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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 years

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A Moment's Surprise--Chapter 11

Whether it’s called an accident or the fates of the universe, you and Calum find yourselves taking on the next level of your relationship: parenthood.

Reader (Gender Neutral) X Calum. Multi-chapter Series.

Series Note: Across this series, pregnancy is discussed thoroughly. While I have made this series specifically a reader insert and have done my best to avoid coding for cis women, I am taking this moment to acknowledge that this content may not be suitable for every reader. I want to acknowledge even if I’ve been careful some things (like uteri) are still mentioned and if that causes you discomfort please DO NOT read this. You may keep scrolling (as there is a read more) / skip this as necessary.

Series Masterlist

Calum’s hands shake. The last question sits blinking up at him. His answer highlighted in the not even dark enough to be considered black, but possible gray circle to fill in the outline. It’s not this question that he’s worried about. But the next submit highlights in blue. Next means he’ll review. If he reviews too much, he’s sure to second guess himself. But he did flag a few questions. Maybe he ought to review those. Maybe he ought to just hit submit and save himself the worry of this nature.

Calum brings the arrow down to hover over the blue next button. Someone in the room, sounding somewhere to the left of him, coughs. He glances up but only sees the gray dividers surrounding each of the computers designated to a testing station. No time like the present, he thinks to himself as he glances back to the screen. It only takes a tiny press of his index finger and the screen fills with several dots in a circle. The cycle light to dark as the data loads. And in a blimp the screen shows him his question list.

A prompt comes up alerting Calum that while he has answered every question, there are eight that are flagged for review. He can proceed and submit fully or he can review them item by item. Every single time he’s taken a practice test, the majority of the questions he second guessed on too much and changed answers, he got wrong. Occasionally, he’d get one of the ones he switched right. But now, Calum stares at the choices. Review or Submit With No Review.

He moves the cursor on screen over just a hair to the right. He clicks on the now highlighted blue box.

Saving and Submitting Answers…the screen reads, more gray dots darkening and lightening. Successful Submission. Your results will be viewable in your GED online account in 3 to 4 hours. If you do not see your results after 24 hours, please contact our Help Desk. A number is provided at the end and Calum’s quick to find one of the scratch pieces of paper to write down the number.

Once he has the number written down, he looks back to the screen. Three to four hours somehow feels incredibly long and incredibly short. He exits the screen, and then gets back to the home page. He’s able to log out and then he stands. Others are still testing so he’s quiet as he walks out and then passes the two proctors. They take back all the scratch paper and two pencils. Calum thanks them and then heads back to the lobby.

It’s cold--the building--and it only really dawns on Calum that it is cold when his arms catch a chill. He had to leave his hat, sunglasses, jacket, wallet, phone, and keys in a locker in the lobby. He finds his ID from his back pocket after grabbing his wallet from the locker and slips it back in the slot it always resides.

You insisted on driving Calum to give him the chance to fret and study, but now Calum would have to call and see how close or far you were from him. Still, he appreciated the offer and did use the hour in traffic to sort through some of the nerves. The attendant at the front smiles as Calum leaves and Calum returns it, pulling the hat down onto his head. Calum squints as he steps fully back out into the day. The afternoon sun beams brightly above him against the dim and barely window filled building he just exited from.

Calum presses the power button on his phone and his chest feels like it’s barely containing his heart. What if he turned it on and an email alert was already ready for him? What if he failed the test? Worse than the actual test itself was the waiting for the results. Just as the screen fills with Duke, you, and Joy on his lockscreen, Calum hears his name.

A few couple feet from him, you sit, waving one out of the car window. You’re grinning as you peek your head out. “I got your favorite,” you call out.

Calum laughs just a little at your pure excitement and starts towards the truck. He stops right outside the driver side window. The tint of the sunglasses makes you slighter darker than he knows you to be, but you’re still grinning so wide and so bright as you push your sunglasses up and on your head which makes Calum temporarily forget about the fear.

“You got me the cutest partner around who’s baking my baby boy? Is that what you got me?” he laughs.

“Yep. That too.”

Calum leans in gingerly through the window and you stretch out to meet you in the brief kiss. Against your lips, Calum speaks, “What did you get then in addition to that?”

“Your favorite McDonalds and a Dr. Pepper. And,” you stress, pulling away just a little from him, “an apple pie.”

“You’re spoiling me,” Calum whispers.

You shrug. “It’s getting late in the day and you couldn’t eat much for breakfast. Could you take the peppermints in with you?”

“Peppermints did come in handy,” Calum returns. He brings one hand in through the window. His finger graze over your cheek. “‘C’mere,” he commands softly.

You duck in closer to Calum and he greets you with another kiss. He breaks the seal first and pinches your cheek softly before walking around to the passenger side. He’s careful while handling the brown paper bag. From the cup holder, Calum spies an empty apple pie holder. “I see you got yourself a treat too.”

You shrug. “Sure did.”

It’s a quick exhale of his laughter before Calum peers down into the bag. He’s hungry, he knows intellectually, even his stomach grumbles in desperation. But he worries the second he goes to eat anything, it won’t stay down.

Your hand is soft on his knee. “It’s all going to be okay. And I know you might hate me for saying that. But you’ve done really well on all the practice tests.”

To you, it’s not even like Calum needs to pass it now. It’s barely two weeks into August and with a due date in November, Calum still had plenty of time to take the test whenever he felt certain about it. And not to mention, he still had time after the baby. But when he wanted to test during the break and before the baby shower, you let him make the call. You took a step back and let him do whatever he felt was best.

Calum nods at your statement and tries a few fries to see if his stomach will allow him that much. As the truck rolls back out of the space, Calum watches the building. He’s sure it’s going to disappear from view. He’s sure that when the building falls behind them and you carry the two of them over the winding roads and highways the whole building is going to dissipate like a bad dream and there will be no results in his email. There will be no test that he’s actually taken.

Calum’s silence from your right does worry you, but you are cautious. “Do you want to sit at the beach for a little bit?” You took the day from work and while there’s always something to do--you two still had your birth plan to finalize and there was the baby shower--you still want to give him the opportunity to relax. To take however long he desires to let the stress of one thing roll down his back.

“Sure,” Calum returns around the last bite of another handful of fries. “The results are supposed to come today--within a few hours. I’m scared I might piss myself.”

“We’ll twin,” you joke.

“You’re not going to shit yourself,” he counters.

“And you’re not going to piss yourself.”

“Touché,” Calum returns and finally goes in for the filet-o-fish. The first bite though he’s worried it won’t stay down makes Calum realize just how hungry he is. Before you can even take the exit for the beach the sandwich is gone. You don’t say anything though as you watch Calum go digging back into the bag and pull out the apple pie.

The beach comes into view. There’s no shock that there’s people already on it, or maybe they’ve been here for a while. Neither one of you knows for sure. But you pull into a spot closer to the benches off to the side, near the boardwalk. Calum’s out first, to throw out his trash and when he comes back to the truck, you’ve gotten down and out. Calum offers an arm for you to take. It’s not the first time you’ve been out in public. Most of the time when you two were out in public and Calum did get spotted, you managed to be elsewhere and came back after he’d already been approached.

Now there’s not much hiding you can do as your walk has turned a bit more into a waddle. Up the short set of stairs, Calum leads the two of you over to a picnic table underneath a tiny bit of shade. He makes sure you get seated first and then he slips onto the bench behind you. The two of you sit, straddling the bench. Calum slips his arms around your waist. There’s a gentle breeze that caresses your skin and you slip your glasses back down over your eyes to watch out over the water.

“How set are you about having two kids?” Calum asks after a minute of silence.

“I’d say pretty set. What about you?”

“I was going to say less set. Because maybe three doesn’t sound so bad,” he laughs.

“We don’t even know what one kid is like yet.”

He hums at the response. “You’re right. But we’d be more equipped after Pumpkin.”

“Let’s see how we feel in a year. But I do think you’re right. Things are all new this time around and they wouldn’t be as new with later children.”

“Did you ever hear how the conference went?” Two months ago, you were tasked with getting materials together, even though you wouldn’t be able to attend due to flight restrictions by your doctor.

“It went well, yeah. It was basically just a networking event. So I think negotiations and things are in the works. But that’s mostly in legal’s and in the public relations’ corner for now. If anything were to change, I wouldn’t be notified until well after agreements were made and signed.”

Calum notices you readjust your position once again and slots in a little closer to you to give you more support from behind. “I hope nothing changes too much if anything does come as a result of this. Policies just changed at the start of this year--I’d hate for not even a year later more changes keep coming down the line.

“If they really want to change something, they will,” you laugh.

“Ain’t that true.”

For the next stretch of time--which neither one of you can really keep track of or cares to keep track of--there’s just the sound of the crashing waves and the distant chirp of voices. Calum smiles to himself when you rest a bit more against him. Like it doesn’t matter if you two get spotted, like it doesn’t matter that you don’t say anything for a while. Because the only thing that really matters is taking in the company of each other.

As you shift again, Calum slips his hands from around your front to your back. His fingers are firm as they knead into the muscle. You hum gently at the feeling. “Can I run an interesting game for the baby shower?”

Calum’s not sure what sort of game you’d be proposing for a vote. But he’s intrigued. “Which would be?”

“So it’s a couples game,” you start. “I saw this on Instagram so like, blame them if it’s terrible. But each couple has a balloon that they have to pop. But the goal is to pop the balloon is a progressively spicer or sexual position.”

Calum raises his brows as the idea mulls over. He drops his gaze just a little to make sure you’re still okay as he gently massages your back. “Well, I know if you weren’t already pregnant we would win the game.”

You snort. “Calum.”

His name is meant to be a warning, but Calum hears the laughter behind it too. “Oh, tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers against your ear.

“You’re not,” you sigh. “But what do you say?”

“I think it would make for a hell of a game, but I’m telling you right now if we have any more kids, we’re going to have new ways to top this.”

You turn just a little and pucker your lips for a kiss. Calum is happy to indulge in your silent demand. “We will,” you whisper against his lips. “I’m sure we can steal more ideas from social media when kiddo number 2 comes along.”

“Call me biased, but kid number 2 needs to be a girl. Wouldn’t that just be the complete cycle of life?”

“Given your luck, I think the universe might listen.”

The beach holds your company for another half an hour before you two climb back into the truck. Calum takes over the driving. It’ll keep his mind off the test scores and he won’t be able to check his phone at all during the traffic. You don’t fight him and as the two of you start out on the way back to the house, Calum offers a pit stop to do some baby shopping.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for a jersey already?” you tease.

“Have you been spying on my online purchases?” Calum laughs. “I just want to grab one more thing of diapers. And see what else catches our eye. What do you think?” Calum does keep glancing down to the radio and there’s still half an hour before the 3 hour mark. He fears not doing something will make him go insane at home.

“Can’t hurt,” you agree.

Calum pulls up into the Target parking lot. “Plus, I’ll let you drag me to the Ulta next door so you can finally get me the deep conditioner.”

“Finally,” you exhale, having been trying to convince Calum to try the new brand. The old one wasn’t bad, but with his constant hair changes you know that he needs one that’s just a bit more color and bleach friendly.

Calum grabs a basket and you take over pushing it. It’s quick for Calum to grab the box he wants and put it under the basket of the cart. But he can see your gaze drifting over all the clothes and he gently directs you in that direction. He admits, as much as he wanted to listen to his Mum, and wait just a little bit longer on getting the clothes, it was hard to resist. You hold up a pair of green onesies and he sighs as he nods.

“You’re killing me. I can’t say no,” he huffs. “Michael’s buying socks out of the ass, just to let you know.”

“Michael does seem like a sock guy. Do you think we should have a few more extra long sleeves and stuff for winter? Since we are expecting a winter baby and all.”

Calum looks over the selection and notices a lot of it is summer stuff. “If we can find it, a little extra doesn’t hurt.”

The two of you flip through the racks for a moment or two in silence before Calum remembers that focusing too much on one size would do more harm than good. “What do you have in your hands?” Calum asks.

“Like what style or what size?”

“Size.”

“I’ve got some 3-6 months and then a couple 6-9 months.”

Calum looks at his pile. “Hm, majority 3-6 for you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’d say so,” you return.

Calum puts back the 3-6 pile he has and swaps a couple out for a larger size. “Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah of course.”

A few more moments, or maybe minutes, pass. Calum bypasses the crab longsleeve that he sees and continues down the line of racks. There’s tie-dye and he’s sure you’d coo at it, but it doesn’t cause him to pause. That is until you call out his name. “Calum, look!”

He glances up to see you hold a two piece in front of your chest. The top reads, Rad like Dad with gray short bottoms. “Oh,” Calum sighs. Would he be a rad dad? Would he do a good job? Surely he’d learn from his parents parenting style with him and he’d learn just from having to be a dad, being the one to change diapers and tend to wounded knees and watch his child learn some lessons the hard way.

“I’d be honored to be considered rad,” Calum finally gets out.

“I think you’re rad,” you return. “Which means this is automatically accurate.” You then add the outfit to the cart without further discussion.

“Seems final,” Calum teases.

“I’m coming up on a bust other than what I already found. What about you?”

Calum nods, feeling partially the same. “Lot of nothing if I’m honest.”

“Did you need more of those under shirts, by chance?” you ask, throwing your thumb over to the left. “Only remember now because there’s a display right in my face.”

“Uh, I think I’m okay. But I should probably get more underwear,” Calum answers a little quietly. “Either our washing machine hates me or my sweat is literally acidic.”

Your laughter escapes you even behind the rolled together lips. You confirm his size and start over in the direction of the men’s section. Calum trusts you--as you’ll either find something utterly ridiculous or a basic pack of solid colors and neither can really go wrong. He’ll wear whatever because at the end of the day it’s either you or him taking them off. So it doesn't really matter.

Putting away the last of the clothes that don’t make his final cut, Calum dares finally to pull out his phone. His home screen is littered with a few notifications but he swipes through them--none are for the GED results. Right as Calum thinks he’ll be the cursed one to have to wait 24 hours, his phone shakes in his hand. A Gmail notification, too. He looks at the subject, GED Test Results are Ready.

“Fuck me,” he exhales.

A glance in your direction lends Calum a few seconds of distraction. Something red is already in your hands and he’s momentarily more focused on assessing if the underwear is a ridiculous pair or a neutral pair. But then he looks back down to his phone. The results wait; they are only a passcode and a few swipes away. Calum inhales deeply as he enters his passcode and opens the mail app. It takes only a moment for the email to populate at the top.

Oh, he can’t do this. Not with you an aisle away. So Calum pushes forward and navigates over to you. “The scores are in.”

You snap your head in his direction. “Like in in?” you ask.

He nods. “I don’t want to look.” Calum starts to hold the phone out to you, but then brings it back to his chest. “Or should I be the one to do it?”

“Whatever you want,” you return, dropping the four pairs of boxer briefs in your hands into the basket. “I’ll do it if you want.”

Calum spins in a circle and a frustrated groan escapes him. He drops his head and then re-enters his passcode. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. “Okay, okay.” It’s just a test score. It’s one test. He can take it again. There would still be time.

He taps on the email--at the top is an introduction that helps break down what he needs in each section to have a passing score. “I swear to Christ,” he hisses. “Okay, 145 or higher. That’s all. I don’t need a college equivalent or anything.” He’s talking to himself but his gaze stays on you.

“145-easy,” you return. But your fingers are wrapping around the plastic of the cart so tightly that you’re sure that you’re going to draw blood.

“Yeah, easy,” Calum returns trying to match your confidence. He looks back to his phone and scrolls to see the individual scores. “Mathematical Reasoning 165. Science 163.”

“Okay, okay! Two of four,” you grin. You still know that social studies could be his undoing so you’re praying to high heavens that it’s a passing score.

“Social Studies. 149.” How close he was to not passing makes his chest squeeze, but it was a passing score. He passed. He actually fucking passed the Social Studies. “I might faint,” he teases, looking up at you.

“Three of the four,” you beam at the end of the cart.

“Reasoning Through Language Arts. 166.”

“You passed!” To be as far long as you are, you are still quick to make it around the basket and wrap Calum up in a hug. “You did it,” you exclaim again. The laughter falls in waves as you celebrate.

Time feels thick around Calum. Like he can’t quite move through it to comprehend fully that he passed. No matter how tight it seemed for him, he passed. He wants to celebrate alongside you but he gets choked. When did he have time for tears? Why does it feel like crying is the only emotion? Maybe it’s overwhelming. Calum’s not sure.

“Calum Thomas Hood, you fucking passed,” you whisper. Your hands ground Calum--he can feel your thumbs wiping at his cheeks and he knows he’s actually crying. You swim in his vision too.

“I passed?” His voice sounds so soft, so in disbelief to his own ears.

“Yeah, you did. You passed. You did it.”

“I-what?” Something soft lands on the end of Calum’s nose. Then he feels it on his lips. Then again on his cheeks. “Holy shit,” he exhales.

“You should be proud.”

Calum finds the flesh of you with his hands. And you’re real. The rattle of a cart passing is real. He blinks and you’re still there. You’re still smiling and still gently cradling his face. “We’re still in Target right? I didn’t die.”

“Nope, you didn’t die. We are still at Target.”

Calum wraps his arms around your neck in a hug. “Thank you. For believing in me.”

“Of course, love. Always.”

___________________________

Calum’s careful about not spending too much time on social media searching for tweets about him or the band. But when he opens Twitter later that night, he’s shocked to see his own name trending. Usually he can anticipate when it might come up. He can figure out what might be causing the trend. But nothing’s happened recently. Though for a brief moment, he wonders if it’s tour photos or a tour diary that’s causing the trend. Something in his gut contradicts the guess and tells him to check. When the tag opens on Twitter there is shaky video of you and him from Target. From the angle the video is shot, it’s clear it’s him. But then you bolt around the basket and hug him and in those moments, he knows just as much as he had kept this little secret close to the chest, it would soon be unraveling.

Nearly 6 months, Calum had this pregnancy to himself. His child was only for him and that’s the way it would stay until he wanted otherwise. Though the video is no doubt making rounds on platforms outside of Twitter, Calum knows that the thing that matters more than anything is that his private life does actually stay private. People are of course going to argue that they wanted to know sooner. Others will not care. But it matters--it matters to Calum that his growing family stay in his private sphere.

Over the years, I’ve learned to share what’s impactful and learned to keep what’s too much of me to myself so that my loved ones always get the best of me. My family and loved ones are growing and that is something that I’d like to keep close to me for their sake.

Calum stares at the tweet. There’s more to say. That he doesn’t want pictures of you posted. That he doesn’t want people asking if you two are married, or going to marry, or why he didn’t say anything sooner. Calum could say he’d rather not share this at all, but he knows part of him will share what he feels like he can afford to share. But it’s never a lot. He could say that he wished it didn’t have to go down like this. But the bottom line remains--this is not for the world and it will never be for them.

Send. Calum watches the bar load as the tweet loads. Once it’s sent, Calum swipes out of the app and sees who he can reach at the nearing ungodly hours.

Tagging: @busstop @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo @fandomfoodiedancer @carma-fanficaddict @icelily13 @markaylafruitcup @one-sweet-gubler @sunflowercalum @wiiildflowerrr @rosie-posie08

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missorigamimk · 1 year

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'' I don't mind suffering,as long you're next to me''

Warnings ; Fictional, NIjiro Imagine , Blood, Ilnness, Cancer,Fluff,Sexual Content,Consentual, Drama, Fictional Phone Numbers&Email Contacts!!!

1. the START

Good Morning.

You have called Dr. Love Dr. Shuntaro For appointments & therapy sessions; Mon-Friday- 08:00 - 14:00 & 17:00-21:00

Emergency Phone : +8148-837-2222

Contact : [email protected]

Central Tokyo Clinic Office ; info@ctjpnshuntaro

That's the voice mail of his Professional Number...One of the most Known Doctors in Japan.

One of the Best Therapy Doctor in Tumours , Cancer etc

Monday , June 12th 2020

08:16 pm

It was such a chilling morning , the dawn was so beautifull but also cold! The mist was around the atmospere and my bedroom was so wet and not cozy at all. But as i was warm inside my warm bed and pillow i was refusing to get up. But I had to. I had to get up in order to have my medical examinations result.

Three days ago i had a test done because i had something like a little ball inside my right chest and that was excactly was scared of. Cancer. It was small though, but at the same time it freaked out.

I got up in a hurry, i made a hot cup of coffee , having some quick snack , made my hair little messy but cute , i put some light make up and wore almost every wool coat on me. I grabbed my car keys and off the door.

I made it to the Clinic that i was 72 hours before.

It was a little crowded , some patients waiting for their check up, others were crying , i suppose that broke my heart. Bad results sad news .Oh God. I am just 40 years old. !!! I don't wanna die from that damn illness ! Not Yet ! I walked at the Front Desk , like i was already...dead

"Goodmorning"

"Good morning . How can I help you" ?

" I...I am here -- I just had some check ups 3 days ago and i came to give me the results...its for..-

" Yeah, I'llsee your Medical Records here. Are they for X-Rays ?

"yeah..."

"Gimme your name please"

" It's Dion Bone"

She did just 4-5 seconds to find my File from this Data base but seemed to me like a century.

"Ok. Here you are. Let me print this 4 you. I'll need your Insurance Number . OK"

"Sure."

"Have you got any other treatments before, or have you been checked up in other Clinics'?

"ahhh Nope i haven't..."

"Ok. Don't worry. Our team has the best Doctors here. "

"If you say so..."

"Alright. She sighs. Here it is. "

She gave me a large yellow folder with all papers in it, and some white Page with a list of Doctors i could visit and have my therapy.

"So, you're done from here. You can go to the Doctors office to see your exams?"

"Yeah"

"Dr. Shuntaro is On Duty today. His office is at your right hand at the end of the Hall. : OK?

" Great...thank you"

" Have a nice day, and please....stay calm. She winked.

Panic and stress is never good for whatever..."

"I'll try" I replied and i grab my staff heading through the big problem that was in front of me and my health.

My steps was like a zombies....slow,stiff and almost ready to collapse. I had already pulpitations .

His door was in front of me and i couldn't - just didn't want to knock it. I stood there for about 2 min without doing a move forward or backwards.... I was ready to go , suddenly his voice heard behind the close door.

" OK. Mrs Tale. Have a good morning. I'll see you next week"

I run to hide behind a thick wall , sneaking looks in his door.

I was acting like idiot , as if he was the Satan himself.

What i was affraid of? Any given result, bad or not , i had to know.

He opened the white heavy door and his voice was closer.

"Bye! Don't forget your medicine dear!"

He came out walking to the front desk .

"Hey What's Up Macy?"

"Hey Dr. How are you doing?"

"Not bad. I just wanna some coffee in my veins! I didn't had anything yet. I woke up very fast today ... i feel like sleepy!"

"A-ha Chishiya , you must have some days off you know!"

Yes! Take some days off will ya ! Gimme a break !"

I thought while i was already walking through the back exit.

I heard his footsteps coming my way.

"Can I help you."?

"SHIT!" He saw me...

I looked back as i turned and i saw him.

Dr. Shuntaro himself.

I felt more stressed than i was before. Almost frozen

I-I...."Actually...Ye-Yes"

"I'm Dion Bone. I just had some exams and i want you to see these"

"Sure. Please, come inside" he said pointing his office entrance

He made a small step to enter but he stopped and turned to my face

"Oh. Sorry for being so rude. Would you like some coffee"?

" Aahhh... ok"

"Macyyy!! Can you please get some coffee for Dion"?

"Sure!" She yelled.

"He smiled . Alrighty. Please....( hand gesture welcoming to his office)

He placed his coffee on his desk , he sat down , comfortably at his white leather chair.

"So, What exams are they?

I handed him the large envelope and he opened it carefully with his delicate hands.

"Hhmmm . X-Rays"

"Breast Cancer X-Rays"...

He was looking at them without talking much , he was fully concetrate on this.

In all this time , i was just sitting there, frozen,scared and panicking.

"Miss. Bone. Your exams are not so bad. There is indeed a tumour in your right breast but as i can see it's curable. Oh yeah, let me check an....- yes it is. If you start your therapy right now it's absolutely curable. So, you don't have to afraid."

" Are you sure Dr.? I am - I am ... a tear started to make an appearance....40 years old and I don-

"You are not going to. Do you hear me? You're going to be Fine!"

"Come here. He pushed the paper closer so i can also see

"Do you see this?" He pointed with his index finger some area from the X , i swear i could't understand a single thing but he was a doctor so i guess i should show some trust!

" Your tumour is here. It's 0.2 inch , which means it;s not have growing yet' We can easily make it ...gone !:

"What about metastasis Doc?"

"Metastastis isn't something we must concern now"OK?

I sighed. "Ok" "When we should start my therapy"?

"Well, what about tomorrow'? "Unless you wanna have some second opinion..i mean...if you've already"

"No No! Do you mean if i have another Doctor? NO!'

"Yes. If that's so, i don;'t have any problem"

" No...You are my....First. I mean , in Medical's Issues!"

" I got you. I'm going to give ya some prescription ok. I want you to stay away from stress, anxious and bad mindset."

" Would you do this?"

" I will do my best"

"That's it"

He smiled to me so sweet so calming that is like it was the first relaxing thing i needed that moment....

"Thank you so much 4 your help Dr."

I stood up my chair , grabbing my purse and ready to go.

" Oh. Just a moment. Here. "

He passed me his tiny Medical ID card with the Phone Number and Email.

" Here's the way to find me. In Case you need some advice"

" Thank you so much again . Bye. See you soon!"

"Let me walk you out"

He opened the door for me , and i felt his hand on my back.

"Bye. See ya!" He winked his right eye...and smiled again.

PART 2 COMING SOON !!

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systemtek · 9 days

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Exploring the Evolution: A Comprehensive History of Google

Title: Exploring the Evolution: A Comprehensive History of Google Introduction:In the vast landscape of the digital era, Google stands as a beacon of innovation, a symbol of technological prowess, and an integral part of our daily lives. From its humble beginnings in a garage to its status as one of the most influential companies globally, the journey of Google is nothing short of remarkable. In this comprehensive exploration, we delve into the captivating history of Google, tracing its origins, pivotal moments, and transformative impact on the world. The Genesis: Birth in a Silicon Valley GarageThe year was 1996 when Larry Page and Sergey Brin, two Ph.D. students at Stanford University, embarked on a mission to revolutionize the way information is organized and accessed on the internet. Their vision led to the birth of a search engine called Backrub, which would later be rebranded as Google. Operating from a humble garage in Menlo Park, California, Page and Brin laid the groundwork for what would become a technological giant. The PageRank Algorithm: Unleashing the Power of RelevanceCentral to Google's success was the development of the PageRank algorithm, named after Larry Page himself. This ground-breaking algorithm revolutionized the way search engines ranked web pages, placing emphasis on relevance and quality. By considering the number and quality of links pointing to a page, PageRank provided users with more accurate and useful search results, setting Google apart from its competitors. The Dawn of a New Era: Google.com Goes LiveOn September 4, 1998, Google took its first official step into the digital realm with the launch of Google.com. Offering a clean and minimalist interface coupled with lightning-fast search results, Google quickly gained traction among users seeking a more efficient way to navigate the vast expanse of the internet. Its simplicity and effectiveness would become hallmarks of the Google brand. From Start-up to Corporation: Google's Meteoric RiseAs Google continued to refine its search algorithms and expand its services, the company experienced exponential growth. In 2000, Google became the world's largest search engine, processing over one billion searches per day. This success paved the way for Google's transformation from a scrappy start-up to a multinational corporation, with offices and data centre's spanning the globe. Innovations Galore: Diversifying the Google EcosystemBeyond its core search engine, Google diversified its offerings through a series of innovative products and services. In 2004, the company introduced Gmail, revolutionizing email with its generous storage capacity and intuitive interface. This was followed by Google Maps in 2005, Google Chrome in 2008, and Google Drive in 2012, each pushing the boundaries of what was possible in the digital realm. The Android Revolution: Redefining Mobile TechnologyIn 2005, Google made a strategic move that would reshape the mobile landscape forever with the acquisition of Android Inc. This paved the way for the development of the Android operating system, which would go on to power billions of smartphones and tablets worldwide. The launch of the Android Market (now Google Play Store) in 2008 further solidified Google's presence in the mobile ecosystem. A Platform for Innovation: Google's Moonshot ProjectsGoogle's ambition knows no bounds, as evidenced by its numerous moonshot projects aimed at tackling some of humanity's most pressing challenges. From self-driving cars (Waymo) to renewable energy (Google Energy), from internet-beaming balloons (Project Loon) to life-extending technologies (Calico), Google's moonshot factory, X, continues to push the boundaries of innovation in pursuit of a better future. The Alphabet Era: Restructuring for SuccessIn 2015, Google underwent a major restructuring, forming a new parent company called Alphabet Inc. This move allowed Google to focus on its core businesses, such as search, advertising, and cloud computing, while giving other ventures the autonomy to thrive under the Alphabet umbrella. This restructuring signaled a new chapter in Google's evolution, one marked by increased focus and strategic clarity. Beyond Search: Google's Impact on Society and CultureGoogle's influence extends far beyond the realm of technology, shaping the way we communicate, work, and interact with the world around us. From empowering small businesses through targeted advertising to democratizing access to information through initiatives like Google Scholar, Google has become an indispensable part of modern society. Its cultural impact is evident in everyday language, with "googling" now synonymous with conducting an online search. Conclusion:As we reflect on the remarkable journey of Google, from its humble beginnings in a garage to its status as a global powerhouse, one thing becomes abundantly clear: the impact of Google transcends mere technological innovation. It represents the relentless pursuit of knowledge, the boundless spirit of entrepreneurship, and the transformative power of ideas. As Google continues to evolve and adapt to an ever-changing world, one thing is certain: its influence will continue to shape the future of technology and society for generations to come. Read the full article

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wherethedragonends · 4 years

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X Of Swords: Creation.1/Jonathan Hickman/Tini Howard/Pepe Larraz/Marte Gracia/Clayton Cowles/Tom Muller/Jay Bowen/Annalise Bissa/Jordan D White/CB Cebulski/Marvel

#x of swords #x of swords creation #jonathan hickman #tini howard #pepe larraz #marte gracia #layton cowles #tom muller #jay bowen #annalise bissa #jordan d white #cb cebulski #fucking love dawn of x data pages #dawn of x #x-men #marvel #dawn of x data pages #pax krakoa

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jinterlude · 3 years

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Grow a Pear

—Requested by @shadowsremedy: Seokjin + Kuroko’s Basketball + School Gym as part of @bangtan-headquarters Bangtan Anime Club Drabble Event!

—Pairing: Seokjin x Reader (Female OC) [feat. Seungcheol from SVT]

—Genre(s): Humor, Slight-Angst, & Slight-Fluff

—AUs/Tropes: Anime-verse, Kuroko’s Basketball!AU, High School!AU, Basketball Player!Seokjin, Basketball Club Manager!Reader, Opposites Attract Trope

—Warning(s) & Rating: Swearing, Reader threatening bodily harm onto Seokjin, Shameless flirting, & Jealousy from an old middle school rival / PG-15

—Word Count: 1.6K

—Summary: In which news of playing against a certain team sparks a rather interesting memory...

—A/N: This drabble is based on episodes 52 & 53 of KnB, but you do not have to watch the series to understand this story’s overall premise! It is also inspired by Kesha’s song “Grow a Pear” (hence the title LOL) because I immediately think of Kise’s character. Since Seokjin reminds me of that 2D pretty boy, I decided to write a fun story!

“Hey, ___!”

A faint hum exits your lips as your eyes remain fixated on your player statistics book. You flip between a few pages with the gears in your brain working in overdrive, almost forgetting for a split moment that Kaijo’s basketball captain asked for your attention.

“Yes, Sungwon?” You reply, closing the book and tucking it underneath your arm.

Pursing his lips, Sungwon strides over to you, leaning against the stage inside the gym. Don’t you love playing inside an auditorium?

“So…” He begins but grows silent. How on Earth is he supposed to ask you to be the sacrificial lamb? How will he tell you that you’ve been chosen to say the team’s resident narcissist yet talented prodigy that Kaijo will play against Fukuda Sugo? Specifically, they’re playing against a certain someone with a rather colorful history with yourself and said prodigy.

Tiny creases form on your forehead as your brows knit together. You know that carefree look anywhere. More often than not, you become chosen to do a specific task that no other teammate wants to do—talking to Kim Seokjin.

“Now, before you say no—”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t even hear what I have to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. My answer is still the same. No.”

With that, you turn on your heel, and not even a few steps in, you bump into the one person you don’t want to see.

“Princess!”

And to think…

You were having such a fantastic day…

“What do you want, Seokjin?” You question, grabbing the statistics book from your underarm and flipping it open to some random page. You already have the data mesmerized like the back of your hand. You just want to appear busy in front of the arrogant pretty boy.

“Well, besides you finally acknowledging that you’re my girlfriend? A little bird told me that we’re playing against his team in the Quarterfinals,” Seokjin replies, his tone dropping near the end. This serious expression slowly takes over his handsome features, almost sending shivers down your spine.

If looks can kill, then Seokjin is guilty of murder in the first degree...

Thank God he chose to attend a different school. Who knows what will happen if two people who absolutely despise each other play on the same team.

“Remind me to thank Namjoon for that…” You mutter, slightly shaking your head as you slowly draw in your breath. Then, a force, light chuckle escapes your lips, personally finding it rather humorous of the current situation.

“Anyway, so how are you feeling about playing against the dude who has a thing for your sloppy seconds?” You tease, attempting to lighten up the situation.

Seokjin’s brow perks up, “Sloppy seconds?” he repeats, a tiny grin form on his handsome face.

You nod, “Well yeah...I mean, he did steal your ex-girlfriend from you.”

In response, the arrogant basketball player hums. However, this exciting gleam enters the corners of his eyes.

What is he thinking now?

Suddenly, he turns to you, his gaze piercing into yours with this unexplainable emotion glazing over his eyes.

“Oh? I mean, he did come close to stealing you away from me that one day.” He states as this bright smile dances across his gorgeous face.

For a split second, your cheeks become hot. Your heart practically drums against your chest. Shit. Even your palms clam up, sticking to the cover of the player statistics book.

What is this feeling?

Then, it dawns on you. This nervousness is the same emotion you felt when you comforted Seokjin that fateful day—well, supported him in your own unique way…

Tapping your pencil against your chin, a soft growl emits from your lips as you try to figure out the best course of action. The Captain, Kim Namjoon, previously asked you to develop a plan to preserve the Generation of Miracle’s stamina, specifically when using their rather unique talents. At first, you thought Namjoon was flat out insane for asking such a request. Like, you’d have to take into account their height and weight difference. Oh! You couldn’t forget that you also keep in mind their current talent levels. All while these calculations occur during an official game with another team.

Yeah...

Namjoon might as well tell you to put on a fucking jersey while he’s at it.

Rubbing the sides of your forehead, you can’t help but let out a long, harsh breath as this throbbing sensation enters the left side of your head.

“Hey, manager ___.” You hear a familiar voice, interrupting your rather irritating calculations. You look up from the tiny pile of scattered papers containing player statistics. However, you don’t bother spouting words towards the overly cocky player. Instead, you merely hum in response, unknowingly irking the basketball player.

Plastering on a smug grin, the person leans against the stage, quickly glancing at what you’re doing.

“So, is that the special project Namjoon asked you to do for him?” The arrogant male student asks.

“Yep, and shouldn’t you be practicing Seungcheol?” You question back, raising a brow.

Seungcheol scoffs lightly, “Why? I mean, I already earned a permanent spot on the regular team, so…” He trails on, chuckling to himself. He finds the mere thought of his spot being taken away quite humorous.

You mentally roll your eyes. God, you don’t know who’s the bigger arrogant fool. Him or—

“Yo, Seokjin!” shouts Jungkook, running up to the new recruit.

Ah, Kim Seokjin. He recently joined the basketball club just a few months ago. He’s already showing promise despite being a second-year student. Shit. Seokjin’s talents have rapidly progressed to the point that Namjoon took notice of him and was promoted to first-string just last week.

Yet, you can’t quite put your finger on it, but something is holding Seokjin back.

But what?

Before you become entirely lost in your thoughts, you hear Seungcheol’s arrogant voice taunt Seokjin.

Oh, great…

You swiftly stand up from your seat and rush over to the argumentative duo. But as you draw near to the quarrelsome pair, you instantly halt. What is this intense atmosphere lingering in the air?

And why do you suddenly feel something other than agitation towards Seokjin?

“W-what did you say?”

“You heard me, Kim Seokjin. Whoever wins our 1v1 match earns the right to call ___ his girlfriend.”

“Hold on. You can’t just call dibs on ___!” shouts Jungkook in complete and utter shock.

Instantly slapping yourself back, in reality, you snatch a basketball from an innocent player and roughly throw it at Seungcheol, anger visible all over your face.

Sadly for you, the annoying prick catches it with ease, smirking at you.

“What’s the matter, babe? You don’t believe that I can put Seokjin in his place?” He coos, further taunting Seokjin. What sets the handsome prodigy over the edge is when Seungcheol abruptly pulls you against his chest, dropping the basketball in the process. His cheek brushes against yours, making you want to gag.

Just as you’re about to violently elbow him in the stomach, Seokjin shoves Seungcheol away before forcefully throwing the discarded ball at him.

“You start.”

“This should be fun.”

But it was just the opposite...

It was a complete slaughter with Seokjin on his hands and knees, panting and sweating profusely. His eyes widened from the shock of his defeat.

Not only has he lost horribly against Seungcheol, but he also lost you—or so he believes.

“So, how about that date, baby girl? After all, you’re now my girlfriend.” Seungcheol asks, making sure that Seokjin can hear him.

“Yeah, I don’t date dudes who have a thing for other fellas’ sloppy seconds.” You bluntly state, turning towards Yoongi and Jungkook, “I mean, first it was Yerin, right? The one that was going around the entire fucking school saying that she was Seokjin’s girlfriend. Oh, I feel sorry for her since it was just last week, you were chasing after her, and now you’re after me.” You say, clicking your tongue in fake disappointment.

Seungcheol’s arrogant smile vanishes and is now replaced with a scowl.

“Let me ask you this, why are you obsessed with Seokjin’s sloppy seconds? Like there are a million girls in this damn school who, oddly enough, would love to be your arm candy. Yet you go after the ones that either show interest in Seokjin or who Seokjin’s interested in. Like, dude. Stop. It’s honestly creepy to the point that I firmly believe you have a weird obsession with him.” You finish as you walk over to Seokjin, offering him a helping hand.

Seokjin faintly smiles, grabbing your hand, as he pulls himself up. Soon, his smile becomes bright. His sweet smile almost blinds you—and makes your heart skip a beat.

“I knew you had a soft spot for me, ___.”

“Don’t push it, Jinnie boy.”

Softly shaking your head, you playfully shove Seokjin, snapping him out of his thoughts. You then jump down from the stage, having popped yourself up there moments earlier.

“Well, all I have to say is that Seungcheol better watch out. He hasn’t seen your ‘Perfect Copy’ in action yet.” You warmly smile as you make your way towards the exit but soon halt. You glance over your shoulder, maintaining that sweet smile, and say,

“Besides, he’s no match for you with your girlfriend cheering you on from the bench.”

“Right…” He mumbles, totally ignoring your words. Then, it hits him as if someone doused him with cold water.

“Wait! Did you just call yourself my girlfriend?!!” Seokjin hollers, chasing after you.

“I don’t know. Win tomorrow’s match, and I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, that’s cruel, princess…”

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nightcoremoon · 3 years

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quantic dream is a weird case because like the games should be amazing but they're NOT

looks good, sounds good, feels good, great voice acting (fuckin willem dafoe and elliot page and clancy brown are all excellent VAs), replayable, and the writing in all the side bits are honestly great, and everyone did a great job with them as far as digital entertainment

like until dawn and the walking dead season 1 and life is strange, it's not really "traditional" controls, there is no real game over, each game runs from beginning to end regardless of the choices you make, QTEs and exploration and puzzles and moral choices are the extent of the gameplay.

but the difference is that UD & TWD & LIS had good writers and david cage is a complete hack (and kind of a misogynist and kiiiind of a racist)

I could go into the flaws of heavy rain, omikron, indigo prophecy, beyond two souls, but I think I'd rather go into detroit becoming human.

so like. "it's not a racial allegory", right? except literally at the start of the game you're a white cop and a black servant and a female servant. the black guy is treated badly by a crowd of white people, then he gets on the segregated back of the bus where he is forced to stand up, then he's on the run from the police (and dies), then he either a) runs a pacifist resistance and sacrificing himself or b) sets fire to everything, "we have a dream" and ✊🏾 are literal choices he can make, there is a million man march, you literally have the magical ability to Press X To Liberate (where he forces the robots to go from blindly following the orders of their masters to, uh, blindly following the orders of a new master oh no yikes), and hey at least it evaded tokens because there's another black guy and... oh no he's a 'magical negro' stereotype who can and will be fridged at any moment to give Pain to the white girl. oh and the underground railroad lady LMAO. and all this blatant black civil rights activism allegory is happening to... sigh. robots.

now look, I am really heavily into the philosophy of theoretical transhumanism. star trek, mass effect, deus ex, even bethesda fallout [much as I fucking hate many aspects of fallout 3/4, I do really like the synths angle as it adds layers of intrigue and grey morality to an otherwise quite absurdly black and white system] are some of my favorite universes partly because of that. data/doctor/7of9, legion & EDI, adam jensen, nick valentine, they're all some of my favorite characters in those series. it's probably partly because as an autistic person I understand and empathize with them much more than I do the non-robot characters (and so much more than the "autistic" characters written by allistics :/ ). protag!connor is a cinnamon roll (because he says fuck the police in the third act, since the only good cop is a dead former cop... but also because I do like his character and the way he was portrayed by the actor and his contrast to hank who is the best character voiced by an actor I love, and connorXhank is the only part of DBH that I like as far as the writing goes). I should have loved detroit as much as I love the movie I, Robot. [btw if you like detroit watch it]

and yet

the problem is that it should have tried to just stay in its own lane and deal purely with the transhumanism angle, and not tried to also be racially woke. it is tasteless and blatantly racist for white people (especially the, ugh, french) to directly compare any nonblack protected class to black people in a work of fiction. my fellow autistics, my fellow queers, jews probably but I'm not even gonna touch that, and androids. all of the experiences are wildly different from the black experience especially in the US and it is not our place to compare ANY demographic in such an on-the-nose fashion. oh and don't even get me fucking STARTED on the goddamn HOLOCAUST IMAGERY AT THE ENDING. OH YEAH THE ROBOTS ARE GETTING PUT INTO CONCENTRATION CAMPS AND THEN INTO AN INCINERATOR, THAT'S TOTALLY NOT JUST AN ANALOGUE TO JEWS OR ANYTHING HA HA FUCK YOU DAVID CAGE alright that's enough.

oh and kara's story is a completely useless and tacked-on experience that depends wholly on the effects of the other characters and a plot twist that kinda renders her entire story... just. completely fucking pointless. and also because david cage loves short haired girls in perilous distress of a sexual nature.

and the cherry on top of the shit sundae is that the entire android deviants aspect is a planned obsolescence ploy by the corporations. it was programmed for the androids to have free will so it makes the old models go all murderhappy and incentivizes the people to trade in their old malfunctioning iphones for brand new sleek & shiny new ones. it was just social commentary on apple's shady business practices that also disguised itself as social commentary on post-slavery america that disguised itself as social commentary on transhumanism. and that's all his fucking games are is several layers of social commentary stacked together in a trench coat like bojack's vincent adultman pretending to be a cohesive story.

& you know how I know it's social commentary?

BECAUSE THE FUCKING GAME IS ALSO ABOUT DRUG ADDICTION

oh did you forget about that part? yeah, it's because it was handled poorly and it didn't matter and only served to get woke points.

D:BH is just a mess from a purely conceptual standpoint, and that's why it's fucking horrible.

but

if you like it then that's fine because quantic dream are a fantastic studio that produce just *chef's kiss* sublime work, given what they were working with. I put it on the same level that I put the twilight and harry potter films, because they took steaming piles of shit and made them sparkle.

...g... get it? because... because the vampires... they sparkle. that's the joke ignore me

I'm not gonna treat you badly if you like the game because I like parts of it but please please acknowledge that it's a downright mess

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kvetchlandia · 3 years

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Richard Meltzer Lester Bangs Passed Out on Meltzer’s “Highly Uncomfortable Living Rm. Chair,” 104 Perry St., Apt. 4, West Village, New York City 1972

On December 14th, this December 14th, Lester Conway Bangs, while probably not the greatest writer of his generation, arguably its most vital so far to die, would have been 36. Haunted and driven by demons, so- called, a cheerless many of whom/what/ which — or their kindred ilk — he directly sought, found cum stumbled upon, or was inadvertently ensnared by on the demon picnic grounds of Rock and Roll, he never made it to 34.

Following the lead of a handful of babes in the rock-critical woods, one of which I'll admit (if sometimes reluctantly) to having been. Bangs at the dawn of the seventies played as prominent a role as anyone in both expanding the expressive boundaries of rockwriting as a form and giving it a voice that played the newer, more mannered and cautious, mass-market rockmags like Rolling Stone and Creem — the latter of which he even edited for awhile — as on the dime as it had played the catch-as-catch-can, limited-edition fanzines whence it came. Though he also served as the burgeoning genre’s most prolific scribbler, a mission he sustained with relative ease for the bulk of his days, it is to the man’s lasting credit that he rarely delivered copy on anyone’s dotted line. In fact, he probably “got away with more’’ in major- publication print than all his rockwrite brethren combined, conceivably (however) because it merely simplified matters to have a single Designated Outlaw, one entrusted with a blanche enough carte — and unmonitored options galore — to spike with “authenticity ’’ a rock-media stew of bogus Freedom and ersatz Candor.

Retrospectively cliched or not, there was an existential purity to the sheer commitment evinced by Lester’s prolonged wallow in (and about) the rock- and-roll Thing-in-itself. It was, in many ways, the critical headbang to end all critical headbangs; it would be hard to even imagine, for instance, a professional art-film bozo, a jock-sniffing sports jerk, or a food-review lunatic more uninsulatedy gung-ho vis-a-vis x — either as primary experience or typewrite wankery. His patented shameless multipage gush, coupled with an unswerving advocacy of certain conspicuously over- the-top rock genera (Velvet Underground offshoots; Heavy Metal; Punk Rock), made him a must-read favorite with both cognoscenti and dipshits alike, and he came as close to encountering idolatry per se as any non-musician in R&R. A good deal of which — natch —could not help hitting the self-consciousness fan, but while a man’s life was ultimately undone in the process (“I’m Lester — buy me a drink! ’’), the integrity of his art/craft was essentially unaffected. For, while he might have been a tad too glib-messianic those last couple years, he was by no stretch of things an opportunist, never really giving a hoot for what in squaresville would be known as a career. (Or, perhaps, unlike his role model Kerouac, he simply didn’t live long enough for that, too, to be strenuously tested.)

In any event: dead, cremated, literal ashes. California born (Escondido ’48), bred (El Cajon, ages 9-23), and traveled (I first hung with him in San Francisco, last in L.A.), Lester bought the big one on the opposite coast — his final home, the fabled Apple — April 30/82, ostensibly from a hefty pull of darvon employed, in lieu of aspirin, to placate the flu. Since his death, variously interpreted as a mile-radius teardrop’s once-in-a- lifetime terminal burst, a joke and a half on both himself and his precious chosen whole damn Thing, and — by occasional uncouth louts — the final glorious triumph of his excess, the spectrum of Bangs-in-ongoing-print has dwindled from monochromatic /sparse to colorless/ nonexistent. Of the two books in his name which appeared during his lifetime, quasi-coffeetable numbers on Blondie and Rod Stewart, neither a particularly representative Lestorian effort (or even particularly good: the former admittedly hacked out “in two days on speed,’’ and looking it, i. e., ad hoc and forced; the latter disowned as a clumsy, if innocent, foray into “writing as whoring’’), both are either out of print — officially — or on the back burner of barely having ever been in same, at least as regards this coast, where I’ve yet to see either in bookstore one. Nor have two posthumous whatsems. Rock Gomorrah, cowritten (early ’82) with L.A.’s Michael Ochs, and a projected collection of unpublished fragments scrounged from Bangs’s apartment a day or two after his death, gotten more than inches off the publishing ground — the former for reasons which if herein revealed would get me sued but good, the latter because, in the words of editor Greil Marcus, “the stuff is less tractable than I thought at less than 5000 words or so.’’ Also stalled, and/or abandoned (and/ or nonspecific pipedreams to begin with) : all known plans to reissue out-of- print Live Wire LP Jook Savages on the Brazos, recorded, Austin, TX, Dec. ’80, by Lester Bangs & the Delinquents, lyrics and vocals by guess who. In fact, the only anything by L. C. Bangs readily available where availables are sold is his liner copy for The Fugs Greatest Hits Vol. I, released by PVC/Adelphi some months after he’d croaked, for which he (or rather his atoms) later copped a Grammy nomination, and for which, reliable word has it, he never was paid.

Well, I’ve been proven wrong; it hasn’t been easy recollecting Lester in even half a toto in so much tranquility. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea back when obits were appearing left & right and at least two- thirds of ’em smacked of revisionism at its well-intentioned worst; having ridden the range with the guy, having been as intimate with his daytime/nighttime revealed essence — I would bet my boots — as anyone in or out of various possible beds with him, I had fiery goddam galaxies to say in his behalf that were simply not being said, at least not in print by his designated peers; and, although my no longer living in New York couldn’t help but delay my shot, remote and after-the-fact seemed like the ticket, y’know anyway, for some major necessary rerevision.

But here it is two, two and a half years gone & more, and whuddaya know if all the raw goddam pain (at the loss of, yes, a brother) and jagged fucking anger (at a waste of life, life-force, and relative inconsequential like “talent” and “genius”), an unbeatable duo which for weeks, weeks, months gave the Lester totality so cosmic a shape, scale and intensity, have by their own inevitable burnout given way to the contemplation of standard-issue mere data, of the skeletal remains of a larger-than-life life which have come to make sense (or not) in too neat, too linear, a manner. Well — hey — fuggit: Even if grocery lists, chalk diagrams and hokey storytellin’ are the forms ongoing life-as-life has imposed on the mission, there’s still a heap of essential Lester information that could use, uh, exposure to printed-page light.

What too many write-biz intimates sought to do in the wake of his death was debunk the Lester Legend (solely) by reciting evidence that his bark was worse than his bite. While I’m sure he’d have “wanted it done” (i.e., have the saga-as- litany scraped of treacherous barnacles, or at least of their treacherous vogue), I can’t imagine the projected post-life intent of such a wish as in any way entailing cosmetic overhaul, especially in the service of moral/experiential object lessonhood. Lester’s day-to-day transaction with post-adolescent life-as- dealt was — let’s be conservative — 94 % anything but pretty. If he’d have wanted his entire whatsis to serve up viable scenarios for intimates and non-intimates alike (gee, would the Pope prefer to be Catholic?), there’s no way the deal’d come out even provisionally Lester-functional without interested non-intimates having retroactive access to as hefty an eyeful of the not-so-pretty — in all its hideous, non-Clearasiled blah blah blah — as intimates galore regularly managed to cop and, in their various personal ways, have already learned from. To deglorify an earlier incarnation of shit (which the man himself was clearly hellbent on doing in his waning days on earth) you’ve got to at least speak its name — loudly! — for the whole entire planet: c’mon now, one & all. A solemn responsibility (I call it) which, credibly/incredibly, the smelly sumbitch’s closest associates have, to this day, all but refused to consider.

To wit: For every time anyone saw the defanged, declawed Lester teddy bear rear its cuddly li’l head (see obits 2, 3, 5 & 7) the man was uncountable times the asshole, the buffoon, the sodden tyrant; been those things myself — in semi-prior lifetimes — so I know. Back in ’73, for inst, the soon-to-be-dead Lillian Roxon gushed shameless love for the s.o.b., in New York on Creem business, ordering up a Lester button and leaving it in his hotel box; response to this purest of offerings was “What’s that fat cunt want from me?” About a year later I get this call from Nick Tosches requesting that I please take Lester, who’d shown up at his door on acid, “off my hands”; took him to a party at John Wilcock’s place, during which he verbally brutalized Wilcock’s wife (in green Fingernails) for being a “hooker,” snapped at an affable Ed Sanders for being “the only alkie in the counter-culture,” and had nothing more to say to Les Levine’s Asian girlfriend (wife?) than “Yoko is a lousy gook”; further into the night, at Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy, he literally bellowed ( more than twice), “There’s a lotta tackin’ wops in this joint.” And how can I forget the way he treated me and Nick, his closest approximate friends f'r crying out loud, as our wonderful editor while at Creem? He’d call us each up at 3 a.m. to urgently solicit various (rather specific) reams of pap, needed via Special D toot sweet; we’d climb outta bed, peck away bleary-eyed to whack out the closest possible takes on what he’d claimed he wanted, whereupon he’d reject ’em with a vengeance (“I won’t print beatnik shit”), then run thoroughly like-minded i. somethings — under his own byline — or with our words, usually verbatim, laced throughout. Just a few “examples,” dunno if they sound like big stuff or small, in any event typical Lester, with plenty, plenty more where they came from — y’know times n-plus-many.

In spite of such anticommunal upchuck, or quite possibly because of it — post-adolescent of a post-summer-of-love feather & all that — I did have deep affection for the bastard during my final years in New York; he could really piss me off (and I, I’m assuming, him) but bygones were always eventually ditto. In those days I generally shared his affection for The Edge, and might even’ve gone extreme slightly ahead of him; in January ’72, this is true, he actually dubbed me “the Neal Cassady of rock and roll.” But by fall ’75, when I split New York to at least simulate an escape from the Frantic and Hyper (and he subsequently arrived, ostensibly to embrace same), I was feeling the first stirrings of apprehension re my own prolonged massive intake of Edge Substances (emotional, cultural, but above all chemical) and was on the verge of an early series of attempts to, y’know, cut down, to maybe get off my collision course with all sorts of walls, both metaphoric and real. Lester, meantime, seemed on a rapid upswing in the intake dept.; what had so far served as mere horizon or frame for his trip, or at most been its semi-essential fuel, was now lunging headlong for the foreground of his life ... or should we call it the twin foregrounds (life as Mythic Construct; life as physical/emotional/cultural Hard Mundane Reality).

Hey, the guy was beginning to scare me. Certainly as an advanced — or rapidly advancing — version of what I no longer wanted to be and could (possibly) imagine once again becoming, but more as this vivid, palpable spectre of specialized human decomp not just out there but right there: a pal & a buddy headed (willy nilly?) for the sewer. From late ’75 immediately onward, on those unlikely occasions when separate coasts — underscored by far fewer rockwrite junkets — any longer allowed for it, I was usually unable to handle being in the same room with him, knowing I’d have to witness whole new increments of what could really no longer be passed off as anything but (gosh) misery and (dig it) horror. Where in the earlier ’70s it was almost cute — once in a while — the way Lester would stumble into classic self- directed drunk jokes (like the time he called me from the Detroit airport to tell me he was headed for an Alice Cooper show in London, presumably England, only he’d drunkenly got it wrong and was on his way to London, Ontario), there was this half-week in ’79, for inst, during which he hung out at Michael Ochs’s house in Venice with no daily design but to get skid-row-calibre gone and stay there, that was just fucking grim. Looking an unhealthy as I’d ever seen him, basic shit-warmed over with an ngly bump on his forehead (which he claimed he was “treating with Romilar”), he refused to eat without an Occasion. When, one evening, Michael and I pretty much dragged him to a Mexican restaurant, he refused to actually step inside until he’d fortified himself with the cottons from six Benzedrex inhalers — the local pharmacist was out of Romilar — busted open on the sidewalk with a shoe.

Washing down their remnants with a Dos Equis as his enchilada sat there staring at him, he quoted (or claimed he was quoting) Sid Vicious: “Food is boring.”

So, inevitably, when Billy Altman rang me up from N.Y.Clearly on a California morn, to let me hear it straight from a friend — “instead of from a creep” — my immediate response to no more Lester, steps ahead of all the pain & anger & whut, was holy fucking shit, the fucker finally did it; it’d been in the real-world cards for long-long times for Lester to cease to be. Though even on his gonest days he was no way a classic cornball suicide-romantic — heck, I don’t really think he was all that clinically suicidal (big-sleep fantasies never overtly/covertly lured him, not even metaphorically, from the darkest sub-basement of his World of Dread; nor was Danger, though he often nonstop lived it, itself the merest tickle of a ripple of a thrill for him, a context before the fact) — he’d sure staged more corny, frightful dress rehearsals than Jim Jones plus Judy Garland (squared) for simply ending up dead.

Biggest of which I ever saw was January ’81. I’m at Nick’s place in New York, en route back to L. A. from Montreal, when who should pay a surprise visite but Mr. Bangs, cassette in hand. It’s a tape of these tracks recorded during an Austin romp I’d heard about second or third hand (he’d planned to “live there forever,” it was said, ’til a night in the local drunk tank — on top of who knows what else — totally changed his mind), and in the course of the next 12-15 hours he played it, for us and at us, many times. Also during this stretch, after boasting, rather proudly, that he no longer drank, he managed to ingest at least 36 cough- suppressant tablets (three 12-packs of Ornical — we weren’t always watching) washed down with sizable slugs of bourbon, as there was nothing else but water to wash ’em down with.

All stages of this ordeal, in which Nick and I were little more than foils for surge upon surge of what we’d come to regard as typical Lestorian bathos, were hardly bearable in the state we were in (after far too many “nights with Lester,” going back to the days when we even could dig it, we’d opted for a change to take this one straight), but the morning-after phase was literally one for the books. On the umpteenth playback of what was soon to hit the racks as the Jook Savages LP, Lester insisted that one particular vocal was pure Richard Hell (in Lester’s cosmos an a priori yay); my dogtired no-big-deal of a response was it sounded existentially neater than that, more on the order of Tom Verlaine (a Lester nuh-nuh-no). Suddenly hair-trigger sensitive — in a performance-trigger vein — he tapdanced back with “Then I might as well go sell shoes in El Cajon.” Next cut he compared himself to somebody (very contempo) else, prompting me to comment, for non-pejorative, sleep- denied better or worse, that his vocals (across the board; in general) had the same basic flavor as those on such country-western parodies as Sanders' Truckstop or the Statler Brothers’ Johnny Mack Brown High School LP. Affecting grievous offense, as if any of his b.s. actually mattered (the Lester of ’73/’74 — in any chemical state — would merely’ve giggled), he took things up a full notch of indignant/sarcastic: “Well I guess I’m just no fucking good. ”

But he wouldn’t stop playing the crap, not with every cut looming as a supercharged occasion for kneejerk call- and-response, a challenge for him to goad Nick and/or me into goading him, in turn, into mock-self-deprecatory one-liners ad nauseum — a dress rehearsal, as it were — his puke-stained sweater seemed appropriate — for his triumphant appearance on Johnny Carson, which he had no doubt the worldwide success of his Blondie book would imminently require . . . along with a shot of his mug, cleanshaven, on the cover of People (over which he whined “fear” of besmirched personal image).

Ultimately Nick and I, weary of further compliance in so shoddy an interpersonal number, old buddy or not (and/or old bud in particular), found ourselves laughing in his face; enough was enough, and the sight of this bumbling mammal going gaga for an audience of two-who-knew- better was kind of otherworldly amusing. The object of our yuks, however, took it as us laughing with him: Great Moments in Standup/Audience Rapport! Swollen with illusory (or whatever) whacked-out self, Lester then proceeded to announce his program: (1) to save Rock & Roll; (2) to become president (presumably Oi the U.S. of A.); (3) to move to England and in turn save their Rock & Roll. As mere dipshit goals, nos. 1 and 3 meant topically little to either of us — geez, we’d all but buried the Anglo-Am mainstream as even an idle, y’know, sometime hobby or whatnot — but (2) hit us firmly, instantaneously, in the breastplate.

Lester’s neurons, no recent model of health to begin with, had made the short-circuit of Lester Bangs . . . [tenor saxophonist] Lester Young . . . (latter's nickname] Pres . . . Pres/U.S.A. per se!!!

Guffaw, guffaw — we guffawed — though I guess we could've gasped (or shuddered). Then: a heavy silence, as cosmic (or whatever) as it was awkward, filled presently by the man himself:

"Hey! I'm gonna buy some import albums! I'll get a whore I know to lend me her charge card! Cab fare too!" And he was off; no amiable nudging, no “Get the fuck out of here" could take the place of timeless vinyl hunger. Gone at last — and we gave him (in all solemn, empirical, non-jive reckoning) six months to live.

But of course he fooled us, by (nearly) a whole damn calendar year. Surprise, surprise: but an even bigger surprise was the extent to which he managed to actually turn things around — well, almost — during that extra annum, especially during its. and his. final months. Not only was he still among the living, not only did he no longer seem conspicuously earmarked for premature exit — the Lester with whom I spent a rather refreshing week in February '82 gave every indication of having already gone beyond mere survival (as an issue) and appeared, astonishingly, to be thriving on the theme.

In L.A. following his mother's eventually fatal stroke and staying with his 56-year-old half-brother in Studio City, he accompanied me one night to a low-stakes poker game attended by members of the Blasters, the perfect setup, you’d figure, for Lester to revert to type. But no, he just minimally fun-&- games'ed it like anyone else — no lookin' for opportunities to “be Lester," no showing off for rock-roll peers either verbally or intakewise. no diving for the evening's jugular and letting 'er rip — and after two beers (!). without so much as a grimace, he declared he’d had enough. Postgame he engaged Phil Alvin in a lively musical dialogue, but at no point did fightin' words fill the air, or were axes even poised for grinding. The pair agreed to exchange tapes — a wholesome friendship in the making — and next day Lester complained (true, true) that reefer had been smoked.

As the week wore on in consistent, low- key fashion. I was struck by the fuckload of inner capacities the guy was perceptibly calling on, left, right and center, to extend his defiance of Death to the domain of just plain living, capacities I hadn't caught sensory evidence of — all previously told — for more than 11 minutes total. A far cry from anything as cheaply benign as, let's say, more frequent eruptions of "Lester washes the dishes" (see obit 04), what I got to witness was kind of on the order of a whole new Lester, one who'd finally found a non-lethal, functionally less jagged (though in no way “benign") rhythm for his life. Engaging him in tight quarters with more open-heartedness per se than I*m sure I’d ever mustered (sharing an Edge does not always make for brotherhood-by-numbers. let alone by pure, unedited inclination), I willingly submitted to his rap/rant and bought its tenor if not its verbatim transcript; by the time he returned to New York, his mother still hanging on. I’d seen and heard a New Lester series pilot that could credibly have played — prime time — on the Pro- Life Network.

For starters, he’d learned to slow down, to proceed apace through a given experience without easy reliance on everpopular on-off switches. He'd gotten far more selective about the company he kept, seeking out, for the first time in his known adult life, social interactions stressing soulwarming interpersonal comfort over thrash-trigger me-you tribulation. A good deal less insistent upon strapping each day to an emotional chopping block (as recalled, for inst, in that old chestnut of his, “I need to be in love!"), he'd begun to let his life embrace emotional motifs of greater duration and resiliency. And. as stuff like this fed back to his theoretic apparatus, even Lester's ideas (as stated) began to display an unexpected day-to-day congruity; no longer, it seemed, would he write an anti-racist wowser for the Village Voice in one breath and scream, "Fuckin’ niggers!” at Village Oldies the next. Lester-as-flux had had its thoroughly engaging run. and for this to give way to a “maturer” unpredictability was not the worst of possible outcomes.

Even the drastic reduction in Lester’s intake of physical poisons bore little trace of on-the-wagon-or-bust — y'know, as if any day, minute, second the tension of it all would cause him to snap right back with equal vengeance — particularly with its status as but part of a whole-body package that included both eating at regular intervals and a radical olfactory modification: He now took baths. (One afternoon in ’74 Nick and I met Lester at some ritzy midtown hotel. Though he’d been in the room all of an hour, the smell was like a dog had died there, and been left to rot, weeks or months before. Consequently, we vetoed his offer to call down for drinks on Creem’s tab, suggesting, to his consternation, that any dump of a bar would be more, uh, whatever. Many of his heterosex liaisons had foundered on the rocks of precisely this issue.)

In terms of cultural orientation, no longer was he monomanically enslaved to rock & roll (-or-perish). For virtually the first time since the sixties he didn’t need, burningly, brand new Big Beat LP’s in his mail slot each (and every) day; the state of the Art, wobbling on a multi-year terminal gimp, no longer served as his external psychic barometer, his armband of first-person pride (or shame); having finally produced Music of his own, to severe personal specifications (regardless of the giggles it inspired in jerks like me), he no longer needed to prove anything with it or through it. Crucially, though some would probably like to deny it. he no longer saw Rock’em-Sock'em as a viable metaphor for his (or any, kindred or otherwise) state of being, viewing it as the all too easy — and ultimately, revoltingly, unsatisfactory — crystallization of (mega-numerous) blank and scattered lives. Lester's break with rock-roll mythos as his be-all/end-all of etc., which I have no doubt (had he lived) he’d've sooner rather than later made official, was as profound, and profoundly moving, as his break with the Myth of Lester. As one committed jackass who’d made the same painful transition — goodbye, Rock-Automated Self! — I knew how tough a bond the chronically intermingled personal/cultural can be to crack (and my heart went right out to him).

It also warmed my cockles, considering his record in the mere civility dept., to see him relate (graciously) to his half- brother’s wife, this unaffectedly pretty 21- year-old rural Mexican the macho blusterer, a stuntman by trade, had recently acquired, maritally, while on location Down South. Though she knew pun near zero English, my first sight of her she was watching some random English-language crap, while hubby rested for a shoot of the Fall Guy series, on the tiny TV in her fussy suburban kitchen; materially cozy for the first time in her life, she seemed lonely, disoriented, far from home. Silent and solemn, she visibly stiffened — shyly? menially? — at the intrusion of Lester, my girlfriend Irene and me. only to be put at ease by Lester introducing us, without missing a beat, as, well, friends of the family. Like it mattered to him that she feel like family — and thus shared in all aspects of etc. — and for a moment the loneliness left her face; she smiled broadly, shook (or at least took) our hands, went back to her tube.

But what came off as so genuine when he was dealing with his family, his friends, kind of sputtered into the ether when he tried to branch it to the family of Man. Whenever he got to talkin' Hard Humanism, which had all the earmarks of being his preoccupation of (Rock- replacement) record, he’d make these broad, lecture-ish, relatively flavorless statements which often didn't wash.

Never wholly credible 'cause once again he seemed to be performing — without booze/etc. but surely with a script — he’d say thus & such about human courage and folly that not only had an artificial ring, it tended to run in direct opposition to what had clearly been his experience. Even his word choice sounded stilted, alien, not his own; when he spoke of "women" he could easily have been reading straight from a column in Cosmo.

A lot of which suggested a Lester so hellbent on being a good boy once and for all that to merely work overtime cleaning up his own act was scarcely sufficient; he had to render a transpersonal commentary that made his good intentions “universal,” even if the topical universality he’d taken an option on was simply the first he found it comfortable song-&-dancing a provisional connection to. There were moments when his bill of particulars made me uneasy, realizing that to intellectually challenge any of this would be like kicking mud on some kid’s newest/truest pastime, 'specially when it was one so socially redeeming, so non- self-destructive. one which, for all intents and purposes, I basically shared with him anyway. What really counted was the miracle of Rock Tough Guy #1, after 15 years of rocknroll plug-in and little else, during which he'd come to thread that needle upside down (and asleep), to the point (even) of smugness, flipness, pomposity, out on a goddam limb over something else: a neophyte at last! (I could dig it.)

Anyway, finally, on the last night of Lester's stay — which worked out as our last time together, period — we did something we’d previously never found the appropriate nexus for: trading rants (in earnest) with blank tapes a-rolling.

For something like five-six hours we went apeshit re such topics as: the sellouts & prejudices of mutual colleagues; novels and novelists; New York as (quite possibly) the coldest outpost on Emotional Earth; the usual standard rockish garbidge (plus some un- and some non-). We also hit on shrinks-we- have-known, with Lester's rap on this rooty-toot of a subject being the single one, from the four-and-a-half hours I’ve so far transcribed, which most tellingly nutshells the excruciating self- examination he had to've undertaken — and undergone — just to be sitting around discoursing as fluidly as he was, to’ve transcended whatever the fuck en route thereto:

“Like I went to a psychoanalyst, one in New York and one in Detroit, for a total of, I dunno, three-and-a-half years. I finally concluded, I mean yeah I’m insane, I’ve got my problems, my sicknesses are fucking me, yeah, I’m sure they both probably helped me, y’know, I know the last guy in New York, it's like everybody I know was totally appalled by my drinking and drugging, well like you, right, and everybody else had the same reaction, y’know, except my shrink. He’d say, ‘No, that's alright.’ I went out to this, he had a country retreat, a whole bunch of us would go out there on weekends. And the first time I went there like I got drunk on Friday night, and Saturday morning I got up and washed down a bottle of Romilar with a bottle of beer while sitting on a slick rock by the stream. I got this great idea for something I wanted to write, I stood up on the rock in boots like these and whoosh, went like that and smashed, see it, the scar on my nose? That's how I got it, smashed my face open.

“And he thought my druggin' and drinkin' was great, y'know? He said, in fact he kind of told me I'd be not as great of a writer if I gave all this stuff up. And I said, 'Yeah, but look at all these people, they rot away, they end up like self- parodies like Kerouac and Burroughs and all that sort of shit.' And he said. 'No. no, not everybody's like that.' I said, How could I someday be 55 years old and have to take a handful of speed to sit down at the typewriter?' Well he said, 'People do it. heh heh heh!' Well both my shrinks, especially this guy, they had real great humanist compassion and empathy and all that, but I know what both of 'em did, and in the long run in essence they were no good for me, because they were getting off on me being there. It’s like they’re so bored, one housewife alter another, 'I don’t love my husband, I don't know why.’ Then they get someone like you or I that's actually interesting, that has ideas, and so it's fun time for 'em. I mean if I hadda follow this guy’s advice I’d be dead, uh, pretty soon.”

Hmm: one effing eery end-of-quote as, alas, all is now dust — reactively acquired caution or no. Possibly possibly possibly, any tonnage of prudence would inevitably have proven insufficient for the autopilot courses he was still, evidently, all too capable of flying. Or, reversing horses and carts, maybe his tortured shell was already jus’ too beat-to-shit, with even a radical lessening in his scale of abuse being too little — archetypally — too late. And then there’s this pharmacological biz about purified cells succumbing to doses they’d have been more than up for when poison was all they knew. (And can we ignore the Wrath of Influenza?)

Even if, to some bitter-enders, his death remains as shrouded in formal “mystery” as those of Eric Dolphy and Warren G. Harding, all-of-the-above can't help but provide a not-unlikely profile of how Lester came to die. Throw in a few more mainline Causalities (cultural: rock-roll glut, esp. coupled w/ too literal an intoxication with Kerouac, Celine, et al; primalpsychological: a childhood more woeful than most, his Jehovah's Witness mom — pushing 50 when she had him — mind-setting, almost singlehandedly. a chronic “inability to cope"; geographic: the Apple, even when it wasn't absolute Edge Central, affording him. given his makeup, scant opportunity for inner peace) and you'd easily have an explanation that 'd hold up in a court of his cronies/cohorts/camp followers.

But if Lester was the pawn, victim, and (indeed) fellow traveler of such easy- Aristotelian a-implies-b, he was also, in those last fitful months, a scatterer of all such shit to the winds, a man who showed his true destiny muscle by throwing all the elements out of on-the-head mythopoetic sync just when they threatened, conspiratorily, to reduce him to merely another Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Mr. Kerouac. Screamingly, courageously, he committed himself, as wholly (really) as possible, to a counter-causal gameplan which even if flawed — and accidents, y’know, happen — did actually manage to defuse (at least where I live & breathe) the mythic oompah of any time-delayed rat-trap he may subsequently (or previously) have fallen in. If there's anything almost pleasing about the timing, the anti-drama, of Lester's death, it's the monumental Mythic Disjuncture factors he'd set in motion were thereby — implicitly, explicitly — to forever effect.

LESTER’S (WRITERLY) LEGACY — “One of rock’s most colorful characters, Bangs made his reputation as a pugnacious, participatory journalist who was not above picking fights with rock stars in pursuit of a good interview." So wrote one voice of prevailing wisdom, Patrick Goldstein, in the May 9/82 L.A. Times; nothing — latter part — could be farther from the truth. If Lester (the writer) more than once battled Lou Reed into (and beyond) the wee hours of etc., it was not to get a story, it was to live a story: to encounter all the rock-related being his writerly credentials (as a wedge) were able to afford him (as a person)'. Nor was he in any way enthralled by the sickening spectacle of stars being stars; artists, maybe, but stars, fug 'em. When he as mere citizen found himself face-to-face with the pose, pretense, and professional guardedness of such gaudy, extraneous creatures, Lester could not (for the life of him) deal with such crap but to cut right through and speak, directly, to the mere citizen in them, or (failing that) force the situation into functional self-destruct — before the fact of anything so dispassionate as actually “writing it up."

That his eventual write-ups tended to display utter contempt for the entire food chain of music-corporate life, often biting, intentionally, a grimy hand that could not’ve been more willing — his mighty Credentials & all — to feed him, heck, fatten him, was but half the take-no-shit of Lester's essential statement as a writer de rock; forcefeeding the stuff, his stuff, the stuff-as-writ, to the only marginally less corporate (or grimy) running dogs of rockwrite publishing was at least as pugnacious a gesture of this-is-what-I-am/this-is-what-I-do/take-it-or-be-fucked. Since the extent of his success in shoving it down so many otherwise unyielding editorial throats may have had less to do with his willful intent than theirs — camouflage, for inst, for their being life-deep in major-label record company pockets — its significance at this juncture is, at most, merely ironic; the reciprocal influence, in any event, of his ease at getting published upon subsequent moments of raw critical-expressive spew was procedurally nil. In fact, what may most enduringly matter about Lester's approach to his chosen profession, way ahead of dandy journalistic touchstones — "courage," “integrity,” “pride in craft" — that he ate for breakfast like so much broken glass (but which, really, you can still get from Nat Hentoff and Howard Cosell), is the “anti-professional," forcibly non-dehumanized square-one struggle he by design submitted to — and could not. with any kernel of his humanity, avoid - in order to pump out critical prose of any scale of note. (Pugnacity with form; with ritual creative context; even — especially — with roleplaying writerly/critical self.)

That he was ofttimes a great writer/critic, so-called, was but icing on the cake. That scant few others, on the hottest days of their lives, have even approached him — or particularly cared to, considering the requisite gravity and passion of the chore he’d set — probably says as much about their investment in lesser quals of cake as it does about the relative inadequacy of their writerly follow-through. Rockwriting is, and nearly always has been, the trade of simps, wimps, displaced machos, brats and saps; of, in Lester's own words, “ass-kissers of the ruling class”; of fuddy-duddy archivists with cobwebs on their specs; of pathetic idealizers of a lost youth no one has ever (even approximately) experienced or possessed; of sycophantic apologists for chi-chi trends, musical and extramusical alike, without which (so they've always claimed) “rock is dead”; of binary yes/no cheeses with the cognitive wherewithal of vinyl, shrinkwrap, the physical column- inch. Rockwritin' Lester, like anyone else in the trade, was certainly each of these things from time to time, though (probably) none of 'em, singly or in tandem, for longer than the odd off review. Sadly, though his untradelike comportment surely tantalized mere tradefolk while he lived — at least in terms of Style — and even begat a not-half-bad (early-’70s) clone in “Metal Mike" Saunders, his actual abiding sway among such clowns, beyond the occasional liftable riff, was — as it continues to be — infinitesimal.

Finally: the twin silly questions (1) where a still-living Lester might hypothetically've taken it (i.e., beyond the rockwrite fishpond) and (2) what such imaginary newstuff could/would conceivably’ve meant to his basic audience. Second one first. Okay, that Lester's rockstuff generally read so hot as personal testimony is one thing; for it to have been perceived by so many as being eminently, genuinely about something — something rather specific, in fact something "rear’ — is something else. When you get down to it, the gospel of Lester's radical about-ness rested largely on a big hunk of readerly illusion, the illusion of a functional one-on-one between the guy’s fertile imaginings and the psychic infrastructure of rock & roll as dealt; there could be harsh discordance, of course, but as long as a firm relationship could (for whatever readerly vested interest) be consistently inferred between Lester’s mindgames and rock’s g-g-games per se, you at least had the stamp of a viable — if totally simulated — one-on-one. But, really/truly, while Lester’s psychic playground may surely have been one drastically twisted maze, its actual correspondence (sympathetic, hostile, whatever) to rock's own labyrinth, one so airtight and dank as to make his seem like wide open etc., was far too often naught but a matter of readerly convenience. Everyone loves a cipher, a living/ breathing anagram or two. even some — hey — with flaws more rampant than Lester’s, but for the man’s writerly service to’ve been gauged (almost solely) vis-a-vis his reliability as a stand-in cipher-of- x, y’know for readerfolk too lame — or lazy — to suss out x themselves, is the real tragedy of the trip, particularly when the first-&-final glue of most folks’ attachment to his writing was never much more than their own desperate attachment to an x they could, and should, have been accessing more independently (and less desperately) to begin with.

So, anyway, here's the rub. Had Lester lived long enough to both sever his own desperate rock connection — officially, in sheets read by his fuckheaded fans, simply by writing other stuff — and, furthermore, to back it up with an equally official rejection of the Fount of Neurosis from which he'd sung its tune (and they'd listened), it ain't really much of a longshot to imagine him losing a huge percent of the fuckheads — certainly the most gung-ho among 'em — in, well, no time flat. And, c’mon, how much of an immediate, uh, new audience was he likely to yank in writing up (as he insisted he would) such transcendently pivotal mere-humanistic trifles as the dearth of love (as we know it) in scene X or Y . . . how this set of new-age culture jerks uses that set of new-age culture jerks as props in regards to bluh . . . New York editors who pull rank (pshaw!) along collegiate lines [a hard-hitting exposé] . . . or, I dunno, something about shams and follies in clothes and/or grooming?

Plus, well, though, um — (even if) — then again: Aside from loss of ad hominem authority due to the fickle scumbait nature of the pop-world Beast, aside from the fact that many of his generic partisans would prob'ly now be targeted, topically and even personally, in scathing printed-page rants, aside from the limited run such goulash (Sensitive Ties His Laces, w/ Brass Knucks & Footnotes) has ever had — hey — can ever/will ever have . . . aside, aside, aside — the most glaring fact fact is how few times, as of his death, he'd as yet even aspired to the heights (or whats) or non- rock journalism. Four-five-six, some number like that, in the Voice and wherever else, all of ’em still pretty much rockwriterly appendices to the rockwrite “adventure," meaning he had a good ways to go before he'd’ve got the wings/chops/ legs for a total-pulp plunge (or at least a regular shift) at full oldtime capacity (but with newtime thrust and content). Which would’ve been no fall from grace no matter how you scope it — give the boy time (for fuck sake) to stumble and bumble and get it right — but how would any possible Lester have dealt with a (previously amenable) shithook book co. like Delilah telling him not now, sonny when he handed ’em a ream of copy on (let’s imagine) friends who’re fuckups? Personal persona limelight Lester had learned to live without — but writeperson limelight? (It would not’ve been easy.)

Okay, he's dead. All this brand new grief and hardship never befell him; never will. But words on pages remain: What is their lot? Lester's standard fare was so paradigmatically “of the moment" that he was the rockmag shootist. But books of the stuff? Nah; it’s kind of nebulous how even his best mag outings will wear when inevitably (??) anthologized. For someone so public in his orientation, both as input and output, he was — don't laugh or even smirk — one of rock’s more precious and fragile "private moments.” Private moments you can always document — coercively, of course — but try and play ’em back and. well . . . we'll all see, I reckon.

LESTER LEAPS IN — Y’all know all by now how Lester leapt out of New York; lemme just finish with how he leapt in. His first night in town, just a visit, fall "72, he stayed with me and my girlfriend Roni, West Village, 104 Perry St., apt. 4. Arriving semi-direct from JFK, he split pretty quick for the nearest grocer, returning with three six-packs of Colt 45. What he did for the next day and a half — all he did — was wade through 18 big ones, half quarts, as follows: start can, drink fast, get tired; fall out, dropping remainder; awaken following can’s impact with floor; stagger to fridge for fresh one; repeat cycle. What he mumbled or muttered during any of the 18 pre-fallout phases I simply do not recall.

So like hey y’know wo hey hey wo-wo hey, OLD SPORT: love ya, hope I didn’t cramp yer style, g’bye.

--Richard Meltzer, “Lester Bangs Recollected in Tranquility” Dec. 6, 1984

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revengerevisited · 4 years

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@noneofthismakessensetome KHUX is really hard to explain, and I don’t really understand it myself despite watching every update, but the most that I can glean from it is that it’s set in the past in a place called Daybreak Town, right before the Keyblade War. (How far in the past is unknown, not helped by the fact that time travels differently in each World, but it was definitely before Xehanort was born).

There was this guy named the Master of Masters, and he’s supposedly been fighting a war against darkness for a very long time. (No idea if that’s the elemental concept of darkness, or Darkness the character). He’s the person who invented Keyblades (or one of the people. KHUX is extremely vague and likes to throw little doubts in just to make you question everything), and he gathered six apprentices (all named after one of the Seven Deadly Sins). Luxu, aka Xigbar, is one of the six. The only other relevant one is Ava.

Five of these apprentices (not Luxu) become the Foretellers, leaders of these different Unions of ‘Keykids’ (which I don’t think is an official term, but that’s what the fandom calls them so I will too) who wield Keyblades against the Heartless to collect Lux (which is some sort of light energy). Each of them is also given a Chirithy Spirit created by the Master of Masters.

The Master of Masters, aka MoM, can see into the future, because he put his ‘eye’ into the Keyblade No Name (Master Xehanort’s Keyblade), as well as other Keyblades like Riku’s Way to the Dawn and Vanitas’s Void Gear (if that is the name of Vanitas’s Keyblade...). Because these ‘eyes’ exist in the future, the MoM is able to ‘see’ into the future, and writes all future events down in the Book of Prophecies. He then gives copies of the Book of Prophecies to the Foretellers (not Luxu), but leaves out a certain page. He then sows distrust through the five by telling them one of them is a traitor.

The Foretellers all mistrust each other, and through a chain of events this leads to the Keyblade War, where all the ‘Keykids’ kill each other and the World is rift apart. The only ones who survive are the Dandelions, a special group of ‘Keykids’ the MoM told Ava to form, who hide in a Data version of Daybreak Town. The Dandelions have their minds wiped of the Keyblade War by the Chirithies and believe they are in the real Daybreak Town, except for the five Union Leaders, who were chosen by the MoM and given Books of Prophecy by Ava (more on that in a second...).

In the latest KHUX update, the MoM says that it will take multiple lifetimes to defeat darkness (or Darkness), and this is probably why Luxu (Xigbar) has been hopping from body to body for all these years (centuries?). The MoM gave Luxu the Black Box (without telling him what’s inside) and No Name (to be passed down through the generations of Keyblade Wielders and eventually wind up with Xehanort before going back to Luxu). By having No Name be passed down into the future, the MoM can see through its ‘eye’ and write down future events.

So about the Union Leaders of the Dandelions, the ones the MoM told Ava to pick were Ephemer, Skuld, Brain, Lauriam (Marluxia), and Strelitzia. However, (as we saw with the most recent update) a shadowy being named Darkness killed Strelitzia and gave Ventus her copy of the Book of Prophecies instead. Ventus was in some kind of trance or had his memory wiped, and didn’t remember Strelitzia’s death until now.

Darkness has also been helping Maleficent, because for some reason after her defeat in KH1 she wound up in the past in Data Daybreak Town, and Darkness wants to help her get back to the future (KH2) with a time machine. (The time machine, called the Ark or the Lifeboat in different translations, is the same machine used by Terra-Xehanort to send five-year-old Kairi to Destiny Islands, although in that case she was transported through space, not time). It seems that Darkness wants some of the ‘Keykids’ (Ventus, Lauriam (Marluxia), Elrena (Larxene), and Skuld (who is probably Subject X)) to be transported to the future, and somehow Maleficent will serve as their Waypoint. (I don’t understand how time-travel in KH works, nor why Darkness wants to send the ‘Keykids’ to the future, but that’s the best explanation I can give).

Anyway, the whole murder mystery about ‘who killed Strelitzia?’ has been the biggest fandom mystery in KH for a long time (I’m talking like, three years). And unfortunately, it’s still not solved because it’s still not clear just who/what Darkness is. Some believe that Darkness is Ava, who is actually the ‘traitor’ trying to stop the MoM’s plan, because she believes his plan will end in the destruction of the World (which it kinda did). This is because Darkness takes the form of Ava to speak to Ventus after killing Strelitzia, and tells him that he’s a Union Leader (when really he’s the ‘imposter’). Ava is known to have the power of illusion, which is why some fans think she may have taken the form of Darkness to disguise herself. (Just a note on all this, I can’t remember exactly what all the fan-theories about Ava are, and I may have gotten something wrong here. But the basic gist is that some fans believe Ava is Darkness).

Then there’s the second theory, which unfortunately in my opinion is the more likely of the two. We know from Re:Mind that a being calling itself Darkness is hiding within Ven’s heart, and in KHUX Brain says that Darkness (or darkness) can hide inside people. Combine this with Vanitas’s speech to Ventus in Re:Mind, about how he and Ven ‘aren’t the same like he thinks’ and how he was just ‘hidden inside Ven until Xehanort tore him out’, it seems to imply that Vanitas is actually Darkness (or a piece of Darkness) who was hidden inside of Ven, and not the dark half of Ven’s heart like we’ve believed for the past decade. Basically, if this theory is true, it completely re-writes Vanitas’s entire character, motivations, and origins, while also retroactively making him a child-murderer, and I’m sure you all already know how I feel about that.

Now, literally nothing outside of Re:Mind implies that Vanitas is Darkness, and in fact the scene in the Keyblade Graveyard with Vanitas, Ventus, and Sora right after the scene in Re:Mind seems to contradict this theory, as well as every piece of material on Vanitas released both before and after Re:Mind including his character file, so this all may be just one big misunderstanding, but that doesn’t dissuade the fact that there is literally an entity calling itself Darkness inside Ven’s heart. I can’t even begin to imagine how it got there, unless 1. It’s Vanitas after returning to Ven’s heart after his defeat in BBS or 2. Darkness somehow got into Ven’s heart while he was sleeping in Castle Oblivion.

This is all pure fan-theory, but since the Vanitas in KH3 is a time traveling version of Vanitas from the past, it could be that the ‘real’ Vanitas is still living inside Ven’s heart (like how Roxas was still inside Sora’s heart), and if the ‘real’ Vanitas is now calling himself Darkness, then it’s possible that Vanitas was either lying about being half of Ventus this entire time or is only now just remembering his memories of being Darkness. Either way, if Vanitas really does turn out to be Darkness, then I can only imagine his entire personality will be overwritten by Darkness’s and Vanitas will basically cease to exist as a character. As in, he won’t just be dead, he’ll have never truly existed in the first place.

And that, my friends, is why I’ve been in a constant state of anxiety, stress, and depression for the past year, and the reason I haven’t updated A Heart and a Half, because I’m having trouble reconciling the Vanitas from the BBS Novel (an abused, neglected child manipulated from birth to be a weapon) with what is potentially his true identity as Darkness (an ancient, child-murdering demonic entity). Once again, it’s still just a fan-theory... But a very plausible fan-theory.

Anyway, the third theory is that Darkness isn’t secretly some other character, but instead is exactly what it says it is— a sapient amalgamation of the elemental force of darkness. Darkness tells Maleficent that she should think of it as an ‘old friend’, leading some to believe it’s someone Maleficent knows from the future. However, it could be that Darkness ‘knows’ Maleficent because it itself is the embodiment of elemental darkness, and Maleficent is a darkness-user. In that case, it could be said Darkness is a ‘friend’ to all people who use darkness.

Unfortunately, before anyone says this line of dialogue proves that Vanitas can’t be Darkness because Vanitas never met Maleficent, Vanitas did meet Maleficent... in the BBS Novel. In the BBS Novel, Maleficent asks Vanitas if he’s a ‘friend’ of Xehanort’s. Vanitas hesitantly says yes (because his abuser isn’t exactly a friend to him), simply because he and Xehanort are allies. He then asks Maleficent if she’s ‘friends’ with Xehanort, and she says yes (in the sense that they are allies). In this roundabout way, it could be construed that if Vanitas is Xehanort’s friend, and Maleficent is Xehanort’s friend, then that makes Vanitas Maleficent’s friend, which still fits in with the theory that Vanitas is Darkness if Darkness is Maleficent’s friend.

Even if we ignore the (technically non-canon) BBS Novel scenes of Xehanort kicking twelve-year-old Vanitas in the face and beating him with his Keyblade until he cried and leaving him isolated in a wasteland for weeks on end, and just go off of the games’ canon, the story of Ventus and Vanitas can still be seen as both literal and metaphorical child abuse, with Ven being the part of the victim who represses the trauma and Vanitas being the part of the victim who lashes out. Of course, if Vanitas does turn out to be Darkness, then he will be retconned from a victim into a scheming child-murderer just as evil as his abuser and the demon/abomination/empty creature that Xehanort always said he was! (Maybe that’s why Vanitas had such a mental breakdown in Re:Mind... he realized every horrible thing Xehanort ever told him about himself was true...). Which is why, as you can imagine, this theory causes me a lot of stress!

Anyway, that’s the story of KHUX and the reason why I turn into a big ball of anxiety every time a new update occurs. I literally wouldn’t care about KHUX at all if Ven wasn’t in it, but he is, and everything that happens to Ven in the past is something that will effect him and Vanitas in the future, whether Vanitas is confirmed to be Darkness or not. We now know that Ven has had even more trauma forced upon him than he’d had with Xehanort, and I now have a suspicion that the reason Ven refused to create the X-Blade by using the darkness in his heart in the BBS flashback scenes was because he remembered what darkness and/or Darkness did to Strelitzia.

I really can’t imagine why Ven is in KHUX other than to connect him to this Darkness character in some way. Some fans still claim that Ven is the one who killed Strelitzia because they think he was ‘possessed’ by Darkness, but it seems pretty clear that Darkness was the culprit while Ven just stood there in a trance. Even so, I suspect that Ven blames himself for what happened anyway, even though it wasn’t his fault. I don’t know how this will play out with the future/current Ven. Is he suddenly going to remember his past and think he killed Strelitzia? Why? For the angst? Is he going to realize that Vanitas is (or is a part of) Darkness and therefore the murderer of some random girl Ven barely knows? Is Darkness just going to pop out of Ven when he’s in the Realm of Darkness with Aqua and Terra and... I don’t even know. Fight him? Gloat? Enact his evil scheme of destroying the World because you see, Vanitas never really wanted his light back, he never really wanted friends (page 378 of the BBS Novel), he was lying the entire time! Yes, he’s totally this evil monster who just wants to kill people because he’s evil~!

...Alright, I’ll stop. But seriously, I don’t know where this story is headed, guys. This update basically had the MoM tell us to stop trying to figure things out or theorize and that we shouldn’t want to know everything that’s going to happen, so who knows. Next update might throw us a curveball and reveal Darkness was secretly... idk Pete the entire time. He’s Maleficent’s friend! Or maybe it’s just Xehanort again, who knows. I just feel... really tired of KH, and I don’t really know where I’m going to go from here. Hopefully this is the last time I rant about this subject, though, because I really feel like I’ve already said all there is to say.

I want to finish A Heart and a Half, but I also feel hampered by everything that might happen with Vanitas. I also feel like managing my Tumblr blogs is causing me too much stress and distracting me from doing other things (including writing my fanfics), so I’ve been thinking of putting them both on a more ‘permanent’ hiatus after their queues run out sometime later this month. I dunno how everyone would feel about that, though, nor how long that hiatus would be. I’d certainly miss talking to everyone, and you guys make me smile whenever I get a comment or a question from you all! But I also feel like I need to focus on my health (both physical and mental) and work on things that don’t involve social media. I guess I just need a little more time to think about it.

#rant #rambles #stress #khux spoilers

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bookwormdeen · 4 years

Text

Requests Open

Hello!

These can be pairing with Reader, OC (fanfic or one-shot) or just one-shot without pairing (just the character).

I do dates special (b-days, Christmas, etc)

Smut (Only in some cases), Dark themes: Allowed. I like polemic, yes! Feminism, Gender questions, Politic, Health. All of it. The world is a lot of things, writing has to be too. Plus, art is here to help.

I value things that run from stereotypes or cliche. So your character can be LGBTQI +, Black... Anything really. I don’t wanna just white perfect characters. I want different. Because different is far more challenging and fun to write.

I am taking requests with the following characters:

TV Shows

Daredevil: Foggy Nelson; Benjamin Poindexter, Matt Murdock, Vladimir Ranskahov

The Originals: Kol, Klaus, Elijah

Vampire Diaries: Damon, Kai Parker

Vienna Blood: Max Liebermann

The Punisher: Billy Russo.

The Witcher: Jaskier, Cahir, Lazlo

The Order:Hamish Duke, Randall

Justified: Tim Gutterson

Limitless: Bryan Flinch

Ragnarok: Fjor Jutul, Laurentis

Dark: Jonas, Magnus Nielsen

Peaky Blinders: Thomas Shelby, Michael Gray

Amazing Spider-Man: Ben Reilly (Scarlet Spider), Peter Parker, Alistair Smyte, Miles Morales

A Discovery of Witches: Marcus Whitmore

Merlin: Merlin, Arthur, Mordred, Gwaine, Lancelot

Grimm: Nick Burkhardt

Good Wife: Cary Agos, Finn Polmar

Star Trek: Spock, Khan, James Kirk, *Data

Dusk Till Dawn: Richard Geko, Seth Gecko

Glee: Sam Evans

Scream: Noah Foster, Gustavo Acosta, Eli Hudson, Will Belmont

Hannibal: Hannibal Lecter

Money Heist (La Casa de Papel): Berlim

The Good Doctor: Shaun Murphy, Neil Melendez, Alex Park

Castlevania: Adrian Tepes, Trevor Belmont

Clone Wars: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker

Sex Education: Otis, Adam Groff, Eric

Movies

Marvel: Loki, Bucky (Winter Soldier), Peter Parker, Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner, Doctor Strange, Quicksilver, Black Panther, Harry Osborn

DC: Bruce Wayne, Scarecrow, Joker

Ex Machina: Caleb Smith

Riot Club: Miles Richards, Dimitri Mitropoulos, Guy Bellingfield, James Leighton

1917: Blake, Scholfield

Narnia: Edmund Pevensie, Peter Pevensie, Caspian

Hobbit: Legolas, Thorin, Thranduil

Fantastic Beasts: Newt Scamander, Theseus Scamander

6 Underground: 4, 6, 7

HP: Draco Malfoy

Game of Thrones: Robb Stark

Maze Runner: Newt, Gally

Characters

Iron Fist Austen: Mr Darcy, Mr Tilney, Sidney Park, Frederick Wentworth

Noah Centineo

PS: Here are listed only man but you can ask woman too (I don’t know which ones to put, there are much more than these ones).

Ships

Crossover ships are accepted too!

Davina x Kol

Mr Darcy x Elizabeth

Mr Tilney x Catherine Morland

Anne x Gilbert

Sidney Park x Charlotte

Matt Murdock x Karen Page

Billy Russo x Krista Dumont

Amy March x Laurie

Rich Gecko x Kate Fuller

Anastasia x Dimitri

I love AUs and crossovers: like HP meets Narnia, or something like that. Ask about Actors are good too.

Free Stories

These ones I pretend to write more of it or remake it. These will be long fanfics. Feel free to share ideas. If you want a one-shot involving these TV shows or movies is good too.

Obs: Some of them may be only in my Wattpad account. * @lucy_beau

The Alienist; Dirk Gently; Northanger Abbey; Sherlock, Sanditon; The Adventures of Tintin; Chained; Fallet; Ripper Street; Byzantium, Jumanji; Carrie Pilby; Vallerian; The Name of The Rose, Crimpson Peak; Revenge; Red Sparrow; Hookup Plan; The Ottoman Lieutnant

Free Ask:

Saw a thing and want a fanfic? Send me the idea. The movie is bad but could be good? Let’s write it. Want a prompt but can’t write? Maybe I can do it. Send it to me!

Free fanfics or stories have a limited number of chapters: 20.

Obs: I don’t do terror. Horror? Yes.

SEND!!!!

If you want to be in my TAGLIST, say.

Need some help getting ideas? Look here: Prompts

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eddycurrents · 5 years

Photo

When Jonathan Hickman was guiding the Avengers franchise, he was writing two titles that roughly played off of one another in Avengers and New Avengers, focusing on the main Avengers team and then the Illuminati offshoot. Hickman’s previous Fantastic Four and FF runs fed into some of the ideas on the titles, as well as the relatively concurrent SHIELD series fuelling some of the broader ideas.

With his open salvo into the X-Men, Hickman is doing something similar, but different, in the interplay between House of X and Powers of X. Without spoiling anything here, I can say that it’s integral to read the two series together. Though they deal with different smaller narratives, there’s a large overlap in bigger themes, characters, and at least one shared plotline. I think it’s almost best at this point to think of the two series as alternating chapters in the same book. Whether or not they converge overall in the end remains to be seen.

Like House of X #1, Powers of X #1 deals with a number of common themes and plot elements to the X-Men franchise, but gives them a different spin. It plays with some of the core ideas that we’ve seen for decades, gives them a bit of a hard science fiction sheen, and careens off in new directions. Arguably this one is weirder, but that goes into spoiler territory that I’ll discuss below. Hickman is planting some interesting seeds here and I’m curious to see how they grow.

RB Silva, Adriano Di Benedetto, and Marte Gracia step up to the challenge laid down by Pepe Larraz in House of X to provide an engrossing, beautiful visual landscape for this new era, pulling it off in spades. It’s tied together as well through the consistency of design from Clayton Cowles lettering and the text pages designed by Hickman and Tom Muller. Interesting infographics and continued use of the Krakoan language abound.

This is an intriguing next step.

As before, there will be spoilers below this image. If you do not want to be spoiled on Powers of X #1, do not read further.

SPOILER WARNING: Below I’ll be discussing the events, themes, and possibility of what’s going on in Powers of X #1 and beyond. There are HEAVY SPOILERS beyond this point. If you haven’t read the issue yet and don’t want to be spoiled, please stop reading now. You’ve been warned.

PREAMBLE | First Impressions

I was highly impressed by House of X #1.

It surpassed my hopes for what would come from a fresh new start for the X-Men and by far exceeded my expectations. Though it played with long established themes and ideas present throughout the franchise, it felt like something fresh and new, incorporating a science fiction approach to the story and pushing the characters into a new direction. Due to House of X easily delivering on its promise, expectations were raised for Powers of X #1.

I’m happy to say that they too were met. This isn’t an ancillary book featuring also-rans that supplement a “main” story in House of X, but an equally important facet of the broader narrative that this new initiative is trying to tell. It continues part of the story from House of X and then goes deeper on a tapestry across time of the plight of Marvel’s mighty mutants. If anything, House of X is the adjunct to Powers of X, rather than the other way around.

Where House of X feels consistent to Jonathan Hickman’s previous approaches to storytelling within the Marvel Universe, Powers of X seems more informed by the freewheeling, limitless imagination of his creator-owned work. I get a similar feel reading Powers of X #1 as I do from reading Transhuman, God is Dead, East of West, and Manhattan Projects. Though it’s still firmly grounded in the Marvel Universe and the X-Men mythos, it goes off in wild directions of eugenics and genocide.

RB Silva and Adrian Di Benedetto provide a similar aesthetic for the line art as Pepe Larraz in House of X, delivering a style that seems influenced by Stuart Immonen, and it continues to be a great look to define this era of the X-Men. The clean-lined style provides a kind of slickness to the art, making the cities of Nimrod and humanity feel cold, perfectly fitting an era seemingly run by machines. The designs for Nimrod, Rasputin, Black Tom, the Hunters, and the multi-headed Sentinel are wonderful.

One of the standout stars of the creative team shines again here with Marte Gracia’s colours. They’re rich and varied, changing primary colour schemes for each time period to keep things unique and visually interesting, and overall just stunning. The colour approach in the present to the flora of Krakoa is incredibly lush.

Bringing it all together again is the lettering and design from Clayton Cowles and Tom Muller respectively. I like the continued use of mixed case to keep it consistent with House of X, along with a nice approach to the word balloons for Nimrod. The text pieces continue to enhance and enrich the overall story and make it feel distinctly like a Hickman-penned comic.

This continues to be one of the best beginnings to a new era of the X-Men.

ONE | Time

Since the announcement of the two series, there’s been speculation about the title for this one since Powers of X is meant to be read as “Powers of Ten”. When House of X #1 was released last week, there was an idea postulated that it was in reference to exponential mutant batches birthed in the Krakoa pods or beyond. While that could still another reason, it feels like its framework is more the time periods that this book takes place in.

We’re given four primary time periods in X0, X1, X2, and X3, following the powers of ten scale of 1, 10, 100, and 1000. X0 represents the past, a time when Xavier was just dreaming his dream of a mutant paradise.

X1 is Year 10 and represents the present in House of X #1. It’s somewhat interesting to see the X-Men back on a ten-year scale from what appears shortly before the original five to the current time. The original five operating in the 2000s is just a weird prospect.

X2 is 100 years from day one, with a war between the few remaining mutants and the “Man-Machine Supremacy” occurring. This appears to be one of the primary periods that we’re going to be seeing action and new characters set in the Powers of X series. It may be from here that we see the prima facie forces informing this narrative.

X3 is 1000 years since the dawning of Xavier’s dream. It’s arguably the weirdest as well, following the fall of mankind.

There’s also a hint right off the bat that there’s something wrong. Wrong with time, possibly, or maybe just wrong with Xavier. While Charles is enjoying a day at the fair, he’s approached by Moira MacTaggert. Who he doesn’t know. That’s ominous for a number of reasons, since a large part of Charles’ youth was spent with Moira at Oxford University and she was his fiancé for a time. It makes you wonder if someone’s messed with Charles’ memories, or if maybe something or someone is messing with the timeline.

For the latter, other than growing new mutants, this could also be one of the reasons why we’re seeing characters who should be dead back up and alive in House of X #1. It might also be why time overall seems to be such an important element in this story.

The nature of the text pieces, the file names and numbers, and the importance of it in the X1 period (and what looks like possibly a similar quest in the X2 period), it kind of makes me wonder if Moira is a time traveller herself. It’s possible that X0 is before Charles met her at university and therefore doesn’t know her at this point in time, but I think that compresses the timeline of events even further than we’re already squashing the periods between X0 and X1.

In X2 there’s also a curious exchange as Xavier receives the data procured by Sabretooth, Mystique, and Toad in House of X #1. I’m not sure if the confusion was intentional as a hint that something else was going on, or if we were meant to infer that Magneto was manipulating the drive to get it to Xavier, but it at least appears that Xavier is using telekinesis. Xavier doesn’t have telekinesis as a power.

It makes you wonder if something has changed with Charles, giving him new expanded powers, or reinforcing that maybe this isn’t even Charles. With the people being grown in pods and the rise of composite mutants in the future, it makes me wonder if the eugenics tests started even soon. Not to mention that we still haven’t seen Xavier’s face in the present.

TWO | Space?

In X2, we’re given kind of a bleak outlook for how many mutants are left remaining in the 22nd century. Roughly 10,000 mutants living in the Shi’ar Empire and 8 mutants living on Earth. Yeah, that’s a small population. It kind of boggles the mind as to what’s going on between the mutants and machines on Earth since that’s barely a resistance.

There are some interesting questions raised here about the first wave of “Dawn of X” once House of X and Powers of X are over. This seems to be more of an idea seed for what’s coming next, especially with the previews for New Mutants and Excalibur that seem to be sending various X-teams into space again. Even the forthcoming X-Men series looks like it might have ties to intergalactic derring-do.

There’s also a mention of Empress Xandra that’s sure to perk up some ears. Xandra was introduced by Kelly Thompson and Oscar Bazaldua in Mr. & Mrs. X and is supposedly the daughter of Charles Xavier and Lilandra Neramani.

THREE | Days of Future Tenses Yet to Come

What’s a horrible mutant future without a Days of Future Past framework? The X2 period uses familiar elements from many of the dystopian futures that we’ve seen over the years in X-Men comics.

There are elements here from many alternate futures including traditional Sentinels, Nimrod, hounds, and such, but it somehow feels fresh. Although it’s a bleak, dystopian world where practically every mutant is dead, there’s still a small thread of hope. Given what we see later that hope is probably futile, but you wonder where this is heading.

There is so much world and character-building that feeds into the construction of the X2 period, including the new elements of Krakoa that were introduced in House of X #1, that it feels like framing this simply as another alternate future that’s going to be worked out and fixed by the end of the series is a little naïve.

It could be a vehicle for introducing Rasputin into the world, a Chimera mutant based on the DNA of Kitty Pryde, Piotr Rasputin (with the possibility of some Illyana in there too, since she’s got a soulsword, but it may be that just one of their genetic stock can yield both mutant powers. Though the soulsword is magic not mutant), Gunther Bain, Laura Kinney, and Quentin Quire. And we could well see her transplanted elsewhere when “Dawn of X” begins.

The hunters are kind of neat. We see a couple of them with their masks off and they seem normal, but who’s to tell. They might be human, they might be machine, they might be both, we’re still unsure as to what the deeper state of humanity happens to be in this time period. Much of the early landscape we see in the Nexus is battleground, full of destruction and debris, but the area around Nimrod’s tower looks to be a built up futuristic city. Who lives there? Or maybe what lives there?

I also quite like the design of the hunters. They remind me of the Hellfire Club soldiers’ design (and by extension some of the Reavers) with a few tweaks to make them more fit Nimrod’s design and the singular lens to make their asymmetry feel a little creepy. I’m curious if we’re supposed to think that these hunters are the new Reavers, or if maybe there’s some connection to some form of the Hellfire Club.

Now, Omega seems to be Nimrod’s superior. He defers to her and seems to get her blessing in order to enact his archival experiment from her. We don’t know if she’s still Karima Shapandar, but it seems like she might be, the only difference is that she’s now red. Bigotry also appears to have become a more apparent part of her personality, using one of the common dismissive phrases of “you people” when dealing with Clyobel.

You have to wonder what happened to her prior to her reactivation in House of X #1 that has changed her so dramatically from her time with the X-Men. And what shaped and honed that hatred even further into the future.

FOUR | Flawed Design

There’s a kind of nihilism that’s baked into the story. It comes with the territory of a horrible future for Marvel’s mighty mutants, but it extends to some of the characters and situations throughout this issue as the world-building informs us of what’s going on in the X2 period and of what led to parts of the current situation. It seems like failure is going to be a theme for Powers of X, failure of the dream, failure of systems, failure of communication and trust, failure of legacy. It would seem depressing, but it’s endlessly fascinating the way that it’s presented.

For starters, handing over any kind of breeding programme for the continued survival of mutants over to Sinister is insane. Even with mutant leadership apparently missing when it happened, it’s still insane. Sinister is a self-serving mad scientist, so it’s no wonder that it blew up in everyone’s faces. It also makes you wonder what other schemes he had in mind, and whether or not his “execution” actually took. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw him, and another generation of his own personal mutants, before the story runs its course. He always seems to have a back-up plan, not to mention another cloned body just ready to be activated.

Giving up and defecting to the Man-Machine Supremacy after deliberately sabotaging the fourth generation of his breeding pits to destroy Mars feels a little too simple for Sinister.

But that flaw isn’t limited to Sinister. We see it in the Man-Machine Supremacy’s breeding programme too at the Khennil (referred to in the text piece as the Man-Machine Ascendancy). Obsolete and ill-considered eugenics seems to be part of man’s purview as well in how it created the original hounds (presumably the ones we know and love like Rachel Summers) and then the subsequent “black brains”.

There’s also a theme of betrayal throughout. In that it’s part of the genetic make-up of the Khennil hounds, that it was part of Sinister’s plan with his fourth generation brood, and there’s the suggestion that mutant leaders were “disappeared” through betrayal.

The final, and ultimately fatal, flaw comes in the future with the failure of Nimrod’s experiment started in the X2 period brought forward to the end in X3’s Mutant Library. This one’s likely not purposeful, rather degradation of systems through age, but it’s the one that leads to the end of mankind and the mutant race with the idea that it’s not possible to bring them back.

Though, I wouldn’t be surprised that this is the problem that this series is trying to fix.

FIVE | The Four Horsemen

One of the interesting things I found among the X2 time period was who survives. Among the 8 who are still living, you’ve got representatives of Sinister’s breeding programme, from a standard composite in Rasputin to an outlier priest class in Cardinal, but then you’ve got a group of four. I find it particularly interesting that they’re introduced in the form of a group of four because it gives certain connotations.

The four aren’t named in the story, but they look like Magneto, Wolverine, Black Tom, and Zorn (the Ultimate Universe brother to Xorn that Hickman and Rafa Sandoval created in Ultimate Comics: Hawkeye). I mean, it’s entirely possible that these four are more composites or clones grown by Sinister or someone else, especially since it’s 90 years from “now” and they all seem relatively well put together, but these are four characters that arguably have a tenacity for longevity. Hell, Black Tom can pretty much regrow himself like Swamp Thing.

But back to the four. It gives another possible reason as to why these existing characters are still alive in the future. They could be new representatives of the Four Horsemen of Apocalypse.

I mean, there’s a number of people that Wolverine could be mentioning as the “Old Man”. It could be Xavier. Could be someone else. But like Black Tom, we’ve been seeing Apocalypse popping up again in numerous covers and solicitations (after all he’s on the cover for House of X #2 at that).

It also potentially ties into all of the religious symbolism and meta-narrative that Hickman has been seeding throughout House of X and Powers of X so far. From Xavier creating a new Adam and Eve beneath a Tree of Life, Magneto emphasizing the coming of new gods in Jerusalem, the possibility of Krakoa creating all sorts of plant golems, Nimrod’s tower, and now the end times as portrayed in the book of Revelation.

Also, one of the file names for the text pieces includes “(APOC_build)”.

SIX | The Garden

The end to Powers of X #1 has an interesting parallel to the beginning of House of X #1. Where the latter had Xavier seemingly hatching his Adam & Eve out of the Krakoa pods, in X3, following the seeming collapse of mankind, there’s a place called “The Preserve” where the Librarian references some kept around similar to dinosaur bones in a museum.

There are some oddities, though, as when mining Nimrod’s database, the Librarian seems to be searching for personalities, sad to find that they’ve degraded. It makes you wonder if the Preserve is a place to house relics, or if maybe they’re trying to breed a new race of mutants. Also, who or what the Librarian represents at this point is anyone’s guess.

SEVEN | A Drawing of Three

In the opening sequence between Moira and Charles, there’s another interesting thing as Moira recounts briefly that she had a fortune-telling. From that we draw a traditional three card spread. There’s a number of ways that you can read them, but two are most prevalent. In the first reading, card 1 is the past, 2 is the present, and 3 is the future. In the other, card 1 represents the context of the question being asked, card 2 represents what the person asking should focus on to affect or change the situation, and card 3 represents the potential outcome. (Now, I know there are countless other ways to read the cards, including card 2 representing the querent and the other two influencing it, but we’d be here all day if I broke down all possible interpretations to just read the spread.)

Given that it is a timeline question, though, in a story about time, I think it’s interesting that all three cards pulled are interpreted through the future of the X2 time period and the characters there. (Also somewhat odd in that all three are Major Arcana.) And it that, it makes it even stranger as a timeline question that would normally take a past, present, future reading.

I personally tend to use Aleister Crowley and Lady Frieda Harris’ Thoth Tarot when I do personal readings, including Crowley’s book on further meanings and connections, as well as Lon Milo DuQuette’s commentary and analysis in the beautiful Understanding the Thoth Tarot, so my frame of reference is probably different given the celestial twist and changes made (along with tons of attributions and connections according to Hermetic Kabbalah). I’m also a large proponent of people only doing readings for themselves, bringing their own interpretations and influences to the reading and their understanding of the symbolism, connections, and such. So, if you disagree with anything I write here, feel free to throw it out and do your own work.

Anyway, the drawing of The Magician as the past, as represented by Rasputin is interesting. Especially in Hickman’s statement of “one foot in two worlds”. This could be representative of two things, the past (as in she’s a composite of different mutants from the past) and the future, or it could be referring to her soulsword and the fact that she represents a magical world and a mundane world. It could be reading Rasputin as simple as a literal magician. The Magician card itself typically represents communication, wisdom, craft, and skill. As representing the past, it could be interpreted as that the previous timeframes were where all of the skill, determination, and communication came from. That all of that X-magic is behind them.

The card for the present is The Tower, as represented by Nimrod’s tower. Hickman incorporates some of the symbolism of the biblical tower of Nimrod, the Tower of Babel, here in a symbol of “collapse and rebirth”. The Tower card, often also referred to as the Blasted Tower (depending on your perspective on the Tree), often represents combat, strife, ruin, and a destruction of plans. It certainly makes sense for the present of the X2 time period as it’s rife with conflict caused by the war between the few remaining mutants and the Man-Machine Supremacy.

The final drawing for the future is The Devil, as represented by Cardinal (I still want to call him Redcrawler). Like Rasputin, this could simply be down to the character correlations (in that the Nightcrawler genetic stock that Cardinal draws upon is descended from that “demon” mutant offshoot). The card itself is often read to represent blind impulse, unscrupulousness, temptation, and obsession. All of that seems at odds with the Cardinal character that we see in Powers of X #1, so it’s kind of hard to gauge. If it represents the future, it could be that some sort of recklessness on the part of the few remaining mutants leads to a complete collapse (as we seem to see in the X3 period). Or maybe our priest isn’t necessarily what he seems.

At its most basic, the spread seems to be telling us what we can discern from the comic itself, of a period of a kind of golden age, followed by a collapse and a period of strife, before temptation possibly leading everything astray, but part of me thinks that’s too simple. I haven’t gone into attributions, and whether or not the presence of the cards together are well or ill aspected, so there might be something there that sheds a different light.

Or Hickman could have an entirely different meaning behind any of this.

CONCLUSION | All the Small Things

Between the first issues of House of X and Powers of X, I’m impressed by their depth. It could well be a case of overthinking and over-analyzing the story, the text, and the imagery, of reading too much into the ideas, but this work from Hickman, Silva, Di Benedetto, Gracia, Cowles, and Muller lends itself to be scrutinized.

It can be enjoyed, very much so, on a surface level as a great science fiction adventure story, and absolutely should be. It’s entertaining fiction as a groundwork, but that it can be studied for clues and other meanings can be a large part of the fun of a work like this. It gets imaginations running wild trying to see how or if the pieces fit, almost like a puzzle or a treasure hunt.

Powers of X #1 leads us further down a rabbit hole that this new era of the X-Men is taking us down and it’s an exciting ride so far.

d. emerson eddy thinks he thinks too much some times.

#Examinations #X-Men #Powers of X #1 #Jonathan Hickman #RB Silva

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portraitoftheoddity · 6 years

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Let’s Talk About Comic Books

If you follow me, odds are you have either some peripheral interest in comics, or in the media adapted from them, cause that’s about 90% of my blog. And comics are a pretty remarkable medium; they’re part of a tradition of pictorial storytelling that goes back to the dawn of human civilization. They contain stories and characters that transfer from storyteller to storyteller, outliving their creators and developing a legacy that spans generations, evolving and yet remaining timeless in many instances. Superhero comics in particular are the closest thing we have to a modern tradition of mythology.

There’s a lot of amazing shit happening in comics right now. The quality of art and storytelling is some of the best it’s ever been. More and more diverse creators have broken into the industry, and are telling a broader range of stories for everyone, leading to fresh perspectives and narratives and styles. There are incredible, beautiful, powerful stories being told right now.

And if that interests you, it’s really important to support them.

Despite the multi-million-dollar blockbusters being adapted from their properties, the actual print studios of the big two (DC & Marvel) have been struggling. A lot of this is the product of their own failure to adapt to the 21st century or to effectively capitalize on the marketing opportunity the films provide and actually making comics accessible to new readers. And unfortunately, it’s also because of the crappy way they tabulate sales.

Now, there’s three basic ways to get your comics:

Floppy single issue comics (~20-30 pages, released more or less monthly. Usually between $2.99 and $4.99, though this can vary by publisher)

Digital single issues (same as above, often cheaper due to being a digital file with no print cost with frequent $1 sales. Comixology is the biggest digital seller of comics)

Trades (glossy-covered volumes that compile several individual issues into a complete story-arc. Usually around $20)

Trades are nice and durable and easier to store & share, and a lot of people prefer them for a lot of reasons. Digital comics are easy to get right away and read on a tablet or device, and don’t take up room in your home. But print single issue figures are the sales metric that books live and die by. And since a lot of readers either don’t have the time to go to a brick and mortar comic book store, or don’t have one nearby, or don’t feel comfortable in one (particularly common with female readers and readers of color who are made to feel less welcome in a lot of geek culture institutions), they aren’t counted.

So let’s say instead of getting the trade at a bookstore or downloading the new issue online, you walk into your local comic shop (LCS) and buy a comic off the ‘new releases’ rack. Great! That counts toward sales, right?

Well... No. What gets counted by the published isn’t actually what leaves the shelves, but what’s ordered by the retailer to put on them. And that means pre-orders.

Unlike in traditional publishing, comics sold to retailers through the direct market can’t be returned for a refund. So retailers have to preorder comics months in advance, knowing that if they order too many, they’ll be stuck with the overstock. Marvel and DC largely judge sales based on these preorders, and a low number of initial preorders can lead a publisher to cancel a series before a customer ever gets a chance to buy the first issue... Due to the preorder system, books that might reach out to new audiences—such as those starring minority characters—are at an immense disadvantage right out of the gate. (x)

“But how do I know what to pre-order?” you ask. If you’re a regular in your LCS, you’re probably handed a newsletter of “solicits” with descriptions of upcoming books that you can check out and decide you want added to your pull list. (A pull list is basically the list of titles you’re subscribed to. Your LCS will order that inventory for you specifically and keep it in a folder set aside for when you come in. Most stores only ask that you come in once a month to pick up whatever titles you’re pulling -- you can ask for a book to be taken off your list at any time.)

If you’re a new comic reader however, you probably don’t know this, and the comics industry’s weirdo idiosyncrasies are not well-explained or well-known to the general public. A lot of new readers who are purchasing online (because that seems like the economic, sensible thing to do) or who don’t know to pre-order and don’t have a competent enough staff at their LCS to explain the value of a pull list end up not being counted. And good books with a lot of readership get canceled on account of that readership not being accurately tabulated in the company’s data.

SO.

If you see a title you are interested in supporting, go to your local comic shop and ask them to put it on a pull-list for you.

If there’s a character you like and you don’t know what title they might be in, poking around the internet a bit or talking to a helpful LCS employee can fill you in on their most recent appearances, and any catching up you need to do to know what’s happening in the current arc they’re in.

Subscription of print issues is the best way to communicate to publishers that yes, this title is selling, and yes, it’s worth keeping. And that’s the best way to support the creators you enjoy and ensure stories keep getting told about the characters you love.

#comics #comic books #lena gets on her soapbox #the comics industry is dumb as fuck but unfortunately we have to play by their idiot rules to keep good books alive

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megamegaturtle · 6 years

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gorgeous (chapter one)

Spencer Reid x Reader Fic

No Rating

Ao3

Summary: You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where butterfly wings cause hurricanes from a wing’s single flutter. A story about how you and Spencer become friends and one day lovers.

WC: 11K

(First Criminal Minds Fanfic. Here goes nothing!)

Everything has a beginning and an end and yours starts when you pass through security at 8:05 AM. You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where butterfly wings cause hurricanes from a wing’s single flutter. Being early by 25 minutes has that effect as well, events brewing in your future that you won’t see until years later. Your every movement spins with faster velocity, creating a pressurized cyclone wherever you go. Gales under your fingertips as the world goes round and round and round.

Your true beginning started a few years prior, where you luckily got a job working in the administration and payroll department at your regional Census Bureau Office. Who knew that serendipity laced fingers with surveys and data of the American population? Who knew life held on tight as you moved your trajectory to where you are now?

It was a nice pre-beginning, a small start towards a government career you always wanted and maybe you weren't an analyst right then how you dreamed, but payroll paid well and—life in Los Angeles can only be so exciting and—there was a posting in the FBI and—

(You have always been defined by your ambitions, by your zeal, your need to strive and chase after things and be better and life had been so stagnant and—)

You applied, were interviewed three months later, and waited six months and thirteen days to receive your final offer after that. Waiting and waiting and waiting because bureaucracy is slower than glaciers moving in the Arctic. Slower than drip coffee pods when the machine is clogged. Slower—than waiting for your period to start when you are ten years old because your best friend had hers at nine.

(At twelve when it happens, you think maybe it began all too soon. Maybe childhood should have tried a little harder to cling on you.)

And then life springs into action, butterfly wings causing hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbeans and the world is ending as there is an onslaught of terrible news every day and yet—

You get a job in the FBI. In a Bureau people actually know by name. A step closer to prestige and recognition as you sign your name on the dotted line of your new contract. A step closer to an image you’ve always wanted for yourself because you want to be someone important. You want and want and crave to be someone important.

It’s human nature, you’re told, to see that grass is greener on the other side and you try hard to humble your roots, but the sun shines so bright as the future promises good things for those who work hard. And you’re not the kind that gives up, not the kind that goes home if there is work to be done, not the kind who says no to when opportunity knocks.

(Pride will continue to be your biggest folly, a double edged sword that is painfully sharp with a wobbly handle.)

You are a new admin and timekeeper clerk for a bureau built on secrets and hidden information. It's a stepping stone like how going to grad school was a stepping stone, how working for the Census was a stepping stone, how this will be a stepping stone to being an analyst or researcher or—

(Anything will do. You just. Want to work with information. You want something fast paced. You want something that makes you think. Puzzles. Calculations. People. And you can be cross trained and transfer because once you’re in, you’re in and you just—you just—

You want to think.)

You wear an outfit you've kept from all your precious new beginnings, wearing a milestone ring on one hand, wearing milestone earrings too. Gifts to yourself for being better than you were yesterday. Jewels to reward yourself because someone has to love you and you love yourself. Sometimes. With therapy. Reminders to yourself that hard work will see you through to as many as tomorrows you’re willing to see.

You wear a plum colored dress with plum colored lipstick. Contour carves out your cheekbones and you angled dark purple blush to make you look striking. You wear winged eyeliner and waterproof mascara that can thankfully hold a curl. You feel powerful, otherworldly as people smile a bit brighter and the several security guards all comment they have never seen a lipstick match a woman's dress so perfectly.

This is your reckoning. A beautiful, colorful storm and no one will ever be ready.

(Butterfly wings flutter against your heart and your stomach and metals that wrap around your finger and pierces through your ears anchor you to this moment, become armor from nerves that start to accumulate at the levys, threatening to flood every quarter of your being.)

But everything comes back to serendipity, to fate working in mysterious ways and metaphorical hurricanes as you wander the halls of Quantico, looking for Human Resources which is tucked away in some odd room by the vending machines the guard told you about because of remodeling and—

You round the corner quickly, happiness and giddiness soaking in your veins as you think of your higher pay grade, a song in your smile. A brilliant tune of glistening silver and persuasive chimes. Earbuds in each ear as you play your favorite song of the moment one more time, the words on your lips and a hum in your heart. Vocal courage, you think, as you sing your most favorite line quietly and maybe too much excitement as you bump into another human being and…

All their files go tumbling to the ground, clashing like thin cymbals and fanning like ocean waves.

The music that rang with every step fades as reality comes rushing back, your rose tinted glasses cracking into something useless. You blink once, then twice as the concept of manners come back to you, your mortality recognized as you are filled with acute embarrassment. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as you see the mess scattered around a man’s feet. You tear off your earbuds and tuck them back into your purse, music still blaring from the tiny speakers.

Mindful of your dress, you hurriedly get to your knees and help the man pick up the files you rudely knocked away from his person.

Papers are everywhere as you collect them, trying to be as neat as you can. Without looking at him, you say, “I am so, so, so sorry. I—ah, today is my first day and I am a bit excited…” you babble. “I just—you know, new career and ah—”

(Your pride is a shaky thing, battle armor useless once you interact with another human being and you’re reminded that purple lipstick can’t erase social fumbles.)

He laughs, the first sound you hear him make. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for helping me pick these all up.”

Your bangs cover your eyes as you grab a page tucked under a bench. “Of course. I hate it when people just like…walk away or something. Biggest pet peeve ever.”

He hums in agreement.

You two work for a few more moments gathering the fallen files, once you have a generous stack in your hands you look up finally, stunned a little at a smiling handsome face. Long curly hair and hazel eyes greet you as pleasant warmth spreads into your own girn.

(Oh, your heart was not ready. Not ready at all for someone so cute this before you had a second cup of coffee.)

You check your watch and see it’s about 8:20 AM, panic brushing your insides again as you quietly squawk about the time. You hurriedly stand up as he does the same, noting with abject humor that he towers over your extremely small frame.

(He grins a little unexpectedly wider when he realizes you’re so tiny even in heels.)

You extend the stack in the space between you and help him gather it into his arms. You adjust the strap of your purse, time ticking in your ears.“I’m sorry about bumping into you again. Hopefully there’ll be no more collisions today. ”

He nods, looking at you a little brighter. “Ah, yeah. That might be good.”

You smile and wave goodbye at him, glancing down at your watch once more. “Yeah. Anyway, I hope you have a great day, Mystery File Guy. I gotta run and try not to be late for paperwork. Whoo!”

He fixes the papers to rest more comfortable in his arms, bidding you a feeble wave. “Good luck on your first day.”

“Thanks,” you beam, happiness fluttering in your being.

As pride will always be your folly, honesty with always be your strength so you’re not surprised when you pause and let the words fall from your lips in complete sincerity.

“By the way, before I go, I just wanted to say you’re really gorgeous and I hope you have an awesome day.”

The man snaps his attention at you from a page he was examining, caught off guard as he tries to reply. Honesty colors his expression, the unperceived positivity shocking him. Somehow he whispers his words of thanks.

You giggle as you turn on your heel to embark on a new journey in the FBI.

(It dawns at you hours later you forget to ask for his name.)

(Unbeknownst to you, he thinks the very same.)

You learn his name is Spencer Reid.

Doctor Spencer Reid to be precise and this is where everything starts to go downhill because the other day you called a man with eidetic memory gorgeous. You called a man with three PhDs and two BAs (maybe three if you heard the humor correctly about philosophy) gorgeous. And the universe works in funny ways because you’ll be his new timekeeper and write his paychecks and—

Dear lord, he’s everything you’ve ever inspired to be wrapped up in a generally nice person as your new supervisor introduces you the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he’s there.

The man you bumped into.

The one named Doctor Spencer Reid.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware that he will not forget this because he does not forget anything and you try not to stutter, but you stutter your name anyway and he gives you a look of confusion because a few days ago you were this striking young woman you told him he was attractive and you know and he knows that and—

The universe works in funny ways as your growing admiration for the man before you makes you unable to speak.

(He’s everything you’ve ever wanted to be.)

(You don’t realize until years later that he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.)

You rarely have to speak to Doctor Reid which makes you count your lucky stars as months go by because talking to him is impossible because you have so many questions and questions and questions and—

You might have read a lot of his papers. It begins innocently enough. You’re just Googling him—for science and/or morbid curiosity—and there he is in Google Scholar and then you find his website that a friend runs and… Okay, you don’t really understand the math behind them, but the theories are understandable and you wish you were just as accomplished and talented.

And when you hear his name you feel a little more centered and focused because you’ve always needed a goal, you’ve always needed inspiration, and what is more inspiring than watching a young genius be so good at striving?

The East Coast is a little lonely, you think, one early winter day. Sunny California is across a vast continent and maybe, maybe, maybe you were a little rash when you packed up and left because adventure was calling you, but the East Coast is a little lonely.

Watercolor art prints and patterned sofa cushions can only keep you so much company. Who will see your teal and golden plates? Who will to come over to play video games and watch movies snuggled under fluffy throw blankets? Who will you invite to dinner one night after you cooked all day?

Your lovely apartment isn’t as warm with just one body. You need someone to talk to minus the lonely girl in you find in every mirror you own.

(Granted, there is nothing wrong admiring the self, just you can only tell your own joke so many times until it stops being funny.)

But friendship finds you fast one morning as you walk to the BAU and find the local tech analyst to certify timesheets for her colleagues.

(Sure, you could have dialed her extension, but sitting is the new silent killer and well—there is nothing wrong with meeting people. You can only talk to Mary for so long. The woman could easily be your grandmother.)

Your heels click once last time as you stand outside her door, hearing her voice muffled through the thick material. You pause with your fist raised and wait for her to stop speaking, not wanting to interrupt. But after awkwardly standing outside her door for five minutes, you think it’s best to try again later.

You sigh to yourself and turn to leave when the door swings wide open.

“Oh, a visitor!” she squeaks, asking about your name.

You clear your throat and tucking fallen hair behind your ear. “Yep, that’s me. Um, Ms. Garcia, I just wanted you to certify these timesheets are correct? I was told to ask you when Agent Hotchner wasn’t on site.”

She’s wearing a lovely shade of oxblood lipstick, her teeth far more than pearly when she smiles at you. “Yeah, the team just finished up their latest case and will be on their way home soon.” She glances at you and moves out of her door. “Come inside and I’ll sign these for you, alright?”

You nod and enter her office. There are computer monitors everywhere, much like a spy movie. “Thank you, if I’m not too much a bother. You seemed—like you were about to maybe leave?”

She plops herself in a rolly chair and laughs, logging back into her computer to e-sign if she needs to. “I sometimes get a little stir crazy in here, but my precious angels saved the day as usual so I thought I would get some fancy coffee or something.”

You like her outfit, you like the swirls and shapes of her dress. You like her snowflake earrings and headband and the way she smiled when she saw you was so cute you can’t help but ask.

“I’m about to go on my lunch. We can...we can go together if you’d like?”

(Winter is such a lonely season and you're desperate to connect with someone, to make sure that this move was worth it.)

Ms. Garcia peeks at you over the rim of her glasses, a friendliness in her very smile. “I think I’d like that very much. Lord knows I have to know where you got your blush!”

You laugh and find that in the months to come, things are less lonely with a new friend.

(The answer is you shop indie; loose powder blushes are best with a light hand.)

You go home for Christmas and run into your ex-boyfriend. Your heart calls out to him, wanting so much to pick up where you left off because you haven't stopped loving him yet.

He's smart, makes you laugh, is the one you've known for so long, that that familiarity is hard to replace.

As he kisses you, you realize he feels the same.

(He told you once that his home is California, but now he tells you that his home is with you.

A dark part of you wonders how long he’ll keep this claim.)

Winter snow melts and the seeds you planted in your friendship with Penelope bloom into soft laughter and happy conversations. You have someone whose office you run towards when paperwork gets boring and—

And she listens to your hopes and dreams as you crave to do more.

“My job,” you tell her, “is stupidly easy. Everything I do is stupidly easy which is fun and all, but I just…want to do more.”

Penelope laughs. “Okay, but I think payroll would hard. Like, really, dollface, there is nothing simple you do.”

You shake your head. “Nah, I used to work at a car dealership and I had to do all the math by hand. I had to learn how to do sales commissions by hand in about a month’s time. And while it was time consuming, even that wasn’t that hard. They’re just numbers, you know?” You groan. “I was just hoping for something a bit more fast paced, but I finish all my work so quickly and stuff? They’re running out of new tasks for me to learn because I keep getting them all.”

Penelope takes a sip of her coffee. “You should come work for me. I’d keep you busy! Plus, the department over here is a little understaffed in general.”

“Haha, maybe I can come train with you at least when I finish some of my other work?”

Garcia looks at you, thoughtful for a moment, and then grins. “Let me see what I can do.”

You get caught in an elevator with Doctor Reid. You avoid speaking to him still, but you have a notification setup that you get an email if he writes a new paper.

His latest one was about the mathematics for poetry formatting in books and how there is an algorithm to which poems are deemed best. It was a lovely weekend morning read. You left an anonymous comment on the journal’s page.

(You dug out your grad dissertation on universal global feminism and you’ve always wanted to rewrite it and submit for publication. You started a new document on Sunday.)

“Good morning,” he says.

You mumble the greeting in return, wincing internally that this will only add to your fumble tally.

He notices your bracelet, a lovely arrangement of turquoise cast in silver. A gift from your grandfather.

“Did you know,” he starts, “that the ancient Egyptians thought turquoise was a holy stone that brought good luck? And it’s goddess, Hathor, was a cow goddess and the mother, wife and daughter of the sun god, Ra. She was known as ‘Lady of Turquoise’, ‘Mistress of Turquoise’ and ‘Lady of Turquoise Country’.”

You briefly glance at him, taking a mental note to look up more about her when you get home. You’re about to respond, say please continue, enquire more because you want to know more...when the elevator dings and you—and you—

—panic as usual.

You brush by him, whispering, “Interesting.”

(You’re reminded when you had a Japanese teacher in college who told that Americans only say “interesting” when there is nothing nicer to say, but you know that’s not true. It was interesting and fascinating and left you wanting more! You know it’s not true, you just can’t…befriend Doctor Reid.

He’s far too cool to be your friend, you think.)

Long distance is hard, but seeing Matthew’s face after a long day is worth so much. It’s dark in your room, your hair in a lazy bun with your big headphones your ears as you both video chat.

It’s getting close to 1:00 AM and you’re rambling about what happened in the elevator the other day. How awkward you were, how adorable Doctor Reid was.

Matt laughs, his voice a familiar balm for your anxiety. “Babe, I hate to break it to you, but it sounds like you have a crush on this doctor guy,” he tells you with an easy smile.

You loudly snort and bury your face in your pillow. “Matt, don't be ridiculous! Besides the only doctor I need is the one who I'm gonna marry,” you tease.

(Marriage is a fickle subject for you, both wanting a future together, but each of you stepping forward and back and your feelings hardly sync.)

He pauses for a moment, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well...if I get into Georgetown, then I think I can make that a reality.”

Doctor Reid’s comment in the elevator starts a fixation on knowing the meaning on every stone you own.

Pearls are for wisdom acquired through experience. They are also used to calm oneself and to balance out one’s karma. Natural pearls form when an irritant - usually a parasite and not the proverbial grain of sand - works its way into an oyster, mussel, or clam. As a defense mechanism, a fluid is used to coat the irritant. Layer upon layer of this coating, called 'nacre', is deposited until a lustrous pearl is formed.

Diamonds are created out of pure carbon. They have very strong crystal structure where the carbon atoms in the crystal are especially strongly bonded. They can form octahedral (classical diamond), trapezoidal and dodecahedral crystals. Diamonds represent faithfulness, love, purity, innocence, and relationships filled with love.

Emeralds are for hope; to help tranquilize a troubled mind. The characteristic live green color of this stone originates from chromium impurities built-in within its crystal structure at the positions of aluminum. Emeralds come from a stone called beryl. Lots of stones come for beryl.

For example, if there is too much blue in it, then it is an aquamarine. The Romans believed that if the figure of a frog were carved on an aquamarine, it served to reconcile enemies and make them friends.

(You’re not sure if Doctor Reid would appreciate a frog carved on an aquamarine.)

Two months later your supervisor calls you into her office and informs you that on Mondays and Wednesdays you will begin cross training with Penelope Garcia, provided there is no payroll that needs to be completed.

Butterfly wings find welcome in your heart again as your run back to your desk dialing her extension. She picks up on the very first ring.

“Thank you for dialing Penelope, the Fairy Godmother for admin clerks!”

You whisper loudly into the phone. “What did you do?”

Penelope chuckles and you can hear her shrug. “Nothing minus give you a challenge. Plus, if I train you, I can take more vacation days.”

You sink into your seat, disbelief seeping from your pores as you try to wrap your mind around everything. “But Garcia, I only know basic IT. I can’t even hack anything or anyone.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my sweet. You’re the one that said you’re a quick study.”

You scoff. “I meant for like! Simple things! I’m really not that smart.”

Garcia’s voice is warm over the phone. “Oh, I’ll be the judge of that. If you’re no good, I’ll send you back to admin full-time, but for now, be ready for next week!”

Your mother tells you she's so proud of you. So very proud of the young woman you’re becoming, happy that you’re seeking out good things out for yourself, so pleased that you’re living a life she didn’t get to have.

Matthew is oddly quiet at the news. He only sends a small congratulatory text and then proceeds to tell you about his day. He had avocado toast and is helping contribute to why millennials can’t afford houses.

It really bothers you when he does that. Ignores your successes because he thinks things are a competition between the two of you. Ignores your good things to shadow them with his bad.

(Recently he mentioned about applying to UCLA again. That California is a wonderful place and—

You tell yourself to be patient and just wait.)

You’ve always been one to like getting your feet wet, you’ve bragged enough times how you just jump into things without thinking it through. And the same is true come that Monday when the BAU is already hard on a case and you shadow and watch Garcia with amazing speed find all the information she needs.

You sit and shadow her, awe and fear rolling off you in waves.

Your mind spins after that first case, trying to keep up with everything, but you heart hammers happily in your chest and you feel breathless as you reason that you’ve been looking for this all along and—

Garcia smiles at you, warm and inviting.

“Show me what you can do, Miss Smartypants.”

(Lives were saved that day and you were apart of that.)

You properly meet Special Agent Derek Morgan on a night out with Penelope for dinner. His warm brown eyes size you up, see if you’re authentic or made of lies.

(Since you started therapy years ago, you no longer need to stitch yourself with false truths.)

You proudly grab his hand and give him a firm shake. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Penelope says you’re the light of her life.”

His smile widens as his fingers wrap around yours. “You know, my Baby Girl says the exact thing about you. Says you’re one of the smartest kids she knows.”

You scoff at that and roll your eyes. “She’s a flatterer who only wants vacation days. Truly, I have a wonderful mentor though.”

You sit with them on a late spring evening, enjoying good food and great company.

(You’re finding roots here, finding a home as people slowly begin to enter your life and call you their own.)

You mother calls you sounding tired. Her cancer has come back, but she goes to chemo every three weeks and is doing well.

You wish you weren’t so far from home, but she tells you she’s proud of you, proud of what you’re doing, proud of who you’ve become.

“You’re like me, my love, always chasing after something better.”

You see Doctor Reid in your local bookstore, browsing for something new to read. You’re doing much the same, perusing the oh so stimulating romance section.

You could say “hello” or ask what he’s reading next. You could ask him if he prefers paper or e-ink. You can ask him if he’d like to chat or discuss the weather or...

You could ask him a lot of things, but for some reason, anytime you see him, your bravery runs away.

(You don’t know this, but he sees you too. He’s at the same crossroads trying to befriend you.)

Penelope’s smile is so wide when you enter her office, two coffees in hand. “Why are you so happy?”

She spins in her seat and sighs with glee. “Oh, my wonderful and local genius has a girlfriend and gah, it makes me so happy!”

You giggle, “Well, that sure does sound wonderful! Congrats?”

She babbles about super genius babies as your mind drifts away. You wonder when your boyfriend will trek out East like you did too.

Doctor Reid doesn’t write for a long while. Can’t when you find out from a weepy Penelope that his girlfriend was murdered in front of him.

(He didn’t even touch her once and you find that’s far too intimate of information about a man you don’t even know and—)

You weren’t there when it happened, not training or shadowing. You went home to sunny California to visit your family and loved ones and yet—

Who knew that nine days away could change everything in a man’s life?

(Butterfly wings create hurricanes after hurricanes after hurricanes.)

Matthew breaks up with you via text.

I love you, but moving to the East Coast can't be part of my plans.

The message flashes over and over in your mind as you jab a punching bag. You don’t really know how to use a punching bag, but that’s besides the point as you smack at it away anyway. And since you don’t get field time, there’s no reason for you to have a gun. And maybe when someone is so angry, they shouldn’t want to practice shooting for the first time at the range.

You jab too swiftly to the right and your wrist bends in a way you’re positive it’s not supposed to and you hiss out in pain. In a fit, you kick the punching bag and it does little to soothe your building rage.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a concern voice says. It’s warm and kind, like milk and honey. “Pretty sure pretty girls like you should know how to put up a fight.”

You roll your eyes and cradle your wrist. “Hey, Morgan,” you say flatly.

He gestures to take a look at your wrist and he happily decides it's not broken. “So, what’s his name and how should I hurt him?”

He puts up both his fists and your mirror him, following his motions as he shows you how to punch correctly. You smile for the first time since this morning.

“His name is asshole and good riddance!”

(The calluses on your knuckles do little to ease your broken heart.)

Butterfly wings cause hurricanes and you’re sitting at a used car lot alone signing the contract for a 2012 BRZ in white. You’ve always wanted a sports car, wanted to learn how to fix one up, have a nice car to drive on pretty days, have one to call yours and—

Matthew didn’t think getting a second car would be worth it, said weekend cars were lame and—

—you realize once again, that things just aren’t the same.

You’re not very good at driving manual, and you stall about five times on the way home, but it’s okay.

Doctor Reid doesn’t come back to work right away. That makes sense. The love of his life just died in a most violent way.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t hurt a little, don’t feel any empathy. A life is gone from this world and now there seems to be a light missing.

(Will she be a star that watches over him and protects him? Does he even believe in those things?)

You might not be his friend, might never actually talk to him because he makes you tongue tied because you’re constantly afraid of fucking up in front of him so you always fuck up in front of him—

But that doesn’t mean you can’t send him your sympathies in an unsigned card, your heart going out to him as his remains missing.

(You kinda get the feeling.)

You might be, might be running yourself ragged as the months go on. Torn between payroll and the BAU, you can never get a moment’s rest. You’re in Garcia’s office more than just on Mondays and Wednesday. You’re there all the time, trying to soak up as much information as possible, learning the ins and the outs of her system, learning how to use computers in a way you’ve never thought before.

(You might use binary code to wash away every trace of Matthew from your mind. Try and try to forget him and just achieve.)

You’re taking over her little tasks slowly. Soon, you’ll run all of the inventory for all the field agents in the region, you’ll fix small problems, reset passwords, keep the world going and going as Garcia saves lives.

It’s hard work, being backup, but you go forth and try your best because this—this is what you’ve wanted all along.

It’s late one night as your eyes feel like they’re going to pool from your head. It was a payroll day and everything bad happens on payroll day, but you stay late in Garcia’s office long after she’s gone home to better familiarize yourself with her system.

It’s not hard, but there is a learning curve and just remembering all the things, all the little odds and ends.

Garcia is making you code a new program. She said it would be good to understand computer pathways. You want to pound your head against the desk, but you—you’re not the kind to give up. You’re almost there. You can do this by yourself because one day she won’t be here and you’ll have to help the team.

You refuse to give up and back away when you’re so close to something exciting and new and—

You see Doctor Reid pouring over paperwork when you go to get coffee and you feel slightly more renewed. If he can do it, then you can do it too.

You sit and close your eyes for a moment, finding yourself caught in the suspended reality of your body nodding off to sleep while your mind races. Black spots fill your vision despite you’re sure you’re still awake, but you’re not.

You wake hours later at the table in the kitchenette with a worn sweater around your shoulders.

(It looks oddly familiar.)

Fall welcomes you with open arms as you find yourself in Special Agent Aaron Hotchner's office a bright morning. You woke up at five, unable to sleep because today is the day and butterflies are swarming with every heartbeat.

You decided to wear dark red today with lipstick that looks much the same. You adorn yourself in pearls, praying for wisdom and maturity, for—

(Please remember to breathe, one breath, then two. In and out, out and in.)

You can—you can do this.

Hotchner sits across a dark wooden desk, a neutral expression on his face. “I see there is something you’d like to talk to me about?”

You nod, refusing to break under pressure because the man can read every micro expression. He can’t know there is tension between your shoulder blades. He also can’t know that it’s taking everything you have to not bounce your leg as nerves course through your whole body.

But the universe works in funny ways as it did almost two years ago, and events lead you to here as you catch a glimpse of Doctor Reid and you remember that this is where the man you most admire works and this is place your dearest friend works.

And this is the place you feel like you’ll belong because you’ve always been defined by your ambitions and this is no stepping stone, but somewhere you clawed to get to as you stayed up late for countless nights and learned how to code a computer in less than a year’s time and—

You square your shoulders back and let pride sing like your favorite song lyric.

You grab your resume and letter of reference from the folder sitting across your lap and push them across his desk. You read about this, performing a power play like successful businessman.

“I think it’s time you hire me, sir.”

Special Agent Aaron Hotchner gives you the briefest of pleased smirks as he takes your papers.

“Go on.”

Everything has a beginning and an end and yours starts when you pass through security at 8:05 AM. You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where you cause hurricanes because you have butterfly wings.

You greet the security team as you have done each morning, the sun shining brighter as it glistens spectacularly from a diamond milestone ring. It glows and sparkles with promises of a better future to come. You performed a small ceremony between you and this new opportunity.

You make your way up the elevators, finding friendly faces along the way. Today is a beginning, a new one for you, one you didn’t think you’d find but yet—

You’re the newest technician specialist for the BAU and they haven’t seen anything yet.

You’re ready.

You meet Hotchner in his office as he extends a warm hand and takes you to the meeting room where you are formally introduced to your new colleagues as Garcia’s new subordinate who will also do admin, payroll, IT, filing, inventory, and much more for the team.

“A jack of all trades, a master of none…” you start to say.

“...but better than being a master of one,” Doctor Reid finishes for you. He offers a small smile, an attempt, perhaps an olive branch.

(You want to reach out, you want to accept it like how Athena would want you to, but fear flashes fire in front of you and you...can’t.)

You swallow, your heart thudding in your chest, your smile falling, your tone more flat.

“Yes. Exactly.”

His own smile disappears, a slow descent like embers in the wind.

(Oh, you think with shaky feelings, maybe you’re not completely ready.)

You surprise the team with your efficiency, surprise them especially when you carry a crate and set up your desk in a half hour’s time. Your kettle sits on the corner of your desk, filled to the brim with steaming water.

You set up your packets of tea and line them up accordingly, place the sweetener in their container, organize your lipsticks and rollerball perfume bottles in their selected bin. You have knickknacks and things and a small plant.

You already knew which supplies you wanted, place every pen where it needs to go, setup your desktop and login, rearing and ready to go.

You surprise them with the snacks you have, always prepared with a bandaid and lint roller and anything thing one needs off hand.

You surprise them when you expedite their things and find files they need before they ask. You surprise them with extra thoughtfulness.

It’s only been two weeks.

(You ignore that your desk seats across from Doctor Spencer Reid. You ignore that fact, but you still politely offer him tea.

You no longer stutter, but butterflies dance on your tongue, the beats of their wings taking the rest of your words with them.)

You both politely exchange “hello” and “goodbyes” and work well enough when he requires something of you, but there’s a distance that stretches two years long of fumbles and weirdness and you’re not sure exactly how to take it away.

(You know he remembers every mistake. You know he knows ever ill attempt. You know he knows a lot of things, but you doubt he knows that you just want to be his friend.)

You know it’s wrong how you are able to laugh with the team, you being you and slipping your way to patch up the cracks effectively. It’s just how you are, you see the problem and fix it because you’re a fixer and—

—it’s so wrong when you can’t fix the awkwardness that sticks to you whenever you see Reid.

JJ smiles at you, but there is a distance in her smile, the same sizing you up, the same decision on the tip of her tongue that Morgan once gave you. She wants to know if you’re good enough, if you are quick enough, if you are enough.

She’s just too polite to directly ask.

You learn quickly that Doctor Reid is someone she cherishes most in the world, an underlying easiness and trust between them. Her son is the doctor’s godson. A bond of family and forever intertwining their lives.

However, there's a barrier between you and her as you continue to unsettle her.

And you're not sure how to branch the divide. How does one cross a desert in the middle of a sandstorm? How does one exit a forest but have no map? Yet the universe works in the funny ways and you find her struggling to carry heavy boxes. Wordlessly you take some from her and give her a hesitant from.

“Hi.”

JJ blinks then acknowledges you slowly. “...hey.”

“Tell me where to go, yeah?”

She blinks again, her mouth in a twitching line as thoughts speed through her head. After another pause, she nods and gestures not too far down the hall. “Follow me.”

It's a little stilted, but not impossible as you help her lift crates from one room to the next. There's a slight tension in the air; however, it does not hurt you. You don't mind. You're just trying to not dirty your dress.

After many quiet minutes, she gestures around the room. “Thanks,” she says as she wipes her hands on her jeans. “For everything. You're actually doing an awesome job.”

You feel warm at the unexpected praise, as if permafrost is melting. “Thank you,” you bashfully reply. “I'm still really nervous and I triple check everything no matter how small the job.”

Her firm mouth softens, understanding present in her blue eyes.”I was just like that when I first started. From media liaison to actual agent, micromanaging will always be my forte.”

You nod, sitting down and twisting your diamond ring. “Yeah, my business brain is good at it. It likes everything nice and organized.”

“Business brain?”

Your gaze meets her slightly before going back to your ring. “Yep, business brain. I’m much more relaxed when I’m not working. More chill, I guess? I just get really focused when I’m working so when I’m at home I kinda just...let my mind wander? Disarray doesn’t bother me as much and I’m quite messy much to my mother’s frustration.”

For the first time since you’ve met her, you hear JJ laugh because of you and it’s a nice sound. A bit warm and kind like she is. “I definitely know that feeling. The tunnel vision is real and by the time I get home, I just want to kiss my kid and husband. Who cares about dirty dishes when you get to lay in bed?”

Even though the two of you stand on opposite cliffs, the gap between you and JJ closes a bit more that day.

There will always be a gap between you, between the awkwardness that surrounds you when Doctor Reid is concerned. And he is one of JJ’s most precious people, a bond between them only needing glances, brimming smiles and inside jokes and—

JJ is more fond of you now, but you will not forget where her loyalty lies.

Will not forget where all their loyalties lie.

You have desks scattered around the office as the weeks go by and after forty-one days, you’ve accepted that your most central desk will continue to be the one right across from Doctor Reid. You tried to make yourself at home by one down the hall near the windows, in Penelope’s bat cave, and even at a small kiosk by counterintelligence.

But home is where your kettle is and the desk closet to the filtered water and the bathroom happens to also be the same once near Doctor Reid.

So you accept your fate and call that desk your home base, slowly giving that name to tell others where to find you if they need you. You say it in your emails, in your phone messages, in conversations had briefly in the halls.

“If you need me, I’ll be at my home base. The desk right across from Doctor Reid’s.”

(Of course, the other three get names as well: the windows, the bat cave, and the boondocks.)

But home base is yours as much as it is his in a way. It’s easier when he’s not there, when the whole team is away on a case and you can breathe without his all remembering eyes keeping detail of your every action. There is a freedom in doing the tasks without distractions and Doctor Reid’s eyes are inquisitive and curious things that follow your many movements throughout the day.

It’s unintentional, of course, the way his sight falls on your form when you’re there sitting across from him. They are not of lingering looks of longing from a lover or even jaded jealousy or fracturing frustration at the constant chatter. No, they are just learning eyes that can’t help but soak up information with their movement.

Maybe it comes from the fact that people have the eyes of a predator, always looking forward, always stalking, always hunting in slow motions. That humans have only survived so long by the ability to endure slowly, by always following, by tracing and remembering every detail. By pure stamina alone.

Sometimes you wonder if the Doctor realizes he’s a predator of memorization—of knowledge—his gift as easy as breathing, his mind a shimmering wonder. It—he—his mind unerves you. By one look and you feel exposed and the butterflies in your chest cavity break free and you feel very alone.

But you are just as human as he is, you think, so you continue to endure, continue to also look forward as you help a colleague reset his email and meet the Doctor’s quick instinctual glance with your heart hammering against your chest in both uncertainty and admiration.

If only you can be a predator of knowledge as he is, the world a book for your to reveal in every detail without forgetting, perhaps you would look at others so innocently and kindly without regard to their notice of your every movement.

You rarely speak full conversations with Doctor Reid. They are speechless and brief encounters as he tries to get you to open up. Mainly you just nod and listen before dashing. If you’re lucky, you avoid him before he sees you. But on the off chance you haven’t hidden yourself somewhere away in the vast building, he tries to talk to you.

(Bless him. Bless him because you’re awkward and you know that you shouldn’t be afraid but—

—the lingering fear of him always remembering your fumbles stops you from continuing.)

He’s tried jokes. Awful jokes about philosophy and physics. Little literary tidbits that delight your day. You smile small, your face feeling tight and you mutter you ever rude American interesting again and again and again.

Sometimes you switch it up. Sometimes you say “I see”.

But of course when you go home and have time to process, you cackle at his hilarity

He’s tried greeting you, asking you about your day, asks what you’re doing, but his very existence causes your hair to stands on ends and you don’t know why and you trying and so—you barely answer him.

“Hello.”

“It’s going well.”

“Working.”

Today you promise—will be different. You cannot continue to be like this around him as you grow closer to the people he loves most. You promised it will be different the day before and the day before that. But today’s a new day and you’re making coffee—

You feel cheerful at a dumb mug that’s ages older than you from your mother. A stupid mug for a worker in the cog and it’s faded yellow with the inside all marked up. You love this mug more than anything in the world because it reminds you how much time has passed since you were a little girl.

And you’ve always wanted to be just as hardworking, just as strong and powerful as the woman who raised you by herself for years and years and years until she found good love sometime later. You’ve always admired her and wanted to be like her and there was this dumb mug of hers that she said would be yours one day if you worked hard enough and—

It showed up in the mail a week ago, filled with all the sweets you adore most. Tucked inside rested a folded up note with her praise written carefully.

For my child, who has done everything I’ve ever wanted to accomplish and more. Who makes me proud every day and who will always be better than her yesterdays.

Love you more than anything in the world,

Mom

Joy surges deep within as you take a sip of coffee made from your press. Also a present that came with the mug. A glorious French press to only add to your stylish ambiance you’ve spent years crafting. Shining stainless steel glistening and gleaming as hot water simmers coarse ground beans into something delicious.

You feel a little complete, your back straighter than other days. Today will be the day you stop being a chicken and finally cease the awkwardness around Doctor Reid. It just has to be. You mote it be.

He comes in not too long after you’ve settled down while going over inventory for the department. He says hello to Morgan and Blake, and situates himself at his desk. He’s a little late, you notice, knowing that punctuality is important to him, but you ignore his slight frazzled rush as you recount the number of items you’re ordering.

Anxiety cements your stomach as you force yourself to look up and brave him a smile. You know it’s not your best, but you try as you steady your mug in your hand.

“Good morning, Doctor,” you say, meeting hazel eyes.

The mug is warm in your hands as you bring it to your lips to sip. You mentally pat yourself on the back.

He stares at you for a moment and gives you a tight nod. “Morning.”

In a flash, as if an idea has come to him, he’s searching for a paper in his stacks on his desk and you return to your inventory counting. It’s a start, you think. Just enough of something that you find yourself grinning a bit to yourself. You tally up the amount of one item and you’re quickly on to the next when he addresses you offhandedly.

“You know, you are lucky to work here,” he says.

Your pencil halts in your hand, a milimeter away from making a new checkmark in its column before you are entirely distracted. You swallow. You look back up, seeing he’s completely immersed in his search.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat yourself?”

Doctor Reid looks at you and smirks, though there is an oddness in his expression and you’re not able to quite place it. It...it unnerves you. “Yeah, I said that you’re lucky to work here.”

You blink and stop breathing. Anxiety clings to every part of you, you replaying his words on loop. And he’s right, because it’s only by dumb luck you’ve ended up on this team and hard work can only get your so far and you’ve seen talented and it’s comprised entirely of the BAU and—

The gap between the two of you widens beyond compare and you’ll never be his equal—its just not possible—and he’s knows that. He has all seeing remembering eyes, Penelope the greatest tech whiz on the planet, the list goes on and on and you count each thing in lightning speed and—

(Oh my, you might need to write this shit down later to talk about in therapy.)

You nod only once, getting to your feet and grabbing your cell phone. You clutch it so tight you’re afraid it will snap, the intensity hurting your knuckles.

“Duly...duly noted, sir,” you say quietly. A crashing train rings in your ears. Your mouth is dry. “There’s coffee cake in the break room if you’d like any…”

In the corner of your eye, you see Morgan start to rise. You can’t bare to look at Doctor Reid and ignore further still when he calls your name. You can’t look at any of them, the difference between them and you so striking. It makes the diamond ring on your finger turn into lead.

Tightness expands in your chest, but you expel it instantly when you see a supervisor is calling you. And supervisors don’t care if you’re in the middle of reevaluating your self worth.

“Hello, BAU Automation. How can I help you?”

You escape the rest of the day from the prying eyes of the profilers of the BAU. You ignore their looks and you don’t see Reid for the rest of the day. You count your blessings. Each one a soothing balm on the burns upon your skin and your heart and your disposition.

You are in the break room washing the coffee cake platter that you realize you haven’t washed your mug from this morning. Coffee was long forgotten as your heart sped up too much for you to stand. Makes you too antsy when you’re already in turmoil, you stomach too weak and your nerves too strong. When you get back to your desk, memories of this morning smack you with clarity as everything begins to make sense.

You’re lucky to work here, he said. You’re lucky to work here, he said, he said, he said.

Shame floods you instantly as embarrassment comes like an unwanted bully taunting you. Your mistakes laughing at you once again as your mind thought too far ahead without all the facts. Without asking. Without understanding.

(You’re a selfish creature, it seems. Sometimes caught up in your own mind on your own time without a care in the world for others.

Oh, what a stupid and foolish girl you truly are.)

For there, written as plain to see in red letters is the phrase: tell me again how lucky I am to work here again.

Penelope confronts you first about it, catching you in the kitchenette as you fill up your kettle.

“Hey, lovely, I don’t know how to say this, but—”

You stiffen for a moment, before bowing your head, accepting what fate has in store for you. “Please be blunt. I’m sure whatever you’re going to say won’t be that bad.”

You hear her swallow as she leans against the counter. “Well, as your closest friend on the team, we just—have kinda noticed—”

(You wince. You know. You know what she’s going to say. You know.)

“You’re really weird with Reid. And it’s super weird because you’re so nice and I’m pretty sure you actually read his articles and I was wondering if you—maybe had feelings? For him?”

Her words hang in the air, a squeaky echo that rings with your very heartbeat as everything comes swinging back in full motion.

You slam on all metaphorical breaks and refuse to let this conversation continue down this road. Refuse to take your heart down this road. You shake your head and groan. “No, no. Just. I don’t have a crush on him. I just—” you sigh and sit at the nearby table. “I just—”

Penelope grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. “Did he do something wrong? Is that what it is?”

You laugh and feel heat spreading to your face. You can’t believe you’re about to say this. To someone who you work with because you’ve only talked about this with people detached from your job. “No, I just...really...stupidly admire him and he...intimidates me…because I think he’s one of the most remarkable people on the planet....”

(In fact, you told your therapist the same thing two weeks ago when you saw her last. Before the whole cup debacle, you told her how you were failing at this one attempt of friendship and you were watching everything go downhill in a fiery crash.)

Penelope blinks, her mouth forming a little “o”. She tries to speak, but laughs instead. Such a delighted sound spills from her and you want to bury yourself in quicksand knowing that it will never be like the cartoons.

“Oh, that’s rather sweet.”

You rest your head on your forearms. “No, it’s anything but sweet. It’s really weird and I keep obsessing that he remembers every stupid fuck up I’ve done so I fuck up more and...Penelope, it’s freaking awful. So yeah, there you go. I admire him very much and he gives me intense anxiety.”

Penelope leans forward, her cheek resting in her palm. “I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that Reid gives them anxiety, let alone intense anxiety.”

You look at her straight in the eye. “Penelope, that man is a demigod and terrifying. Terrifying!”

She chuckles again, her eyes warm. “Sweetie, this is Spencer we’re talking about. He’s a bonafide dweeb,” she declares with mirth. “I should know. He and I are the greatest of geek buddies!” She pauses for a moment before her eyes narrow. “Hey! Why is he a demigod and I’m not a revered goddess?”

This time you laugh, a true smile digging into your cheeks. “No, no. Don’t worry, my dear. You are most def a terrifying goddess, but I happen to love you.”

Penelope stills before melting in her seat. “Oh my god, I love you too, you sweetest of sweet talkers.” She captures your hand in hers again, mischief and happiness dancing in her eyes. “But still, there’s no need to be afraid of Spencer, he’s just a dweeb.”

You focus on the texture of her skin as your heart thuds in your chest, your mouth in an awkward line.

“Sure, Penelope. Whatever you say.”

A few days pass in relative quietness as the team is away on training. You’re praying that perhaps, just this once, Doctor Reid will be able to forget everything. Just once. Just one time and you’ll go back to your normal life where you’ll continue to be awkward and weird and—well, that’s the status quo you know and you’re gonna fucking stick with it if it kills you.

Because, okay, sure. You fucked up the other day, but today is the day! And yes, the status quo is awkward and weird, but you’re such a glutton for punishment, such a person who survives on succeeding, that you go back to the drawing board and will yourself to try again.

But of course, you’re an overachiever. A frightened and terrified overachiever, but one nonetheless.

So, you do the one thing you’re elementary school teacher told you to do: you write him a letter.

A hastily written letter detailing your vague explanations for your odd behavior. Your apologies are peppered with compliments and fear sprinkling in loopy misspelled words. You write only one page length, refusing to pen a novel. Because even you have standards when it comes to desperations and it has been two years of awkward miscommunications for this to continue any longer.

You stick it under his stapler and hopes he doesn’t notice it right away when he first comes in. You’re already knee deep in updating all the property passes for cell phones right now in the department, finding your stride as you listen to movie and video game soundtrack scores.

(You read somewhere that those kind of scores are good for keeping concentration.)

Doctor Reid pauses for a moment as he settles his bag down, his ears straining to hear what you’re listening to. You can feel his curious gaze wash over you as you continue to do your work, but you lightly swallow and glance up at him.

“Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood soundtrack. It’s an anime,” you say. Your voice sounds muffled as you continue to stare at the screen.

In your perphiary, you see him nod. Someone across the room catches his attention and he leaves his desk before he even sits down.

You ignore the part of you that wants him to notice the letter. You know that if he does, then things will change and change is hard and—it’s a lot easier listening to the part of you that hopes he never finds it because things can continue as they are.

You let out a breath and answer an email instead, finding out that Kevin needs you down in counterintelligence to help one of his guys with a password issue. It will be a welcome break from the waiting.

Or dreading.

(While you’re away, Reid finally notices a note under his stapler.)

An hour later after dumb conversations, you finally wind your way back home to your desk to suffer under property passes when Doctor Reid all but slides up to you.

You yelp, placing a hand over your heart. “Oh my god, you scared me.”

His mouth is in a firm line, holding something in his hand. “Like how I scare you daily or…?”

Your eyes drift to the paper, thoroughly crinkled now after you last saw it. “I—I think the words I used were intimidating and awe inspiring. It’s truly a compliment.”

He quirks a brow, his mouth twisting more with displeasure. “A compliment? Seriously?”

You take a step back, finding air in your lungs again as you assess the situation. You’re tired of the tension that simmers between the two of you. You’re reminded of a rubber band.

You shrug, putting on false airs. “Yeah, a compliment. You make me speechless and that’s kinda remarkable.”

Doctor Reid looks down, the paper crackling in his hand. “That’s really sad.”

Your heart is beating like thunder in your chest. You’ve been avoiding this like the plague because confrontation is hard and you’re—not as amazing as you claim to be. You’re just a person.

(And so is he.)

And relief rains down over you as you feel a giggle bubble in your chest. Doctor Reid snaps his attention to you, confusion marking his features.

“Are...are you okay?”

You suck in a quick breath of air, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just—oh god, this sounds so stupid, but I feel so much better now.” You smile is wide as you look at him, your shoulders feeling less tense and the world a bit more bright. “I’m sorry for being weird, but can we start over?”

The doctor blinks and quirks his lips in a wry smile, baffled yet pleased. “Um. Sure? Like right now?”

“Yeah, like right now,” you tell him. You stick out your hand. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

You know he doesn’t do handshakes, it’s not his thing. Germs and whatnot, but he stares at your chipped fingernail polished hand for a moment before grasping yours. He’s warm to the touch even if his grip isn’t the strongest you’ve felt.

His smile is careful as hope digs into his dimples. “Nice to meet you.”

There’s a gentle mist outside as you leave to go home that night. Doctor Reid is not far behind you, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag as a sudden chill sinks its teeth into both of you.

A hung silence stills as you peer over at the man beside you, your body on autopilot to flee, but your heart wanting to root your feet into the ground.

“It’s scary how you don’t forget things,” you tell him honestly. You scuff your shoe on gritty concrete, the sound a clashing cymbal. “And I got really hung up on that. I’m sorry.”

Doctor Reid doesn’t say anything for a long time, the night air frizzing your hair. Your adrenaline tries spiking again, but you’re tired. You’re tired and you just to have clear air between the two of you. Forever.

His voice is gentle and just as frayed as you feel. “When I first met you, the very first time, I was the one who was awestruck and intimidated,” he chuckles. “You were this bright purple entity and you smiled at me so brightly and called me gorgeous. I was…” he pauses, “...I literally stopped thinking.”

Heat rushes to your face, a natural blush creeping under your makeup. “I agonized over that for so long, you know,” you tell him quietly. “Like I felt like such a fool because you’re truly are inspiring and well—yeah.”

It’s hard to say all the things you think about him--idealized and fictitious and real. Too real to share with a practical stranger.

(If only you realize your feelings would spiral into something more fond than admiration, perhaps you would have jumped feet first faster.)

There is a magnetism between the two of you as you stand in the quiet. An otherworldliness where hurricanes no longer exists and all the butterflies sleep. A change happening quicker than you can think.

He hums. “I think—you don’t realize that you’re scary too. You’re actually terrifying.”

You snap your attention to him and he gives you a kind grin. “What? No, I’m not!” you protest.

Doctor Reid laughs and it’s a good and pleasing sound. It lights up his whole face as he gestures towards you. “Yes, yes you are! You are so calculated and great with people. Always fashionable and you’re so intelligent. And teachable. You just...absorb information. It’s fascinating. And everyone knows that you’re an extremely hard worker and adorable overachiever.” he says with a smirk.

Your throat feels thick with all the praise. “It’s not that hard...someone has to do it...”

Doctor Reid steps in front of you and briefly touches your upper arm. “See? You don’t even realize that to someone else watching you achieve all these great things, that you’re terrifying. You have no idea how high of a standard you’ve set. You have no idea how remarkable you are. I’m truly and utterly impressed.”

The pretty hazels of his eyes have turned a warm brown in the poor lighting. You nod only once, your voice soft. “...thank you, Doctor.”

“Spencer,” he corrects. “My friends call me Spencer.”

Everything has a beginning and an end, but there’s not end in sight as you grin. “Thank you, Spencer. Truly.”

—

Condensation mists at the coffee shops window as you both step inside, unsure exactly how you got here with Spencer, but pleased all the same. Who knew that a lame letter would be catalyst you needed?

You both order your respective drinks and sit down at table towards the back, away from the chatter of college students pretending to study.

Both of you don’t know exactly what to say.

“It kinda feels like an awkward first date,” you tell him and you squash all shame that comes up from feeling stupid because you’re not stupid.

You’re not.

(You’re so intelligent.)

Doctor Reid--Spencer!--lets out a surprised laugh, almost spilling his drink on his clothes, but only getting the table. “Dear god, I hope not. I have been on a lot of those. Enough for this lifetime, that’s for sure.”

You giggle as you sip a tea latte. “Mmmm. I have only been on a handful. None recently though. I don’t date much these days.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit...difficult to date...in this line of work.”

You see him swallow and slight unease rolls off his shoulders. You think of a card you signed almost two years ago, tucked into a basket Garcia left on his doorstep after--the you know, the thing.

“Well,” you start, picking up the energy. “It doesn’t have to be! This can be--this can be, I don’t know a fun first friend date. Friend dates are kinda best dates anyway.”

“A friend date?”

You nod. “Mmmhmmm. Friends don’t let you know, just dumb ex-boyfriends who break promises about not moving to the East Coast with you,” you sing.

Spencer’s eyes widen at. “Oh?”

You laugh. “Oh no, you have to go on like--at least, three friend dates to unlock my tragic backstory. Like a dating sim. It can be a heart event!”

He takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to suppress a laugh. “You know I’m...basically a technophobe, right?”

“I might not be as techy as Penelope, but I think I have enough gadgets for the both of us. I’ll get you up to speed with my farming simulation games.”

Spencer runs a hand through his hair, this time actually laughing. “Do I really even want to know?”

You smirk and lean back in your seat. “Look, farming simulation games where I can marry a cute villager is important to me. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

“Because we’re gonna be friends now?”

You smile wide and pat the top of his hand. “Exactly.”

(Oh, how the future looks merry and bright.)

#Spencer Reid #spencer reid x reader #sepncer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x #spencer reid fanfiction #reader fic #drabble #oh yeah i also personally call reader sunny #here is my first cirminal minds fanfic #please enjoy????

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wherethedragonends · 3 years

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X-Men.14/Jonathan Hickman/Mahmud Asrar/Leinil Francis Yu/Sunny Gho/Clayton Cowles/Tom Muller/Annalise Bissa/Jordan D White/CB Cebulski/Marvel

#dawn of x data pages #x-men #jonathan hickman #mahmud asrar #Leinil Francis Yu #sunny gho #clayton cowles #marvel #dawn of x #x of swords #pax krakoa

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fanfictionized · 6 years

Text

Help Me Help You - Cut Off One Head... (2/?)

Character: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader / OFC

Chapter summary: Tony reveals Hydra’s plan to the rest of the group. It’s definitely worse than they had even expected it to be. The plot thickens.

Warnings: Mentions of death and dead people, language?

Words: 1.2k

A/N: All of the following chapters will include lots of swearing and cussing. I’m saying it now because I’ll probably forget to mention it later...

Previous Chapter // Help Me Help You - Masterlist

“Oh, good. The moody soldier hath blessed us with his presence.” Tony spat sarcastically, stalking around that conference table like a predator ready to pounce.

Bucky only grumbled as he let himself fall into a seat in the back of the room, still close enough to the door so that he could hypothetically go as soon as it’d become too much for him. And with “it” he was referring to a certain Mr. Stark.

He felt all pairs of eyes resting upon him as he continued to sink back into the chair, but he didn’t look back up. “Ease off him, Tony.” He heard a woman’s voice say calmly. Black Widow. He didn’t need to look back up for that to know, yet he did anyway. She was looking back at Tony who was just giving her a look. “Don’t worry, darling. I won’t be acting up… not as long as certain people will respect the given time schedule. Set by all parties, remember?” Both Bucky and Black Widow huffed at that.

“Anyway. Let’s continue.” He spoke. “Let’s start. You haven’t missed anything, man.” The bird-guy mentioned and pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed with Stark’s empty threats. Bucky nodded slowly. “Quiet, children.” Tony continued and raised his hands, gesturing until a vivid image sprang to life in front of the group. Bucky still couldn’t get used to today’s technology.

“This” He continued and called up a profile picture of a man in his late twenties. Dark hair, stubble, full lips, kind eyes. “Is Daniel Rivas. Grew up in Monterrey, stable household. Went to law school, bright guy, got offered at least a dozen scholarships.” He paused before switching to the next picture. It showed a picture of a young woman, probably around the same age, slinging her arms around a person whose face was covered by a hat. She was smiling into the camera, she had a big smile. Long hair too, dyed blond even though her dark roots had long grown out. Tony sighed before he continued.

“Haylie Avalon. Canadian college student living in Michigan. She had lots of friends according to her parents, your typical girl next door.” He skipped over to the next one, showing two teenage girls.

“Isaura and Julia Jimena, twin sisters from Spain.”

Next one.

“Nina Alice, French kindergartner.”

Next.

“Yorick Lambert, Belgian mechanic.”

He swiped through the photos aggressively before taking a minute to take a deep breath and collect his thoughts. “The question I’m asking you is what do all of them have in common? They all have different backgrounds, passports, most of them don’t even speak the same language.” He started pacing around the desk again and Bucky’s back straightened in his seat. He didn’t enjoy how Tony was acting, appalled, talking like he was holding his breath until he could get out his next sentence.

Tony looked into blank faces before waving his hand once more, the collage of pictures in front of them making some of the team gasp out loud.

The photos were taken out of police files, the familiar faces from before all marked up with black bars covering their eyes. Those were crime scenes with their corpses littering the invisible screen. Still fully clothed, all of their bodies scattered. Whether propped up against a tree or laying on a bench, lying on a field, inside a crappy apartment with a dirty carpet…

“Jesus Christ, Tony…” Steve said next to him in an incredulous tone and shifted in his chair, sending him a glare. “I know it’s terrible, okay?” He held out a hand, gesturing for Steve to calm down. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but with this case we got to do a little detective work to get to the ground of this and we’ll only do this if we have all the information we can get.” Steve still didn’t seem convinced. Not anyone did, really.

“Continuing, the only thing those people had in common was their cause of death. The local polices gave out as little information about the cases they could and for each kid, they told the same old story; death due to excessive drug use. Overdose. Of cause they only said that to keep the folks quiet about it, open and closed case.” He swiped to the right.

“But what all the coroners found in their bloodstream were no regular drugs.” He called up a page with all sorts of chemical compounds, formulas that didn’t make sense in the slightest to Bucky, but he was obviously not the only one since he felt everyone else’s gaze move over to the currently-not-so-green doctor. His brows were furrowed as he looked closer, standing up.

“The FBI got involved after they found out about each and every one of them and what was found inside their bodies, but they couldn’t find out what was going on either, so they moved it on to the big boys. Fury told me about this a couple of days ago, thought it was best if we got involved-” “To do his detective work?” The young girl with the East-European accent and long red hair spoke up, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Yeah, also why are you always the one to know about this shit first?” Sam chimed in with the same attitude as the Scarlet Witch. Tony rolled his eyes. “Not quite, Wanda. It’s because of what they found in their bloodstream…” He turned to look at Bucky and what would come next dawned on him immediately.

“It’s the serum.” Bruce added, astonished as he was still observing the formula. Silence filled the room as panic shot through Bucky’s body. “What do you mean?” Steve asked sternly, yet confused. Meanwhile his best friend was having a heart attack.

How the hell was it still out there? Unless…

“Hydra.” Bucky whispered and all eyes laid on him. More silence. “…Yes.” Tony added uncomfortably. They didn’t know if it was still a topic too sensitive to discuss with him, but on the other hand he had been the one asking Tony for a change. “They must’ve found a copy after all.” Bruce muttered and used his own hands to zoom in closer on the picture, the hemogram, readjusting his glasses.

“Although… this… isn’t the original. I’ve seen how it alters your cells, Steve and… Bucky. This, this is something else. A mutated version let’s say.” He stammered. Bucky looked at Steve, but neither of them looked anything other than baffled and frankly… scared. “That’s how far S.H.I.E.L.D had gotten already.” Tony confirmed, facing the doctor, then the rest of the group.

“This is big, you guys. We can’t prove it yet, but Hydra had kidnapped and tortured those kids for their fucking experiments, pumped them so full of chemicals and toxins until their bodies just gave up and dumped them onto the side of the road.” He was angry, they all were. Bucky’s chest ached with it, the whirring in his left arm audible as he clenched his fist. “I guess that’s why they’re all dead.” Black Widow said, her brows drawing together as she thought, connecting the dots in her head.

“The serum’s still a field test. Bruce, you said it’s mutated, right?” He just nodded, scratching his chin with his thumb- and forefinger. “Well, maybe they’re trying to enhance it, but haven’t succeeded yet.” “They’re trying to enhance them.” Steve added and Sam hummed in approval. “But… if it’s just a field test, then why don’t they take different people for it?” Wanda chimed in, leaving everyone speechless for a second. “Why do they make and effort and go to all those different countries to assassinate civilians that… have a future? Families? Are known inside their communities?” She shook her head in confusion “It doesn’t make sense.” “No… it doesn’t…” Bruce agreed and began pacing around the table as well, lost in his thoughts. “I guess that’s the task Fury has blessed us with to find out…” Tony sighed and ran a hand through his wild hair.

“They need to have more of a connection than just their death. Something like a mental, philosophical, maybe even historical thing since they’re not related genetically. And, don’t get me wrong, this is the real question here, but Fury has already given me all the data he has on Hydra’s security network and I’ve set Friday on breaking their code to get to their plan as quickly as possible. The last two people I’ve shown you have already turned up dead within the last month and we can’t have Hydra continuing to murder citizens until their serum will eventually work.”

“…What will happen once it works?” Natasha asked and the answer shot out of Bucky quicker than he could even comprehend.

“You don’t want to know.”

Next Chapter

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #marvel cinematic universe

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eventuallyfail · 6 years

Text

13 envelopes

pairing: reader x lin summary: After graduating from UCLA, you would find any way to escape having to go back home. Lucky for you, your Aunt Jasmine Cephas Jones had organized a way for you to have the adventure you’d never gotten to have before. You’re ready to take her up on the offer. warnings: rpf (naturally), mentions of teen pregnancy tagged: @defenestrate-yourself-please@justabravelittleblogger@decayingtrash@andschuyler@linslovelylocks @elithepeali@sarahgurl09@fancy-fighting-name

a/n: We’re almost caught up with the original posting! I actually held off on posting this part until I finished the sixth part... so the fact this is being posted means part six is officially finished. That’s right! There’s a part six! It’s on my drive! I’m working on part seven right now. You can read the original part four here. I don’t know if this one got edited as much.

(part one) (part two) (part three)

Envelope #4

Ever since the MET, you couldn’t get your mind off how it felt in comparison to the trips to outdoor theaters in Los Angeles. Maybe Jasmine had the right idea about immersing yourself in a moment without technology. Maybe it was what you’d been looking for in ages. It forced you to write everything down – you’d filled at least three pages in your journal at this point. Envelope four held a new challenge - that much you knew. But upon seeing the three hearts drawn on it, you decided to put it off.

So instead of opening it the minute you got home, you spent the next day deciding what kind of new phone to get. You hadn’t had a new phone since you were sixteen – the same little first-generation iPhone you’d gotten for your sixteenth birthday. It had been a nice, solidly dependent phone for the past eight years but perhaps it was beyond time you got a new one. What you settled on was a gold iPhone 6s and a plan that guaranteed you unlimited data. To your great surprise, it only cost you five hundred upfront – you’d spent more last week on a single pair of shoes. That made it easier to justify the cost of the phone, really.

The fourth envelope couldn’t be put off forever as Hamilton was in the process of moving from rehearsals to previews, limiting your experience with the musical now. This made it harder to justify to putting off the envelope. Pippa was insistent that you wait until the premiere to experience it and Jasmine sided with her. Which meant the fourth envelope was now heavy on your mind as you entered week three of being in New York City. Whatever it was had to be faced soon and so you sat on the bed of the room you’d been given, steadying your breath. It can’t be that bad, you assured yourself.

Honey Bun,

So far you’ve done more than you ever thought you would do, huh? You’ve lived with a stranger (who I bet you’re already getting to know pretty well!), you’ve gone to the MET… and you’re going to do way more. I’ve laid out a few adventures for you, but one adventure you’ve gotta try is asking someone out. Guy, girl, whatever you happen to be into, you’ve gotta go and ask someone out. Why?

Well, in my personal experience, just going for it and taking a leap is easy when it just about you. Getting on a plane with only a backpack when it’s just being on your own is easy. It’s easy to take a leap for a career – moving to a new city to audition for a tv show? Easy. It’s easy to apply for a job knowing you might be rejected. It’s easy to apply for a new apartment and moving into that.

Putting your heart on a line and taking a risk that you might get rejected? That’s terrifying. Love is terrifying in that regard – you risk more than just pride when asking someone out. You risk a broken heart. And you need to take that risk at least once in your life. Ask someone out – take a leap of faith. Here’s to hoping it works out for you!

And if not, I’ve included five hundred dollars for you to take yourself out to a nice dinner anyway. Once you’ve completed this task, you may open envelope five. And to make sure you complete this task, Pippa’s going to bother you about who you plan on asking out once you’ve gotten to this point.

All my love,

Aunt Jas

Your heart stopped. Your aunt had to be joking. Find someone and ask them out? All because she thought it was easy to get on a plane with only a backpack and leaving behind all your electronics? You considered calling your mother and telling her you were coming home, calling the entire trip off. But then you remembered the invite to the premiere of Hamilton. At this point, you wanted to see the rest of Lin’s stunning masterpiece and how it’d look when it was on the stage. According the letter, Pippa was going to ask a lot of questions about who she planned to ask out. You briefly considered simply pocketing the money and going straight to envelope five. And as angry as you were at the suggestion that you had never asked anyone out in your life, you couldn’t find it in you to ignore the instructions in the letter.

Ignoring the instructions in the envelope and proceeding to envelope five without following through felt a bit like cheating. You’d followed every other instruction to the letter, so you figured what was the harm in this one? And you realized that there was someone you wanted to at least get to know better, though you’d never tell Pippa that. You had a feeling with all she pushed Lin on you she was on a mission to set the two of you up. Why, you couldn’t figure out. You were certain that eventually in time it’d make sense. How, you weren’t sure.

Still, you were nervous as you found yourself backstage before the evening show and wishing you’d at least also bought new jeans while Pippa had taken you shopping on fifth. You felt like a disaster in the old raggedy jeans, only grateful that at least you knew your face wasn’t a disaster. Suddenly a lot that could go wrong with this entered your head – he could have a girlfriend, he could be gay, he could have thought you and he were just friends.

It didn’t feel very brave, tapping on his shoulder to get his attention. It didn’t feel brave when his dark eyes were on you, making you wonder if running was an option. “Uh, so… I was wondering if,” you said, the warmth in your cheeks making it very clear that this was a bad idea all around. At least it wasn’t obvious when you blushed. But you made it this far and you’d be damned if you didn’t see it through. You were stubborn like that. You owed your doctorate to that stubbornness. So you summoned your will power and stood straight up, looking him in the eyes. Oh. They were so very brown. So gorgeous. Like you were being pulled into a void and could never escape. “If you’d, er, like to go to dinner… with me. Like… as a date.”

You could feel the heat rushing up to your cheeks yet again as he seemed to look you over – was he trying to figure out the best way to let you down? The moment lasted far too long. A beat, a second beat. You wished his eyes would stop being so hypnotic, you wish you could stop noticing tiny details in his face. You wish you could also stop overthinking too. Every single second seemed drawn out, and it was like you could feel the clock ticking. Tick, tock, tick, tock. It dragged, and you could think of almost everything that could wrong. You weren’t expecting his answer.

“I was hoping you’d ask me out, honestly,” he said, and he sounded relieved to your great surprise. You could feel your heart soaring and the world felt so much lighter as a result. “I mean, I have a total lack of game, so I was worried if I asked you out, I’d freak you out and you’d… not want to go out with me.”

It was like your brain short circuited. For once, you were left at a total loss of what to say. For once your mind was clear from all the chatter in your head. If there had been one thing you’d been good at for the past six years, it was figuring out how to say something. But now there was no wit to respond to the idea that a very cute Broadway star who wrote the most insane, genius thing you’d ever heard wanted to ask you out. “Oh,” was your brilliant response. “So… that’s a yes?”

It seemed to dawn on him he never gave a yes or no answer to a yes or no question. “Oh! Yes, it’s definitely a yes,” he said, causing you to smile slightly at his blush. “However, can I make a request?”

“Cool,” you managed to get out, wishing you could think of something witty to say in response. Something charming that would leave him thinking about you. “Yeah, of course.”

“Can it be breakfast instead? An early one, at that? My nights have gotten a little hit or miss on availability.”

Breakfast. Nontraditional. “That would be nice, actually. I just got a new phone… if you’d like the number to help me break it in.”

His grin was more than encouraging. “Absolutely,” he said. “And I hate to go and kick you out after getting your number, but your aunt and Pippa will kill me if I let you see the previews before opening night so…”

Suddenly nothing in your backpack was right for the date. Everything was too casual or too formal and you absolutely needed to get a new outfit specifically for this date. The five hundred packed in the letter went straight to the new outfit. A simple dress and white converse to match – something that said “I just threw this old thing on”. At least, that’s what you hoped it said. You weren’t the kind of person who woke up at 4:30 am for breakfast, but because Lin’s schedule was as crazy hectic as Pippa’s was lately (you rarely saw her at the apartment anymore) you would have to make some sacrifices to your sleep schedule to keep the date. You were certain you’d have to sacrifice your sleep schedule further in the coming months just to get to see Pippa and Jasmine more too.

Monday was going to be exhausting for you, you could already tell as you pushed yourself out of bed and pulled the new yellow dress that complimented your skin tone nicely over your head with a big yawn. You didn’t want to fuss too much – it was a ponytail and tinted moisturizer with a light pink gloss kind of date you decided. Something that made it seem like you naturally woke up beautiful with little effort.

The last date you had been on when you were on had been three years ago and went horribly when you had told the guy you didn’t plan on sleeping with him. Which was at the front of your mind in worry. You were certain that Lin wasn’t that kind of guy, but it was still a worry. A bridge you’d cross when you get there, you decided. Besides, when you arrived at the diner and saw him you felt like your heart stopped. His shoulder length hair was up in a bun and he’d already ordered some coffee, it would seem. You slide into the other side of the booth with a bright grin. “So… hi there.”

Lin grinned upon seeing you and there it was again – your heart stuttering in instant reaction to him. You wondered how it was even possible he was on a date with you of all people in the world. Sure, you’d asked him out, but it just didn’t seem like he should have agreed to begin with. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t add up. But here he was. “Hi,” he said, and you realized you’d missed his voice already. “So. I’ve been thinking about that thesis of yours.”

“Oh,” you said, a bit surprised. He was thinking about you? A Broadway star thought about you? It certainly made your ego go up. “What were you thinking about my thesis?”

“I was thinking that you’ve got to let me read it,” he said, leaning forward towards you with his eyebrow quirked up. “Since Hamilton and In the Heights both revolved around representing communities of color, it’d be interesting to hear your own views on representation in media.”

“Well, they’ve grown a bit more refined since college,” you said with a light grin, the two of you ordering a crazy amount of food that you were certain neither of you would ever be able to finish. Which mean that at least you weren’t going to be hungry for a while. “But I suppose I could let you read the baseline thoughts on the subject. Though that’s just the first dissertation, actually. I had to write two. The first was for a media studies class, the second was for my creative writing class.”

“Oh, so you write too?”

You nodded, taking a sip of the coffee before slightly gagging – it was a bit strong, so you poured nine packets of sugar and five creams into your coffee. “Yeah, but nothing like you do. It’s just… for fun, really. I was more trying to do script doctoring back home. Or some other kind of editing job, actually. It’s easier to criticize than write.”

He laughed. “Easier to criticize than write,” he repeated with a slight grin. “I’m going to use that as a retort next time someone criticizes my writing. So what was the dissertation for your creative writing class?”

“It’s a great line… granted there’s a lot of great lines I come up with,” you said and realizing that the sleep deprivation was helping with the confidence. You supposed anything that helped you feel more on his level would help you out. “Uh, the creative writing dissertation was actually… about the world building of Harry Potter. Please, please don’t laugh at what a nerd I am!”

To your great surprise, his eyes light up and his grin seemed to grow even bigger if that was even possible. “You’re joking,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Just when I couldn’t think you’d get any more amazing, you wrote a dissertation on the world building of Harry Potter! That’s… that’s literally the coolest anything anyone has ever done! You have to let me read that one too.”

And with that, the conversation flowed all the easier. From the minute he geeked out over you writing a dissertation about Harry Potter, all reservations you could have possibly had melted away. He was a geek in the best possible way. Which made it easier to dive into conversations about Doctor Who, Buffy, and various bits of literature that had been required in various classes. He mentioned that he went to Wesleyan, telling you all about how it was a university in New York City. He mentioned that he grew up in New York City and how his first musical had been based off his home neighborhood of Washington Heights.

The more the two of you talked, the more time got away from the both of you. It seemed like only ten minutes had passed since the two of you got to the diner but before long, his phone was ringing. His eyes went wide as he noticed the time as well. “Shit, that’s Lac,” he said as he hit answer on the phone. “Yes, I know. Time got away from me, I’m already on my way.” He hung up without letting Alex get another word in. “I’m… so sorry, I have to go.”

Lin waved the waitress over to settle the check. “It’s okay,” you said even though you really wished he could stay longer. “I mean, you are starring in a big Broadway show so you’re probably in high demand. It was… nice. This was very nice.”

He grinned at you. “Maybe we could do it again sometime,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. You were too stunned to respond. “I’ll text you later.”

#lin manuel x reader #lin manuel imagine #lin miranda x reader #lin miranda imagine #lin manuel miranda imagine #13envelopes

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