ’em too bad, they got to work. I don’t care if they’re mad about it.”

“Yes, sir,” I whimpered. I just wanted him to let go of my arms.

“Damn flatfeet. I don’t care about the labor shortage; using you is a mistake." 

Scowling, he threw me to the deck. I landed on my side on the brushed steel, reflexively curling up to protect my vital organs.

"I have to work with you, but I don’t have to treat you good,” he said, and through tears I watched his boot draw back.

Those days saw me trying to thread an impossible needle. Enlisted people want off-duty notes, fun painkillers, and whatever very non-evidence-based treatment they heard about from their friends. Officers will get very upset if enlisted people present flimsy off-duty notes or show up to their workstations high, and military sickbays simply do not stock trout bladder extract. 

Eventually, I stopped bothering to ice the bruises.

At night, I slept very lightly because there was no point in letting myself dissolve into sleep if I was just going to be yanked out of bed by an angry crewman with a cough that could not wait until morning. Instead, I dreamed of home, deep in the copper-green desert, under the dark orange sun.

Even though it was warm and there was food when Suban deigned to bring it, I wished they hadn’t pulled me out of line that day. Duncan never let me give up and stole chocolate even though he was risking his life. Rushka was good company, too, once you got past the brusque exterior. I would brave the frostnip to be with them again instead of being stuck on the Enforcer, surrounded by people who hated me.

“You gotta eat,” Suban said to me one day, trying to tempt me with some kind of vat meat and grilled vegetables. “When you first came on board, I thought you must have some gut parasite.”

“Actually, that’s because they barely fed us at the POW camp,” I said.  

“We all make sacrifices because of the war,” Suban said. “When I served on the Fist of Glory, we lived on combat biscuits and tube cheese for three weeks once.” She pushed the plate towards me. “Just a bite?”

“My friend’s still there,” I continued, ignoring the food. “My friend Duncan, he’s a software engineer. They stole us from the asteroid mine where we worked. We were civilians.”

Undaunted, Suban said, “But now you have a great opportunity to be part of the Imperium.”

And I think that was the same day they brought me the man.

He was in his forties, fifties maybe, shackled, bruised, and wearing threadbare clothes that needed a wash. He locked eyes with me, pleading silently. 

I looked away because I knew I couldn’t help.

“We need you to make him talk,” the lieutenant said as they muscled him into a chair.

I played dumb. “Talk, as in?”

“Give him drugs so he tells the truth,” the sergeant said.

“There’s nothing like that in my drug cabinet,” I said, hoping I’d concealed my horror.  

The sergeant turned to his lieutenant. “Is she telling the truth?”

The lieutenant laughed. “One way to find out.”

Torture, whether with a lieutenant’s fist or a medic’s drugs, has been proven time and again to be the most unreliable way to gather intelligence. But that’s never fit with the Imperial worldview.

I clapped a hand against my throbbing eye. The lieutenant’s boot rested on my sternum. 

“Which drugs do we give him, Medic?”

I was about to beg him not to hurt me, to insist that nothing in my drugs cabinet, or any drugs cabinet, would suit his purposes, but something inside me chose that moment to wake up.

They’d taken everything and everyone, and now I practiced medicine at gunpoint. It would never end unless I ended it.

I glared at the lieutenant with my non-bruised eye. “Just kill me.”

He made a face. “Do you know how hard it is to find medics in the first place? Gah, just get off the floor and fix the flatfoot, flatfoot.”

I shimmied out from under his boot and staggered to my feet. Approaching the prisoner, I asked, “Is it okay if I take a look at you?”

The sergeant rolled his eyes. “Oh, just do it!”

“It’s a violation of my medical oath to treat someone without their consent,” I said, emboldened by my earlier brush with death.

The prisoner didn’t speak to me, but he caught my eye and gave the slightest nod. From then on, we had an understanding. It was the same way POWs had talked back on that desolate moon: a glance, a head tilt, a flick of the eyes. Maybe if this war went on long enough, we’d develop our own code, a way to say things like I’m from Kumitan, the Cappadine Valley. If you get a chance, tell my family I’m alive.

I never saw the man again. I never knew his name, or where he was from, or if he had family who wanted to know he was alive.

He wasn’t the last.

It wasn’t often, but once a month or so, between the shipboard injuries and illnesses, they brought me a prisoner of war. 

Sometimes the injuries were minor, nothing I hadn’t sustained myself at the hands of an angry crewmember. Other times, I had to crack open the burn kits and orthopedic printing medium. I didn’t ask how any of it had happened. Partly because it wasn’t my job, and partly because I already knew.

I heard about Kumitan while I was printing a cast on a young man’s arm. All the insignias had been ripped off his Harahan planetary guard uniform.

“Hey, Medic,” one of his guards taunted. “Hey, Medic, you’re from Kumitan, right?”

“So?” I turned around, keeping an eye on my patient. Why did he care what kind of flatfoot I was? Kumitan, Harahan, we were all inferior people to him.

Giggling and sneering the whole time, they told me what their glorious Imperium had done.

Days smeared together into numbing repetition—perform hand hygiene, see patients, print care instructions, catch hell.

I was getting better at dodging blows. 

My ears rang and buzzed when soldiers baited me with lurid descriptions of what their Glorious Planetary Infantry had probably done to my family and neighbors back home.

Now when I dreamed of home, I had to dream of the past. After a while, I had to stop thinking about home at all. It made me unbearably sad.

“Oh, cheer up,” Suban told me, cutting up a piece of meat doused in gravy. “It’s steak night! No frowning on steak night.”

“I’ll eat later,” I said. I wanted to lie down and die. My patient last night had done just that. Bayonet wound to the leg, terminal shock, nothing I could do. 

Was he the first patient I’d lost on the Enforcer? Or had the weapons tech died first? I couldn’t remember.

“—steak will get cold, and nobody likes cold steak! Come on, I had to convince them to save some for you. They didn’t want to waste good meat on a flatfoot, but I told them you’re not dumb and sniveling. I mean, you could probably tutor my nieces in Dosan. You deserve—”

Suban kept talking. I focused very hard on my drug cabinet, on the labels in that ancient dead language they’d revived as an affectation.

The weapons tech died during a skirmish with Alliance forces. The Enforcer shifted into normal space, and I, being underslept, malnourished, and generally frail, passed out on the floor from the physical shock of it. I was still getting over my syncopal episode when the ship shuddered on a structural level. 

I would later learn that meant we’d been hit.

In the distance, alarms screamed their emergency messages.

I knew this feeling. It was the calm before the storm.

The storm arrived in the form of a screaming Imperial corporal with a bloody mess of a right leg staggering through the sickbay doors supported by two of his crewmates. I directed them to a bed and gloved up. First priority, stop the bleeding. He was shrieking a lot, so I mentally checked off airway and breathing.

I’d barely gotten the bleeding under control when an ensign arrived, dragging the unconscious body of her lieutenant. The lieutenant had rotten-looking burns on his face and one hand, and his dosimeter was blacked out.

“Decon, both of you,” I ordered.

The ensign glared at me, but I was more afraid of radiation than Imperial officers.

While they were scrubbing down, five more casualties came in, ambulatory but with positive radiation exposure and blood pouring out of them crying out for help I didn’t have beds I was just one little medic with no one to help—

And it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that none of my experience had prepared me for this or that I was exhausted and scared and wanted to go home (home doesn’t exist anymore) and sleep forever. I was going to deal with this because there was no other choice.

Deep breath. Fresh gloves. Into the breach. 

Hemorrhage-airway-breathing-circulation-neurological status. Plug the holes, secure the airway, support the respirations. Stop the pain. Ignore the screams and prioritize. No more beds, minor cases get chairs or blankets on the floor.

Behind me, the doors banged open. More patients.

Medicine becomes very binary at times like this. Hurt versus not hurt. Stable versus unstable. Alive versus dead, or on the way.

Corporal Leg Wound kept screaming for more painkillers I couldn’t safely give him. As long as he kept hollering, his airway was patent. Stable.

I couldn’t help the lieutenant. Forty grays is well past a lethal absorbed dose. The ensign had also taken a lot of grays when she pulled him and the others out of the irradiated section. Whether or not she’d live was beyond my control. Move on.

I moved on to the mechanic with a pelvic fracture. Stabilize with a binder to prevent blood loss. Give painkillers first because ow. I bolused fluids and blood and did a quick scan to confirm that there wasn’t any more internal bleeding. Stabilized, move on.

Which brought me to a weapons tech with a saturated homemade dressing on his upper arm that dripped blood. I apologized for the wait. He said it wasn’t no trouble in an accent that sounded far from the Imperial core. I cut the dressing away, and blood spattered my safety glasses. I slapped some sterile gauze over the wound and pressed hard. 

The wound was too close to the shoulder for a tourniquet, so it would have to be a hell of a pressure bandage.

“Step away.”

The warrant officer stood over me, sidearm hand dangling menacingly. I think it was the same warrant officer who’d kicked me for writing Corporal Toenail the off-duty note, but I had trouble telling the Imperials apart.

I tried to step back and still keep the pressure on the wound, but I knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“This man is a deserter,” the warrant officer said. “He abandoned his post in battle. He will receive no medical care.”

“But—” On Kumitan, and every other Alliance nation-world, medical care was given without condition or stipulation. Prisoners facing life sentences for unspeakable crimes received the same standard of care as schoolchildren. It was part of the oath we took. The oath I took.

“Step away,” the warrant officer ordered. 

He unfastened the safety strap on his sidearm holster.

I should have said something. Like, what are you going to do, shoot your only medic in the middle of a battle? Or said nothing and kept the pressure on the wound and dared him to do something, and maybe he would have and maybe he wouldn’t have, but at least I’d live or die a medic.

But I froze. Some very old animal survival instinct grabbed my arms and pulled them back. 

I stepped away. The weapons tech looked at me, at the warrant officer, at the blood pouring from his arm.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” he said. 

“Glory to the Imperium!”

“Be quiet and die like a man,” the warrant officer snarled. To me, “Stay put, flatfoot.”

The weapons tech took a thousand years to die. 

Small things, like the way the sweat dripped off his face as he went into shock and the way the warrant officer laced his boots, etched themselves into my mind. I had a thousand years to do something, but I only watched.

And then there was a sickbay full of casualties to attend to, some in critical condition, and there was no time to grapple with the fact that one person had woken up that morning and a very different person would go to bed that night. That would take a while to sink in.

I could never remember if my POW with the bayonet wound had been the first patient I lost in that sickbay or the weapons tech. Funny how time goes into a blender when every day brings new horrors.  

My home was gone. My work meant nothing. The only way I could fall asleep anymore was to take strong medication and pretend it was a fatal overdose. The bruises came easier, lasted longer. Waking hours were a dream, a haze of unshed tears that had maybe caused a novel sort of encephalopathy.  

In the Kumitan tradition, members of the lifesaving professions go by titles, not names, while on duty. Driver, Pilot, Medic—it affirms the seriousness of our work.

These days, I called myself Medic because somewhere in all of it, the human part of me had died. The only thing left was the medic.

And so I practiced medicine. Some days when I was half-delirious, the work felt like a sacrifice offered at the altar of some ancient god, Hermes, Asclepius, Sekhmet, Ixtlilton, have mercy on your disciple.

It all came down to mercy. Mercy was what they lacked. Mercy was my trade. A patient came in howling from skin burnt down to exposed nerves and I shot mercy straight into their veins.

And then one day, about a Kumitan year after the reign of nightmares and angry black boots began, there was mercy for me.

Ever since the weapons tech, I got a gnawing dread whenever the battle klaxons went off. This was no different. I waited and waited until the dread overwhelmed me, and still no casualties came. Laser fire echoed down the hallway, but my sickbay was silent as a tomb.

And then two enormous laser rifles stampeded through the door, and I threw my hands in the air and begged them not to shoot me because you can dream of your death all you want, but when it comes you won’t be ready.

I did not die that day. They told me, in the simple words you would use with a child, that the Alliance controls the ship now, not the Imperials. That they would not hurt me.

And there was medicine to be practiced.  

It was finally over, and I had never felt so unwell. Syrupy exhaustion lived in my bones and my skull, no matter how much I slept. Sometimes I had nightmares, jarring, bloody fragments that woke me up gasping in a cold sweat. Bright lights hurt my eyes, and any voice louder than a murmur set my teeth on edge.

But I couldn’t tend to myself. There was work to be done, medicine to be practiced, patients to be seen. Ancient gods to be appeased.

Every morning, Corporal Flynn, my command-assigned bodyguard, knocked on my cabin door and got me up for PT. The hollow shell that used to be me put up a perfunctory argument and peeled itself out of bed, dressed, and pretended to be a person for the next twelve hours because that was what these people expected.

But I wasn’t. I had done unspeakable things, and I never didn’t think about it. 

Stretching on the gym mats, I thought about the weapons tech. Updating vaccines, I thought about the POW from Harah with the smashed-up arm. Chatting with Lucan, the medic from the Libertad, I thought about Duncan, whom I had left behind on that desolate moon. Any normal life I lived after all of that would be indecent.

Corporal Flynn thought I didn’t put my name in the Kumitan survivors’ registry because I was afraid to know what happened to my family and friends. Actually, it was because I didn’t want them to know what had happened to me.

In any case, the registry was for survivors, and I had not survived.

And every so often, the floor dropped out of the universe. I thought the childhood asthma had come back, until Corporal Flynn pointed out that the β-2 agonists I was taking by the lungful only made it worse. They walked me up and down the less-trafficked corridors, or sometimes just held me until the shakes stopped. We didn’t talk about it after.

Usually, the episodes came right after I was done practicing some serious medicine. On the Enforcer, I’d realized medicine was like pressure holding the nitrogen in a deep-sea diver’s blood. Release the pressure, release the nitrogen, and you have decompression sickness.

And now there was no medicine I could practice, nothing to offer the ancient gods, no mercy for this disciple. There was no first aid kit in this cargo hold, and when I asked about the one topside, my answer was the familiar boot.

“They’ll be fine,” the warrant officer snarled, and clomped back up the ladder.

Fine, fine, fine, yes. From my position between the cargo bulkheads, I could only see their hand, and the hand hadn’t moved in a little while.

I couldn’t see the rest, but I knew they were there. Specialist Begay, Corporal Quinlan, Specialist Suarez, and a few others from the Libertad’s forces that I didn’t know. 

Gunnery Sergeant Wong had gotten Lucan and Mechanic Constanzakis to safety, I hoped, and Dr. Wick had been at the CASH hospital when we were ambushed.

Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wondered if the shackle chain was cold enough to use as an ice pack for my arm.

“Hey, flatfoot.”

“That’s Medic to you.” I didn’t even look up. Let them shoot me. I would trick them into showing mercy.

“Okay, fine. Medic.” The voice was hushed , furtive. “I got a question.”

“Trout bladder extract is a scam,” I said.

The ensign kneeling on the deck in front of me actually snorted. “No, not a medical question. You were on the Enforcer before it was captured, right?”

Where was this going? Where was the trap? Slowly, I nodded.

“Um, did you know this ensign?” She produced a digital photo and tipped it towards me.  

It showed her, younger, and another woman in military dress uniforms, fists raised in the Glorious Salute. I frowned. Most of the Enforcer’s crew were faceless monsters. But this one, I knew.

“Oh. Her.”

The ensign’s face brightened. “Do you know where she is? I couldn’t find out anything after I heard about the Enforcer.Was she taken prisoner?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I almost was. “She died in battle before the ship was captured.”

“Oh.” The ensign bit her lip and blinked hard. “Damn it, Eliza! How—what happened? You were the medic; you couldn’t save her?”

Oh, I tried. I gave that woman every radioprotective and growth factor and immunotherapeutic that I thought would help, not to mention transfusing ungodly amounts of platelets. It wasn’t enough. That old monster sepsis caught her in the end.

I wouldn’t tell her friend that, though.

“You should know, she was a hero,” I said instead. “She ran into a contaminated section to help evacuate the crew members trapped there. They survived because of her.”

Squinting through unshed tears, the ensign stared at her photograph. “Damn it, Eliza. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

The engines droned on below my feet. I leaned back against the bulkhead, wincing at the loud scrape of shackle against deck.

My lance corporal’s hand had moved a few times. At least they were alive. There was no response when I called out to them, or any of the others, but between the cargo bulkheads and the drone of the engines, they probably couldn’t hear me. Clever holding pen design on the part of our captors.

The ensign returned, walking toe to heel so her horrible boots didn’t clomp on the metal deck. She crouched in front of me.

“Medic,” she said.

I glared at her. She had some nerve coming here, knowing what they were going to do to us.

“What does the Alliance do to prisoners?” she asked.

This was interesting. “Prisoners of war?”

“Yeah.”

“Depends on what they did during the war. If there’s evidence that they committed human rights crimes, they’re sent to Station New Haag to stand trial. And yes, a flatfoot counts as a human under intersystem law.”

She ignored my barb. “And if they’re convicted?”

“They go to prison, I guess.”

“Or maybe they’re executed?”

It took me a second to realize what the word she used meant. “The Alliance has never used death as a punishment.”

“Really. What are the prisons like?”

“I’ve never been to one. But if you mean do we treat you the way you treat us, the answer is no. We show mercy.”

“Oh.” She paused and looked back over her shoulder at the ladder. “That’s not what they tell us.”

“Who do you believe about the Alliance, the Imperial propaganda machine, or someone who actually grew up there?” I asked.

She left, and I dozed against the humming bulkhead, or tried to. Sick anticipation forced my eyes open. I knew what the Imperials would do to us. Quinlan and I had skills; they would use us, especially her. In such a rabidly xenophobic society, linguists were hard to come by.

The other infantry people, my lance corporal, were only useful to the Imperium as sources of information. And Imperials showed no mercy when they thought you had information. I shuddered, thinking of all the patients who’d told me their stories without saying a word.

I did not want that to happen to Corporal Flynn but I’d failed to stop worse things.  I hugged my knees and closed my eyes and—

The ship shuddered, structure-deep, as a ship-to-ship bolt struck its hull.

The world was very far away for a while, a pale, tinny replica of something I used to recognize. I didn’t fight it. Occasionally I recognized something—the flash of laser fire, or the clomp of heavy black boots, or an ensign kneeling on the deck and shouting I’m not resisting! but none of it seemed very important.

Gunnery Sergeant Wong was in there somewhere with a big pair of laser cutters. Everything smelled of burning metal, and then she and my lance corporal embraced like old friends.

The edges sharpened. The edges belonged to the sick bay on the Libertad.

“Hey, you.” Dr. Wick smiled down at me. “How do you feel?”

I had to think about it. “Okay, I guess. Are the lance corporal and the others all right?”

“Everyone’s in one piece. Corporal Flynn went to the commissary for snacks a few minutes ago. 

Do you remember what happened?”

No. “Yes.”

“Good. You were pretty out of it when they brought you in, but I couldn’t find anything physically wrong with you. Figured I’d just let you sleep it off.”

“Thanks.” I raised myself up on my elbows, wincing as my bruises made themselves known.  

Dr. Wick put her arm around me and helped me sit up. I had the strangest urge to lean my head against her shoulder. But this was Carolyn Wick, co-author of one of the most referenced books on combat medicine. I shrugged her off and tried to look like I had it together.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked me.

“Sickbay, the Libertad.”

“Good.” She ran me through the basic neuro exam. “Is anything bothering you right now?”

There was the black, disgusting sludge that had lived under my skin since the Alliance had captured the Enforcer, but some things medicine could not fix. 

Still, being back in shackles had reminded me of old ghosts and unfinished business. And that gave me an idea.

“Medic? You with us?”

I pushed myself off the exam table. “Pardon me, Doctor. There’s some business I need to take care of.”

The prisoners from the Imperial runabout were being held in the Libertad’s brig. When Lance Corporal Flynn returned from the commissary, pockets stuffed with biscuits, I asked them to take me there.

“You sure?” they asked.

I put a hand on their shoulder. “I’ll be fine. This time, they’re the ones in cages.”

Seeing my scrubs and medical insignias, the soldier on brig duty let me inside without question. Corporal Flynn posted themself just inside the hatch.

The ensign was in the last cell, lying on the bench with her jacket open. She sat up when she saw me.

“Medic.”

“Ensign.”

“You were right,” she said, gesturing to an empty meal tray on the floor. “Three times a day.”

I wasn’t here to chat about the conditions. I pulled a couple of paper photos out of my shirt pocket and passed them through the slot. They were a few years old, but freshly printed and decent quality.

“What’s this?” the ensign asked.

“I told you what happened to your friend,” I said. “Now you help me find mine. His name is Silas Duncan. He’s a software engineer. The last place I saw him was the prisoner of war camp on satellite moon KL-33.

"We’ve captured a lot of you, and we’re going to capture even more. On the transports, at the camps, in the prisons, you show those pictures to everyone you meet. Someone’s seen him. Someone knows what happened to him. You are going to find my friend.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Corporal Flynn asked me as we stepped out of the hatch.

“I hope I will.”

“Hey, Medic, you forgot to sign the visitors’ log on your way in,” the soldier on brig duty said, tapping his tablet.

“Sorry,” I said, taking the pen he offered.

Name, the sign-in sheet demanded.

Mercy, I wrote.

—–

If you’ve read all the way to the end, please either like, reblog, or reply (you can just leave a dot or other mark so I know you were here).

Also, if you’ve been a regular reader, please consider leaving a comment in the replies!  I’m about to start a new job that will leave me with less free time, and I’m debating which direction to take these stories.  I’d like to know: do you have a favorite character or character you’d like to see more of?  What’s your favorite type of whump, either in general or in the stories?  What have your thoughts been on this story, or the series in general?

As always, enjoy your Saturday in sickbay, and make sure to tell all your whumpy friends about it.

#submission #thank you!! #ss kidnapping #sickbay saturdays #whump #original whump #fiction

[chavisory]

Continuing thoughts on this book

...And I want to note once again that I am very skeptical of this author’s categorization of giftedness into five distinct “levels,” and cannot tell precisely how she came up with this framework or how in the world it’s been validated.

Anyhoo.

“In fact, many parents observed that their Level Three children who once read a lot independently sometimes seem too tired from school to come home and read.”

I was literally just talking with a friend on Facebook who has a very spirited daughter in grade school, who doesn’t ever want to read for pleasure or personal enrichment anymore because reading is “school stuff.” How I understood why, even if she’s a talented student, she might be tired of the ways she gets treated by school and doesn’t want to bring any of it into her life at home. And that I have tended to actually love jobs heavy on manual labor that weren’t that cognitively demanding, because even if I got home physically exhausted, I wasn’t too mentally exhausted to read or write.

“Although his reading skills were very high, he sometimes struggled to give the correct answers on tests, as he often read ‘beyond the question.’ Many Level Three children do not know what the teacher is really asking for. Directions that seem too simple or make no sense to them stymie their ability to understand the thrust of what the teacher wants them to do.”

Oh yeah, I still get into trouble with this stuff all the time. And it can be hard to tell whether you’re over-reading the question, or whether it’s just that the realities of your whole life don’t match up to any of the assumptions underlying the question.

Edited to add...Giftedness isn’t a disability, that’s not where I’m going with this...and I think there’s a large fraction of this experience that is autism and the results of autism... but it is notable to me that I have to have an ACA navigator who is extremely good at her job, largely because of this.

Like I had to tell the arts organization in question that I needed someone to understand exactly how much help I really needed (because the first navigator they assigned me did not, at all), because of this.

“The general public assumes--naively and incorrectly--that all children will be given the opportunity to learn at whatever pace is right for them.”

Does it, though? Does the general public really assume that the public school system serves intensely gifted children well? Or does it just vastly underestimate the range and variety of intelligence that exists in school-aged kids and therefore assumes that whatever the school system provides must be suitable for all the kids in it?

To say nothing of the people who are very openly and explicitly opposed to providing gifted ed...

#gifted stuff

[ethandude15]

Book pages project – Making Bombs for Hitler

Skrypuch, Marsha Forchuk. Making Bombs for Hitler: A Novel. Scholastic Inc., 2012.

Making Bombs for Hitler, by Marsha Skyrpuch, starts out in 1943 where Lida is just a ten-year-old girl living in Ukraine with her sister, Larissa. The two sisters are the last of their family as their parents had been killed during the German’s invasion of Ukraine. After being taken prison by the Nazi’s, Lida is then ripped apart from her sister as she is forced onto a train and transported to slave labor camp with other children ripped from their homes. Lida is then told by the other children that she has to show usefulness or be killed by the Nazis to which Lida proves herself useful in order to stay alive to find and reunite with Larissa. Lida is then assigned to the laundry duties for the camp, washing and mending clothing for the Nazi soldiers. Lida ends up proving herself, yet a bit too much, as her work gets noticed by upper ranking officials who send her, and several other girls, to work in a bomb factory making bombs and explosives for the German forces. After a Nazi officer poisons the soup and ends up killing a large amount of the OST workers, Lida vows revenger and makes a pact with the rest of the girls who didn’t eat the soup. The girls end deciding that if they are just going to be killed, they’ll at least make a difference before that happens and begin to sabotage the bombs being sent out to the German forces, giving one last act of rebellion before the end.

Making Bombs for Hitler is an emotional roller coaster that shows some of the true horrors of both the Holocaust and World War 2. The characters were incredibly unique in their own right and the writing helped the reader emotionally connect to these characters, all with their different stories and different motivations. I very much enjoyed how they weren’t just brushed over either as the author went very much into depth about a lot of the characters, making them almost as essential to the plot as Lida herself. The book also, while having a somewhat happy ending, constantly reminds the reader how most relief stories like Lida and Larissa’s did not end happily which truly draws out how horrific these historical events were.

Making Bombs for Hitler displays not just what it is like to be growing up in hard times and what it was like to grow up during major historical events but to grow up in those historical events. One of the biggest themes throughout the book is the older sibling complex, having the need to be there and be protective over your younger siblings. Many youths can relate to this troupe as many older siblings, especially in chaotic and rough environments, only want what’s best for their younger siblings, being forced to mature and grow up at a faster rate. Along with this, the novel truly displays the intuition of youths and how powerful the youth truly can be. While older adults may doubt and underestimate children and young adults, the book shows how big of an affect underestimated youths can truly have on the world around them.

[catdotjpeg]

The U.S. District Court for the Northern District of California has ordered the owners and operators of 14 Bay Area Subway restaurants, including six in Sonoma County and three in Napa, to pay employees nearly $1 million in back wages and damages.

In a rare action, the consent order — meaning all parties agree to its directives — also requires the owners to sell or shut down their businesses by Nov. 27, a term the U.S. Department of Labor said it insisted upon to resolve the case.

The actions against John Meza and his wife, Jessica Meza, follows a Press Democrat investigation that revealed a long trail of abuses by the Subway franchisees.

Federal investigators confirmed much of the reporting, finding that the Mezas directed children as young as 14 and 15 to use dangerous equipment and assigned minors to work hours not permitted by law; failed to pay employees their wages regularly, including by issuing them hundreds of bad checks; and illegally kept tips left by customers.

“Thanks to some very brave young people who stood up to their employers’ exploitation and attempts to intimidate them, the Department of Labor and a federal court are holding these business owners accountable,” Ruben Rosalez, the department’s wage and hour regional administrator in San Francisco, said in a statement.

One of those young people sounded satisfied to hear the news.

“Honestly, I’m just grateful something has actually been done,” said Lorenza Tapia, one of three students at San Antonio High School in Petaluma who first spoke to The Press Democrat about their troubling experience working at local Subways. “People haven’t been paid their money. This feels pretty good.”

A year after her last day punching out at Subway, Tapia is still trying to make sense of her treatment there. She went to work at 15 to help support her single mother and three younger siblings.

“Who wants to take advantage of a kid like that, who is trying to work hard, out there trying to do something?” she asked Friday. “Studying and working is pretty hard.”

The consent judgment and permanent injunction, signed by U.S. District Court Judge Vince Chhabria on Wednesday, orders the Mezas and their limited liability corporations, Crave Brands and MZS Enterprises, to pay 184 workers a total of $475,000 in minimum wage, overtime and tips, and an equal amount in liquidated damages. The agreement also stipulates they must pay $150,000 in penalties.

Investigators found the employers interfered with the Wage and Hours Division’s review by coercing employees not to cooperate, and by threatening children who raised concerns or tried to exercise their legal rights. The Mezas and their site manager, Hamza “Mike” Ayesh, are ordered to pay $12,000 in punitive damages for threatening at least one employee who had complained about a payroll check bouncing.

John Meza, Jessica Meza and Mike Ayesh did not respond Friday to requests for comment.

The money owed by the defendants will begin accruing interest at an annual rate of 10% beginning Sept. 27, 2024. Any proceeds for the Mezas from a business sale under the order must be forwarded to the Department of Labor.

How much money eventually winds up in the hands of the affected teenagers and young adults, many of them immigrants or the children of immigrants, remains to be seen.

“Any payments will be subject to my client’s ability to pay, which is quite modest for the foreseeable future,” Arkady Itkin, the defendants’ attorney, said in an email.

It is noted in the judgment that the Mezas and Ayesh have asserted “under penalty of perjury that they, collectively, cannot produce more than $12,000 in cash funds as of September 25, 2023.”

Under the agreement, the Mezas cannot open another Subway franchise or other food franchise for three years.

People directly impacted by the wage theft were pleased by that provision.

“Either way, if they have to close stores or give them up, that’s a big thing,” said Ein Hill, a Rohnert Park resident who worked at the Cotati Subway franchise for several months earlier this year and wound up being owed close to $4,000 in unpaid wages.

Hill, 21, said he did eventually receive a couple of checks that did not bounce, but they fell far short of what was owed to him. The experience has colored his view of employers.

“It’s nerve wracking anytime you’re gonna go work for someone,” he said. “You always worry it might happen again.”

Not long before the three San Antonio High students went to work for John Meza, three of his companies — Crave Brands, MZS Enterprises and Apex Brands — received just under $190,000 in federal pandemic-era loans, according to data from the U.S. Small Business Administration. That money was meant to keep employees in their jobs. About $66,000 of Meza’s Paycheck Protection Program debt was forgiven by the U.S. government.

In 2011, Meza was sentenced in Contra Costa County Superior Court to 120 days in jail and $163,000 in fines for two felony counts related to tax evasion. He and Jessica Meza were accused of failing to report $800,000 in income, and opening a bank account using fake Social Security numbers to hide earnings.

If working for the Mezas and their company was a bitter introduction to the labor market for the affected teenagers, the Labor Department action was seen by some as a more satisfying lesson — in the power of self-advocacy.

“Even though they didn’t mention my name, I know deep down that thanks to something I said, it helped a lot of people,” Tapia said.

-- "Bay Area Subway franchisee fined $1 million, ordered to sell businesses after wage theft investigation" by Phil Barber for The Press Democrat, 29 Sep 2023

#labor rights #santa rosa #windsor #cotati #petaluma #napa #vallejo #san pablo #concord #clayton #antioch #california

[deniigi]

Please take this section from a piece about Baby Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon bonding post Bandomeer.

I’m sure that this isn’t how their master-apprentice relationship was formed but I refuse to read so this is it for me 🙃🙂

Title: platelets

Summary: After the smoke clears on Bandomeer, the Agricorps gathers 12yo Obi-Wan into their ranks and prepares to train him to become one of their own. Qui-Gon thinks they should wait a damn minute here. He’s had a change of heart.

---

Obi-Wan was no longer in the med bay. It took Qui-Gon two hours to find him and two years off his life trying to look casual under the irritated gaze of so many suspicious Agricorps members.

The foreman (forewoman) was the first to crack under Qui-Gon’s very charming smile—and she didn’t so much as crack as tell him that his attempts to be subtle disgusted her to the core.

Obi-Wan had been given over to a young lab manager. A friendly man in need of his first supervisee. He was soft at heart and, according to the foreman, very good with kids.

Qui-Gon understood implicitly and rapidly that this was his new competitor.

He asked the foreman what the knights had done to incur the corps’ ire and she told him to search his fucking feelings.

She closed the door behind him, effectively locking him into one of the Agricorps terrarium-lab bubbles.

 --

Qui didn’t like to snoop. He loved to snoop.

Nothing was more satisfying then having a poke through the lines upon lines of glasses and test pockets that covered the tables. He had a sniff around the experimental cuttings taking root in their glasses and then took cover when he heard a voice break out into a laugh.

He peered over the edge of the counter and spotted the familiar green smock-tunic of the corps. Its owner had tan skin and narrow eyes and his back stooped into an arc. Qui-Gon craned his neck and found that the arc came over the tuft-y red hair of his future apprentice (because there was no real question here, regardless of the corps’ agitation; the knights would always get first choice over the initiates).

The lab manager, however, gave no sign of trepidation. He held in front of Obi-Wan a handful of seeds that sprouted and curled under his smile. Obi-Wan watched them with wide eyes. The manager turned his gentle face down towards Obi-Wan and nudged his hands until Obi-Wan was holding the mass as it grew.

“Look, you’re a natural,” the man said.

Obi-Wan sucked in a lip and focused hard. One of the plants’ first adult leaves began to unfurl.

“Well done. Fantastic,” the manager said. “Look at you already. Great job and for that, a reward.”

“A reward?” Obi-Wan asked, handing the tangle of roots off as the manager held out his hands for them.

“A reward,” the manager agreed, plucking one of the fat stems from the bunch and holding it out to Obi-Wan, “A snack.”

Damn. This guy was good.

 --

 The foreman was smug as a dungbeetle in shit when Qui-Gon skulked out of the lab. She asked him how his proposal had gone. He scowled at her and made off back to his quarters.

Normally, he would call someone to lament the traitorous actions of these supposed-allies, but no one was going to be sympathetic right now—not even Tahl. She was going to say what everyone else was going to say which was “Man, you had how many chances to get this right?”

He smashed his face into the pillow of his bunk, then flung it off and flattened his cheek against the mattress.

There had to be some way to turn these tides back in his favor. He wasn’t losing to the Agricorps. Master Dooku would have a heart attack. Qui’s failure in this—more than Xanatos—would kill him and then he’d have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life.

UGH.

Alright, Jinn. Think.

 --

 He had a brilliant plan. It involved a lightsaber. Obi-Wan loved lightsabers. Qui-Gon had witnessed him loving them many a time.

He scrounged up some tools and squeaked past the Agricorps security for a quick bounce off to acquire a crystal. A blue one. Obi-Wan looked like a blue saber sort of kid. It took a while to find one because everyone, everywhere, was conspiring against Qui-Gon on this. Even the Force seemed to be telling him that he was too late.

But for once, he didn’t care. There were only so many times you could fuck up before you started fucking up at least in the right direction.

He got the crystal. He brought it back to the corps headquarters and went on the hunt yet again for his (his damnit) future apprentice.

  This time, Obi-Wan was in the dormitories. Qui-Gon almost gasped in horror to find him outfitted in an over-large green smock-tunic. He flapped the too-long sleeves with a goofy smile while his lab manager reached around him and tightened the belt at his waist as far as it would go.

“You’re so scrawny,” the lab manager told him. “We’ll fix that.”

Obi-Wan beamed up at him and held up his sleeve-covered hands.

“I like green,” he said.

A small piece of Qui-Gon screamed internally.

“I think you’re more of a blue, actually,” the lab manager said. “But this is what we’ve got for now. When you get bigger, we can see if there’s a blue that fits you.”

“There are so many colors,” Obi-Wan said as the manager trapped his arm and started rolling up one of the sleeves. He tried to do the same with the other on his own, which just made the manager’s job harder.

“There are,” the manager said.

“Do you get to pick?”

“You sure do.”

“How do you pick?”

The manager patted Obi-Wan’s head and turned around to hunt down something else from the spare clothing supply.

“It comes to you,” he said, muffled.

There was a long silence. Qui-Gon had just decided to step out of hiding, when Obi-Wan, looking at the rolled edges of his sleeves said,

“I think I want to leave.”

Qui-Gon’s heart stopped. The manager’s rummaging did, too. He pulled himself carefully out of the cupboard.

“Leave?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan said to his sleeves. “I think I want to leave.”

No.

“You’re a little young to leave, aren’t you?” the manager said awkwardly.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said. “But I’ll figure it out. If I can survive those people in the mines, then I can figure it out, can’t I? And then I can pick my colors out there. You get to pick, right? Maybe I’ll do blue after all.”

Fuck. No. Qui-Gon was gonna—

“Hey, why don’t we do this?” the manager said, setting aside a set of gaiters to kneel down in front of Obi-Wan. “Let’s give us a trial run, huh? Two months, max. I know we didn’t make the best first impression, but give us two months—eight weeks—and after that, if you don’t like it, we’ll make sure you’ve got somewhere to go when you’re ready to leave. Does that sound okay?”

Qui-Gon held his breath. Obi-Wan studied the knuckles of the hands holding his. He rubbed his split lips together.

“Eight weeks?” he asked.

“That’s all, no more and if you really, really can’t stand it, then even less,” the manager said.

“And you’ll help me? Even if I say I don’t want to stay?”

“Even if you don’t want to stay.”

Maybe Qui was operating on another, less child-friendly level here, but why in kark’s name you’d even give the boy the illusion of choice was beyond him. The answer was, truly, that the second Obi-Wan set foot away from the jedi, he’d be signing his own death sentence.

Xanatos wouldn’t care if he wasn’t Qui-Gon’s true apprentice. He wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions. He’d just seize the opportunity the moment Obi-Wan no longer had someone standing behind him, and when he was through, he’d bring the body to the Temple and lay it out cold and open-eyed on the front steps.

There were no other options for the child now. Qui-Gon was being kind with this process of trust-building. In reality, if he really needed to, he could contact Yoda and acquiesce to his previous wisdom and arguments for Qui-Gon to take the kid on. Yoda would then change the boy’s assignment and orders; he would return to the temple and thereafter again go through the selection process. But this time, Qui-Gon would select him without hesitation.

That wasn’t how Qui-Gon wanted to do this, but if the boy thought that he was going to leave, to step out into the cold of space, then to spare him a cruel, meaningless death, Qui-Gon would.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said quietly to the manager.

“Anytime, hon,” the manager said. “Who knows, anyways. You might even like it here.”

 --

  The trouble with the damn Agricorps was that they were phenomenal talkers. They talked to people about their problems and all these insecurities and they gave them food and drinks and told jokes and laughed and hefted their littlest supervisees up onto their shoulders and all that served to make their members loyal to each other to a fault.

In short, Obi-Wan’s lab manager was winning this battle more every day.

This was not helped at all by the fact that Qui-Gon had discovered through a surprise meeting that Obi-Wan was afraid of him.

They’d bumped into each other in the hallway as Obi-Wan came from the mess hall and Qui-Gon went to drop off some documents, and the kid scrambled away from him and flattened himself against the corridor’s wall.

Some serious meditation (and agitating Mace, great tower of sleep-deprived wisdom) had brought Qui-Gon to the conclusion that yeah, a month in forced labor, being banished to a mine, food deprivation, physical assault, and so on really did a number on a twelve-year-old’s trust in people and their associates.

Further, Mace pointed out that Qui-Gon was approximately ‘half a mile tall and covered in overgrowth.’

He did not appear to be a soothing presence to children. Mace said that if he’d deigned to join him and the other masters in chatting and cuddling the younglings in the crèche, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but alas, Qui, you stuck-up nerfherder. You reap what you sow.

Mace’s hind and foresight was, as per usual, invaluable.

Qui-Gon decided that he was going to be the nice version of himself. He was going to smile at Obi-Wan. That would do it.

 --

 It didn’t do it.

The foreman came to Qui-Gon’s quarters to gleefully tell him not to approach the corps’ young supervisees unprompted. He was giving the children hives.

He explained to her outright that he intended to take Obi-Wan on as his apprentice.

She told him good luck. Obi-Wan, she claimed, was already settling in with the others. He was making friends. And Qui-Gon wasn’t so cruel as to separate such a traumatized boy from such comfort, now was he?

But there, she was mistaken.

He definitely was that cruel.

The foreman told him to die miserable and slammed his door.

 --

 It took another two tries, but eventually, he managed to find Obi-Wan tucked away on one of his breaks from his training in the lab. He appeared to be at a loss for what to do with himself. He’d settled against a window and had splayed both hands on it as he stared out into the cracked soil of Bandomeer.

Qui-Gon watched him for a little while and then cleared his throat.

Obi-Wan jumped. His eyes came up for the briefest second and then his head went down.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon replied. “You seem bored.”

Guilt colored the boy’s cheeks in a flush.

“I’m not bored, Master,” he said, fidgeting with his rolled sleeves.

“May I sit?” Qui-Gon asked, gesturing next to where Obi-Wan knelt. He nodded and arranged himself in a more dignified posture. Qui-Gon let him; he sat down next to him, grumbling and creaking and popping.

His bones weren’t what they used to be.

Once he was finally more or less comfortable, he turned to notice Obi-Wan staring at him with eyes like a cat’s.

“What? You never seen an old man sit?” he asked.

“What happened to your hair?” Obi-Wan asked.

Oh.

“It’s in a bun,” Qui-Gon explained, reaching up to release the mane. It tumbled down over his shoulders and cheered for fresh air.

Obi-Wan’s gaze became even more cat-like. Qui-Gon fought off a smirk.

“You want to touch it?” he asked.

The kid looked away abruptly.

“It’s okay. You can touch it,” Qui told him. “It looks better than it feels, I must say. Needs a trim—look at these ends, little one. I ought to be arrested for crimes against decency.”

Aha. Gotcha. Look at that wobble in those lips. Trying not to smile. They’d see how long that worked, now wouldn’t they?

He badgered Obi-Wan until he finally broke and reached up to brush his fingers against the hair Qui-Gon put within his reach. His attention snapped into place.

“It’s soft,” he said, amazed.

His fingers started combing without permission. Qui-Gon let it happen.

“Very useful for cold climates—have you ever felt a snow-yak, Obi-Wan?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. Of course, he hadn’t.

“Do you know what they look like?”

Another shake.

“Well, perhaps one day, you will see them,” Qui-Gon said indulgently. “When I was a boy, my master told me not to try to pet them—he told me at every step of the way, he knew me well. But you know what I did?”

There was that smile now.

“You pet them?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I sure did,” Qui-Gon told him. “And you know that they did?”

“Kicked you?”

“Me? No. I was too small a target. They charged my master—Master Dooku; you may have heard of him.”

Obi-Wan shoved his giggles into his palms.

“I want to pet one,” he said.

“Yes, you do look like the type,” Qui-Gon said. “Tell me, Obi-Wan, what are your feelings on pathetic lifeforms?”

“What’s that?”

“You tell me. What’s a pathetic lifeform to you?”

Obi-Wan settled in and thought about it as he gazed out the window’s thick glass.

“Me,” he decided.

Bless him.

“You?” Qui-Gon said incredulously. “No, no. You saved a jedi master. I said ‘pathetic.’”

“Me,” Obi-Wan insisted again.

Qui-Gon held a finger out between them.

“If you are a pathetic life form, then I am in grave danger,” he said.

The giggle this time wasn’t hidden. It make Qui-Gon’s own grin grow.

“I was thinking a lothcat,” he admitted. “Or a dragon—love a dragon. Of course, the yak—perhaps not pathetic to my master, but to others yes. They’re not smart, Obi-Wan, poor things.”

“You like animals,” Obi-Wan said.

Qui-Gon weighed this statement with his head.

“’Animals’ isn’t quite broad enough, but yes, they fall into the category,” he said. “I’m also a big fan of rescuing the plants that no one can keep alive.”

Obi-Wan brought up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He settled a soft cheek onto the top of the right one.

“That’s what I’ll be doing here,” he said.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause. The boy sniffed softly.

“You will be happy here,” Qui-Gon told him gently. “They will take care of you.”

Another sniff. An eye scrubbed with a too-long sleeve.

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Well, this was a conversation Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to walk into. There were, from his vantage point, a few ways out of it, but at the end of each of those paths was a set of brown eyes framed by intense, wispy green brows.

“You are good enough,” Qui-Gon said. “I am just a foolish master. You deserve someone better than me, Obi-Wan.”

“There is no one else,” Obi-Wan said.

“There will be,” Qui-Gon said.

“No, there won’t. I’m out of time. All that’s left for me is...this,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing to the landscape beyond the window.

Qui-Gon studied it; the cracks in the soil, the piles of broken stones.

“It is a little bleak,” he admitted.

“What is it like for non-jedi people?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do they go to school? How do they find somewhere to sleep?”

“You will not be a non-jedi person,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause.

“What?”

Qui-Gon sucked in a breath and let his shoulders fall.

“Unless you really want to be one,” he added. “Apologies, I spoke without thinking.”

Those blue eyes were the same color as the crystal in Qui-Gon’s pocket. He put his hand inside of it and pulled the carefully wrapped parcel out so that Obi-Wan could see it. He rolled it slowly until only the crystal sat in his palm.

“There is greatness in you, Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I am not a good enough Master, but you are more than a deserving padawan.”

The eyes flicked from the crystal to Qui-Gon’s face once, then twice.

“Do you mean it?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Are you okay with having a silly master?” Qui-Gon asked. “I will not sugar-coat it—one of my students has already fallen. I am the type of person who Master Windu has been dreaming of the unfortunate demise for since we were children.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked with eyes only for the crystal.

“Excellent question. I am told that my brain is fundamentally ill-suited for human interaction,” Qui-Gon said with a smile.

Obi-Wan huffed.

“Does Master Windu really dislike you so much?” he asked.

“He speaks to me in such ways only out of love. My other friends say that I am dedicated intensely to the flight of fancy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Obi-Wan said.

“You know, funny thing,” Qui-Gon told him, reaching over to take his hand and press the crystal into it, “Neither do I.”

#Obi-Wan Kenobi #qui-gon jinn #I think Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon should be the kind of apprentice and master who deserve each other #and by that I mean that they both do shit that make the other's teeth grind but they bear it with a smile #fic #ficlet

[the-phoenix-heart]

10 Amazing Futurama Comics

There is a severe lack of Futurama content on this and other sites (seriously, the Night at the Museum movies have more fics than Futurama). And, nobody posts about the Futurama comics. So I’m posting 10 of my favorites.

10. Attack of the 50-Foot Amy (Issue #33)

It’s actually not as sexual as the cover makes it out to be. The basic premise is that Amy mistakes the can of growth spray (that Cubert and Dwight want to use for their science fair project) for hair spray and sprays waaaay too much before her anniversary date with Kif. Meanwhile, Bender teaches Fry the wonders of video piracy, but after he gets scared by a movie home alone style he eats his disc of pirated movies and starts uncontrollably acting them out. You can probably guess how these two plots connect.

While I do list this one as one of my favorites, it’s far from perfect. The artwork is good, but the scaling on Amy is very wonky so she looks more like a twenty-foot Amy (also Dwight’s eyes are drawn weird in this comic, he looks blazed out the entire time). But I cannot help but be charmed by this comic. It’s got some sweet Bender and Fry friendship moments and actually makes me believe Kif and Amy’s relationship for a little bit. They are very sweet in this comic, although Kif does go through some pain in this comic.

Best moments: They way they resolve the plot is actually pretty funny and clever, plus Bender hopped up on pirated movies is a joy. At one point Fry gets shoved by Steven Spielbot (don’t ask) and Bender goes all Rocky on his ass saying “No one talks to my gal, Adrian, like that!” It’s very sweet and...subtextual if you understand my meaning. This one also has anti comic book piracy message at the end which was ironic for me to read.

9. Doctor What (Issue #32)

The Professor creates a time traveling port-a-potty so that you can pee in whatever time and space you want, although it’s completely random. However, Zoidberg accidentally breaks the potty, so him, Leela, Fry, and Bender have to keep randomly flushing to get back home. On each of these new worlds Zoidberg keeps accidentally saving the citizens, getting medals, and ends up becoming addicted to the fame he keeps winning. Which leads to them getting stuck in a post apocalyptic New New York.

This is the infamous Leela-Bender-Fry fusion comic, Leelan von Fry-Bot. His backstory is actually a little sad, but I won’t spoil it here. This one is pretty good, because it has Zoidberg as the hero. Actually quite a few of these feature Zoidberg as a fourth member of the delivery crew which is weird, but not entirely unwelcome. It’s also fun to see these other worlds, and now that I think about it it’s actually a little similar to The Late Phillip J. Fry, what with the time travel to different interesting worlds.

Best Moments: I actually liked Leelan’s backstory, and his interactions with his “parents” (you’ll understand when you read it) are actually pretty funny and a little cute. Fry really wants to be a dad you can tell.

8. The Simpsons Futurama Crossover Crisis II

The professor creates a device that takes characters out of their stories into the real world. Trouble is, he tells the mayor that this invention is useful because you can get slave labor out of the characters because they technically have no constitutional rights. The Simpsons end up working with the Planet Express crew, but an accident leads to the release of ALL FICTIONAL CHARACTERS EVER.

This is a sequel comic to the Futurama Simpsons Infinitely Secret Crossover Crisis (fun fact: a reference to several famous comic book arcs). I chose this one above it though because I think it understood the assignment better. The original is funny, but I just don’t think that Springfield is a good setting for a Futurama crossover. Springfield for all its zaniness, is not the future. New New York, however, is great for this crossover. We get several scenes where we see the Simpsons going through space and fighting off monsters. We even get to see the other residents of Springfield in the future, Mr. Smithers becomes a space pirate and Mr. Burns falls in love with Mom, it’s great.

Best Moments: Some of them I already mentioned, but I cannot stress enough how hilarious the Burns-Mom romance is, it’s especially good when you can hear their voices in your head. I also like the friendship the Simpsons have with the Planet Express crew.

7. Six Characters in Search of a Story (Issue #14)

This is a very interesting comic. The Professor falls asleep, so to pass the time the crew decides to look through his old failed inventions, and well, that’s a very bad idea. The most interesting thing about this comic is it’s designed so that if you want you can only read certain panels to follow one person’s story. The Futurama comics do this a lot of the time and it’s always interesting.

The shenanigans that occur in this one are really funny, and there are some great looking pages in this. Also the Futurama crew clearly took ideas from the comics, and this is one of them. You can tell from the cover art that this does have elements of “Benderama” in it, what with Bender cloning himself ad infinitum. I also really like the climax, it’s a little schmultz-y for Futurama, but I don’t mind.

Best Moments: Fry gets stuck with a Spanish speaking Bender and I don’t know why but it’s really funny to me. The professor also gets some funny moments in this one. And Scruffy. Scruffy is always a delight.

6. Igner-ance is Bliss! (Issue #63)

Yeah this is the infamous robot Leela and Fry comic. Don’t worry, like the cover says, it’s not as dramatic as it looks. The crew has to go to a world that’s too dangerous for humans, so Fry, Leela, and Zoidberg all have their consciousnesses put into robot doubles so they can make the delivery. However, it turns out this planet is a sort of getaway spa for robots, and the crew decides to party it up there, at least until Bender discovers that this is a front for an evil plot by Mom. The subplot is mostly about how Igner is not respected by his brothers.

This one is fun, and I love a comic where Bender has to be the voice of reason. It is clearly killing him to be the responsible one, but I love it. Also, I have a soft spot for Igner, so it’s nice to see him get thrown a bone for once. This also has some really fun jokes with everyone, but Zoidberg in particular gets some bangers. I think my only problem is it ISN’T as cool as the cover makes it out, but like I’m happy with what it is.

Best Moments: Fry beats up Bender at one point and wins, I think he deserved it. Also, y’all know Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars? He makes some cameos in this one. Also all the robots (sans Bender) make a Japanese style mecha and it’s the coolest thing ever. Plus everything I’ve said about Igner I love in this one. Oh also Fry beats Calculon at poker and I really love that.

5. Who’s Dying to be a Gazillionaire? (Issue #5)

This one is sweet. The IRS is threatening to bankrupt Planet Express, and if they can’t think of a way to make a million dollars they will go out of business. No one really has any ideas and doesn’t even really care, except for Fry who is determined to save Planet Express. He gets the idea to go onto Who Wants to be a Gazillionaire to make the money, even though it’s a trivia show and if he loses he will die.

This one really warms my heart, it’s Fry at his best, just doing what he can for the people he loves. Even the professor is great in this one. I don’t want to spoil it, but trust me when I say it’s good (god I hope I’m not building this up too much).

Best moments: The end panel. But also the resolution of the story is great, and I really appreciate this comic for Fry as a character.

4. Rumble in the Jungle (Issue #38)

This is a fine comic. Leela is mad that she’s not being respected by Fry and Bender, and it’s bad enough that they don’t believe her when she says they’re going to crash into a planet. They end up parachuting down and getting separated. Leela ends up as queen of some workers in the “Amazon,” meanwhile Fry finds Bender’s corpse and goes off to avenge him.

This one is fun, and another fun one for Fry, because he’s determined to avenge Bender and works hard for it. This also includes the original Frender, not the ship but fusion. Leela and Fry even have a fight scene against each other and it’s honestly great.

Best Moments: Fry is great throughout the entire comic, and Leela spends most of her time beating up random animals. Bender also using a lead parachute he made out of toys he stole from children is funny, especially because I’m always a sucker for Bender doing dumb shit.

3. Don’t Go Taking My Heart! (Issue #69) (nice)

Mom only has a couple weeks to live, unless she can get a heart transplant. It’s revealed that Mom uses the cryogenics lab to get new body parts for herself, and that Fry was supposed to be her heart donor! Unfortunately, because he was unfrozen she now has to get him to work for Mom Corp to make sure his heart stays intact for the procedure.

If you can’t tell I love the Fry-centric comics, and I also like the comics where Mom is the villain. Of course this comic doesn’t go completely how you expect it to go, it’s actually REALLY sweet. I also love the fact that in this comic Fry actually makes a great intern. He basically has the job of a secretary and he’s GOOD at it. And I love seeing when Fry is good at things. The reason why I put this at only 3 is because it doesn’t really have a subplot. Bender gets a job at mom corp to but it’s only there for a couple pages, and Leela’s new crew gets two panels and that’s it.

Best Moments: The moments with Mom and Fry, but also guess who Mom’s doctor is? I’m actually not going to reveal it because it’s so random but also hilarious.

2. Boomsday! (Issue #58)

The Professor builds Bender his own parents, as a way to placate/discipline Bender. However, these parents decide that Fry is a bad influence on Bender, leading to them kicking him out. Meanwhile, the Professor’s doomsday devices are all stolen, and he has to go find them.

Both of these plots are funny and good. Bender’s plot is also really sweet what with his friendship with Fry, and his wish for parents. Meanwhile the Professor’s plot is just really funny and I do love seeing the Professor in his element. The ending is mostly heartwarming.

Best Moments: Everything with Fry and Bender, and Bender has a sweet relationship with his fake parents. Also, the Professor uses Issac Asimov candles on the robot mafia which I found a great joke. Oh, and the Professor’s first doomsday device was made when he was four years old and I love that. The end of the comic also has very nice message.

1. Rotten to the Core (Issue #27)

The world’s weather has gone kerflooey, and the Professor has figured out that his invention that can drill into the center of the Earth has been used. It conspires that Bender sold it at a yard sale to some aliens call the magmoids. The magmoids are trying to steal magma from the Earth’s core and the crew has to go and stop them.

This is my favorite because it’s a great character comic. All of the main three have great moments, and it’s also a great science comic. The Earth’s core is incredibly magnetic so of course Bender starts spouting out folk songs, and also SECRETS. I can’t believe no one has used the fact that canonically magnets make Bender incapable of telling lies. Anyway, it’s just really fun.

Best Moments: Way too many to count. Bender and Fry are told to cut out the “Brokeback Moanin,’“ Leela and Fry are bitter at the end, Fry tells story about his childhood, Bender has some great secrets to tell, the Professor gets a really fun ending, Bender has a rare moment of generosity, and the entirety of the climax is all kinds of fun and sweet.

#this is all part of my agenda to make more people watch futurama #or specifically read futurama because if you are antsy about watching a seven season show then at least you have 10 great comics you can rea #futurama #i try not to include frender in this but i'm easily susceptible to their friendship #turanga leela #phillip j fry #bender bending rodriguez #the professor #hubert j farnsworth #dr john zoidberg #john zoidberg #zoidberg #futurama comics

[angry-geese]

Lemon Boy

Risotto Nero x Reader

Warnings: sfw. a little angsty but not really, lots of fluff. Kinda suggestive (if you squint???) Fem!reader

Notes: this is a sequel to two previous posts of mine. This is just a fluff drabble where the reader gets pregnant with Risotto's child

part one- nsfw, part two- sfw

It would take him another year to admit he wanted a second one.

By then he had adjusted to your normal. You got a raise at work, allowing him to stay home. Civilian life wasn't for him. Becoming a stay-at-home dad was much easier than trying to blend in with society, he found. While he felt guilty for leaving you to deal with all the bills, you told him not to worry about it. He kept the house tidy, made sure everyone was fed, and took Maria to school and her sports practices. She was turning out to be quite the little athlete. She almost had too much energy for him. He often found it hard to keep up. You weren't *not* trying for another. You weren't going out of your way for it, but if it happened; it happened.

The other stay-at-home mothers and housewives in your neighborhood would practically adopt Risotto. He was accepted into their groups- and subsequently their gossip- with open arms. They would protect him if police ever bothered him, and in return he became the neighborhood's handyman. Strangely enough, this was where he fit in best.

He couldn't keep his hands off of you.

It wasn't in a sexual way- though that was certainly the case too- Risotto always had to have an arm around you. He constantly needed his hands laced over your stomach, or his body pressing into yours from behind. At times his presence was suffocating, but you knew this was coming from a good place. It was force of habit. You getting pregnant only made him look over his shoulder more. Not many people would touch you before- at times you were frightening- but Risotto only added to that. Nobody in the PTA wanted to fuck with either of you. If he wasn't protective enough of you before, he certainly was now. Anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way got a death stare. He'd wrap you up in his arms when people would try to touch your belly in public, not letting them near you. Sometimes he found himself spiraling into his old habits as he plotted the death of people who pissed you off. You wouldn't notice that creepy customer at your job going missing, would you?

You would go on maternity leave about a month or so before your due date. Being on your feet all day was getting nearly impossible as your walk became more of a waddle. Pregnancy to you wasn't some magical thing everyone your mother's age chalked it up to be. You were nauseous 90% of the time. You were constantly bloated and sick feeling, with spider veins popping up on your legs. If your second pregnancy had been your first, Maria would be an only child. Risotto never minded. He still found it hard to believe that there was something in there. And it was his. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. Because to him you were.

Maria would curl up next to you and not quite understand why your stomach would sometimes kick her. The other one wasn't even born yet and they're already fighting. You know you won't have a nice, quiet house for much longer. And the two of you are fine with that. If your youngest is anything like their sister, you'll have your hands full. Risotto's headstrong nature with your stubbornness is a deadly combination.

But he wants a big family and the loud house that comes with it.

Every night he has to have his arms around you or else he can't sleep; even as the summer months arrive, and it becomes far too hot to cuddle. You've learned to stop scooting away since he'll always pull you back to him. Every night he would pull you into his arms, running his hands over the growing bump of your stomach.

One night he pulls you extra close. The nightmares haven't stopped, he's only quit reacting to them. Waking up next to you grounds him in reality. He distracts himself with housework, or decorating the nursery. You settled on a shade of lilac for the walls. In the crib- which was painted a pale blue- was filled with strange stuffed toys. There was a cat, a fish, an ice gremlin, and some purple monster with a lot of eyes. "I'm only giving them options" you'd say. An old, ornate mirror pulled from your old home was hung up. It was a wedding gift from Prosciutto, and likely the most expensive thing you owned at the time. "They'd need one when they're older" you'd reason.

You can't seem to sleep either. Risotto rolls over in bed to face you. Instinctively you brush the stray hairs out of his face.

"Have any names picked out?" He asks.

Though you had planned this long before he even agreed to it, names weren't something you'd given much thought.

"I do. I know it's really strange to name them after food but," you don't even have to finish the sentence for him to know where you're going with this, "how about Prosciutto, or Pesci? Or Ghiacco, Melone..."

Formaggio, Illuso, Sorbet, Gelato...

He only nods. He'd never admit it, but your old squad was his family. Back then, neither of you would dare to say such a thing. At the time they were only strangers forced into the same fate. Your teammates were never meant to be family. Losing them sent him spiraling into a pit he's still recovering from. You go on in their memory because they would bully the hell out of you for stopping to feel sorry for yourself. If they were still alive, your children would be the two most well protected kids on earth. They'd have eight uncles all willing to kill for them.

"What if they're a girl?" He asks.

"It's a boy."

The way you say it with such certainty makes him laugh, the noise coming from deep in his chest. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

While you were waiting until they were born to find out the gender, you had the sneaking suspicion they were going to be a boy. Maybe your mother pointed out that one of your breasts hung lower than the other- while absolutely uncalled for- meant they were a boy.

Eventually you would settle on what Risotto's name was before he joined Passione: Dante. Nobody called him that- not even you. Just as he rarely called you by your birth name. He wouldn't even speak it, writing it down for you when asked. That was not who either of you were anymore. The old versions of you died when you were assigned to the hitman team.

You would go into labor a week early. To no one's surprise, you would have a son. A healthy- albeit small- boy with a tuft of silver hair. The moment you're allowed to, you pass him off to his father. It's clear Risotto has no clue what he's doing, but he looks at your son like he's the most precious thing in the world. He's so tiny compared to him. He kind of looks like an old man... But Risotto won't tell you that.

You'd be released from the hospital a few days later.

Sometimes you wonder if your children will grow up to be stand users. They have to be- both their parents are. You had little understanding of how- or why- you had a stand, only gaining yours after being shot with a bow of all things. It was sort of a promise you made to yourself to never use yours. You were keeping yourself out of trouble, as tempting as it was to start it.

You hadn't seen Metallica in years. You missed the days when you could embarrass Risotto by calling them cute.

Dante wasn't a quiet child. For seemingly no reason, he would scream until he exhausted himself. Only then would he sleep. Lucky for you, Maria could sleep through anything, so she wasn't bothered by him. You brought him to doctors but they would all tell you this was normal. He was eating, gaining weight, and growing as a child should. There was nothing they could do for you.

Most nights Risotto would get up for the baby. He told you it was so you'd heal faster, and that if Dante needed to eat he'd bring him to you. But you didn't buy it. Risotto was still over the moon that something so little was his. Speaking from experience, he wouldn't be tiny for very long. Maria was nearly able to look you in the eye and that is far too much power for a six-year-old to have. You weren't even that short, she was tall; it didn't help that your husband was nearly a foot taller than you.

There's enough light in the room to make out Risotto's large figure and the bundle of blankets in his arms. Metallica's writhing form is visible in the reflection of Dante's eyes. His pudgy hand outstretched, grabbing onto the Metallica beans, trying to catch them.

Not only was your child loud, but he was a stand user too. And you had the sneaking suspicion he wasn't the only one.

Good luck. You're going to have your hands full.

#jjba #jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #vento aureo #golden wind #risotto nero #risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #jojo part 5

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Faith, Trust and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Title:  Faith, Trust and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Summary: It’s cold in the cellar, but then if it isn’t cold it’d defeat the whole purpose of a cellar. This coldness had been fine at first, but the longer Logan and his little brother Virgil stay, the more it worsens. Logan just hopes his mother’s temper wears off soon or else the cold could get fatal. 

The last thing Logan expects is for his father, who he hasn’t seen in years, to show up through golden portal (a magic portal, which should be impossible!) to save the day as if he hadn’t abandoned them to this fate by leaving all those years ago.

Pairings: Brotherly Analogical, Parental Loceit

Word-Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Magic, Child Abuse, Physical & Emotional Abuse, Unhealthy Romantic Relationship, Hypothermia, Alcohol, Death Mention, Morally Grey Janus, Crying, Angst With a Happy Ending

This fic was at times both frustrating and fun to write. I have no plans to continue this fic, but you can ask me questions regarding the ‘verse and I’ll answer them. Janus has good intentions in this fic he’s just bad at expressing them and we’re also seeing this from Logan’s pov.

--

It was cold in the cellar. Then again, it would be rather alarming were it the opposite case. Cellars were historically used to store perishable items such as vegetables and meats in a time before refrigerators existed. Still prolonged exposure to such an absence of heat wasn’t good for any human being. Not without proper clothing or heating methods. Something both Logan and his young brother unfortunately lacked. 

At first with just a t-shirt and jeans it’d been fine. A bit chilly but fine. What Logan hadn’t accounted for was a cold front to settle in unexpectedly. Within an hour, it dropped by forty degrees. His little brother Virgil wasn’t fond of physical touch. Yet the young child clung to Logan for warmth. It wasn’t enough. His skinny frame still trembled, his lips turning blue. Logan himself felt the effects of his body trying uselessly to warm the cold environment around them. Still his bit his lips from shivering, desperate to attempt staying strong for Virgil.

“I-I-I’m s-s-scared.” Virgil cried, digging his head into Logan’s shirt.

I...I know.” Logan said, stroking his brother’s hair gently, “Things are...things will be alright.”

Logan had repeated this statement many times already to Virgil. Each time he grew less sure of it. However, he knew he had to remain strong for his brother’s sake. Ever since his brother was a baby, Logan had to grow up faster. Much faster than even before. Sometimes he resented this fact, but never for long. It was simply the way things were.

“C-c-c-can you tell me a story?” Virgil asked, and of course Logan obliged. For he knew the unspoken words in that request: I’m still scared. Can you make it less scary? 

A story, for both the listener and teller, would be a beneficial distraction. Even though Logan was not a good storyteller. Once he did a short story assignment in middle school and received a C. His heart metaphorically sank at the sight of it and he dreaded going home that day. Virgil always seemed to appreciate his stories. Although praise from a kindergartener wasn’t worth much in the literary world.

Through frozen lips, he told a meandering story to his little brother. Sometimes his brother would ask questions or offer suggestions, abruptly changing the direction of the story. Logan himself barely remembered what it was about. It was as if someone else spoke through him as his mind drifted to other ideas.

It’d been dark for a long, long while. Usually his mother would’ve unlocked the door by now. She’d insist he’d make dinner while complaining of a terrible headache.

 It was an unending cycle. His mother would do her best to stay sober and function as an adult for a few weeks. Then her mood would increasingly sour, little things piling up into an avalanche. It was hard to tell at times what would be the trigger. The one thing that made her slam open the alcohol cabinet and drown a whole bottle of vodka. 

She wasn’t a nice person when drunk; hence the whole being-locked-in-the-cellar. Eventually after a few days of heavy drinking, his mother would come to her senses. She’d lock the alcohol cabinet and claim she’d never drink again. A lie nobody believed but herself.

Perhaps the lie was done in good intentions. His mother always insisted she cared for her children, in ways their father never could. 

“He’s a snake, Logan,” She hissed once, banging her beer heavily onto a coaster, “A dirty, no-good deceiving snake.”

Logan said nothing. He had only a few memories of the man. Once, when Logan was nine years old, he showed up on their doorstep. He held a bouquet of roses for Mother and a much belated birthday present for Logan. It’d been one of the happiest he’d seen Mother. He stayed with them for a few days. He listened to Logan, complimenting him on his extensive knowledge about dinosaurs. The three of them went to a carnival together. For a fleeting moment, Logan had what the others kids at his school had; a family. 

Then it ended with tears, arguing, door slams. Mother yanking him by the arm and leaving everything behind. Nine months later, Virgil was born. His father wasn’t there. Nor did he ever show his face again. A bitter, festering part of Logan despised him for that.

Mother acted like she cared at times. She’d purchase Virgil and Logan expensive gifts. Things she couldn’t afford without a credit card. She treated them to ice cream and insisted on giving them hugs. She never understood that Virgil found tactical touch without permission distressing. She’d brush it off, making remarks he simply needed to get used to it. 

At times Logan allowed himself to pretend these niceties would last. He pretended his mother was a flawed human being who mostly did good by her children. He pretended the slapping and hair-pulling didn’t exist, that the cellar was just a cellar and not a place to fear. It was hard to pretend these things were true, when the reality became increasingly harder to ignore.

Virgil fell asleep in the midst of this. Logan hadn’t realized this at first. His tired mind plunged on, continuing the nonsensical story.

“Then Batsy the Bat escaped the Witch’s dungeon. He flew as fast he could, to warn his friends...ah. Virgil what do you think their names should be?” Logan squinted, the dim light making it hard to see if his brother’s eyes were closed or not, “Virgil?”

His brother slumped against him, his breaths long and labored. Logan frowned, shaking his shoulder, “Virgil?!”

Virgil made a grumbling noise, “What?”

“You need to stay awake. You--you can’t fall asleep right now.”

“I’m tireeeed,” Virgil complained.

“I--I know, but please. It--it isn’t good to sleep right now.”

“Why?”

Logan’s throat constricted, “Be--because well. I haven’t finished the story yet.”

It was a lie. The truth was that sleeping could be a dangerous thing for a hypothermia victim. Sleeping could lead to death. He couldn’t tell his brother that. He refused to let Virgil experience more fright than he already had in his short life.

“Okaaay.” Virgil said.

Logan continued with the story, pulling all his concentration into it. Yet it wasn’t enough to keep Virgil awake. He kept drifting off, unable to keep his eyes open. At one point his brother down crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He sobbed, repeating the words over and over.

“It’s alright, you’re okay, everything is gonna be--gonna be,” Logan stammered, struggling to force the word out, “okay.”

It was then that Logan knew they couldn’t remain in the cellar any longer. He’d have to overcome his one true fear for the sake of their safety and survival. What he feared even more than his mother, was losing Virgil. Logan was smart. He knew the odds of a kindergartener and a high school sophomore staying together in the foster system was slim.

He had been selfish to allow his mother to continue tormenting Virgil. It was wrong. Now both him and his brother were paying for it.

Logan could fix this. He just had to pull out his phone and call emergency services. He had to call and resist his foolish fears of his mother and separation from his brother. With one arm still tucked around his brother, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. A battered, beaten thing he’d purchased with his first paycheck. His mother was completely unaware of its existence. 

He pressed the power button on as he gathered up the courage to call. Except the screen remained completely blank. He pressed it again, this time harder, hoping it’d been a fluke. It wasn’t. Again and again, he kept pressing the button, irrationally hoping for a different result. 

“No,” Logan swallowed heavily, “no, no, no this cannot be happening--” “Logey?” Virgil hiccuped, his big glassy eyes staring up as his older brother with concern.

“It’s okay, Virgil,” Logan murmured, “It’s okay, It’ll be okay--”

He couldn’t say the words any longer. Not when a sob wracked his throat, his vision turning hazy with tears. He couldn’t be strong any longer. He was weak. His heart beat faster, the chasm in his stomach deepening. His little brother said something, but he couldn’t hear it. All he heard was his mind mocking his failure. Shrill and scorching like his mother.

StUpID DiD yOU ThINK ThAT wAS GOING TO WORK?

You and your little brother are going to die and it’s all yOUR FAuLt

UsEleSS

Not EVEn YoUR OwN FATHER WAntED YOU--

“Hello? Whoever is contacting me at this hour better not have a good reason.”

Logan’s thoughts jolted to a halt. What? He glanced down at his phone, but it was still battered and dead. Virgil looked just as confused and lost as he felt. He hid his face in Logan’s shirt, whimpering softly.

“Who...are you?” Logan croaked, doing a poor disguise of covering up his breakdown moments before.

“I think that is perhaps a question I should be asking you.” The strange voice replied. It was definitely emanating from the phone, but how Logan had no clue. It made no logical sense.

“I--I don’t know.”

“You don’t know your name?”

“No! I mean of course I know my name! I mean, you can’t be real--I must be hallucinating.”

“Oh?” The voice responded with a touch of some unidentifiable emotion, “this must be your first time then.”

“First time what?” Logan snapped, a headache starting to take form. He regretted raising his voice when Virgil let out a cry. He murmured a soft apology to him, attempting to ignore how cold his brother felt.

“Is there someone else with you?” 

“No,” Logan said, before hesitating, “I mean perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“You still haven’t responded to my question from before.”

“Let me broker a deal then. I’ll answer your question, if you tell me who you and your companion are.”

“Okay,” Logan shakes his head, wanting to laugh hysterically. What in Newton’s three laws of gravity was going on? Surely, he died. He died and this was some last minutes of brain activity occurring. Scientists after all, know very little what happens in one’s last moments of life. Nothing could quite prepare him for the answer the voice gave him, however.

“Well then, to quote a popular misguided piece of media, ‘you’re a wizard, Harry!’” The voice said, the verbal jazz hands evident in the voice’s dripping, dry wit. Something about it was painfully familiar.

“What.”

“You asked, I answered,” The voice chuckled, “now it’s your turn.”

“My--my name is Logan,” He said, blinking rapidly, “and my little brother..ahhh...oh! Vi-Virgil is here with me.”

“Logan, that’s your name? You’re sure?”

Logan frowned at that. Of course he was sure. Or was he? It was getting rather harder to focus. Or to breathe even. The crisp cold air hurt his lungs. Virgil slumped heavily against him, complete dead weight in his unconsciousness. Oh. That was bad. He knew that was bad. 

“Logan?!” The voice yelled. Hmm, it sounded like they’ve been yelling at him for awhile now. He should acknowledge them. He nodded before pausing. Wait. He needed to respond verbally.

“Y-yes?” 

“Finally. You seem like you’re doing absolutely fantastic,” The voice told him. 

“Do I?” Logan asked, “I do not think I’m doing ‘fantastic’.”

“Where are you?”

Logan rattled off the address. Then he very casually added, “We’re locked in the cellar.”

“WHAT?!”

“It’s-s-s-s a punishment,” Logan shivered, his eyelids drooping against his will, “it’sssokay.”

“Yes, because all parenting books recommend disciplining your children by locking them in a cellar.” Maybe it was just Logan, but he got the impression the voice was being sarcastic. 

“I need to cut the invocation call. I’ll be there soon.”

“Wh--how-hy?” Logan said, trying to speak three words at once. The voice didn’t respond. He tried shaking his battered phone as if that would do anything. It did not do anything.

The air frizzled in front of Logan. A golden spark appeared, expanding until it was one big golden shimmery oval. Logan stared at it, blinking rapidly. This was absurd. He most definitely had to be hallucinating. The golden oval ripples as a black fedora emerged from it, followed by a face and then a whole body.

“F--father?” Logan managed.

The man before him was older and dressed in strange clothing. Slivers of silver hair poked out from his hat, nestled among the chestnut hair. An unfamiliar gruesome scar ran alongside the left side of his face. But he recognized those hazel eyes anywhere. He stared at them at the mirror every morning.

He didn’t respond to Logan. He took a few steps before collapsing beside the huddled forms of Logan and Virgil. His gloved hands reached out, but he did not touch them. His mouth opened, but no sound came out of him. Then his gloves covered his face as he inhaled deeply. He removed them from his face, his expression carefully blank.

“I’m here.” He told Logan, extending a hand towards him, “and I won’t leave you or your brother this time.”

Logan stared at the yellow gloved hand before sluggishly panning his gaze up at his father. He didn’t know if he could trust him, let alone if he could trust that this was reality. But god, he wanted it to be real. 

So cradling Virgil close to his chest with one arm, he took hold of his father’s hand. And then, with a bright flash of light, the cellar was empty.

-

Logan felt warm. A drizzling, dribbling, dripping like maple syrup down a fresh stack of buttermilk pancakes type of warmth. He should be alarmed by this for some reason, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be. Instead he made a contented noise, shifting closer to it. Someone chuckled, running a calloused hand through his hair. Logan stilled at the touch, the warmth evaporating from his veins. He waited for the fingers to grow taunt around a tuft of hair. For the harsh cacophony of his mother’s voice to rain down on him like hail. Nothing.

“Are you asleep, Little Tesla?” 

The air in his lungs evaporated. Only one person had called him that and it certainly wasn’t his mother. As much as she expected him to receive good grades, she hadn’t been one to nurture his interests in 20th century scientists.

“Father?” Logan whispered.

“I’m here, I didn’t leave, just like I said I would.”

He opened his eyes to find his father was indeed there. Sitting on a wooden chair with sunken eyes as if he’d been awake for hours. Logan laid on a bed with silky sheets and an impossibly warm comforter. He had just barely enough to cover him--most of the blankets had been stolen by another small figure. Virgil. His little baby brother was with him, asleep and curled up in a small ball.

“Wha--” Logan started to say, until everything hit him. The cellar. The strange bodiless voice. The gleaming gold portal. Father. Darkness.

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not at all a lot to take in, but you have magic. And you found me again, just like I’d hope you would.”

“Found you?” Logan asked, a hardness to his tone, “Assuming this isn’t a hallucination, you left me with h-her, you never came back and suddenly because I possess magic, I’m what? Worth something?”

“Yes, no!” His father cried out with a frustrated growl, “Listen, Logan. My relationship with your mother was extremely healthy, as I’m sure you can agree. Not unhealthy in the slightest. When it ended, your mother left a lovely parting gift.”

Here, he rubs a hand against the facial scar almost absent-mindedly, “I wanted to find you, I searched everywhere, but your mother is smart and covers her tracks well. I’m...sorry I couldn’t find you or your brother sooner. You’re important to me, magic or no magic.”

“How can I trust you?” Logan asked, “How can I trust that you’re not anything like her?”

He expected his father to be upset by the accusation, but instead he just smirked.

“You’re good to be suspicious. It’s a good trait, don’t ever lose it,” He said, adjusting his gloves, “I can tell you, that I will not harm you or your brother. I can say I will teach you magic, if you desire. I can let you know that I will let you walk out the door with your brother, and you won’t ever have to see me or your mother again. But you have no true way of trusting a man that has, from what you know, abandoned you completely until just now. 

“You have two options. Either accept you cannot completely trust what I say is true and proceed with caution, or you can leave with your brother, find a way to support the two of you. You’re smart, Logan. I trust you could figure it out.”

Logan swallowed. He was indeed smart--or knowledgeable enough to know there was little choice in the matter. He was just fifteen. He can’t support Virgil and him--not legally anyway. It’d be difficult to cover it up. Child Protection Services would be on them in a matter of weeks, if not days. 

Good case scenario, they stayed together in the foster system. Bad case scenario, they ended up separated. Worst case scenario? They ended up back at their mother’s, because they don’t believe either of Logan’s or Virgil’s claims and the cycle continues without end.

So, his father. He was the only option, and he knew it. As much bitterness as Logan held for the man, there’s also yearning in equal spades. He used to spend nights crying for him with his mother yelling at him to shut up. Sometimes she’d beat him for it, telling him his father was never coming back. Then he’d snap back that she was wrong and he’d prove Logan right by coming back. Until little by little, he stopped. 

He couldn’t trust his father, the man even admitted it. He just had to hope it’d be better, even though apparently the man believed in magic. Logan was doing his best at the moment to deny it existed. It couldn’t exist, last night had to be a fluke of some sort and even if it wasn’t, it was too much for him to focus on at the moment. 

“As long as I have your word that you won’t intentionally hurt Virgil and I, we will stay with you.” Logan says, before offering his hand towards his father.

Father took a look at the extended hand, eyes softening, before clasping it, “You have my word, Logan, that I will not harm you or Virgil as long as you remain in my care.”

They shook on it. Logan let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and then--and then, his vision blurred. A sob and then another erupted until he clenched his teeth, holding the rest back. For the second time within twenty-four hours he had shown weakness. First to his brother and now, now to his father who above all he should show no signs to. But like that creative writing assignment in the 8th grade, he completely failed.

Somehow halfway the handshake got turned into an embrace. His father hugged him, a calloused hand softly carding through his hair once more. 

“Shh, Logan, you’ve been so strong, stronger than most. You won’t have to be strong alone any longer. Let it all out.”

Logan didn’t know what to think of his father’s words. It wasn’t like a set of logical propositions or a step-by-step formula for science. He couldn’t know for certain if they were genuine. But in this moment, he was but a little boy with his father back. So he dug his head into his father’s chest and finally cried. His father, in turn, did not berate or beat him for it. Instead, he held onto his son as he whispered reassurances all the while.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #logan sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #kat writes

[actress4him]

In Irons 5 - Defiance

(Prompt #20 for Summer of Whump)

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @ladydani101 , @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee (male whumper), forced labor, sexism, fear of heights, mentioned starvation, mentioned sleep deprivation, restraints

.

.

Life on The Dark Storm continues, but everything is different now. Everyone on the ship seems to have an opinion about Adelaide, and none of them are good. Whereas before, she was ignored by some and treated like she was weak and stupid by others, now part of the crew thinks she’s helpless, part glare at her like she’s the devil incarnate, and part give her hungry looks that send shivers up and down her spine.

Captain Payne is in the second group. She’s not sure whether it’s the fact she’s a woman or because of her perceived lies, but it’s obvious the man hates her, if not by the way he stares her down, then by the extra load of work he’s suddenly thrust upon her.

It starts with menial tasks, like the ones she’s been doing since being brought aboard. Only now he seems to find twice as many that need completing, and he personally comes to inspect her work and make sure that it’s absolutely perfect. If she’s scrubbing the deck and he finds one single speck of dirt on it - even if it was put there after it was cleaned - she has to do the whole ship over again. If she’s slicing potatoes for dinner, he comes and looms over her shoulder, making her so nervous that she nearly slices off a finger.

Then one day he gets it into his head to start assigning her the most outlandish tasks he can think of. It starts when a line gets snagged, up in the rigging. One of the men immediately starts up after it, but the Captain holds out a hand, stopping him, and turns to Adelaide with that smug smile of his.

“Miss Gray.” He can’t seem to say her name without emphasizing the feminine title. “I believe it’s your turn.”

Her face blanches. Craning her neck back, she stares up at the snagged rope, so high above their heads, and her heart skips a beat or two. She almost blurts out, “Why me?” but somehow, she knows. He doesn’t think she can do it. He’s waiting for her to refuse, to beg not to, or to attempt it and fail. He’s looking for an excuse to punish her.

She’s not going to give him what he wants. Not ever, if she can help it.

Setting her jaw and narrowing her eyes, she marches forward. All around her the crewmen are making comments, some whispered and others not so respectful, but she blocks them out and focuses only on the rope ladder in front of her.

It’s very tall. Stretching on and on, all the way up to the crow’s nest. She tries not to think about it, tries to think only about her hands, gripping the rope, and her feet, finding one foothold after another. But she can still see the water beyond the ladder, and it’s getting further beneath her with each step.

After what seems like an eternity of climbing, she reaches the top of the ladder. She still hasn’t picked up on all of the technical terms of the rigging, but she knows that, somehow, she has to get to the end of the horizontal pole that stretches out from the crow’s nest. Walking isn’t an option. Slowly, tentatively, she reaches out with one hand, feeling around the wood until she thinks she’s got a steady hold. Then, inhaling deeply and gritting her teeth, she lets go of the rope with the other hand, heart leaping into her throat as gravity takes over for a split second until she’s balanced against the pole.

Down below, somebody is cackling. Adelaide resists the urge to look down and see who it is.

Somehow, she gets both of her legs wrapped around the pole. She’s seen the men shimmy along poles and ropes dozens of times before, but seeing and performing are two different things. She really would have preferred to practice first on something a little closer to earth. But she’s here now, and she still refuses to give up and prove any of them right about her, no matter how hard her heart may be pounding against the wood.

Slowly, very slowly, she inches her way out , away from the relative safety of the ladder, out over the open air where there will be absolutely nothing to catch her if she falls. The men jeer and catcall her the whole way. It seems like an eternity before she reaches the snagged rope, all the way out at the end, and carefully pushes herself upright, legs still hugging the pole, so that she can untangle it with one hand.

Deep breath in, and out. The job is accomplished. Now all she has to do is make it back down to solid ground.

When she reaches the ladder, she finally starts breathing normally again. When she reaches the deck, legs shaking, she’s feeling rather proud of herself. That was the hardest task she’d ever had to carry out, and she did it.

Of course the only thing that greets her at the bottom is sneers, chuckles, or, like the Captain, pretense that she doesn’t even exist. A bit of acknowledgment that she had done a good job would have been nice. Still, knowing that she ticked off the Captain is a decent enough reward.

He tries again, many times, to catch her off guard and assign some task that she won’t be able to do. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. The time that he orders her to pull a line that normally requires two or three men ends with her missing meals for two days. Another time her best attempt at tying off a line that she had never worked with before doesn’t hold, and she’s forced to play the role of night watchman for three nights in a row. After, of course, the Captain strikes her a good time or two with his ever-present cane. It’s obviously his favorite form of discipline, used on most everyone at one time or another.

None of it is as terrible as her very first punishment, though, until the day that they come across a passenger ship. It’s certainly not the first ship that The Dark Storm has pillaged in her time on board, but it’s the first that has carried families - women and children.

In the past, Adelaide has helped bring their ship up to whatever hapless vessel they’ve found, usually ramming into it from behind just like they had The Golden Rose, then hung back while most of the rest of the men boarded, helping to load and stow cargo. She has no desire to help any further than that.

But on this day, while she watches the pristine decks of Foxglove come closer, Captain Payne saunters up to her with the look on his face that she’s come to recognize as bad news for her.

“Miss Gray. You will board Foxglove and help keep the passengers from doing anything...stupid.” With a flourish, he produces a dagger from inside his coat. Small, certainly nothing fancy, but wickedly sharp. “I trust you can figure out how to use this enough to scare a few dumb citizens into behaving themselves?”

Adelaide stares at the gleaming blade of the dagger for a long moment, heart in her throat. She can’t believe she’s actually about to do this, but…“No.”

One bushy eyebrow quirks upwards. “Come again?”

“No, sir.” Adelaide raises her chin and stares him directly in the eyes. “I will not. I won’t be part of those children’s nightmares for months to come.”

Fury and amusement are warring for precedence on Captain Payne’s face. “In all my years as captain, not one crew member has ever had the audacity to outright refuse one of my orders.”

She really should remain quiet, but she can’t. “Well, then, I suppose it’s about time that someone does.”

Fury wins out. “Jones! Take Miss Gray to the brig.” He lowers his voice, stepping in close to growl in her face. “You’ll be thoroughly dealt with later.”

As the irons are clapped on and she’s led into the dark once again, Adelaide wonders just what she has gotten herself into this time.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump20 #defiance #in irons #adelaide the pirate #whump #whump writing #lady whump #lady whumpee #forced labor #fear of heights #starvation tw #sleep deprivation tw #restraints tw #pirate captain #pirate oc #pirates #pirate ship #original fiction

[hallothere]

Halros & the Fate of Brockenborings

Halros had never known horror like this.

The Bounders had been on their way to being ready, before. All things considered they were doing well for themselves. The land he had grown to love became evermore vigilant against the growing darkness. Halros had thought them alert if not experienced. Prepared, if yet untested.

Trouble had closed in around them. There was gossip of strange happenings in the north. Suspicious characters in Oatbarton, odd sounds on Northcotton farm. Men had been seen on the road to Stock, headed for Hobbiton. Traders, the rumors said, welcome merchants in an unwelcoming time. But there was a town near the Greenfields to protect. Halros could not venture too far south with goblins and Bree-land brigands growing braver by the day.

Bounder Primstone offered him a room on rainy nights. The Watch Office in Brockenborings was ‘more waterproof than a few branches’ as his friend had said. Such hospitality warmed his heart. And on a stormy night that would send even wargs to their dens Halros was happy to accept.

The invasion had caught everyone unawares. He and Primstone had been trapped like rats as the town had been overtaken. Brigands had flooded the place before most of them knew what was happening. Halros had helped board broken windows in the Watch Office as mothers and children huddled inside. He’d helped them escape out the back when they were finally cornered. Primstone had yelled for him to run when the brigands broke through the front door. But he could not abandon his host so easily. They had more to their friendship than the adventure with Bullroarer’s Club and Halros would fight for it.

He would surrender for it as well. The fight had ended when he saw the dagger raised to Primstone’s neck.

That had been… some time ago. It had been long since he’d seen his Bounder friend or any of his kin. He could not hope for help from Evendim. If they even knew of what was going on south of Annuminas, they were beset by other worries. Angmar was no longer a power in this conflict, as he had heard from the last messenger the Shire had seen alive. Still, smaller lieutenants and bands of orcs with a taste for vengeance plagued the roads to the north. What rumors that did manage to reach this far south were dark and full of dread things.

The Watch Office in Brockenborings had become his cage. Three walls of wood and one of iron fenced him in. When they did not drag him to the quarry in Scary, he was left to rot in the only cell he’d ever seen in the Shire. It had been dusty from disuse but otherwise well-kept. Reinforced and maintained, it seemed, in wait for the day he’d been locked inside.

He could not look to the East for help either. Bree had almost certainly been overrun. What news he had managed to hear had been grim. The same evil names were always mentioned. Brigands and orcs were in league with each other under the guidance of someone far more dangerous. Bill Ferny had marked him for retribution all those weeks ago, promised to report him to the master who now ran the Shire from the shadows. Whoever this Sharkey was, he knew how to gather the very worst sort of allies.

Halros had seen evil Men. The corrupt authority was merciless to the soft and the weak. There was no grace in subjugation. Hobbits of all ages worked their fingers to the bone. The once-jolly folk he had considered his neighbors had quickly gone from fat and hardy to hungry and weary. Still, the stout folk had borne it all with a resilience Halros could only marvel at. Mithrandir had said something once about hobbits being full of surprises. One of the more inspiring tales had been of a group of rebels in the hills, ones that were rumored to have fought in Stock and beyond. These had been captured and their leader whisked away. Halros tried to take comfort in the fact that he’d had allies in this fight, if only briefly.

Despite their adjustment to hard labor, Halros fought for them how he could. They were a strong people no doubt, but a gentler one than his own. The Shirefolk had not known cruelty of this scale. They did not know oppression. Halros would spare them this, if he could. He drew their captors’ ire well, jeering at a guard before a stumbling hobbit could be struck. Blame was shouldered and fights were picked before any hobbit under his protection could be threatened.

Halros had devoted his life to protecting the Shire. The charge that had been laid upon him had not yet been lifted. Sometimes the memory of his chieftain's errand was the only thing keeping him upright.

He had carried stone on a bleeding back and swung a pick with trembling arms. It was easy to goad the power hungry. It would likely as anything get him killed, so he was told. He was the only Man among the captives in Brockenborings. That gave him a unique advantage in his duty: he stood out like a sore thumb among the hobbits. It was no challenge to paint a target on his back. Brigands and orcs alike had reason to hate the Rangers. All he had to do was sling some mud and survive what came after.

On most days they let him out he was tasked with pushing the quarry cart. Tweens would pile rocks until the thing overflowed, and Halros would shove it to and fro. It took two grown hobbits to handle, and the overseers liked to see fewer pairs of hands on a single job. Sometimes he would let an exhausted worker hitch a ride, and sometimes he served as a carriage service for workers going to and from their shifts. He was only one Man, but he would do this as long as he could.

Whatever burden he could carry, whatever task he could share… As long as he could protect them, he could hope.

Halros had one main adversary in this fight. Cliff Redbark was the Scary overseer now that the other thugs had been given positions of authority elsewhere. He was predictable in his contempt for the peaceable Shirefolk, but quick to redirect his attention to the Ranger. If nothing else, Redbark could be relied upon to lash out at the most glaring opposition to his authority. There was no hesitation in teaching a lesson. But at least retribution didn’t linger.

Petunia Bracegirdle was trying to keep the fallen Ranger from diving right back into an altercation with the unimaginative overseer. “Oh please, Mister Halros,” she murmured close to his ear as he pushed himself off the floor, “We can’t bear to see you killed over this. What’ll we do without you?”

Halros knew they’d do well enough without him, but it was an effective argument. The Hobbits of Scary had gone and done just as Mithrandir said they would. As soon as they’d cottoned onto the fact that he was trying to shield them from trouble, they became a unified force dedicated to keeping him alive in turn. He never went hungry outside his cell, as much as he tried to divert the shared food. His wounds never lacked dressing, and he had never awoken from a faint without a caretaker already at hand.

He had never been more determined to fight for them, tooth and nail.

What was another blow to his pride? Redbark saw the fight in him withdraw- for now- and decided to let it lie. They would be graciously allowed back to work without further incident. Halros had taken on the punishment meant for Rollo Burrows. He would not see a stumbling, exhausted older hobbit beaten. He’d challenged Redbark before the overseer could approach and menace poor Rollo. The blow had been swift, and Halros had not been in top shape for some time. But take it he did. And he would take it again.

Petunia hovered by his side a moment as he got back up, then stayed around to monitor the loading of the cart for the return to the surface. She would stick close for the time being. It was the way of these work crews, their way of thanking him he supposed. Not as if he needed the thanks. Rangers were used to doing thankless jobs, protecting the free peoples and doing what was right as long as they were able.

Diminished though his assignment was, the Hobbits of Scary were his to protect. Halros held onto a last shred of hope in his duty.

There were no tweens to ferry back this go around. Halros and his shadow saw the cart to the mouth of the cave, where another team of hobbits got it unloaded. Wilcome Tunnelly had once again become quarry supervisor. He directed less experienced hobbits in their tasks. Scary and Brockenborings alike had been conscripted to various duties, and those with prior experience had either been singled out or volunteered. In Wilcome Tunnelly’s case, he had stepped forward in an attempt to run the quarry as safely as he could. At the very least he was able to convince the overseer before Redbark that his way would reduce injury and keep the quarry at maximum capacity.

“Wait here a moment.” Wilcome directed him, his gloved hands dripping dust, “We’ve got tools to send back down and it’s more efficient to do it in one trip.”

It would give him a moment’s rest. Halros leaned back against the stationary cart and closed his eyes. The day was cheerier than any of them felt. The oblivious sun shone brightly over a land steeped in misery. Perhaps they were all lucky the day was not so hot. There was precious little shade in the main bowl of the quarry. What trees that had once circled the outside had been cut. There was no shade in sight save for in the overseer’s hut.

He’d long since lost his cloak for want of clean bandages. Now he was dressed like most of the others: in whatever he could work in, patched as best as he was able. He thought back to his kin, recalling the pride in the Rangers’ stitchwork. Another, more recent memory bubbled up. A hobbit lass had threatened to sew him a new shirt and burn his old one if she could only guess his size. If he had looked a sight before, he could only assume everyone was too polite to comment on his appearance now.

“I don’t know how!” Petunia’s harsh whisper brought him back from a daze he hadn’t realized he’d entered. She sounded distressed, and Halros wondered what had befallen the quarry hobbits since he’d last seen daylight.

“It’s all we can do to protect him.” Wilcome had returned. “Goodness knows what’ll happen if we can’t keep this up.”

Something had happened while he was gone, Halros was sure of it. He could practically see Petunia’s huff when she responded. “He’s like one of the tweens. Redbark knows we daren’t step out of line when he’s on the crew! But Rollo was so exhausted. You should’ve seen Redbark’ face after he struck him. Looked right at Rollo as if he didn’t feel guilty enough-“

Halros frowned in confusion. Rollo Burrows was a regular on this crew. He’d been in hot water a few minutes ago, but had he been in trouble before? And Rollo wasn’t a young hobbit by any stretch. Why did they consider him like a tween?

His thoughts were muddled, but Wilcome’s response struck him like an orc arrow. “We’ll think of something, Tuney. There’s got to be a way to protect poor old Halros better than this.”

His thrumming mind ground to a halt. But Wilcome and Petunia were on the move. There was no time to weigh the words and their implications now that the tools had arrived. He let Petunia do the talking and took his place behind the cart in silence. Halros felt numb in a way he hadn’t before. He had been under the impression his service to the work crew was a boon, a chance to shield them.

But the overseer didn’t see it that way. Halros had been summoned from the Watch Office at random, sometimes days or weeks apart. He hadn’t known the first overseer, but Redbark had brought the Ranger forth soon after taking command. Halros began his first day in the quarry by standing between an overzealous guard and… and… Tess Bolger? Tim Burrows? He remembered a tween crying out. He did not remember thinking anything, only diving into the middle of it and making the brigand angry enough to forget the original incident.

Halros was dumbfounded. He couldn’t listen as Petunia guided him back through the cave. The hobbits were his charge, they were his duty to watch over. It nearly made him sick right there in the tunnel. The people he was fighting to protect were being threatened with his life. The hobbits he thought he was aiding by taking on their captors were being coerced with a different kind of punishment. The Overseer knew he would throw himself into harm's way for them.

Perhaps he hadn’t realized the true shrewdness of Cliff Redbark. He wasn’t an extra laborer. All this time, he’d been an incentive. Why beat several workers and lower productivity when just one would volunteer?

Despair struck him between the shoulder blades. He was supposed to be their last line of defense! What was he now, other than one more tool for the enemy? His legs failed just like the rest of him. Halros slid to his knees, unhearing, as Petunia called back in alarm. Unable to face her, he turned away. He felt like weeping! Aragorn and Mithrandir had gone too far to help him. The Grey Company had taken their bravest heroes, those willing and worthy to follow Halbarad. What would they say to this? They would die in service to their King, and he would die a pawn of the enemy-- hurting his beloved Shirefolk as much in death as he had in life.

Petunia was shaking him now. “You must get up! Please… Let me help you to your feet before they see you!” Had they been forced to shield him before? He was a far better fool than a tween or a faunt, than those weak or old who would learn from threats and fall in line. No, he was a pig-headed Ranger too proud not to play right into Redbark’s schemes. What an act of intimidation to see the one who should watch over them brought low.

He tried to hide his face once more. The shame and dread were heavier than any stone. In a way he had built his own prison. And now he found he could not stand to look upon the very outcome he’d fought so hard against.

Despite her pleas, Halros could not do as Petunia wished. When they were found, when a guard hauled him up by the collar and began shouting threats he did the only thing he knew to do. He fought. He swung and clawed like he always did with no sense of self-preservation. Another guard joined the fray and he didn’t stop. It was selfish. It was cowardly. Through the pain Halros wondered if he’d ever been anything else.

Someone finally hit him over the head. For just a little while, he did not have to live with himself.

There was no light in the Watch Office at night.

The windows remained boarded and the office portion of the building stood empty as Halros languished in the cell. He had awoken alone and sobbed as he had not done in years. Help was not coming for them as he had hoped. His limbs were stiff and burning. His right arm throbbed more persistently than the rest and he feared it had been broken. But worst of all, he’d been left alone with his thoughts.

What use was a shield that had been broken? What good could a sword do once turned against those it had once protected? He laid on the floor in silence. At least he could not hurt them if he was locked away. In the dark of night, Halros did not know if he could sleep. There seemed to be no end to this moment of weakness. No sun peeking through the clouds, no proverbial light of day. All he had around him were the proofs of his failure.

That night he worried more than he ever had for Bounder Primstone. He had thought his little friend peculiar for taking things into his own hands, for standing bold but untrained against wolves and goblins and brigands. Foolish but brave. But it was as Mithrandir had said. Hobbits were stronger than they looked. All of his attempts to fight for them came to naught, for they had done just as well fighting for themselves. Better, perhaps, if there were other groups of rebels out and about.

But all this time he had fought for a failing hope, not daring to think what would happen if he stopped. Now it had happened. Now he could not hold out as he had done before. Knowing how he had been used was the killing blow to his hope. He had lost the fight long ago without ever knowing it.

Sleep fled from him as well. At some point the sun decided once again to rise. Halros did not know what to do with this new day and remained where he was. He waited. It could be anywhere from days to weeks before he would be brought back to the quarry, and now he knew why. He wouldn’t be filling in for an injured hobbit as he had assumed. While he did not know how he would face the hobbits of the quarry, the more pressing revelation would be the broken arm. Even if he was a prop he had been a useful one. Could he stand to do less than nothing now?

No one came with food or orders. He had thought he'd heard a horse and cart on the road, but nothing had come of it. Late in the morning he had gotten up and found a more comfortable arrangement for his arm. He had no blanket to fashion into a sling, but a sleeve would work just as well for the time being. Autumn must be approaching though it was a problem for another day.

The young Ranger faced a different kind of chill as the day stretched into night once more. The pain in his heart was growing distant while the hurts in his body remained. At some point he must have slept, for he awoke in a less comfortable position on the floor. There was no bread and water shoved through the bars.

For the first time since seeing the knife at Primstone’s throat, Halros knew he was afraid.

He held his arm still and kept his eyes fixed on the door. The pain was less if he didn’t move, if he tried not to think about it. His other hurts had long since made themselves known. There was not much to do about any of them. Morning came again but no one had appeared. Fear had a firm hold on him now. They were leaving him again. He was to be abandoned to a burden he couldn’t bear, doomed to failure against an enemy too large for him to fight--

Halros had never known horror like this.

Weak and weary, his trepidation only grew as the sun went down. The orange of the sunset would soon be lost to the hill behind him, and the slits in the boarded windows never let in the moon. Darkness was coming for him, as it had already come for his kin. Halros closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He didn’t want it to end like this. He did not want to die alone.

There was a single, clear shout outside. His eyes flew open as others followed. The orange sunset had been replaced by the yellow of flickering flame, of torches. Someone was coming. If he was to die, at least he would not perish in the dark.

A clang, and the room echoed with the sound of lock tumblers turning. The door thudded open. Before him appeared two hobbits, one holding a torch and the other carrying several loose keys. Their eyes were as wide as his, surveying him as he surveyed them. His gaze caught on one of them, on the White Tree shining proudly on his chest.

Had he any tears left, Halros would have cried.

“There you are!” The torch-bearer and older of the two hurried in, letting the light flow into the cell. “You must be Halros. We have looked high and low for you.”

He was struck dumb, forced to simply watch as the younger hobbit- the one wearing the symbol of Gondor- began trying keys in the lock. “We’ll have you out in just a moment! They’re all terribly worried for you. But don’t worry. Frodo and I are here now.” The one that wasn’t Frodo tossed aside the key he’d been trying. “I beg your pardon! What I mean to say is I’m Peregrin Took, and this is Frodo Baggins, and we have come to rescue you.”

Halros continued to stare as a frown grew on Frodo Baggins’ face. The older hobbit held the torch further aloft with a look of concern. “We are glad to have found you.” He glanced at Peregrin and then back to the Ranger. “It may take him a moment. Do you think you can have some water?”

Not knowing what else to do, Halros nodded. With a grimace, he eased himself closer to the bars. Frodo produced a waterskin and offered it out. It was then he noticed the hobbit was missing a finger, which was unusual. He would not say anything even if he was able to. With a trembling hand he reached out for the water.

Peregrin threw away another key while he drank. The young hobbit gave him a tight smile. He seemed older than his years, and it occurred to Halros that if he had been all the way to Gondor, it only stood to reason.

“If these had all been on a keyring it would’ve been easier!” Peregrin chuckled mirthlessly. He tossed aside another key. “I fear I shall have to break this lock. But break it I will if I must!” he added hastily. Frodo accepted the water skin when Halros was done, but instead of straightening up he took the Ranger’s hand and held it. These were hobbits touched by hardship and sadness, he could see it in their eyes.

But these were hobbits who had come to save him.

Heart pounding, Halros finally worked up the strength to speak. “The others… the ones in the quarry and the camp, are they-”

Frodo nodded quickly. He looked tired. “They are all safe. When the brigands fled, they left most everyone unharmed.”

Peregrin had gone through all the keys and was now taking the tip of his dagger to the lock. “I’m not half as good at this as Nita.” he murmured before catching himself. “But I’m plenty good, and they haven’t replaced our old Shire lock. Your Bounder Primstone never had to hold anyone here I suspect.”

“Primstone?” Halros alarmed Frodo by trying to stand suddenly. “He is my friend. Have you seen him?” He was unsteady, but bolstered by a hand at his elbow reaching through the bars to support him.

It was Frodo who answered him. “Yes, we found him at the same time as another friend of ours. He is doing as well as any of us.” That was a sentiment for the times. Halros gave the hobbit a fright when his knees threatened to buckle. Leaning up against the bars, he felt the lock finally disengage.

Peregrin bolted into the cell. He took over holding the Ranger’s good arm from Frodo and was surprisingly strong for his size. Standing, Halros could see that Peregrin might be the tallest hobbit he had ever seen, now that he thought about it.

“Come outside if you can. Slowly now, Frodo may have a hard time catching you holding the torch as he is.” Halros did his best to keep his feet. “They’ve set up an infirmary next door. We have a whole horde of hobbits asking after you, Primstone included! A good many of us came into town for you and the others, driving the last of the brigands out as we went.” His voice became very solemn. “The night is over, and they won’t be troubling you again.”

Night had, in fact, just fallen, but Halros only grew lighter. He stumbled alongside Peregrin until they reached the next smial. Halros barely had time to wonder why only two had been sent for him when they were suddenly swarmed by hobbits. Frodo and Peregrin ordered them back with the help of two others Halros didn’t recognize. They managed to clear a path to an empty bedroll that the Ranger sank gratefully onto.

He didn’t have time to fully lie down before a body shot from the crowd and latched onto him. Another worn and weary hobbit held him tightly, and he was overwhelmed by an emotion far stronger than pain.

“Oh Halros, my friend! You don’t know how glad I am to see you! Are you well? They kept me prisoner in Michel Delving with the rebels, but we’ve been trying to escape. My poor friend! I’ve been so worried for you, all the way out here without me to watch over you--”

If anyone else stayed he did not know it. Halros ignored his other hurts and wept into Primstone’s shoulder. It only reignited the Bounder’s worry but he could not stop. Relief swept over him so completely that he was incapable of feeling or doing anything else then. It was truly over. Despite everything, help had come and it had triumphed over the shadow that had held them captive for so long.

“You’re going to be fine now, you take my word for it.” Primstone’s voice quavered just above his head. “I’ve told the others to stay back until you’re well again. I’m staying right here though! Unless you don’t want me to. Then of course, I can wait somewhere else-”

Halros shook his head and managed a shuddering laugh. “You do not know how glad I am to see you. I thought you lost… I thought the Shire lost, that no help was coming.”

Another hand came to rest on his shoulder. It belonged to Peregrin, who spoke to him gently. “Many of us thought as you did, Ranger Halros. But the worst is over. Help has come.” It looked as if he was in another place, his words meant for another time. But they were true and Halros was grateful. “You’ll have plenty of time to rest now. We’re hoping to get word to your kin in the north any time now. Dear Nita said she knew some good folks up there who would come to help.”

Halros’ brow furrowed slightly. “Nita? You mentioned her before but I do recall knowing a hobbit lass… Her name was something like that… She is a burglar of some renown now?”

Peregrin stifled a laugh. “Something like that, though she would blush to hear you say so. Nita’s a good sort, and been through as much as we have. She’ll be glad to hear you’re well when she returns.”

Bounder Primstone chose this moment to notice the sling and exclaim in horror. “Dear me! Why didn’t you say you were hurt? We’ve brought a healer from Michel Delving and she’ll need to see you straight away. Now don’t fuss with me, my friend, I’m staying put. You’ve got someone to take care of you now.”

Halros’ face became pinched again after Primstone had turned, and Peregrin saw. The young hobbit with Gondor’s colors paused a long moment before speaking again. “I do not know you, not really, and I suppose you don’t know me either. But I’ve heard a thing or two. All the folks in the quarry were talking. They said you’d tried to cover their escape at the start, that you never let the guards lay a finger on them even after you were black and blue…”

The Ranger’s head still hung in shame. Peregrin didn’t know. He hadn’t been there, or seen what had really gone on.

“They said you never gave up, even when some of the rest of them had. That you never stopped fighting on their behalf. Every hobbit that could walk was nagging at our heels to come break you out.”

Finally, Halros had to look up. “I did not do enough. They used me… I couldn’t protect anyone.”

Peregrin’s face softened. “You gave them some hope, even if you did not have any yourself.”

Before the Ranger could really go to pieces, Primstone returned. The Bounder looked stricken, and was quick to herd the healer closer to the bedroll. “You see! He’s getting worse every minute. Oh, I never should have left! What’s this Took been saying to you, Halros? Well, I’m sticking around for good. Unless of course, you need something to eat! In which case, I’ll hop right to it and make sure you get something real hearty and wholesome. And over dinner I can tell you just what’s been cooking elsewhere! Ha! Cooking, you see, while we eat? Some more hobbit humor for you, my dear friend-...”

The shadow had not yet fully retreated from the Shire, but the light had returned. Healing would come. It wasn’t there yet, but for the first time in a long time they had some goodness to cling to. As the healer began to look him over, Halros cast his eyes around the room. It was full of smiles, full of tears. All around him were hobbits who had not come through unscathed, but had come through nonetheless. They had not always triumphed. They had simply never given in. Now they had a reason to carry on in spite of it all.

Halros had never known hope like this. And this was a hope he could live for.

#*screams* #ok so i've come to grips with it if it's not good but my big fear is lack of knowledge in Real Canon #i did a lot of googling!!! i tried very hard #screw it if it's garbage-- it's MY garbage! #but woe be to me if i like hecked some major plot point from books #priorities #anyway #speculative lotro fic

[nataliatakesnyc]

Not everyone can say they’ve been to the Big Apple, but  [ NATALIA CASTANEDA ], a [ 27 ] year-old [ TRANS FEMALE ] has lived in [ BROOKLYN ] for [ 24 HOURS ]. This is the city of dreams and [ SHE ] knows it, because they came to NYC to be an [ LAWYER ]. Well, that and as an [ SISTER ] to [ CAMILA CASTANEDA ]. Living in the city means they meet all kinds of people, but everyone always seems to think they look like [ ZION MORENO ]. They even got away with free cab fare once because of it!

— general information !

full name: Natalia Celeste Castaneda.

nickname(s): Nat. 

age: Twenty-seven.

date of birth: December 28th.

place of birth: Cartagena, Colombia.

ethnicity: Mexican. 

gender: Trans female. 

pronouns: She/Her. 

sexual/romantic orientation: Bisexual / Biromantic.

— physical appearance !

hair color: Dark brown.

eye color: Dark brown.

height: 5'10"

tattoos: Lily flowers and leaves over her right thigh and onto her hip. 

piercings: Several in both ears: two in both lobes, one in upper lobe in both ears, daith in right ear, helix in both ears, conch in left ear.

scars: None. 

— health !

sleeping habits: She tends to work too hard and stay up too late, waking up far too early. She is trying to be better about it, trying to make sure she is in bed by 11pm or 12am and up by 7 or 8 am. Sometimes 9-10am if she lets herself sleep in!

exercise habits: Not super exercise forward. She tries to go running once or twice a week, sometimes hiking, but nothing too labor intensive. 

addictions: None.

drug use: No.

alcohol use: Occasionally, whether it’s a night out with friends or coworkers. A social drinker more than anything. 

— favorites !

weather: Sunny. 

color: Pink. 

beverage: Iced vanilla latte. 

food: Glazed donuts. 

animal: Any breed of cats. 

— family !

parent(s): Catalina Castaneda & Arturo Castaneda.

sibling(s): Camila Castaneda, Alejandro Castaneda.

spouse: None.

children: None.

pet(s): None.

Natalia Castaneda was the baby of the Castaneda children, born in Cartagena, Columbia. She was a fairly happy child, constantly trailing after her siblings and always far too eager to spend time with them. She was always interested in the work that her father was doing, a lawyer and a good one at that. The man always seemed so strict and firm to everyone else, but was a huge teddy bear to the family he cared so deeply for. Assigned male at birth, Natalia was considered her father’s mini me for the longest time. Her personality far too similar to the man’s in her tendency to work far too hard and have a stand-off-ish aura to those who didn’t know her well. She would always stand up for those who needed it, for those who she cared deeply for. She even wanted to pursue the same career in law, set on getting the best grades possible. 

It wasn’t until around age thirteen that Natalia got the courage to come to her family with the information that she was a woman and had felt this way for ages. She wanted to be addressed as the name Natalia and referred to as the young woman she was. Her family was immediately supportive, the way they supported her only made her already deep love for them all grow. She had no doubts that they would do whatever made her the most comfortable and happy in her own skin. Over the process of a few years, Natalia transitioned. Different clothes, a name that felt utterly her, and becoming more comfortable in who she had always been.

After high school, Natalia attended college with the intent to go into law. She made the move to Bogotá, Colombia. She attended university there, graduated undergrad completing a bachelor in law before moving onto going back to school for a Masters in law. After finishing school, Natalia felt she was at a stand still. Unsure of what exactly to do, the young woman moved back home to Cartagena. She decided to intern at the office her father worked at, happy to get some experience underneath her belt.

Natalia has always been extremely close to both her siblings, telling them everything and them telling her everything in return. She’s always looked up to Camila in particular, seeing how she saw what she wanted to do and went after it. She missed her immensely while living in Colombia, making the decision to start applying for positions in New York City to be able to live near her sister. It was something that she didn’t particularly enjoy doing in lying slash keeping things from her sister, but she wanted to surprise the woman. It took awhile before finally Natalia was able to score a job as a lawyer in a firm in the city.

Packing up all her things and her life in Colombia, Natalia headed to the city after she was able to find an apartment in Brooklyn. Arriving at the city, Natalia now is beginning her life in New York City.  

#ENYC.INTRO #🌙𝓂𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝑜🌙 #//i stole ur format liz im sorry forgive me

[thevoilinauttheory]

Good Grief

[ FFxivWrite2021 Prompt 14: Commend ]

[ Content Warnings: death, grief, somewhat descriptive injuries and medical procedures regarding said injuries ]

[ A continuation of this prompt from a long time ago! And further history of the event in this answer here! ]

==

He had stumbled back into Falcon’s Nest, barely alive with his brother attached to his shoulders, feet dragging behind him - a trail left in the snow. The camp was there to greet him, tripping over themselves to help their comrades - he was thankful so many of them had survived the attack, even if it meant running to save their hides. He didn’t get to say anything before his vision betrayed him, the pain of his shattered arm and the wood stuck under his barefoot truly caught up to him when he crumpled onto the ground.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he awoke, it felt like days. He groaned as he sat up, eyes blinking to clear his sight. “Maximiloix! Finally awake, I see.” A medic had stepped in to check on him. “I guess that means we can go over some things together.” She sat down in a chair beside the cot he was assigned, flipping through papers of his treatment plans. Though her face was somewhat solemn. “First, I’ll say congratulations - many of your unit have given you high praise for felling a dragon with a broken arm, hand, *and* foot. Not to mention carrying your brother all the way back on your own.” “...” He didn’t like where this was going. He let out a labored sigh. “What’s second.”

“Second… I wish to give my condolences. Alderic was not as lucky as you, and his wounds were too great. He was long gone by the time you had arrived.” He grit his teeth, trying to keep his cool - what was he going to tell his wife? That he couldn’t save her brother, one of the only friends he had, his *own* brother. “Third, I would like to go over your injuries with you. We were able to set your hand right, and it should be healed within a few weeks to a moon if you keep it from further harm. The pieces of wood in your foot were difficult to get out, and we had to put you under for a bit to extract them - walking is going to be hard for a long while, as we had to cut into the foot itself. Lastly, your arm… we tried our best, but it seems our best wasn’t enough. We couldn’t get it to set properly due to how splintered and shattered it was, and… I fear you will not be able to hold a weapon in that arm again, not without seriously injuring yourself.

“H- How am I s’posed t’feed my family? I have three children, I can’t- I can’t jus’ be without a job!” “I’m sorry, there isn’t much we can do… your commander will see you honorably discharged from your service, as well as money for your kill.” He tried to run his hands through his hair, holding back tears, when he realized it hurt too much to, he hung his head. “I don’t want th’damned money, I want my brother.” She ignored the statement, there really wasn’t much they could do - not for an emotionally broken man, and certainly not for a dead one - and she stood up to pat his shoulder. “We’re going to get you some pain medication, and your brothers-in-arms will be in to visit you shortly to celebrate your success.” She smiled softly. She knew that wouldn’t help him in the slightest. He pat around his clothes carefully for something, surprised they didn’t clear out his pockets during their operations. He pulled out the small talisman that he had taken from that dragon’s corpse, staring at it as if it’d heal all of his wounds. Now he wondered… if it was all worth it, if everything they were fighting for was even worth saving - he couldn’t think like that, though, not with a family to take care of. When he heard the cheering of people outside of his door, he quickly shoved it back into his pocket.

Next he knew, there was a tankard in his hands - his comrades truly happy about his survival, truly wishing him the best knowing that he would not be coming back. He didn’t want any of it.

#ffxivwrite2021 #prompt 14 #commend #about: Maximiloix Voilinaut #the cold truth

[renee-writer]

In honor and remembrance of the many souls lost twenty years ago, I am reposting a story I wrote three years ago. We must never forget.

Where Were You?

AO3

“We need to tell him.” She nods. He is old enough. At ten he is old to start to understand. Their son, Noah James, birthday is tomorrow. September 11th. He knew the little bit they taught him in school. But he doesn’t know the personal stuff.

“Son.” He runs in with his dad’s red hair flowing behind him. It is really to long for a boy but his mom is loath to cut it. It is so pretty and she fears if she cuts his curls, they won’t come back.

“Yes dad.”

“Your mam and I want to tell you what happened the day you were born.”

“The day the buildings came down?”

“Yes.” He nods and takes a seat, pulling his knees up to his chest, sitting like his mam does when she is nervous. Claire looks to him and then Jamie.

“You know you were born the day America was attacked?”

“Yes mam.”

“Daddy was working in a House in downtown Manhattan.” He nods. “I was home because you were on the way.” He smiles at that. “I was watching the morning news shows. I was making breakfast when the report came on. I didn’t catch the first plane. None of the first reports did. But it caught to second.”

“I was in House. It was my last day before I came home for you. I was just praying for an easy day and that your mam wouldn’t go into labor.”

“As the second plane hit the tower, my first pain came. I knew you were on the way and that your daddy would be heading into the Towers. “ His eyes got huge as he looks at her.

“You were all alone!”

“At the time. But it was early. I knew it would take hours before I needed to go to the hospital. I was more worried about your daddy.”

“We got the first call immediately. We hurried out. We didn’t know then what it was. How very bad it would get. We soon found out.”

“I watched the coverage, praying for your daddy and the others, as well as those in the building.”

“I was assigned the lobby. My job was to direct people out. They were fairly calm at first. Filing out. I was also assigned Tower One. My mind was split between concern for your mam and those in the upper floors. I wasn't worried about myself.”

“I was having increasingly tough pains. I tried to walk through them. I knew what to expect, or thought I did, but watching babies be born is different then having them myself. You wers coming way faster then I expected.”

“In the midst of the chaos, I get a call on my walkie talkie. From my boss.”

“Uncle Murtagh?”

“The same. He told me to come out, that your mam was in labor. I argued that it would be hours, that I was needed there. He explained you were in a hurry and to get my a..err butt out and head to Mount Sinea right now. I did.”

“I tried to hold out but when the pains were four minutes apart, I had to call your Uncle Murtagh.. He promised to get a hold of your daddy. I called your Auntie Gil and she came to take me to the hospital. The traffic was horrible. I was worried about giving birth in the car. So was your Auntie Gil. But we made it. I was having pains every three minutes by then.”

“I am so sorry mam.”

“Oh baby. It is okay. That is how it is supposed to happen.”

“I ran in in my uniform. Scared some folks. Everyone was on edge anyway. So, me running up stairs in my fire gear was a bit concerning.”

“Did you tell them daddy?”

“I did. I said my son was coming. They understood then. I found your mam, looking so beautiful even in a bed, laboring away. The TV was showing what was happening at the Towers.” He swallows hard as the hardest part of the story was about to be told.

“I was so happy to see him. I held tight to his hand as the worst of the labor happened. We were divided between bringing you into the world and watching what was happening downtown.”

“Your mam was squeezing tight to my hand and doing her breathing when one of the nurses called out. I turned to look at her and saw Tower 2 fall. I knew what it meant. “

“All those people.” His son softly says.

“Yes son. The civilians that hadn't got out. The fireman and police that ran in. I knew they were gone and you were coming. I grieved their lose even as I celebrated your arrival. Your mam was pushing by then. I kept her focus on me. I didn’t want her to know. Not then.”

“I wasn’t aware. I couldn’t be. The act of labor takes everything. Focuses the mam on the soul act of giving birth. She can't be of divided mind.”

“You were coming out when Tower One fell. I celebrated as your first red hair made an appearance even as I knew my House was gone. Even as I knew that you coming when you did, saved my life. I would have been in the building, in the lobby, as the building collapsed. I might have made it out but not far enough away.”

 

“Daddy!” He throws himself into his daddy's arm. Jamie holds him tight.

“He told me after you were born. I knew something was wrong. He was both happy and sad. We were going to name you Henry James.”

“After grandpa?”

“Yes son. But when you were born in time to pull me out of the building, we knew we needed to honor that in your name.”

“So Noah like the ark that listened to God and rescued his family?”

“Right little man. You came exactly when you were supposed to.”

“I am do glad. Daddy, I am sorry about your House and all the others.”

“Thank you son.”

“But so glad you are here.”

“So am I son.”

“Thank you for telling me. I will say special prayers for daddy's lost House and all the children who lost their daddy’s and mam's.”

“You are an awesome lad son. We are quite proud of you.” He hugs both his parents close and they all grief those lost. They will never forget.

#my writing #outlander fanfic #where were you? #jamie and claire #cannon divergence #outlander fandom #modern au