#Thinking bout that time I had a long distance friend whom spoke to me every day and we were v affectionate w each other

[waywardgothauthor]

.

#my heart beats only for you! #Thinking bout that time I had a long distance friend whom spoke to me every day and we were v affectionate w each other #and nerded out over stuff together and yes I developed a big ol gay crush until one day they just stopped replying. #When I asked them what was up said they were sorry they were just busy so I'd continue to back off #but send thinking of ya and just hoping your ok texts now and again #that they never responded to so i just stopped trying #and how we still follow each other on snap but they still never make an effort to reach out and i just realized its been like. 4 years #and thinkin bout how they clearly never thought to check in even after my tumblr was abandoned bc my abusive ex found it #so they literally just never think abt me and im still here hurt bc sure i lost a crush but i also lost a dear friend #and like. i know ehat ur thinking! maybe she realised i had a crush was uncomfy and just disconnected #but like. i was only ever as affectionate as she was. usually less so #this is the person who said to me and then proceeded to ghost me #and yes this is a lame thing to still be upset about 4 years later #but they jusr came up on my snap and i got sad again #rant tw #rant tag #delete later

[iluvfr3aks]

it's a public bathhouse, isn't it?

a fic in which you and michael kaiser share the same bathing space.

together.

alone.

what might happen?

reader x michael kaiser bluelock ; sex, gender, alignment, and pronouns unspecified but they're in an open bath together ; reader has backstory with kaiser and doesn't like him (or at least thats what they believe) ; not as sensual as you might think ; dw bout it

it was far into the evening as you stepped foot into the building. you'd heard there was an open bath nearby, and it had good reviews and ratings online, so you decided to check it out.

after paying the lady in the front a fee, she gave you your locker key, and you were directed to take a long walk down the hall to the locker room.

thankfully, it was quite a straightforward business, and these interactions took not much time. you didn't plan on spending much of the day here. not today at least.

as you made it to the lockers, you found your locker, and started to undress and place your things inside of it. sounds of water splashing around could be heard from the next door, that was probably where the baths were, and probably where another person already was.

there weren't many people you knew around here, so it was probably a random.

at least, that was what you assumed until you opened the door and recognized immediately the unusual hairstyle of the man, whose body was half submerged in the water.

"michael kaiser?" you called out in a surprise, and he turned to look at you with discerning eyes. you could never forget the man whom you once were so close to. if it were someone even like kaiser, you don't think anyone would forget them.

"who do we have here? name?" he spoke with a light tone, calling out your name casually, as if you were still good friends. as if, you sneered and didn't waste time just standing and gawking at him, turning to walk to the showering station.

"ignoring me? well, that's okay too!" kaiser laughed, fully turning around and resting his arms on the cold tiles he was in-front of. "how have you been? missed me any bit? i know i missed you."

you nearly couldn't control your temper when he spoke in such a tone, saying such sickly sweet words, it made your stomach twist, and not in a good way.

"stop talking to me like we're close." you managed to hold back every curse that might've slipped its way into your sentence, grabbing the shower head and pouring freezing cold water over yourself.

but, maybe it was for the better, as it clearly pulled your mind from hating on kaiser to the chilling water that suddenly ran down your body.

kaiser looked at your back and rested his chin on his hand, "are we not close? did you forget all about us in the short time we've been separated already?" he spoke with a hint of ridicule in his voice, clearly not taking it seriously. taking you seriously.

in the end, you thought it was better to just not respond to him, as you put the shower head back on it's stand. you stood up and walked to a part of the bath that was a good distance away from kaiser, dipping in.

the water burned a bit at first, your body's response to the sudden change in temperature, but soon, the feeling quelled and you got into the bath without a problem. it was nice to be in a hot bath once in a while.

well, this wouldn't be the nicest experience you could have in a hot bath though.

from the corner of your eye, you saw kaiser push himself out of the water and start walking your way. you closed your eyes and didn't even hope on the chance that he would simply pass by. you knew he was making his way over to you.

the sound of water rustling right beside you incited your cold reaction, "fuck off." and kaiser's ignorant bliss, "i know you missed me." you opened your eyes and turned your head, facing kaiser's own beautiful face.

"who are you again?" you played dumb and didn't exactly flash the nicest smile at him. "are we acting like this now? i see! my name is michael kaiser, and your-beautiful-self's name is?" kaiser extended an arm to you.

even if you didn't admit it openly, you couldn't deny his pure allure.

"name." you chose to ignore his hand, and turned your face away, closing your eyes again. kaiser frowned and hummed, "you're not gonna confess to me how much you missed me? i can't believe it!" he said without a hint of shame.

how could he say stuff like that without a second thought? you thought viciously, especially after what happened between you both, it was baffling.

"who would miss you?" you responded sourly, still not looking at him, or at anything in general.

"well, if you ask me! i do know my alexis would die of heartache if he was separated from me for even a day."

you open your eyes and fake a gag, spiting out a single word, "gross."

"to you. i find it quite endearing!" he chooses to ignore your action, still speaking like it was a laughing and giggling mood.

"you're sick." you almost want to go back to the lockers and go home, kaiser pauses in his retorts and thinks. quite unlike him, you notice the silence.

"i think i'm still sick for you, doll." he says while leaning a bit closer to you.

you scoot away from him, perhaps the bath was making your face a bit redder, you've been in here for a while now, "get out of here." or you just wouldn't admit that you were blushing at kaiser's behavior and words.

he laughs at your attempt to make distance, swimming over and wrapping his arm around you before asking.

"it's a public bathhouse, isn't it?"

#michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #bluelock x reader #blue lock #x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk #kaiseraddict

[kiruuuuu]

Siegemas Day 24

Happy holidays everyone, it’s me again! I stepped in for this day :) Once again, thank you @dualrainbow​, this event is a delight 💝💝

Today, my prompt is the very first line of the fic you find below. I hope you all enjoy it, and have a wonderful time no matter what or whether you’re celebrating! ✨ (Twitch/IQ, Rating T, fluff + emotional comfort, ~2.8k words)

.

“We made… too many cookies.”

The comedic timing is impeccable, the line delivered with perfect hesitance as to imply awareness of the understatement while hiding its undoubtedly practised nature. She’s a born people person with a knack for being charmingly endearing, and IQ is absolutely and horrifically powerless.

“This is ridiculous”, she states, deadpan, not giving away how amused she is in reality – it’s not often that she opens the door to a stunning young woman with pretty cheekbones tinted pink from the cold outside, clad in a flattering deep purple coat and holding several tin boxes in gloved hands. Patterned gloves, a row of snowflakes adorning the fabric. A very familiar row of snowflakes.

“I know, and I’m really sorry, but I don’t know anyone else who’d appreciate these.” Her hair is laid in neat waves framing her pale freckled face, light make-up completing the elegant look. She could be a film star, certainly possesses the same unselfconscious attitude one would expect, even though she’s displaying embarrassment right now. Her slim figure hugged tightly by her form-fitting clothes is visible clearly despite the frankly laughable amount of cookie tins and IQ can’t help herself.

She invites her in.

Twitch is a waterfall, bubbling excitedly about how or why she came across certain recipes, casually throwing in a French or German word amidst the usual English, and it’s impossible for IQ to follow her but she smiles and nods anyway while relieving her visitor of her cargo and placing it gingerly on the kitchen table. So far, this last Sunday before Christmas – the fourth Advent, as it’s called in her mother tongue – had been almost serene, began with chores and continued with a quiet cup of coffee and a good book before slowly tilting over into planning and researching for her next chapter. A regular occurrence. As a result, IQ is mentally somewhere else still and needs a few minutes before she can concentrate on her unexpected guest.

“Good to see you”, she chimes in during a small pause (wouldn’t you know it, even Twitch needs to breathe), and the two of them hug as a greeting. Twitch always gives her a good squeeze, really presses the two of them together, which is one of the reasons IQ looks forward to meeting her every day: it makes her feel appreciated. No one else comes close to these embraces, not Blitz, her decade-old friend, or even her own siblings. In Twitch’s arms, she closes her eyes and finds peace for a brief second.

It might be the absence of her family which has left her this sentimental – normally, she’s too busy to analyse her friends, to scrutinise them to this amount, but today an odd sort of nostalgia and possible bout of loneliness has overtaken her. She did light four candles on her wreath, the first one almost burnt out completely from being lit on all the previous Sundays, yet instead of providing warm illumination, it caused subtle brooding. Their house was always lively around Christmas, bustling with fights, pretend fights, singing, louder singing, future plans yelled through the staircase, raucous laughter, and various songs on repeat trying to drown each other out.

Here, in her small apartment in England, the silence felt foreboding.

“I tried my hand at spéculoos, which Marius called a German staple, and let me tell you – the dough I had was a nightmare to work with, much too sticky. I wanted to roll it out and use Julien’s cookie cutters but it wouldn’t cooperate, so you now have small poop piles of what I think you call Spekulatius. It’s in the blue tin, right on top there. I also made vanilla… uh, vanilla croissants? Shaped like moons? They’re Dom’s favourites, apparently, and Gilles begged me to help him, but he got the recipe wrong and we got so many that he just gave me half. Elias really wanted pain d’épices, um, spicy bread? No, gingerbread, that was it. You guys have the best name for it, by the way, Lebkuchen, it makes it sound like you’re Frankenstein: live, cake!”

Twitch somehow manages to wander through the flat while babbling on, accepting a cup of lukewarm coffee IQ puts in her hands and instinctively helping to pick a few cookies from each box to create an inviting-looking decorative paper plate which IQ carries into the living room where they settle down, fingers curled around warmed ceramic and eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

“You need to try these, it’s actually one of James’ mum’s recipes. Poppyseed and chocolate, they turned out better than expected, but after Liza told that story about her acquaintance failing a drug test because of poppyseed bagels, people refused to eat more than one and I definitely can’t stomach all of these alone.”

She watches, expectantly, as IQ dutifully picks out one of the spotted cookies shaped like a flower and bites into the crumbly bakeware. Surprising no one, it’s delicious – if there’s anything Twitch can’t do, IQ hasn’t found it yet.

“Really good”, she agrees, allowing for Twitch’s instant beaming smile to tug the corners of her own mouth upwards while she chews. “Manu, these all look lovely. You know I’d die for good Christmas cookies, so thank you. Even though this is way too much for me.”

Her laugh is melodic and as contagious as her constant sunny mood. “You should see how many I still have at home. Elias claimed he needs to watch his figure, Julien should be watching his figure, Doc doesn’t really like sweets, and Gilles eats maybe one cookie a day. Which you know is illegal at Christmastime.”

“Still, this is a wonderful present and I’m afraid I have nothing to give in return.” IQ isn’t being entirely honest. Still testing the waters; maybe Twitch will manage to read between the lines and they can finally address it. The moment the Frenchwoman stepped over the threshold was the moment IQ decided they’d talk it through today. It’s been going on long enough.

“Not true, you gave me the gloves!” Twitch’s triumphant gotcha! expression is self-satisfied and smug and sweet. Sweeter than the cookies calling to IQ – they really do look fantastic, a variety of shapes, sizes and colours, all together smelling of spices and memories and Christmas.

“Someone had to, you kept complaining about your icy fingers.”

“And you were probably sick of warming them up.” Twitch hasn’t caught on yet, her tone is still breezy and carefree. “Have you written some more? Any new scenes for me to read? I need to know whether the captain really is dead or not.”

IQ laughs, half embarrassed and half delighted – when the news broke in Rainbow that she writes stories in her spare time, she expected an outcome way worse than what she ended up facing: Castle immediately expressed interest in reading them, no matter the topic, and once word got out that it was usually science-fiction-centric, even more people approached her out of curiosity. None of them as enthusiastic as Twitch, however, who dove into the narratives like an age old fan into new material, sparking an unknown productivity in IQ which has yet to subside. Knowing there’s at least one person who devours anything she dreams up has been fantastically motivating, and they’ve begun spinning yarn together now and then. Twitch is the only one whom she trusts enough to proofread for scientific errors or inconsistencies, and she’s helped develop a character into a much more compelling version of themselves several times.

The next hour is spent on discussing IQ’s research, involving frantic googling and article hopping on Wikipedia to help with finding the correct jargon – Twitch knows most of the technical terms in French, which doesn’t mesh well with IQ’s rusty school French, whereas her German accent makes it difficult for the other woman to understand her, so they try to meet in the middle somewhere by using English, despite the laborious process involved.

They’re on one wavelength. Always have been, from the moment they came across each other in Rainbow’s workshop, when Twitch still dyed her hair auburn and IQ barely spoke a word with the other operators: a friendly smile, an engineering-related question, a brief introduction, and they were a house on fire. Inseparable at work.

Twitch made sure it bled into their private lives as well, even if it took considerable effort. IQ never asked, but she’s sure her friend secretly celebrated that one day when she finally said yes to one of her suggestions of meeting up.

.

And it’s exactly why it hurts so fucking much to think -

.

“Manu.”

Twitch stops talking mid-sentence, probably caught off guard by her serious tone of voice. “Yes? Is everything alright?”

It might be. She hopes it will be. Her fingers stray to a loose thread peeking out of the seam of her trousers, picking at it. “We’ve been friends for a while now.”

Several years, in fact, an unimaginably long time. Not that IQ hasn’t been able to keep friendships alive for this long, but never one this close. The level of intimacy usually kept declining after a certain point, usually prompted by nothing, sometimes spatial distance, sometimes emotional. There aren’t many people who keep up with her over a long time, and even fewer she keeps up with – Blitz is a great friend, but he just doesn’t share her passions.

“And you’re one of the most generous people I know. Your first instinct when you have too many cookies is to give them away. I’ve always admired this about you.”

Twitch is listening intently. She knows something is up, yet can’t put her finger on it. Her brows are furrowed. IQ knows this from a brief glance before her gazed drops back down to her restless fingers.

“Julien and I had a conversation about you, not too long ago. And some of what he said was… unexpected.” Rustling; Twitch is beginning to fidget as well. “Unrelated to that, Dom overheard you voicing your frustration about your being single and mentioned it to me. I didn’t know you were that unhappy. You never said anything.”

She really likes you. Yeah, don’t wave me off. I’ve never seen her fawn over someone like this. You get special treatment all the time.

And then, more poignant: At this point, I’m basically ready to fuck anything that moves.

The second quote echoes in her mind as if she’d heard it herself instead of it being delivered second-hand. Both of them made her look back at the past months and re-evaluate some events. Showed them in a very different light.

Twitch is radiating anxiousness. It’s easy to pick up.

“I realise now that I’ve received a lot of special attention from you, and… I just have to wonder.” It’s harder and harder to push the words out, her throat closing up. “Wonder whether your present today is cookies and friendship, or cookies and a confession, or cookies and an expectation. Whether there’s some kind of motive attached.”

Her entire life, there’s never been anyone outside her family who understood her better. Being a woman in a male dominated field is difficult enough, especially as a competitive one, and her experiences aren’t easily conveyed to her guy colleagues – Twitch understands, of course, has faced the same obstacles and prejudices. Seeking patterns everywhere, striving for excellence, despising complacency, the overwhelming need to reverse engineer anything new or remarkable, exploring new places, wanting to always keep moving and improving – Twitch understands, has had a similar upbringing and equivalent goals.

They share almost everything at this point, have been on holidays together, mastered several projects with each other’s help, stayed up till sunrise because sleep was the inadequate alternative to exchanging ideas and pushing each other further than they’d go by themselves. Others have always tried to slow IQ down, force her to relax, take her mind off something she enjoyed chewing on, and it was infuriating.

All Twitch does is encourage her. Which paradoxically calms IQ more than any massage or empty-brained film ever could.

She doesn’t want to lose all this. Her chest hurts with the pressure of potentially losing someone this dear to her. But at the same time, she doesn’t want Twitch to get the wrong idea.

When silence is all she receives, she looks up to find Twitch fighting for composure – wide eyes filled with moisture and lip quivering. It’s a stab in the guts. IQ has never seen her cry.

“I don’t -”, Twitch chokes out, adding more quietly: “This isn’t -”

IQ sits next to her, reaching out but retreating when Twitch shakes her head, so all she does is take her hand. As always, her fingers are cold, so IQ closes her own around them. This isn’t at all what she intended, but she needs to know.

“Your friendship means the world”, comes a much more composed statement after a minute. “You should know this.”

She nods. She does know.

“And – and yes, if there was more, I’d be happy. Even happier than I am now. But there doesn’t need to be.” Twitch is speaking faster now, rushing the words, her melodic French accent thickening. “I’m fine with everything staying the way it is. I love being around you, no matter how, so if you’re not okay with – with anything else, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll get over it, no worries.”

“Manu. Breathe.” Seeing the other woman in a panic is a rare sight and IQ doesn’t enjoy knowing she’s the cause. “I love being around you, too. You’re my best friend, by far. But… I don’t want anything casual.”

Twitch needs a moment to digest this and IQ readies her responses: she’s had bad experiences with it in the past, and as far as she knows, arrangements like friends with benefits tend to make everything messy and awkward. Staying friends is the better option.

“Yes. Me neither.” A beat. Their eyes meet, Twitch’s still glistening.

There is an even better option, as far as IQ is concerned. And it seems to slowly dawn on the nearly perfect woman next to her.

“And… what about something not casual? But still more?”

Oh. The pressure begins to lift off her chest with every passing second, with every second that Twitch stares at her, hopeful, unsure. Slowly, she clarifies: “You mean – cookies and a confession?”

The nod is nearly imperceptible, and IQ probably almost breaks her fingers by squeezing so hard. The next thing she knows is she’s leaning forward and pressing their lips together, tasting the saltiness of perceived rejection as well as the disbelieving smile of actual acceptance, and then Twitch is laughing as well, crying in between relieved giggling, almost hysterical, and IQ joins in, and before they know it, they’re a mess on the sofa, hugging, seeking physical contact, pressing kisses to temples and hair and cheeks and lips again, wrapping arms around warm bodies.

Her heart is singing because while she so fiercely hoped, she barely dared to, was used to disappointments and therefore expected the worst, even ascribed traits to her best friend in the whole world who’d never stoop so low as to demand something from her she wasn’t ready to give. No, Twitch understands her and vice versa. Even so, it took them an embarrassingly long time to get to this point. In their shared joyousness, they barely manage to finish their sentences:

“What Dom heard me say wasn’t, I mean, I was just -”

“Yes, I figured, but it still got me thinking -”

“I was having a bad day, I’m not that frustrated -”

“Oh? That’s a shame, you know, I was actually looking forward to -”

“Monika!”, Twitch exclaims, scandalised even though they’re both aware IQ is joking, and by now they’re laughing like mad, especially because Twitch only uses her full name when she’s done something, so IQ resorts to tickling her in retaliation or maybe to distract her, and they both yelp when Twitch’s foot shoots up, gets caught on the rim of the cookie plate peeking over the coffee table’s edge, and catapults its contents everywhere. One manages to hit IQ in the face, the rest is scattered all over the floor, which sets them off again after a second of total silence.

“It’s fine, it’s fine”, Twitch gets out in between breaths, “I really do have tons more at home.” Which IQ believes her in a heartbeat.

Even though she’s pretty sure she got the lion’s share of the leftovers.

And just a second before they notice that the napkin on which the cookies were presented has caught fire, IQ thinks about how she dreaded spending Christmas at Hereford without her family – and she realises now she’ll be in great company regardless.

#rainbow six siege #twitch #iq #twitch/iq #fanfic #oneshot #siegemas #this is the last couple perfecting my quartet of german/french ships #check out their new bios btw #in my head they fit so so so well together #I'm looking forward to reading all the entries I've missed!! #I hope I'll have more time after Christmas

[anniebee420]

Now You See Her, Now You Don’t

Boo was the quiet one, the shy one. The one no one knew who saw everything, except for Bellamy Blake. He wanted to get her to come out of her shell and show the world what she could do. A companion one shot piece to The Biggest Heart, The Biggest Heart

Nightmares were common among the delinquents.  Each one with their own personal horror.  Each one dealing with it in their own personal way.  For Boo that meant hiding, usually up in the large tree next to the drop ship.  From here she could see the whole camp but they couldn’t see her.  She liked it that way, not that many noticed her anyway.  Most didn’t even remember she existed.  When one of the campers had begun stealing from others, she had seen it.  When someone else had snuck outside the walls she had seen it.  From who left who’s tent first thing in the morning to who was stealing extra rations.  She never told of course unless it was warranted and when she did she usually was ignored.  It always seemed to surprise people when she actually spoke, she was in an essence invisible and she liked it that way.

           Bellamy Blake was very aware of Lil Boo, whom he had nick named, and how useful she would eventually be.  He had learned early on just how much she really saw around camp. When she was watching everyone else, he was watching her.  She was quiet, shy and seemed to stay to herself.  She didn’t seem to have any close friends but she was always kind to everyone, even to Murphy who always made life difficult for everyone.  Not so long ago she had been the target of his taunting and ridicule, something Bellamy had put a stop too as soon as he had seen it.  She however handled it by hiding in her damn tree.  The tree she thought no one knew about but he did. He wished she would fight back.  He knew she had it in her, he had even seen it a time or too but she usually refused to engage in any kind of conflict.  So, he planned on watching out for her even if it was from a distance.  Murphy wasn’t the only one he had threatened either.  He wasn’t sure why he felt just as protective of her as much as he did Octavia.  Maybe it was because she seemed so innocent or maybe it was because he knew her story. Her story was beyond sad and she didn’t deserve to be here even more so that his own sister.  That and he knew of her nightmares.

           His tent was only a little down from his and he seemed to pass by it every night.  That was when he would hear her tossing and turning, crying and on occasion she would cry out.  He found out that he wanted to chase away her demons and bring back her innocence.  He never went in however over fear of embarrassing her or having her more upset.  Usually during these times a few minutes later, she would wake up and not long after that climb up into her sanctuary.   It was during one of these moments when he thought of a way to make her disappearing act, useful.

He, Murphy, Clarke and a few of the others were talking about finding ways to get a head start on the grounders.  Up until that point they had been not only outnumbered but also lacked knowledge on the ground.  They needed someone to gain intel.  To be able to sneak around, find out information maybe help in gaining the upper hand.  He knew it wouldn’t be easy, she may get hurt but she was smart and he had no doubt she would be the one to do it.  He had purposely positioned himself and the others under her tree which he had seen her disappear into a few minutes before. After explaining the plan of placing someone out there as surveillance he got what he expected. Murphy being well Murphy and Clark telling him what a crazy idea it was.

“Bellamy it’s just not smart.  We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”  Clark added.

“Who says we will lose anyone?”

“I suppose you have someone in mind for this suicide mission?”  Murphy asked scoffing as was per usual.

“First off, it’s not a suicide mission and I would never send someone out there who I thought couldn’t do it. Second, I do have the perfect person in mind.  They know how to disappear and stay invisible.  They would just be gathering intel.”  He crossed his arms looking at the people in front of him.  He knew it was an argument he had very little chance in winning but he had to try and just as he expected Clark voiced it.

“I’m sorry Bellamy but I just can’t let this happen.”

“Well Princess, it’s really not your call, now is it?”  Sometimes her need to control every aspect of everything got to him.  “Besides why don’t we ask the person I had in mind.”  Before anyone could say anything else he looked up at the tree.  “So, what do you think Lil Boo? Are you up for a little adventure?”  He smiled up as her shocked face peeked out from the branches and leaves.

“What? Her? You can’t be serious?”  Murphy said snidely.  “She’s afraid of her own shadow.”

“No, she’s not.”

“I’m not afraid, idiot.” They both said at the same time.

“She’s just cautious, isn’t that right Boo?” He asked a smile still on his face at her sudden bout of bravery.  He heard her sigh and before Clark or anyone could say anything more she spoke again.

“Fine.”  She rolled her eyes dramatically which caused Bellamy to chuckle, Clark to frown and Murphy to scowl. “Leave it to me to save all of your collective ass’s.”

“This isn’t a good idea Bellamy.”  Clark said worry lacing her voice.

“She will be fine Clark; besides I don’t see anyone else coming up with an idea.”

“Hey, where did she go?”  Murphy asked looking up at the tree.

“Exactly.”  Bellamy answered with a triumphant twinkle in his eye.  “Now you see her, now you don’t.”

#bellamy blake x oc

[homiegeesus]

The Year of Magical Thinking, Ch. 4

Summary:  Francis Sinclair believed Arthur Morgan had not finished living. In a second chance at life, Arthur discovers what it means to love himself.

At the edge of a precipice and nowhere to run, Arthur concedes defeat. In an extraordinary turn of events, he is sent through the ether to another time where his path crosses with a group not too unlike his own family. After discovering the fate of those he loved before, he races to find a way back. But what if he realizes that there is something worth staying for in this new world? Can two people separated by nearly a hundred and twenty years of living find their happily ever after?

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: First of all, thank you TheTiniestTortoise AKA @shallow-gravy for betaing this mess of a story! Your insight has been invaluable! 

So sorry for the wait. I got sick last week then had to play makeup at work so life has been busy. Things should start slowing down during the holidays, and I'll have more time to post. I already started the next chapter and should have it up very soon. The chapters should be longer in the future as I start to get into the nitty-gritty of the plot. 

Thank y'all so much for reading. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated.

The Year of Magical Thinking

Chapter 4 - Pace Post Bellum

“I loved you when I saw you today and I loved you always but I never saw you before.” - Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

In the serenity of a quiet meadow, a buck dips his massive twelve-point head into the calmly moving spring. The early morning sun casts an ethereal glow on its surroundings. A branch breaks in the distance causing the buck to lift his head in an abrupt movement.

 A rifle shot resounds.

Arthur’s eyes opened as he took a deep, unsteady breath. The fog of sleep leaving him, he sat up straighter as he remembered where he was. A faint melody wafted through the air, a sad-sounding duo singing about a girl from the north country. This was more to his taste, if he had one, than the ear-killing music that had assaulted him earlier.

Cool air flowed over Arthur’s face and arms, a nice contrast from the heat outside. He felt grimy and so tired, the old wound in his shoulder irritated from sitting in one position unmoved. He glanced at his traveling companion. Steven, head leaning back against the seat, hummed the tune quietly, seemingly unaware he was being observed.

Good-looking enough, Arthur admitted, with a strong jaw and dimples when he smiled. The man had a kind face. Too trusting in the eyes, the outlaw noticed, inadvertently looking for any crack in the young doctor’s façade that he could exploit. Inwardly chastising himself he thought,  not this man; he’s been kind to you, ya fool . Looking away from Steven in self-disgust, he took in the surrounding environs outside the vehicle. Tall pines had given way to flat, mostly empty fields smattered with oak trees dotting the landscape. Random buildings, some large, passed by in a blur before he could describe their features. A lake that Arthur remembered well came into view along the horizon. Steven finally noticed the other man was awake.

“Hey, you get any rest?” He asked.

Arthur nodded, “Yeah. ‘M fine.”

Looking towards the fast-approaching Flat Iron Lake, Arthur glanced at the other man.

“We gonna catch a ferry, or –,” he trailed off.

Steven just shook his head. “Nah, they built a bridge a while back.”

“’Cross the whole lake?” The outlaw replied, a little amazed at the ingenuity of such a feat.

The other man shrugged, “At least the fork part of it, or whatever.”

Silence eclipsed the cabin as both men looked across the lake. Arthur, lost in thought and a little mesmerized by the passing water, didn’t hear when Steven began speaking again.

He turned his head, “What’s that?”

“I said that I spoke with that friend of mine, while you were sleeping.”

“Okay,” Arthur nodded. “And?”

Glancing between the road and his passenger, Steven elaborated, “she said to come on over.” He huffed out a small laugh. “Ada’s like that, ya know, taking in strays and such.”

What an apt description of himself, Arthur thought. The only thing close to a home he’d ever found was with his people, and even that had sometimes seemed alien. 

“She’s a sweet girl,” Steven continued. “Quick-tempered if you rile her, but a good person.” He regarded Arthur with a look the outlaw knew well.  Distrust and wariness. “She’s like a sister to me, more family than my own blood.”

The tone and intent was loud and clear:  don’t you think about hurting her . Holding his stare for a moment, Steven finally looked back to the road. Silence once again descended. Arthur had only a few minutes to wallow in shame before they crossed the long bridge. That’s when a sight that would stick with him for a long while came into view.

In the distance, buildings even taller than those he had seen in Chicago once upon a time. Standing upon the horizon like eerie monoliths, they were a testament to progress.

Arthur leaned forward in his seat. He exhaled a breath, “What the –”

Steven looked over at him. “Yeah. They’re somethin’, aren’t they?” Receiving no response, he continued, “That’s downtown Blackwater.” 

Peeling his eyes from the skyline, Arthur turned his head to the other man. “Yer kiddin’,” he replied, unbelieving.

One corner of Steven’s mouth ticked up, but he said nothing.

             ____________________________________________________

Arthur could hardly believe the sheer amount of people that now populated Blackwater. Steven had explained that an oil boom in the early to mid-1900s had caused rapid economic growth in the area. With all that money came all the people. And good God, there were a lot of them. Blackwater had become a veritable center of industry in the midst of the otherwise empty Midwest. 

Feeling out of his depth and overwhelmed by all the visual stimuli, he breathed a silent sigh of relief when they drove away from downtown to a calmer, tree-filled neighborhood. Great big old-growth live oaks and pecans littered each oversized front lawn, while a mix of attractive Victorian and newer build homes sat far from the curb of the street.

“It’s a really old neighborhood,” Steven said. “A lot of the houses are from your time, some early twentieth century.”

He explained that this Ada woman had inherited her house from her now-deceased grandmother. When Steven spoke of this girl that would take him in, Arthur could not help but imagine her as a well-to-do heiress, riding the coattails of previous generations’ success. Dutch’s populist ideals had been ingrained into him from a young age, and despite all his good intentions, Arthur could not shake them.

They stopped in front of a pretty little house with a small balustraded stairway that led up to a semi-wrap-around porch and a stark red door. The porch started in the center of the house and continued to wrap around to the left. To the right was a bay of double-pane windows with the upper halves decorated in a simple stained glass. Unadorned brackets dotted the eaves of the house, with two high-peaked gables holding small single-paned windows. Light beige siding with white trim made the blood-red entry stand out all the more. Looking familiar to any city house he would have encountered in his time, Arthur felt an iota of comfort.

He glanced at Steven, waiting for an indication that they should exit the car. The other man turned the vehicle off, removed the key and leaned slightly back in the seat. He looked over to Arthur and asked, “You ready?”

No, he wanted to say, I ain’t ready for any of this. False courage won out. “Sure.”

Apparently reading Arthur’s mind, Steven gave him an encouraging smile. 

“Trust me when I say she’s a good person. I mean, she’s been through shit of her own. You should get along famously.” Steven was obviously trying to reassure him, but Arthur took no comfort in his words; he wondered if trust would ever come easy to someone like him. Still, the young doctor pressed on. “How ‘bout this? You have any reservations when you go in, I’ll take you to get a room at a hotel. I just really think you should have someone with you, ya know?”

Embarrassed and feeling like a child, Arthur grumbled, “Nah. This is fine.”

Steven nodded, “Good.” He waved a hand, “Come on, let’s go then.”

Exiting the vehicle, Arthur followed the other man down the walkway towards the stairs. Before they could reach the door, it opened. If the old outlaw had been drinking at that moment, he would have unceremoniously spewed it all over this nice porch. He immediately recognized the girl from his would-be memories seen during his journey to this place. She had painted nearly every frame, with her long blonde hair, bright smile and apple cheeks. Though the visions had not done her justice. Even from a distance, her moss-colored eyes stood out underneath fine brows. Plump lips thinned with her toothy smile below a button nose, all encased in an attractive oval face. 

Arthur distantly heard someone say his name. Realizing he was staring at the poor woman like a degenerate, he cleared his throat and looked to his boots. He felt a slight annoyance at Steven’s light chuckle.

“Did y’all stop at the Stockyards in Cowtown on the way here, or is it already Halloween?” The girl joked in obvious sarcasm. 

Arthur lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. I ain’t no cowboy, he wanted to say. Well, not really.

Steven motioned between the outlaw and the girl. “Ada, this is Arthur. Arthur, Ada.”

“Ma’am,” was all Arthur said with a slight nod. 

The blonde smirked. “You can call me Ada,” she laughed lightly, making Arthur feel a fool before pointing over her shoulder. “Come on in.”

Following the pair, Arthur crossed the entry into a narrow foyer. He was immediately hit with the scent of baking bread. Nearly salivating at the smell, he’d only realized in this moment that he was starving. Passing by stairs to the left and a cozy sitting room to the right, they stopped near the rear of the house. A large open kitchen, with different strange-looking metal contraptions, sat next to a living room full of drape-covered floor-to-ceiling windows. A single door seemed to lead to a porch out back.

“Dinner’s about ready if you’re hungry.” 

Arthur stopped his observance of his surroundings and looked to Ada. Realizing she was staring expectantly at him, he gave her a small nod. 

She turned to Steven, “You sure you can’t stay? I made plenty.”

Steven gave her a reproachful smile, “Nah, sorry I can’t. Nick would kill me if I stood him up.” He then tilted his head towards the back door. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Ada glanced between the two men, “Sure. Arthur, make yourself at home.” She gestured to the open living room before walking out the door onto the back porch outside.

Steven paused for a moment before addressing Arthur, “We’ll just be a minute.” 

The outlaw nodded, and the other man walked out and closed the door behind him. 

Itching for a cigarette to calm his nerves, his hand once again went to his side and found nothing. Looking for another outlet for his anxiety, he decided to look around. Forgoing the couch, Arthur spotted some photographs on the mantle of a fireplace sat between windows facing the backyard. He walked over to get a better look, boots sounding heavy on the dark wood floors in the quietness of the room. Photographs of all shapes and sizes crowded the shelf, but a solitary unframed picture caught his eye. Picking it up carefully as not to disturb the others, he looked closer. An older woman with long silver hair and a kind, cheeky smile sat wrapped in the arms of a younger version of the girl he had just met. Ada had that same look that Arthur had seen in his visions and had haunted him since; in brilliant color a smile so bright, he hardly believed anybody could be that happy. 

He flipped the photograph over. Written in a distinctly feminine script: Gramma Signy & Adeline, ’08. It took his mind a moment to register that it meant 2008, not 1908.

Eyes automatically going to the girl in question through the window, he found her looking right back. Feeling as if he’d been caught doing something nefarious, he immediately returned the photograph to its place. He turned and marched straight to the plush couch and took a seat to wait for the two friends to finish their talk.

About ten minutes later, Steven and Ada walked back into the house. Standing up from his spot on the couch, Arthur looked to the other man for a clue on how the talk went but found only a dimpled smile.

“Well, I’m gonna head out. Have to get to Uptown in, like, an hour.”

“That far away?” Arthur had no sense of direction in this place.

Steven shook his head. “Nah, ‘bout thirty minutes in traffic.”

Arthur nodded and then turned his attention to Ada. It seemed in the last fifteen minutes she had developed a semi-permanent furrow in her brow. She looked at him like he was alien, and maybe he was. Made uncomfortable by her stare, Arthur averted his gaze. 

Steven cleared his throat. “Uh – well – if everything’s all set here, I’m gonna head out,” he repeated.

Arthur remembered his gun belt. “I’m gonna need to get my – er –  things  outta yer automobile.”

“Oh, yeah. Just, uh, follow me out then,” Steven replied.

They stepped outside, Ada only following to the doorstep. Steven had given her a tight hug, and Arthur had barely heard her whisper “I trust you” into the other man’s ear. Feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, he continued the walk towards the vehicle. 

Steven appeared beside him a moment later. The younger man took a deep breath and placed his hands on his hips. Staring straight ahead, Steven addressed the man to his right. “Ada’s like a sister to me.” He finally turned to look at the outlaw, “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” 

Understanding where this conversation was going, Arthur's gaze lowered to his boots. 

Steven continued, “I’m trusting that you’re a decent man – considering.”

“Not gonna lie to ya. I ain’t a good man.” He looked up at Steven. “But, I don’t bite the hand that feeds me if ya get my meanin’. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna hurt no woman.”

Steven smirked and nodded. “Well, you might think differently after a day or two,” he said with a small laugh as he lightly slapped Arthur’s shoulder. “Let’s get your stuff.”

After retrieving his gun belt and shaking hands in that ancient show of masculinity, Steven was off. Looking up at the darkening cloudless sky, Arthur could not see any stars. Just as he had imagined, the developed world had blotted out the heavens and replaced it with a colorless haze. An unconscious yearning for belonging came over him, and Arthur felt his gaze being pulled towards the house. Ada stood in the doorway, waiting for him. Watching each other for a moment longer, a small smile pulled at her lips. With a motion of her hand, she beckoned him inside and he followed.

#Red Dead Redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #The Year of Magical Thinking #arthur morgan #arthur x oc #arthur morgan x oc

[vantelieth-blog]

                                          Vol. I Chapter IV: Outcast

Argen threw himself out of bed at the sound of an outcry from just outside his tent. Sweat seeped intensely from his pores, the sudden disturbance pulling him into a daze, worsened by the phantoms of a haunting nightmare. It was calling to him, goading him into action.

A chipped knife lay on the ground not far from Argen's spot. Perhaps it was not the best weapon to be found, but it was the only one immediately in Argen's view. And so, the daring child stood on his feet with the knife in hand,  frantically slipping into a pair of old sandals before rushing outside before the sunlit sky without the slightest of hesitation.

Upon stepping out and immediately noticing his mistake, the embarrassed Argen hastily concealed his weapon behind his back. What stood at a distance before him was simply a pair of bickering children, one of whom he could recognize as Yeula. They certainly were no threat to anyone. Argen quietly stood by his tent, hoping that he would go unnoticed long enough to observe their banter. He was at least relieved that Yeula kept to her word, but what of the boy she was conversing with?

"Who cares what they all say?" a rather overweight boy clothed in tatters asked. "There's something outside that wall they aren't talking to us about, and that's why we gotta stay until they let us go."

"I told you, that doesn't have anything to do with us or our families," Yeula retorted.

"Oh yeah? Why would our parents have us to rot here, then? I knew my family better than you knew yours, and I know they would never abandon me!"

Yeula took a quick step back as if she had considered running away. It was surely an argument, but Argen could only wonder if they truly agreed with one another while merely pandering to pride or false hope. It was hardly his concern regardless. With that in mind, he hid his knife behind him and lowered his head, paying little attention to the ongoing dispute and reflecting on his nightmare. Within that nightmare, he was trapped in a tower, helpless and lone as he was before. His only company was the entity in the robe, the murderer in pursuit from corner to corner. But all that ended when he was thrown off the tower, beaten and separated from his ill-fated friends. He had met with many nightmares during his stay in Golem, but this one embittered him more intensely than the others.

By the time Argen lifted his head, Yeula, who now stood alone, waved at him with glee, much to his astonishment. After turning around and tossing his knife back into his tent, Argen took a deep breath and waited for her to approach him.

"Are you okay, Yeula?" He asked as soon as Yeula was within arm's reach.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Reula replied, her modest tone completely unchanged by her recent disagreement. As she attempted to peer into Argen's tent, he promptly lowered the sheet. "What about you?"

"I am well; thank you for asking," Argen spoke with uncharacteristic exuberance to put both himself and Yeula at ease.

In response, Yeula gave Argen a warm smile before turning her attention to the encampment in the distance. away from the small hilltop surrounded with shrubbery atop which Argen's tent stood, prompting him to do the same. The number of children moving to and fro the numerous tents far exceeded that of the tents themselves, and yet these children clearly shared such a limited space without so much as a complaint. Even some caregivers from Fortitude stationed around the field could not resist joining these children in harmless recreation. Within that one encampment, child and man alike sought reprieve from their otherwise tenuous lives. It was a wondrous sight, one Argen yet preferred to witness in solitude.

Those children were much like Argen himself, as he could finally admit. Indeed, like himself, it seemed tragic circumstances brought these children here with a common wish to be reunited with their families and escape back into the only place they ever thought of as a home. It was recalling this that Argen realized that he had already been one of these children for quite some time. Entire days had come to pass when in his troubled mind, no day was apart from the day he first arrived. Every night in bed had rarely gone without a nightmare. Argen would awake and step outside hoping that he would be set free into Golem that day; and upon realizing that Huwerd did not await him beyond his resting place, he would simply force himself asleep once more, and the cycle would continue. In some way, he had become the most pathetic child of all, so brooding and helpless that the others would acknowledge him only with a prolonged stare. Only when he met Yeula and her friends did a single day spent here seem any different for him.

"Sleeping all day isn't going to fix anything, remember?" Yeula spoke as Argen continued to watch the other children. "We're all we have right now, so we need to support each other, right? You lost your parents, too, didn't you? So that makes two of us." Yeula outstretched her hand to Argen. "Come on, let's go meet the others."

"Very well" Argen said after a period of silence. Before he could muster any thought, Yeula took his hand and ran for the gathering of children with him in tow, just as before.

"Not now, I meant!" exclaimed Argen, already doubting himself yet again. "I had to retrieve something from my tent first."

"Hiding all the time isn't going to get you anywhere, either," Yeula sternly replied as she hastened her sprint for the other children.

Argen's dismay only worsened upon finally reaching the territory of the playful children, who all stared at him blankly. With a forced smile, Argen simply waved with his free hand, hoping he was not blushing. His intense embarrassment was only exacerbated as Yeula let go of his hand and nudged his shoulder, beckoning him to say something. "Hello, everyone," he greeted, even quieter than usual. "My name is Argen, but I think some of you are already aware of that, so I—" Before he could finish his sentence, the children had already surrounded him, speaking to him all in tandem.

"What kinda colony are you from?" one boy asked.

"Well, I believe I am—"

"How old are you?" a little girl asked.

"I believe I am twelve cycles—years, rather—old."

"Are you really from outside Golem?" another boy asked.

"Yes, I suppose I—"

"What's it like out there?" a smaller boy asked.

"I... would say that it is quite barren, but—"

"Can I have your robe?" another little girl asked.

"My robe? This is all I have to—"

At this point, so many questions followed at once that Argen could no longer make out a single one, and at any point he did hear enough of a question to respond in kind, he was quickly silenced with another, more loudly spoken question. Argen lowered his head, hoping that at least one person would understand his discomfort and save with without any need for him to run away or react with hostility. Only Yeula immediately took notice and stepped in front of Argen while attempting to reason with the others, but her quiet speech went entirely unnoticed in the chaos. Some of the inquisitive children did indeed begin to sympathize with Argen and respectfully back away, yet others simply rose their voice to be heard, and when that proved to be insufficient, they turned on one another, bickering without pause. Argen could barely suppress the urge to scream at the raging crowd for their overwhelming ignorance. It was only his self-control that kept him at bay, and hopefully it would last until someone else spoke up.

"Shut the fuck up!" a familiar teenager approaching from behind the crowd shouted; but Argen could catch barely a glimpse at her with so many of the children in his view. It was under the command of this woman that most of the children left for the tents without saying another word. The few who did remain were quickly made to accede as the woman pointed a finger at a group of the fleeing children. Yeula moved aside and looked at the woman and then Argen apologetically.

The newly-arrived teenager, the bald woman from yesterday. briefly looked around to ensure that no other child remained before speaking, "Sorry 'bout them. You okay?" Her concern was clearly evident in her expression despite her rather commanding tone.

"Yes," Argen replied with a quick nod. "Thank you."

The bald woman subtly scratched her head as if slightly nervous herself. "Heh, looks like everyone's dying to get to know the newcomer now." Upon saying this, she gave Yeula a rather stern look, eager for an answer. "Didn't I tell you to take it easy?"

"But I just wanted—" Yeula paused mid-speech and turned to Argen. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I am fine," interrupted Argen before turning to the bald woman. "Actually, I think I should be the one to apologize for refusing to speak for myself; but thank you for coming here." Perhaps, Argen thought, he had more than a single reason to be thankful for her arrival, for he was still unaware of what her connection was to fortitude.

The bald woman gave Yeula a gesture to come closer, and as soon as she and Yeula were standing alongside one another she spoke, "It wasn't your fault at all. Anyway, I'm sure Yeula didn't mean to give you any trouble." she chuckled briefly before continuing, "You should probably run back to your camp before the crazies come to gawk at you again."

Argen outstretched his shaky arm to Yeula and the bald woman as they both turned to leave. "No, please wait."

The bald woman promptly stopped and turned around. "Yes?" she asked somewhat uneasily.

"If I may ask, are you affiliated with Fortitude? There is something that I have been waiting to ask."

"'fraid not; I'm sorry. If you were goin' to ask for a chance to visit Golem, you're probably more out of luck than the rest of us; outsiders don't get much sympathy 'round here, I heard. And most of us are bein' detained so that Fortitude can watch over us until our families return from military duty—that's what I heard. But even if you're here for a totally different reason, I don't think Fortitude'll just abandon you forever."

"I know," Argen replied. Even though he was, initially, almost certain he was intended to be released within a few more days at most, some doubt was yet present in his tone. "I spoke with Huwerd some time ago. He said that he would do whatever he could to help me, and that I would only need to await his return. As I said, that was some time ago; that is why I asked."

The bald woman crossed her arms. "And that's what you've been waitin' for all this time? Look, I'm not telling you to give up, but you're only twelve years old, right? You could really end up hidin' in that tent for years until you're let loose into Golem."

"And your suggestion is that, in the meantime, I should enjoy my stay here to the best of my abilities? And what for? To befriend those whom I may never see again once I am allowed to leave? All that concerns me is finding a land I can call my home and moving on with my life as soon as I can." Argen's tone elevated with every word he spoke. His frustration had become more than uncontainable.

"Well, then, Yeula over here seems to have taken a likin' to you," the woman retorted with a raised eyebrow. "I wonder why?"

At this, Argen let out a genuine, almost involuntary chuckle. Silly as it was, at least he could find some humor in irony in the presence of this woman even if his future was still rather uncertain. "Well, that was—rather, I think, it was never my intention, because I had intended—..." Before he could finish his sentence, he gave in to his urge to laugh in front of the stranger, although he could not fully understand why and hoped he would not be misunderstood. And to his relief, both Yeula and the stranger soon shared the awkward moment of humor along with him, laughing happily for some reason perhaps even they could not fully understand. For the first time in what felt much like forever, Argen had indulged in some semblance of levity, and with that came acceptance.

Much unlike what he had first intended to do, Argen spent the remainder of the day alongside these two individuals he would soon begin to grow truly fond of. Eyareon, as the stranger was named, explained to Argen that even if the families of the desolate children never returned from their duties, Golem law dictated that children who came of were to be released from Fortitude's militarized zones regardless of their circumstances, and that right possibly extend to Argen himself as well. Knowing that her own time was nearing, Eyareon dedicated herself to alleviating the troubles of her peers as best she could for the remainder of her stay. For this simple deed, she had earned the respect and admiration of the caregivers and even some of Fortitude's officers who frequented the children's field, and the children themselves were both inspired and comforted within her presence. Argen knew that he, too, would soon become one of these children, for she clearly had something he lacked yet craved—the ability to care for and inspire others despite one's own grievances. And to acquire her strength, he simply resolved to stay alongside her whenever he could, having made peace with the fact that he would not be permitted into Golem for many years to come. A quiet life was something to be earned, after all—something most people in their final moments could only dream that they had experienced at least once—and the trials to get to that point would be worth reminiscence after finally touching upon it.

Several days passed without any trace of Huwerd, but Argen no longer awaited his return; indeed, he had stopped counting the days altogether as he spent them with his new companions. And as he began to act and speak as they would, even the other children began to view him as one of their own, much like they had forgotten he had ever been apart from them. The boy who had at once considered himself a hopeless outcast who could never win the favor of these foreign children had finally begun to see how wrong he was. More eager to involve themselves with Argen than ever before, numerous children approached him with open arms and utmost respect, and soon what was once a simple trio of friends grow into a merry group of over a dozen other children.

On one particular day in the field, Argen sat upon a hilltop amongst a gathering of his closest friends, one of which was even the boy he had first encountered arguing with Yeula who had introduced himself as Relt. The group sat in a perfect circle, sharing fond memories as well as trinkets they had been allowed to keep before they were brought to Golem's outer walls. As he observed the others taking turns parading their favorite items and speaking fondly of their families, Argen considered what he could show to them once his turn had come. Although he had thought of these children as nothing less than his friends for some time now, he had somehow forgotten to explain much of anything about himself other than that he was not of Golem. Even his runic powers, assuming they had not faded from lack of use, were not known to anyone other than himself. Argen thought that perhaps he had found a fitting moment to reveal what truly made him special and perhaps learn more of his powers in the process—he had, after all, only used them whilst stranded in that ghastly castle, and yet he could swear he had never been capable of such sorcery up until that point.

Despite watching the children closely, Argen payed little attention to the display of so many trivial items—"stuffed" animals, gold coins, defunct machinery parts, and the rest. At least glancing at these objects gave him a much better understanding of Golem's ways. After a good number of children had concluded their show-and-tell and rejoined the circle, Eyareon gave Yeula a nudge on the shoulder, persuading her to stand in the middle of the circle to introduce herself, which she did somewhat meekly. At this, Argen leaned in closer.

"Hello, everyone," Yeula greeted, timidly waving in front of herself. "My name is Yeula—Yeula Nars. I, um..." Yeula lowered her head momentarily before continuing. "Fortitude took me away from my parents two years ago, when I was seven. My parents loved me unconditionally and supported my decisions even when they didn't agree with them. It was only after I was separated from them that I realized how much they meant to me, and I wish I could thank them for putting up with me for so long when I was so difficult to them. I miss them every day, but I know I'll get to see them again eventually, and I've made plenty of friends here to support me until then. All of you are important to me, and I do my best to make sure everyone stays as hopeful as I still am of the future, because I know we'll all see our families again. Thank you."

Yeula promptly returned to her place in the circle without basking in the accolades that followed her speech. The spirited child's speech was such Argen had come to expect during his time alongside her, and yet something seemed amiss in her words, even frightening in a sense. Argen had long acknowledged that Yeula was as deft a speaker for her age as she was a liar, something he would not dare speak aloud.

As Eyareon stood up and made her way to the middle of the circle, Argen disregarded Yeula and watched with a glint of excitement to hear the speech of his new graven image. Upon circling around to observe each of the children, Eyareon gave Yeula a subtle nod and spoke, "Glad I get to have a chance to speak to all of you at once for a change. My full name is Eyareon Ashta, and I've been stuck here for a good ten years of my life—a while longer than most of you here. I can hardly remember much about mom and dad, since they weren't around for very long as I was growing up; but at least I can tell I meant something to them. It sucks living a life without a family, y'know? But I've made plenty of friends around here to fit that role, so I'm not taking any anger out on Fortitude; they probably had a good reason for enlisting my family."

"Eyareon, do you—" Argen paused before he could ask what he considered a highly ill-suited question when sitting among so many naïve children. As though she had read his mind, Eyareon raised a palm in his direction, presumably beckoning him to save his question for a more private discussion.

"Besides," Eyareon continued, "I think I've got my own responsibilities now—you babies need someone who can relate to what you're goin' through while lookin' after you at the same time, and I'm pretty much up to the task for as long as I'm here. And since I don't have much time left, I hope you'll all remember to stay positive even after I'm gone; maybe watch over kids like Argen while you're at it, huh?" Eyareon winked at Argen as she spoke that last line, prompting him to smile nervously as all eyes looked upon him. "And that leaves one more question unanswered—what I'm planning to do after I've been released. Well, to be honest, I think I've gotten the hang of this place, and Fortitude seems to like me, so that's a plus. It's been way too long since my last Golem visit, and I've begun to think of this place as where I belong, so I've already decided to join Fortitude when I grow up. I've got unanswered questions just like everyone else does, and it looks like the only way I'll get those answers is to stick around with Fortitude for as long as they'll let me. I want to see what it's like beyond Golem's walls, and I definitely want to see what Fortitude is really all about, and why my parents are with 'em."

Although the children remained largely silent as Eyareon concluded her speech, Argen reasoned that it was in fact a common desire among Golem's civilians to unravel the secrets held by their authorities, and perhaps everyone remained silent because they, too, were beginning to consider one day joining Fortitude and gleaning the answers they so desperately yearned for in their current predicament; but Argen himself was not among them, for he had already seen more than enough of what lay between Golem and his own homeland to ever consider involving himself with Fortitude, which he gathered existed to combat malevolent creatures akin to the one he first encountered. And that was one encounter he did not wish to ever revisit. How to live the rest of his life was a question to truly ponder only when the time had come, he thought.

"It's pretty obvious by now," Eyareon continued, "but I didn't get a chance to bring any valuable toys with me. So, who wants to go next?"

"How about you, Argen?" Relt asked. Argen recalled that this boy had been discreetly eying him for some time after the meeting began, presumably awaiting his more formal introduction.

"Actually, I was hoping for an opportunity to speak with Eyareon privately," Argen said with a much less reticent voice than when he newly arrived in Golem.

"Hey, it's still an early mornin', isn't it?" replied Eyareon as she placed her hands on her hips at Argen. "Besides, I'll bet most of you kids only came here to get to know that boy hidin' under the robe right where I'm facin'."

Although not a single child spoke a word, the mutual gaze upon Argen more than spoke of their feelings. With grace belying his reluctance, Argen joined with Eyareon in the middle of the gathering only for her to rejoin the others in the circle. All eyes were upon him yet again, and while he did feel somewhat uneasy to be observed by so many people at once, he was somewhat excited at the thought of demonstrating his power, although he could only muse how they would perceive him afterward. After looking around himself for a suitably sized rock, Argen stood completely still, narrowing his eyes just enough to allow himself focus while observing the reactions of the spectators. And with his enchanted command, he called upon the rock to gradually rise above the air in front of him until it reached slightly above his head. Looks of disbelief veiled the faces of the older spectators, whereas the young children actually began to cheer with excitement; that was only to be expected from those with such blooming imaginations.

Hearing so many children cheer so fervently at once drew a warm smile upon Argen's face, but he was not yet finished. By extending his right arm in front of himself and slowly swaying it to his right, he commanded the afloat rock to parse gradually into tiny particles which encircled it as it continued to crumble. At this, the fanfare of praise and wonder turned into a lively debate among the spectators, with many of them shouting questions at their wiser peers in desperation to make sense of the spectacle before their eyes while marveling at something they could at last witness from beyond a fictional world. And while he somewhat pitied these ignorant children, Argen was nevertheless thrilled that he had opened their eyes to the reality of magic, something which they would undoubtedly boast to the skeptical adults.

"My name... is Argen," he spoke with some strain in his voice as the rock completely dissolved, allowing the particles left in its wake to dance around his now raised finger. As difficult as it was to speak his name with much of his energy devoted to his magic, it delivered a sense of empowerment he had never before been blessed with. The ease, compared to before, of which he summoned such a miracle surprised even himself, for his powers had clearly grown even whilst remaining unused for so long. "I've traveled here from a land far away, and I don't know if I'm ever fated to see it again. With that in mind, all I seek is a new land I can call my home." And with his introduction concluded, it was time to conclude his mesmerizing display. By throwing his arm above his head, Argen dispersed the flock of dust to instantly spread upon the hilltop, giving birth to a myriad of flora which spouted all around from the dirt, enveloping the air with such a pleasant aroma rare in a mostly barren field. From the corner of his eye Argen could see that a few of Fortitude's caregivers had already noticed him and were slowly making their way up the hilltop. Given their pacing, the matter was surely not an emergency to them, he thought; and so he simply remained to look upon the faces of the now silent spectators.

Of all the older children who bore witness to Argen's spectacle, Eyareon was clearly the least surprised; in fact, the faint smile she wore throughout even suggested she had always suspected that he was special. "Well, well, that's somethin' I thought I'd never see, to say the least!" she bellowed.

"Yeah, holy shit!" Relt added, promptly covering his mouth in shame afterward.

As for the rest of the spectating children, some, including Yeula, simply remained by to vet the fragrant flora blossoming all around them, whereas a greater number of children crowded around Argen just as before, deluging him with an incessant storm of questions; but Argen did not fret much this time, for he was too overjoyed at the excitement he had wrought to pay much heed to the babble of the flock.

"Hey, I said leave him alone!" shouted a voice that seemed to be Eyareon's from behind the crowd—Argen could barely hear her at all. It fact, it had begun to feel as if he were leaving into an entirely different realm with the children's voices growing increasingly muffled to his ears. And as if his realm were a dream, his own surroundings grew distorted until he could barely make out a single face in the indiscernible amalgamation. Planting his knees on the fertile soil, Argen presented his arms before his wavering vision and panicked at the sight of his seemingly bulging veins. As his bleeding nose painted his open palms red, Argen barely sighted the presence of the two caregivers urgently approaching from the side, seemingly commanding the other children to clear away. It was only a few seconds after the caregivers began to approach him before his vision went completely black and his thoughts drifted away.

#iwrite #story #novel #poem #poetry #fantasy #scifi #book #literature #original #writing #abstract #EPWChapters #futuristic #hope

[3one3]

The Sequel - 867

Monza

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Sometimes you come to me or I come to you and you act as if I am not to you what you are to me.”

“Ohmygosh, it’s just 8 in the morning. You’re going to have to save the riddles for after I’ve had coffee.”

“It’s not a riddle, cariña. I’m trying to tell you something.”

“Can you tell me in fewer words? Or just repeat “you”, “me”, and “I” a lot less?”

“You’re spoiling this.”

“Hold it for after coffee.”

“Brat.”

“You’re trying to tell me that last night was last night because I acted like your friend from the moment you got here until the moment I woke you up, and you were worried that that’s how I think of us- as friends- friends who mean a lot to one another and who sleep together, but friends. You were so overcome by the way I kissed you in the middle of the night that you realized that isn’t how it is- that you’re not my friend, but the person with whom I am desperately in love. I can confirm this. You are that person. You are to me everything that I am to you, and perhaps more. I must tell you, though I fear it will hurt you, and that it is unfair, that I am once again thinking of leaving him and moving back to London to be with you.”

“You have to stop watching four episodes of that show every day. You’re speaking like it’s the Middle Ages. I think I heard an English accent starting.”

“Shut up! That is not relevant. Did you hear what I said?”

“I know when you’re thinking of it and when you’re not. You don’t have to say so. I knew that in the middle of the night. It changes nothing for me. It just feels good when I see you and I know. Every time when we first meet up, I have a window to figure out if it was a good few weeks with him or a bad few weeks. I was confused last night because you were unhappy recently but you still acted like it was a good few weeks. Usually when things are not so good with him, you get to me and you’re attached, and you say you love me all the time, and you kiss me every 5 minutes like you do with him. All I was saying just now is that I’m very happy to know it doesn’t matter if it was a good few weeks. With me it’s still the same.”

“Okay now how bout we stop talking about last night before it’s completely ruined?”

“How about you go take a shower and get ready.”

“I wasn’t going to shower.”

“You smell.”

“I do not!”

“You smell like you slept with cum leaking out of-“

“Oh my god I take it back. I do not love you.” Christina rotated her hips so that she could snap her legs shut instead of leaving one across Juan’s stomach, and retracted her arm from across his chest so that she could fold it with the other one across hers instead. He reached for her, still wearing his delighted smirk, and smothered most of her upper body with his own. He smothered her face with kisses too, which turned her plaintive protests into girlish giggles. “I thought you were a gentleman! The most gentlemanly of gentlemen!”

“Even a gentleman can comment when his girl can’t be bothered to clean up after-“

“Why is that so terrible all of a sudden? Some guys like it. How do you think babies happen? It’s not-“

“Oh, you want a baby to happen? That’s it?” the Spaniard inquired at close range once she’d given up her fighting and was largely pinned down on her side. He spoke to her from just above her face, and at that distance it was plain to her that he wasn’t playing anymore even if he mocked with his imitating tone the way she characterized conception.

“No,” she retorted. “You know that’s not an issue.”

“No, of course it’s not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“Don’t snap at me, cariña,” Juan warned with a very pointedly raised eyebrow. “If not enough sleep makes you too cranky to take a joke, don’t stay up all night.”

“If you want to be a father, don’t make passive-aggressive jokes about it.” Christina’s eyes returned the warning. Being held at a physical disadvantage could bring out the scathing and bite in her, particularly when she felt armed with righteousness.

“What should I do instead?”

“Tell me.”

“And what difference would it make?”

Righteousness can get one into trouble, she’d learned over and over. The problem was that the lesson never seemed to stick. She backed herself into a corner where the only way out was to hear a truth she seriously did not want to know. Her mind raced for an alternative escape that wouldn’t require truth or losing face. Nothing came up but passing- giving up her turn and hoping her opponent would similarly jeopardize himself and thus give her an obvious next move.

“I don’t know,” she demurred, his weight growing uncomfortable on her arm trapped between his upper body and her side, and the weight of the subject matter growing ever more uncomfortable on the rest of her. A conversation about making babies was possibly the very last thing the rider wanted to have with her boyfriend while her husband was home with her son.

“You really should stop watching that show,” the Chelsea man tutted with a subtle smile. “Bastards on the brain.” He got off of her after that, and reclined in his spot as if nothing unusual had happened. “Do you want breakfast before we go? I can order something while you get ready, or we can look for something to take with us on the road.”

That’s it? That’s all, she asked in her head. The problem with giving up one’s turn in a battle of cross examination, Christina discovered, is that you give the opponent an opportunity to take the discussion far away from the pivot you wanted, and to eliminate the chance for you to ask for it without being the one responsible for any additional fighting. I wanted him to say it. I wanted him to say he wants to have a child, or to say that he doesn’t, or to trot out his usual line about not thinking about it yet. I don’t know WHY I want to know since all of the answers would upset me, but I still want to know, damn it. Yes, I would feel guilty and terrible if he said he wants to make babies with me. Yes, I would feel disappointed if he said he didn’t. Yes, I would call him a liar if he said he wasn’t thinking about it, because you don’t make snide comments about contraception and come back with “What should I do instead?” if you’re not harboring some baby-related resentment.

“Chris?” The purveyor of her torment patted her shoulder since she was still facing away from him, staring at the shrouded windows. This is going to be a wonderful day and I’ll only ruin it if I fight with him, or make him tell me something that will haunt me all day long. She turned over onto her back.

“I’m not hungry but I will be. Can we get coffee and a banana or pastry or something on the way?”

“Yes. Come here.” Juan waved her closer, so she completed the 180 and turned on her right side. It didn’t really bring her any nearer to him, but the change in body language made her metaphorically closer at least- more receptive, less shut off. He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I was just joking with you. Promise.”

“Mhm.” Her slightly bloodshot blues dropped down away from his, mostly because she didn’t believe him and didn’t want the temptation to call him out. Looking at him would only egg her on.

“Make sure you do your hair however you like it when you wear caps. We’re going to get you a Vettel Ferrari cap, yes?”

“Mhm.”

“Why are you upset?”

“Because a few hours ago all that mattered in the world was loving you, and this morning the rest of the world is real again.” With that nugget of truth exposed, the Vettel fan got up and went to her overnight bag to get her outfit for Monza, planned meticulously and with consideration for that cap she wanted, and then took it to the bathroom to freshen up and put it on. What she said was the real truth- not the sideshow of semen and babies and intellectual jousting. The middle of the night was love and lust and overwhelming goodness, and the morning was the reminder of all the things in her life at work to constrain and hinder that love and lust and good, most of which was her own doing.

Her grand prix companion let it go. He often knew when best to leave her issues alone, and unexamined, just as he usually knew when best to extract her thoughts and feelings from her by any means necessary. A Formula 1 race with paddock credentials at the sport’s “Temple of Speed” was no occasion to push her through the crucible. It was a day for fun and excitement, and his attitude and demeanor were in line with that. They raided the continental breakfast since it was included in the room charge, and hit the road with coffees, two paper cups full of fruit, and croissants wrapped in napkins. The buffet really wasn’t meant for takeout. The player did the driving on the off chance Christina might pass out and get a little more sleep, but she was much too excited and talked the whole way about a change in the oil burn regulations. She explained that the sport’s governing body, the FIA, announced that Monza would be the first round at which the new rules limiting the burn rate would go into effect, and that the limit was only imposed on new engines taken from then on. Old engines would see their established oil burn rate grandfathered in. Mercedes duly installed their fourth and final engines at the previous round, in Spa, and intended to make them last through the end of the season, taking advantage of the burn rate. Ferrari would take new engines closer to the end, in Malaysia most likely, and have to switch to the new lower limit. Mercedes’ move was clever, but Christina said it could come back to hurt them later because there was just too much of the calendar left to have taken their last engines so early. They could lose performance in the home stretch due to wear, or even suffer failures. If they opted to take a fifth engine for either of their cars, the penalty was a hefty grid drop.

“If we see Jon Snow, you have to try to get a picture of me with his butt,” she whispered to Juan just a moment into their paddock experience, when their escort from Ferrari’s press office stopped their journey to the motorhome to have a word with another girl in all red. Christina’s head was on swivel, and covered with her new hat. She was looking for famous people, of motorsport origin and otherwise. The crowd outside the paddock was 185,000 strong, and the much smaller number inside moved about with purpose on race day morning giving the illusion of the same kind of density.

“I am definitely not helping you photobomb an actor’s behind,” Juan informed her. “Unless you talk to him and ask his permission.”

“Oh, yeah, because guys always ask girls if it’s okay before taking sneaky pictures of their ass.”

“He probably uses a professional butt stand-in anyway.”

“Only the first time. Not in the one a few weeks ago.”

“You know way too much about this.”

“I’m sorry for the delay,” their host, Antonella, smiled after the other woman departed. Her accent was noticeable but not overwhelming, and most importantly her desire to please was just the right side of ridiculous. Both athletes were familiar with press, public relations, and communications people who were so overly accommodating and smiley that they came across as wholly inauthentic. Her smile was genuine when she handed them their credentials and caps and saw how excited they made the rider, and it grew even larger when Christina asked where she could get a little one for Lukas.

Their tour began in Ferrari’s motorhome, where they had espresso, met a few other guests, chatted with the head of the press office, posed for a few photos, and geeked out over a steering wheel retired from service. Next they visited the garage and received an explanation of how everything worked in there, which one of them certainly didn’t need, got to “pull the trigger” on some wheel guns, and even got a peek into the cockpits of Sebastian Vettel and Kimi Raikkonen’s racing cars. Sebastian’s biggest fan had her picture taken sat on his stool in his personal space at the back of the garage. Antonella told them they could return there just before the race and don some headsets to listen to the team chatter while the cars were on their way to the grid, and then they’d be escorted out onto the starting grid themselves to see all the other cars up close. In the meantime, someone from Liberty Media, the controlling owner of Formula 1, took over as host for a little while. He showed them the Paddock Club- a hospitality center for VIP’s from all teams as well as any fan willing to shell out for it, took some photos, apologized profusely for not being able to arrange for them to go for a ride in the two-seater Formula 1 car, showed them the viewing deck from which they could watch the cars on track at the beginning of the race, and fed them lunch, after which they were handed back to Antonella, who had a great treat for them.

“Let me see! Do I look like an idiot?” the gearhead girl asked anxiously, reaching for Juan’s phone. They got to meet Sebastian in the motorhome before he had to make a run for it for the drivers’ parade. The four-time world champion was very friendly and gracious, and he signed Christina’s hat and the two hanging from her little backpack. They did his trademark finger pose together for the requisite photos. She was very proud of herself for not being too starstruck, but very jealous of Juan because Sebastian actually knew who he was.

“No, you look fine. Very happy,” he laughed after he handed over the device. A team photographer took pictures with a real camera too, but he knew she wanted to be able to see one right away, and share it with everyone she knew.

“I’m glad I touched up my lipstick. Faded Ferrari red lips would not have been a good look. He looks like he didn’t mind meeting us, right? I hate when you see pictures with famous people and they look aggravated or like they’d rather be anywhere else but in the frame with you.” I’m in a picture with Seb and he’s smiling! Best day ever, the Olympic medal winner concluded, perhaps having forgotten about her titular achievement.

“You made him laugh when you said you jump horses over very tall things,” her friend assured her. He had squeezed her wrist tight when the Formula 1 pilot asked during their introduction what kind of riding she did and she followed her answer with “I know your sister does vaulting”. She wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass herself by hastily dropping random and very little known Seb knowledge on Seb himself.

“Did I wish him luck? Crap, I think I forgot to say good luck!”

“You definitely wished him luck, cariña,” her trusty travel companion laughed. She was hurrying to send herself the picture so that she could show it to André, who, despite all evidence adding doubt, was still her person and the one she needed to share things with, at least when she wasn’t already sharing them with Juan, and to post it on social media for all to see. “Like four times.”

“Okay good. Gimme a hug.”

“What?”

“Hug.” The jumping rider returned his phone and stretched up on the toes of her Stan Smiths to wrap her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his around her body. “That was so cool. Thanks so much for suggesting we come.”

“Thanks so much for letting me stand next to Sebastian when we took the picture together,” the Spaniard teased. He let go of her when she slid back to the flat of her feet, and then mocked the way she had to pull up her white cutoff shorts. She went white shorts, black v-neck tee, and yellow leather backpack knowing that she’d have a red hat too and thus represent all the essential Scuderia Ferrari colors.

“Do you want to go wander into McLaren and introduce yourself so you can catch Fernando after the drivers’ parade now since we’re free from our minders?”

“Sure. Are you concerned that I should get to say hello to Fernando, or have you checked Twitter and verified that the butt guy is still in McLaren?”

“Both? Actually I don’t know if he’s still there. Their tweet about him was hours ago. He could be anywhere.”

“If the parade is just beginning, we have some time. Want to walk around and see who or what we find?”

“Yessssss.” Christina slid her smallest aviators back on her face and followed Juan out of the mini HQ. Once out of the three-storey structure she took a hold of his arm and let him lead their wanderings. She knew she couldn’t hold his hand, but friends could walk that way. As if to remind her to remain careful, André replied to her picture text before they were even past the next fancy pop-up homebase in Renault’s black and yellow, fittingly.

“You look very pretty today, Prinzessin. I hope you’re having the best time.”

The Dortmund player was not quite blissfully but certainly blithely unaware of the effect of his behavior on his wife. He had no idea that she couldn’t wait to get to Italy because she wanted away from him and his moodiness and shortness, nor that she was desperate to feel the way she did with his former teammate, or that he wasn’t making her feel that way himself anymore. He just didn’t see that there was anything wrong, so he didn’t mind that she went away for the night, or that she appeared to be overflowing with joy while she did something without him. Her pictures and Instagram stories captured a happy girl loving life, and he didn’t know she wasn’t loving it the same the day before. And it couldn’t all be the buzz of the Formula 1 paddock.

“That’s the guy with the butt your mama is in love with,” André told his son, who was busy driving around the living room in his battery powered Ferrari- the one Juan gave him for Christmas. Dad was watching the build-up coverage to the race, with an eye out in case Christina was interviewed or caught in the back of shot. Unlike her, Kit Harington was getting a ride in the two-seater.

“Who isn’t in love with his butt?” Espen questioned incredulously. There was absolutely no reason for her to still be at the house, and yet she was. André asked her to look after Lukas for a couple of hours earlier in the morning so that he could go to Brackel for treatment. He’d been home a while though, on the sofa with her and the dogs.

“Me? Mausi? All the people who don’t watch that show?”

“That’s just because they don’t know about his bum. His face isn’t bad either.” The nanny tilted her head and nodded at the screen, and he rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell Chris- she’ll kick herself- he’s just done a major ad campaign for Dolce. She probably could have been in adverts with his bum if she hadn’t bailed on them. At the very least, she’d get to meet him at company parties.”

“Yeah definitely don’t tell her that.” The player shook his head vehemently and sunk down the cushions on the chaise part, his usual spot, so that he was flatter, and as a consequence, more level with Espen on the next part of the sectional. Lucky yawned, stretched his front paws out straight, and kind of rolled over onto his back so that he was aligned with André’s hip. Both humans reached to scratch his tummy at the same time.

“You can do it,” the Dutch girl smiled. “I have this little cutie to pet.” Spencer, in her lap, opened one eye when she rubbed his head.

“They’re spoiled rats.”

“Their mother says they earn their keep!”

“She’s spoiled too.”

“Lucky her.”

“How sick do you think that guy is of hearing people tell him winter is coming?”

“The amount is probably inversely proportional to the millions of dollars in his bank account, no?”

“I guess. I wonder what terrible, embarrassing thing Chris said to Vettel.” It looks like he was nice to her, André thought, unlocking his phone to look at the picture again. She’d be upset for weeks if her idol let her down. Or worse, if she thought he didn’t like meeting her or something. I’d never hear the end of that.

“Do you think she ever realizes that her husband and most of her best friends are famous the same way the other athletes she idolizes are? I think that’s so funny about her. That and her reaction to attractive people,” Espen chuckled. “She acts like she doesn’t share a bedroom with a guy just as fit as Kit Harington. She acts like she doesn’t know anyone like that.”

“I think he has all the millions of dollars in the bank account because millions of women find him a lot more attractive than me.”

“Yes, the acting in the biggest hit TV program has nothing to do with it.”

“He wouldn’t get the part if he were fat and ugly!”

“Yes, sure, of course, but he is not a unique, Adonis of a man. That’s all I’m saying. Chris acts like he is. Not just him, obviously.”

“So? This is a silly hill to die on.” André found the debate with his son’s nanny highly entertaining because he couldn’t understand her point, and she seemed so adamant and even bitter about it. She wore her bitterness in a sort of cute flaring of her nose and widening of her eyes. “Do you think Jon Snow’s friends who are girls don’t think anyone else is hot? They just say, “Oh well I know Jon Snow and therefore no one else is attractive”? That makes no sense. I have a sexy and adorable wife and many friends with other sexy wives and I still say that Scarlet Johansson is god-level sexy. As a matter of fact, I think the dragon queen lady is really attractive. She’s sort of like Chris- tiny and feisty and soft and hard at the same time.”

“But you wouldn’t binge-watch 67 episodes of her television series and act like you’ve never known such a beautiful woman,” Espen countered, gesticulating at the screen on the wall because Sebastian was on it. Christina idolized the driver for his mind and his heart, but both people on her couch knew she also swooned over his face.

“Neither does Chris!” One of the people on the couch was still laughing and dismissive. “She loves the story. Do you know how long it’s been since she’s had the time in her day and the space in her head to watch a full TV show and follow the plot through an entire season? I think it’s been at least 5 years. It’s great for her that she can get into something that takes her away and makes her sit still here on the couch or in bed for hours at a time without a single thought about herself or her life. Her imagination gets so starved for an outside stimulus when she doesn’t have time or the ability to focus on reading, or a series, or a project to work on, even, that it manufactures its own stories, and that’s not so good for her. She gets all...confused.” I’m not sure that’s the word but I think it is, he continued to himself. She finds things to get upset about, or imagines something that tells her reality isn’t good enough, or not the way it’s “supposed” to be. I don’t know. But it’s not good for her, or us. I’d rather have to hear her talk about a TV show nonstop, or a horse’s pedigree that poses some mystery to her, or her thoughts on whichever political issue she’s following. That’s much better than “Babe, I’ve been thinking, if you can’t read my mind and know which mood I’m in before you even get home, it must mean we’re not connected anymore,” or whatever other crap sprouts in her head when that imagination of hers is left to its own devices. It’s a blessing for both of us that she doesn’t have a problem or a competition to obsess over and instead has time to obsess over something of no consequence. “I’m for anything that she finds de-stressing. There isn’t a lot in life that she does.” I’m especially for de-stressing activities that are free, harmless to her body, can be shared with me, and have nothing to do with Juan. Or cauliflower. I hate it when she de-stresses by turning cauliflower into things that shouldn’t be cauliflower.

“Everyone who watches that show complains that it drives them crazy and causes them so much stress!”

“That’s different. Stress over fictional people is different from stress over World Cup campaigns. Trust me, I know.”

“Her life is sooooo stressful between weeks on her sailboat and weekend getaways to Mallorca- with sports cars, and a talent agent, and more handbags than most people have clothes.”

“Weeks on a sailboat are surprisingly meaningless when you’re competing for Olympic medals in the weeks after.” André dropped his gaze down to the black and white terrier at his side, and felt somewhat irritated that his nanny- hired help but considered part of the family- would harbor so much obvious jealousy in regards to his wife, and be so out of touch. “You’re with her so often. You should know what it’s like for her. Just because she smiles and does the work doesn’t mean it’s easy. You’ve seen when she can’t smile, and when she struggles with the work.”

“Of course.” Espen seemed to sense that she was wading into dangerous waters with her words and in particular her tone. Being part of the family could apparently lead her to forget that she was speaking to one of her bosses about the other.

[herkingmentality-shesunbreakable]

CHAPTER 28 "FREE TRADE" OF DRUGS AND SLAVES AT THE JUAREZ BORDER The next day. Dante drove me to a Bel Aire mansion high on a hill where another party was underway. As I joined those who had gathered on the manicured lawn, I recognized many of the same Mafia people who had been at the Malibu retreat aka "Hotel California". This was a welcome party for President Reagan who had just arrived. He was walking across the yard toward me with his friend. Jack Valenti, who was the president of the powerful Motion Picture Association of America. Reagan looked his role amongst his mobster friends, his beige coal with fur collar draped over his shoulders revealing a dark grey, pinstripe suit underneath. In retrospect I remember him as dressed like the one mobster I did not have to meet, John Gotti. As soon as my eyes met his, 1 was knocked to the ground by a familiar blue-white blast (high voltage) like the one I had recently experienced in D.C. When I came back around and my eyes refocused, Dante was holding me up. Reagan said, "Well, hello Kitten". "Uncle Ronnie, how'd you get here?" I asked in child-like innocence. "The rainbow, Kitten, the rainbow," he answered in Oz cryptic, "I told you I was coming home. There's no place like home, and you said it with me. So, here we are. I keep a little piece of the rainbow in my pocket so I can get back over it (to D.C.) anytime I want to. I make a wish, and click my heels, and I'm gone." For the moment, Reagan succeeded in confusing my mind with Oz cryptic metaphors, reconfirming to my child personality that he was indeed the powerful Wizard. As we went inside for a brief meeting, my personality was deliberately switched to the one that had dealt with de la Madrid the night before. The grey-white stucco house was decorated in plush Presidential blue carpeting and deep, cherry wood tones. The "office" was small and further crowded by those of us present for the meeting. De la Madrid was comfortably seated, as was Jack Valenti. I was not privy to Valenti's exact role in opening the Juarez border, I only know that he was well educated lo the particulars of this meeting. Dante and I remained standing since we would be leaving as quickly as I heard what Reagan, who was shuttling papers and pacing the room, had to say. "Well, Kitten," Reagan said to me, "this is your death sentence: You'll go out ia a blaze of glory." I was not surprised to receive confirmation of my imminent death by Reagan. I had heard about death by fire from seemingly everyone involved in establishing "free trade," through Mexico, of our nation's children for drags. Reagan's use of patriotic metaphors and puns while matter- of-factly informing me he ordered my death was reflective of his often displayed lack of respect for human life. What reflected his character even more were the crimes he was involved in that prompted him to cover-up through "sentencing- me to death. I had witnessed the criminal foundations of NAFTA, which in turn could threaten the successful implementation of the New World Order should these secrets ever be revealed. Initial "Free Trade" including drugs and white slavery extended beyond the U.S. /Mexican border. It routed U.S. traumatized, robotic, mind-controlled children into Saudi Arabia, while building up weapon stockpiles in Nicaragua and Iraq. Although I was considered to be no threat, predicated on the (erroneous) belief that I could not be deprogrammed to regain my memory of these events, my death would provide extra insurance to those involved. I was nearly "used up" anyway, and recording my death via "Snuff Film" was agreed upon as proof to De la Madrid and other leaders at risk, that I had indeed been silenced through death, I could not think to respond to Reagan's "death sentence". Dante wanted to make sure I grasped the point as he graphically expounded, "The next time I ignite your (sexual) flame. Baby, it will consume you, body and soul. And you will burn, Baby, burn. And I'll take your ashes and scatter them to the wind. I'm going to blow you away. On film." Upon hearing something cryptic to which he could relate. Valenti laughed at Dante's twist of words. Referring to the old, porn, blue pencil editing term "Blue movies," he added, "Blue blazes". Dante laughed with him. "We'll call it 'Who In Blue Blazes Was That?' Or, how 'bout 'Cream-Ate'?" De la Madrid noticed Reagan was not laughing and said, "That's like erasing a Mercedes to film a stunt," He leaned forward in his chair closer to Reagan, lowered his voice and said, "It is my desire to have seven just like her roll off the assembly Line and shipped to me prior to the agreement's completion." Reagan agreed, responding, "Those (blonde-haired, blue-eyed) fine kids on the relay to Saudi Arabia are top of the line, but they don't have what she's got." "Two faced Ones are hard to come by," de la Madrid quipped, referring to my vaginal mutilation and Presidential programming code. He cut his eyes over to me, touched himself and cryptically continued, " — from one perspective, anyway. And I like having 'One' I can 'count on." Reagan chuckled while Dante shifted his feet and unfolded his arms long enough to cough-laugh. Valenti seemed to be bored of cliches or was missing many of the cryptic double meanings, but judging from the tone of the meeting, that was just as well. "I'll mention it to Bobby (Byrd) and delegate your order to him," Reagan told his Mexican counterpart. "It should be relatively simple to slip one in for you every few shipments or so once the Juarez border is open to such free trade activities as planned." Reagan spoke as though he were dis- tracted and thinking of something else, even when he looked my direction. "If you please, Sir," I began, "I have the Presidential Seal of Approval and am prepared to fulfill my role." Dante looked at his watch, aware that 1 was scheduled to be at the Juarez border by the "stroke of midnight". Reagan walked over to see the paper I had received from de la Madrid the night before. "OK. Well, farewell. Kitten," Reagan said, as he kissed my cheek. He added in Oz cryptic, "I'll see you on the other side (of the rainbow in D.C.). Click your heels..." My world spun black. Someone had hit me with a powerful stun gun and I was down, feeling as though Dante was half dragging me as he led me to his car, which was already idling in the circular drive. We soon pulled up to the motor home at the gas station on Hollywood Boulevard, where he had picked Kelly and me up several days before, Kelly was already in the motor home, vomiting sick and horribly traumatized. She had been convinced by someone that I had been killed. Houston attempted to create a hypnotically induced "time slip," acting as though I had only been gone a few minutes. We drove quickly, stopping only for fuel in order that I be in Juarez at the appointed time. There 1 robotically presented the Presidential Seal of Approval to the proper officials as programmed, officially opening the border to "Free Trade" of crimes against humanity. Houston and I had hurried across the Juarez border where we were met by the Mexican official in charge. The guard looked to be in his late 40s, with classic, rugged, Mexican features. He stood approximately 5'11", had black hair, an unkempt moustache, black beady eyes and a paunchy belly protruding over his short, squat legs. He spoke excitedly in Spanish, with a harsh, cold lone to his voice as he spit out the necessary words in English, "Give me the Seal", He snapped his fingers, impatiently hurrying me. He took the Presidential seal and knocked me face down on top of a small, barren metal desk while he closely inspected the document. Even Houston was unusually quiet while this particular uniformed guard paced the small tower room, sweating profusely while he talked on his walkie talkie. Finally, he accessed and verified the bank transaction codes provided through whom he said was George Bush, Jr. He concluded the encounter by taking a stun gun from his belt and jolting me with it, supposedly to erase my memory. I was nauseated and weak from high voltage and the ordeal as Houston and I made our way back across the border. My empty stomach rolled, prompting Houston to lie, "I told you not to drink the water". In reality, I had had nothing to drink since the champagne at the Hotel California, and 1 hadn't eaten in days. I was thoroughly exhausted when we reached the motor home in El Paso, but Houston was sexually aroused from cocaine and the criminal events that merged Mexico with the U.S. at the Juarez border. CHAPTER 29 THE LIZARD OF AHS After the opening of the Juarez border, I was kept actively busy according to the plan to "use me up" before my 30th birthday death sentence. I was subjected to a brutal (near death gang rape) "celebration benefit" at an identified Masonic Lodge in Warren, Ohio to "celebrate the free trade benefits" gained by involved East Coast politicos. Centers such as the nearby Youngstown "Charm School" went into mass production of slaves to mule drugs or be part of the mind-controlled sex slave "trance-sport operations". Mexico was not the only country reaping the economic benefits of criminal free trade. After Kelly's ordeal in California, Dante and Houston were criminally exploiting her for literally "all she was worth". Subsequently, she missed an extraordinary amount of schooling. When she was in school, she was experiencing difficulty with her peers. These factors prompted plans to send her to a local Catholic school the next year, where her unusual behavior would be overlooked and covered up, Soon thereafter, Senator Byrd came to Nashville to fiddle at the Grand Ole Opry and, as my handler. Houston, remarked, "fiddle around with me" at the Opryland Hotel. Byrd explained that close association with me had become volatile due to my roles in Iran-Contra and NAFTA, and therefore he would be distancing himself from me. He spent most of "our last night together" working on his memoirs for a voluminous book on the U.S. Constitution he was writing (now published at taxpayers' expense), which focuses on his long-winded Senate (filibuster) speeches. Byrd attempted to strengthen my programmed "loyalty bond" to him to keep me quiet "until death do us part". He told me, "If it was up to me, I would let you live". He talked at length about how our time together had been infringed upon by both de la Madrid and Reagan, Bitterness over their stronger controls on me was evident as he mocked their self appointed roles as the Wizard and Lizard of Oz. De la Madrid's fascination with U.S. mind-controlled slaves reportedly inspired him to combine Bush's lizard-like alien themes and his re- puted Mayan roots/lizard man theories with Reagan's Oz themes to claim the role of Lizard of Ahs. From Byrd's ramblings, it appeared that his mockery of their roles was due to their having decided how "his" slave would die, and had nothing to do with caring that I would be killed. Byrd maintained his "bonding" programming charade all night. He played his fiddle and sang "to : me" in place of his usual torturous whipping and brutality. Sex was, for the first and last time, painless. Byrd had not distanced himself too far from me, though, where government operations were concerned. When I was "over the rainbow" in D.C. during the summer of '87, it was business as usual with Byrd. I was escorted to Goddard Space Flight Center where Byrd was waiting for me in a sterile hallway near the brass-trimmed, mirrored elevators. He was loaded down with items, which he deposited on a small table as he greeted me. He picked up a NASA ID badge and clipped it on my nipple, the metal teeth biting me with their serrated edges. When I (softly) cried out, he said, "Oh OK. Ill wear it," removed it, and clipped it on his white lab coat. He handed me a NASA lab coat like his and a white hard bat. His hard hat suggestively and "humorously" said HARD in bold red letters. My hat said NASA, in a mirror reversal of the standard bold red lettering. When I read it in a mirror, it appeared as though I were on the wrong side of the mirror and needed to step through (according to Alice In Wonderland/NASA programming). It also clearly indicared to those-in-the- know that I was under mind control. Byrd looked at his pocket watch prompting a wave of terror in me, and said in Wonderland cryptic, "We're late. As the elevator drops down the rabbit hole, we'll reverse time in order to get there a few minutes early." Bvrd spun me around to face the elevator's mirrored doors saying, "Look deep into the mirror and be all that you can be by becoming infinitely lost in all that you see." Byrd timed his hypnotic induction so that wben he ordered. "Step through the mirror," the doors opened and we stepped through. As the elevator supposedly went "down 99 (taken from Aquino's corny reversal of 66) levels to the depths of hell," Byrd told me the Earth "spins faster and faster at the core, causing us to spiral downward in a tornado effect." I dropped deeper in my hypnotic trance. The elevator doors opened to what appeared to me as an exact replica of the floor we just left. However, this floor's hallway led to a computer room and sanitized-looking lab area. Several of the scientists working there were amused by our hats, prompting Byrd to ham up his comedic act, Byrd ignored the fact that these NASA workers, like many others, may have deliberately stroked his entertainer's ego because they relied on his appropriations for funding, Byrd made me robotically announce to the workers, "He's taking me to your leader." "I'm the Commander, here," the apparent director of the underground lab said. The workers again busied themselves as he stood, arms folded defensively across his chest, while his bespectacled intelligent eyes darted the room surveying the situation. The Commander had a few, grey strands salting his short, dark hair, yet his build was surprisingly youthful and trim for his age. He and Byrd apparently knew each other quite well. Byrd strode over to him, dragging me along. "Tom," Byrd called to his 50ish 6'1" friend. "This is your specimen of the day that I promised I would deliver. I will be most interested to see what you can deliver since diplomatic relations with Mexico depends on it. Not that I want to increase any pressure you may feel, but we need seven more just like her to stuff in the mouth of his royal Lizardry (de la Madrid) to keep him from spilling his guts on the project." "It's just as well, my friend," the Commander said, stroking his chin without uncrossing his arms. "That way he can't talk without implicating himself." "That's the way the Chief feels about it," Byrd agreed. "He's already in deep anyway, but this order (for slaves) hits him closer to home since they'll be serving him personally." We walked to a clinical, sanitized area that had a maze of small rooms where I was undressed and prepped for the lab. A nurse of sorts injected me with the NASA "Tranquility" drug and instructed me to put my lab coat back on. "Walk this way," she ordered as she led me down the hall, swinging her hips in an exaggerated manner. I immediately complied. The Tranquility drug had no recreational affects, but produced an attitude of peaceful compliance to all orders given. As we approached the theater-type lab, a small group of men who would be in attendance were talking with Byrd and the so-called Commander. They looked at us and laughed at my literal compliance to walk like the nurse. 1 was then led by the Commander to a "backstage" entrance which was actually a glass-encased lab surrounded by seats in ascending rows. Scientists in NASA lab coats looked down on the lab table where I lay as the Commander wired me up to a computerized machine. A camera was positioned high in one comer of the room, filming all that transpired. I was aware through conversations between Byrd and the Commander that de la Madrid had requested a video of the latest advancements in mind-control technique being used to create his seven slaves. In reality, the camera was filming scientific methodisms salted with "comic" misinformation as a humorous "no" to his request. Since I was considered "used up" and my death was imminent, the Commander told the scientists to "feel free to fuck the lab specimen", "But first," he said, "before you satisfy your mental and physical curiosities sampling the President's (Reagan's) wares, we must satisfy El President's (de la Madrid's) perverse intellect with a little space humor." He turned to one of the technical workers and said, "You're going to have to edit this tape for de la Madrid's benefit and take this part out while we prepare her for an 'off color' chameleon joke." A live lizard encased in a glass test tube of sorts was inserted in my vagina, The camera was focused on the area while my legs were spread in a birthing position. Acting as though I had conceived while having sex with de la Madrid, the Commander said, "Now for the finished product, which in layman's terms equates to the reproductive offspring of a Lizard breeding machine." He dramatically snapped on a rubber glove and probed me as though he were giving me a gynecological exam. In fact, he was opening the trap door of the Lizard's tube to turn him out. Very slowly, the sluggish lizard poked his head out of my vagina and crawled out onto the metal table, "This concludes all of the experimentation demonstration of the cloning of a Presidential model," the Commander said, I apparently had been selected as the prototype for the seven programmed slaves de La Madrid had requested. De la Madrid was interested in NASA programmed staves that would be vaginally mutilated like I was. He was sexually obsessed with the hideous carving. 1 have no way of knowing what, if any, technological advancements were actually provided to de la Madrid via the film. I only know that deliberate misinformation tainted the methodologies depicted, and that I had never experienced programming or testing before or at the time by any such methods. This video created for "his Royal Lizardry" was one of many cryptic lizard themes that NASA used in its Mexican operations. All of my programmed roles in Mexico involved the prolific, local, iguana lizards. De la Madrid had relayed the "legend of the Iguana" to me, explaining that lizard-like Aliens had descended upon the Mayans. The Mayan pyramids, their advanced astronomical technology, including the sacrifice of virgins, was supposedly inspired by the lizard aliens. He told me that when the aliens interbred with the Mayans to produce a form of life they could inhabit, they fluctuated between a- human and Iguana appearance through chameleon-like abilities. "A perfect vehicle for transforming into world leaders." De la Madrid claimed to have Mayan/alien ancestry in his blood, whereby he transformed "back into an Iguana at will." De la Madrid produced a hologram similar to the one Bush did. in his You Are What You Read initiation. His hologram of lizard-like tongue and eyes produced the illusion that he was transforming into an Iguana. While in Mexico, I was always ordered to wait by rocks where the abundant Iguanas sunned before being "trance-ported" to my scheduled meetings with "his Royal Lizardry," the Lizard of Ahs.

#Cathy O Brien Tranceformation of America