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battyaboutbooksreviews · 3 months

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🖤 Black History Month ❤️

💛 Queer Books by Black Authors 💚

[ List Under the Cut ]

🖤 Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender ❤️ Under the Udala Trees by Chinelo Okparanta 💛 Warrior of the Wind by Suyi Davies Okungbowa 💚 I'm a Wild Seed by Sharon Lee De La Cruz 🖤 Real Life by Brandon Taylor ❤️ Ruthless Pamela Jean by Carol Denise Mitchell 💛 The Unbroken by C.L. Clark 💚 Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Córdova 🖤 Skin Deep Magic by Craig Laurance Gidney ❤️ The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi 💛 That Could Be Enough by Alyssa Cole 💚Work for It by Talia Hibbert

🖤 All Boys Aren't Blue by George M. Johnson ❤️ The Deep by Rivers Solomon 💛 How to Be Remy Cameron by Julian Winters 💚 Running With Lions by Julian Winters 🖤 Right Where I Left You by Julian Winters ❤️ This Is Kind of an Epic Love Story by Kacen Callender 💛 The Weight of the Stars by K. Ancrum 💚 This Is What It Feels Like by Rebecca Barrow 🖤 Son of the Storm by Suyi Davies Okungbowa ❤️ Black Boy Joy by Kwame Mbalia 💛 Legendborn by Tracy Deonn 💚 The Wicker King by K. Ancrum

🖤 Pet by Akwaeke Emezi ❤️ You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson 💛 Once Ghosted, Twice Shy by Alyssa Cole 💚 Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron 🖤 Let's Talk About Love by Claire Kann ❤️ A Spectral Hue by Craig Laurance Gidney 💛 Power & Magic by Joamette Gil 💚 The Black Veins by Ashia Monet 🖤 Treasure by Rebekah Weatherspoon ❤️ The Sound of Stars by Alechia Dow 💛 Black Leopard, Red Wolf by Marlon James 💚 Full Disclosure by Camryn Garrett

🖤 The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta ❤️ Meet Cute Diary by Emery Lee 💛 A Phoenix First Must Burn (edited) by Patrice Caldwell 💚 Rise to the Sun by Leah Johnson 🖤 Things We Couldn't Say by Jay Coles ❤️ Black Boy Out of Time by Hari Ziyad 💛 Darling by K. Ancrum 💚 The Secrets of Eden by Brandon Goode 🖤 Ace of Spades by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé ❤️ Off the Record by Camryn Garrett 💛 Honey Girl by Morgan Rogers 💚 Ace of Spades by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

🖤 How to Dispatch a Human by Stephanie Andrea Allen ❤️ Black Girl, Call Home by Jasmine Mans 💛 The Essential June Jordan (edited) by Jan Heller Levi and Christoph Keller 💚 A Master of Djinn by P. Djèlí Clark 🖤 A Blade So Black by L.L. McKinney ❤️ Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo 💛 Dread Nation by Justina Ireland 💚 Punch Me Up to the Gods by Brian Broome 🖤 Masquerade by Anne Shade ❤️ One of the Good Ones by Maika Moulite & Maritza Moulite 💛 Soulstar by C.L. Polk 💚 100 Boyfriends by Brontez Purnell

🖤 Hurricane Child by Kacen Callender ❤️ Quietly Hostile by Samantha Irby 💛 Coffee Will Make You Black by April Sinclair 💚 The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi 🖤 If It Makes You Happy by Claire Kann ❤️ Sweethand by N.G. Peltier 💛 This Poison Heart by Kalynn Bayron 💚 Better Off Red by Rebekah Weatherspoon 🖤 Friday I’m in Love by Camryn Garrett ❤️ Rainbow Milk by Paul Mendez 💛 Memorial by Bryan Washington 💚 Patsy by Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

🖤 Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon ❤️ How to Find a Princess by Alyssa Cole 💛 Yesterday is History by Kosoko Jackosn 💚 Mouths of Rain (edited) by Briona Simone Jones 🖤 Dead Dead Girls by Nekesa Afia ❤️ Love's Divine by Ava Freeman 💛 The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr 💚 Odd One Out by Nic Stone 🖤 Symbiosis by Nicky Drayden ❤️ Thanks a Lot, Universe by Chad Lucas 💛 The Passing Playbook by Isaac Fitzsimons 💚 Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin

🖤 Little & Lion by Brandy Colbert ❤️ My Government Means to Kill Me by Rasheed Newson 💛 Pleasure and Spice by Fiona Zedde 💚 No Gods, No Monsters by Cadwell Turnbull 🖤 The Stars and the Blackness Between Them by Junauda Petrus ❤️ Filthy Animals by Brandon Taylor 💛 The City We Became by N.K. Jemisin 💚 Peaces by Helen Oyeyem 🖤 The Beauty That Remains by Ashley Woodfolk ❤️ Every Body Looking by Candice Iloh 💛 Bingo Love by Tee Franklin, Jenn St-Onge, Joy San 💚 The Heart Does Not Bend by Makeda Silvera

🖤 King and the Dragonflies by Kacen Callender ❤️ By Any Means Necessary by Candice Montgomery 💛 Busy Ain't the Half of It by Frederick Smith & Chaz Lamar Cruz 💚 Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo 🖤 Sin Against the Race by Gar McVey-Russell ❤️ Trumpet by Jackie Kay 💛 Remembrance by Rita Woods 💚 Daughters of Nri by Reni K. Amayo 🖤 You Know Me Well by Nina LaCour ❤️ The Summer of Everything by Julian Winters 💛 Butter Honey Pig Bread by Francesca Ekwuyasi 💚 Gingerbread by Helen Oyeyem

#black history month #queer romance #queer books #queer community #queer #book list #book blog #booklr #bookstagram #book lovers #book reader #book reading #books to read #reading #batty about books #battyaboutbooks

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lol-jackles · 5 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/deanwasalwaysbi/735434824789213184/

Hahahah oh hellers, occasionally entertaining with their stupidity! If you have to practically re-write the show to "prove" your ship is canon? Then your ship isn't canon.

This Destiel heller can't even spin hurricanes ironically.

Destiel shippers and hellers have spent over dozen years stealing Sam/Dean scenes and replacing Sam's image with Cas and claiming it "prove" Destiel is canon because of how Dean is looking at Sam Cas without seemingly realizing what they're actually saying. Until the series finale when they cried and shook over "7 minutes of incest", which was news to actual Wincest shippers.

So it's no surprise they have to re-write everything about SPN in order the "prove" that the Earth is flat, er, I mean "prove" that Destiel is lol canon.

The Destiel echo chamber on tumblr is like an alcoholic going to a bar to be around like-minded people.

#Destiel #supernatural #anti destiel

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wrenhavenriver · 4 months

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top 5 books for you too! also, top 5 video games and top 5 movies, if you would like :3c

heeell yeah! top 5 books:

Salvage The Bones by Jesmyn Ward - an incredibly lyrical and deeply sad story of a family in the days leading up to Hurricane Katrina. i read it for the first time at a very shitty time in my life and the sibling relationships especially punched me directly in the heart. a tough read on many fronts (definitely look up/mind the content warnings if you have any "hard no" topics in your books) but the power and beauty of jesmyn ward's writing is something else.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller - one of those rare high school assigned books that actually made an incredibly lasting impression. i'm glad 17-year-old me got all those reality checks about *checks notes* the horrors of war, the hollow uselessness of nationalism and being convinced to die for it, the absurdly circular reasoning that props up systems of power and the incompetence of the people at the top of them, the ability of bureaucracy to drive you to sheer sobbing madness, financial systems being wildly arbitrary at best and a fucking scam at worst, *takes breath*,

The Long Walk by Stephen King - look, I find most of Stephen King's work deeply annoying, but this one fucking hits. A Hunger Games-esque premise that's about self-destructive urges and toxic masculinity as much as it as about the actual, you know, ritualized dystopian death march. also the camaraderie that forms between these teenagers even in the most hideous of circumstances is so charming and funny and sweet. also also it's just, like, really gay (peter mcvries you mad bisexual disaster).

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Sorry.

Anything by Octavia Butler really, but Dawn has a special place in my heart. The detail Butler put into all the different ways an alien species would be, well, alien to us--biological, linguistic, the makeup of family units, understandings of gender and sex, etc--and her description of humans as intelligent but highly hierarchical, and how these conflicting qualities could very well lead to our destruction...the hugely messy power dynamics not only between aliens and humans but among humans themselves...there's just so much to sink your teeth into, and it's only the first fucking book in the trilogy!

much more briefly because i'm giving myself eye strain, top 5 video games:

this is another one of those things that seems to shift every time i'm asked it but there are two (2) that will very likely never be budged from the list and those would be: have i mentioned this game called dishonored 2012 dev. arkane studios maybe one or eighteen hundred times over the last ten years; and bloodborne babey!!!

feeling like i need a zelda entry on here rn but i can't decide between majora's mask or twilight princess

fire emblem: awakening set me on the terrible path of anime chess obsession and i'm much less mad about it than i should be

also need a sengoku jidai media entry on here but i can't decide (x2) between sengoku basara or nioh which is hilarious because they are WILDLY different in tone. the duality of man

oh shit that's at least five? ask me again in a week and i'll have at least three different substitutions lmao

favorite movies:

the handmaiden. adapting fingersmith to 1930s korea is galaxy brain levels of genius and hideko and sook-hee are peak romance

saw pan's labyrinth for the first time at like. age 14? and it chemically altered my brain and introduced me to guillermo del toro's work and made me feel a lot of horrifying things. 10/10

need a ghibli entry on here but can't decide (x3) between princess mononoke and howl's moving castle, vote now on your phones

lord of the rings: the two towers. saw it six times in theaters when it originally came out and it's still my favorite of the series. can pretty much watch it by just closing my eyes at this point.

favorite disney/pixar is tangled. "i see the light" is also peak romance. wait what if hideko and sook-hee sang i see the light to each other

#askbox games #boghermit

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judgeanon · 1 year

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Plastic Skies - Models 9 and 10: Sk 16 and Fairey Swordfish

It’s a prop plane double feature WWII spectacular!

Due to a number of personal circumstances, 2023 hasn’t started off quite like I would’ve wanted, and since most of those circumstances involved money, I wasn’t able to jump right away from the F-16 Falcon I bought in February to the next project I had in mind. But thanks to a kind act of generosity, I was able to not only keep my meager hobbyist skills sharp, but also breathe new life into some old models.

Now, here’s the thing: I’m not really into old school propeller planes right now. I kinda used to, I remember building a very neat P-51 Mustang when I was a kid, but thanks to Ace Combat I’m far more interested in jet planes at the moment. So no Spitfires or Hurricanes or Messers for me, no thanks. I’m good for now. However, about a week after finishing the F-16, I received in the mail a care package from an overseas friend who for the last couple of years has made it a tradition to send me a box of old toys, comics and other random stuff. Of course, our postal service usually delivers them around March, so it’s a bit of a late present, but a very welcome one nonetheless. Especially this year.

Very thoughtfully, my friend had packed in not one, but two whole model kits in the box: a Swedish Sk 16 from Heller and a British Fairey Swordfish from Airfix, both in 1/72 scale. A quick search on Scalemates confirmed that both models were from the 80s, and the Swordfish’s mold was from 1958, which I naturally found thrilling. There’s something very fun about working on something older than you are. Plus, it turned out that these models had a backstory to them: my friend had bought them with his family at a second hand market, so second hand that the Sk 16 had already been started. He never got around to actually putting them together though, and despite his family’s repeated requests over the years to just throw them out, they remained there, safely boxed up.

(In this case, the cockpit and fuselage had been glued and the black stripes already painted, albeit a bit haphazardly)

To be honest, I didn’t know much about both planes, which only added to the excitement. The Sk 16 turned out to be a Swedish version of the very popular American T-6 Texan, a plane that also flew in my own country’s air force. And the Swordfish is better known as the English naval biplane that helped sink the Bismarck (and the star of Garth Ennis and PJ Holden’s graphic novel THE STRINGBAGS). So these were, by all accounts, very fun planes already. And I was ready to have some fun with them.

Above all else, I think my favorite part of doing old planes is all the exposed engines and exhaust tubes. I’ve mentioned before how much I adore metallic paints, and I immediately realized that this would be a great chance to break them out. And of course, having both planes have movable propellers, which I also love. I know a lot of hobbyst like to build models as a snapshot of a singular moment in time, but I prefer them to be toys, things to play with a little, so any “play-features” like this immediately makes my heart soar. Look at that little prop spin. Weeeeeee!

The Sk 16 was a very fun build. The hardest part had already been made, after all, and the rest came together very quickly and very snugly. Not having any weapons also helped a lot, and I appreciated having an excuse to use the box of yellow paint I’d bought months ago. The canopy was a pain, and I fear I’ll never be able to have the pulse or right tools to get them looking just right, but I still see at least some improvement over previous attempts.

The other thing that was shockingly comfortable and even fun were the decals. Given the model’s age and remembering my bad experience with the Berkut, I was terrified that the decals would dissolve into water the moment I even thought about dunking them. To my surprise and joy, not only did they not break, they were also extremely easy to place. I’m rarely fully satisfied with my decal placing skills, but this one is probably the best I’ve done so far.

The whole thing was done over a weekend, and once I was done, all that was left was deciding whether I wanted to age it up or not. I consulted with the friend who’d sent me the model, who decided for me: this old plane had to look old.

Fortunately, my washes worked like a charm on this little wasp, which gained a couple of decades overnight. I showed it to my friend, who gave it his seal of approval and also mentioned the thing about his parents asking him to throw the models out if he was never gonna build them. So of course, I did what any person would do in that situation: asked him if he wanted an online album of all the finished model pics I had so he could show his parents. And of course, he said yes.

That’s kind of the thing: as much as I enjoy building models for myself, every time I finish one I find myself burning with the desire to show it off to everyone. I know that’s nothing unusual, but the thing is, I’ve rarely had the chance to show off something I made to other people. Everything I do is either prose, which is not exactly a thing people can just take a quick look at, or comic book scripts, which have the same problem. Even when they’re beautifully turned into actual comics by some incredibly talented folks, it’s still hard to whip ‘em out and go “This. I made this.”

Now, I have a folder in my cellphone full of finished model pictures to pull out like a proud dad just in case anyone asks. And even if they don’t ask, odds are they’ll see at least one.

(friend’s parents did indeed see the pictures and were reportedly surprised to see those old things looking so good. Which is another thing I’ve found very pleasant about model kit making: with the right tools and the right application, even an inexperienced newbie can make a 40 year old kit look impressive)

Pretty much the day after I finished the Sk, I started work on the Swordfish. This one didn’t have any work done other than some pieces having been awkwarldy separated from their sprues, but the plastic felt nice and everything seemed solid enough. Plus, for the first time since I started, I had to paint not just one, but two tiny little plastic men:

It... didn’t go terribly well, mostly because I refused to actually go out and buy new paints for them, but with apologies to my friend, it’s easier to cheap out on things when you weren’t the one who bought the model. Apart from that, I also decided to replace the goose egg blue that the kit’s instructions suggested for the undercarriage with the weird light grey I’d bought and used for the bottom of the F-16, since I still wanted to try it out. That turned out to be... not a mistake, per se, but it didn’t do me any favors.

As it turns out, it’s *REALLY* hard to get something to stick to this kind of paint, and there was a lot of sticking to be done with these two wings. Even worse, some of it was done practically blind, since fitting the struts and bars into their holes turned out to be harder than it looked. Looking back, I probably should’ve just glued the whole thing together first and painted it later, but I figured getting the paints in first would be better than having to sneak tiny brushes into hidden crevices.

Particularly troubling were the bars right in front of the pilot, seen here hovering like a full inch above where they should be. Not ideal at all. In the end, I had to resort to far more glue than I wanted and holding everything in place as best I could until it dried. The results look decent enough from an angle...

... annnd then you look at it from the front.

Ouch. Of course, I also skimped on using wires and stuff, but I was already getting a bit peeved at this old stringbag. On the other hand, painting the grey camo was an unexpected delight. All the paints worked well with each other, and the end result was pretty lovely, if not exactly historically accurate.

Soon enough, all that was left were the decals, and here I ran into a different problem: yellowing. Although there was also a bit of that in the Sk 16, the plane being bright yellow helped hide a lot of it. No such luck here. I tried leaving them out in the sun inside a plastic bag, which the internet said was the cure for yellowing, but they also warned me it would take a few weeks or even a month depending on how much direct sunlight they were getting. Which in my apartment is precious few. After two days, I caved in and said fuck it. Yellowed decals it is.

I’m not proud of what I did, but the odds are pretty good that I’d still be waiting if I hadn’t. Once everything was ready and varnished, I broke out the washes again, only this time I didn’t go for the full Sludge Treatment. Instead, I focused only on the details, the flaps and some other areas. I could lie and say it was to give it a cleaner look, but in all honesty, I was just kinda tired of it by now and didn’t want to deal with having to clean the sludge.

The results are a bit hard to tell, since the flaps were already pretty visible, but it was still a nice relief to have it all done and looking decent enough for another online album. The response I got from friend’s parents was similar, and similarly, it made me feel quite happy with myself.

Overall, I enjoyed this little detour into prop planes. But above all, I think what I enjoyed the most was the idea that doing model kits is turning into My Thing. That people are starting to pay attention, and that in some near future, the answer to “What should we give Judge for his birthday/christmas/wedding gift?” will always inevitably be a little plastic plane to build. Not just because it’s fun and because it opens the door to all kinds of surprises, but also because I think there’s something very unique about being able to tell someone “Hey, thanks for the gift, wanna see what I did with it?”. It’s a rare kind of connection, a back and forth of thoughtfulness and creation, and I’d like to do more of it.

But first... it was time. Time to finally knuckle up, shake that bottle of light gray paint and face my personal final boss of model kits. I just didn’t expect it would happen during one of the worst weeks of the year so far.

#My stuff #Hobbies #Journals #Return of the funky shades of grey #Stringbaggery #Oooh metallic paints make me feel so good~

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britneyshakespearess · 4 months

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2023 Recap

Goal: 35 books

Books read: 50 11 nonfiction 39 fiction

Pages read: 15,896

My 5 star reads (in order by which I read them):

The Winter of the Witch Katherine Arden

The Catcher in the Rye (reread) J.D. Salinger

Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma Claire Dederer

Fourth Wing Rebecca Yarros

The Anomaly Herve Le Tellier

White Wedding Kathleen J. Woods

We Too: Essays on Sex Work and Survival Natalie West (editor)

Hurricane Season Fernanda Melchor

Jawbone Monica Ojeda

Acts of Desperation Megan Nolan

How Should a Person Be? Sheila Heti

Educated Tara Westover

Sharks, Death, Surfers: an Illustrated Companion Melissa McCarthy

Minor Feelings Cathy Park Hong

Best book I read this year:

Hurricane Season Fernanda Melchor

Worst book I read this year:

In the Woods Tana French

The books I thought I was going to love but didn't:

The Glass Castle Jeanette Walls

Idlewild James Frankie Thomas

Biography of X Catherine Lacey

How Music Works David Byrne

Bluebeard's Castle Anna Biller

The book I didn't expect to love but did:

Acts of Desperation Megan Nolan

How Should a Person Be? Sheila Heti

The books I haven't stopped thinking about:

The Anomaly Herve Le Tellier White Wedding Kathleen J. Woods We Too: Essays on Sex Work and Survival Natalie West (editor) Hurricane Season Fernanda Melchor

Jawbone Monica Ojeda Acts of Desperation Megan Nolan

How Should a Person Be? Sheila Heti

Educated Tara Westover Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma Claire Dederer Nails and Eyes Kaori Fujino What Was She Thinking? Zoe Heller How to Blow Up a Pipeline Andreas Malm Treasure Island!!! Sara Levine Death in Her Hands Ottessa Moshfegh At the Edge of the Woods Kathryn Bromwich Lament for Julia Susan Taubes

The complete list and my ratings (in order by which I read them):

Ninth House Leigh Bardugo (reread) 4/5 Hell Bent Leigh Bardugo 3.5/5 The Winter of the Witch Katherine Arden 5/5 What Was She Thinking? Zoe Heller 4/5 Spells for Forgetting Adrienne Young 3/5 Elektra Jennifer Saint 3/5 How to Blow Up a Pipeline Andreas Malm 4.5/5 Now Is Not the Time to Panic Kevin Wilson 4.5/5 The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger (reread) 5/5 Treasure Island!!! Sara Levine 4.5/5 The Ruin of All Witches: Life and Death in the New World Malcom Gaskill 4/5 Milk Fed Melissa Broder 4.5/5 Death in Her Hands Ottessa Moshfegh 3.5/5 Bunny Mona Awad 3.5/5 Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma Claire Dederer 5/5 A Crack-Up at the Race Riots Harmony Korine 4/5 Fourth Wing Rebecca Yarros 5/5 Delta of Venus Anais Nin 4.5/5 The Only One Left Riley Sager 4/5 Strangers to Ourselves: Unsettled Minds and the Stories That Make Us Rachel Aviv 4/5 The Anomaly Herve Le Tellier 5/5 A Court of Silver Flames Sarah J. Maas 4/5 At the Edge of the Woods Kathryn Bromwich 4.5/5 How Music Works David Byrne 3.5/5 Call Them by Their True Names: American Crises Rebecca Solnit 3/5 Boy Parts Eliza Clark 4/5 White Wedding Kathleen J. Woods 5/5 Lament for Julia Susan Taubes 4.5/5 In the Woods Tana French 2/5 Biography of X Catherine Lacey 4/5 The Near Witch Victoria Schwab 4/5 Divine Rivals Rebecca Ross 4.5/5 We Too: Essays on Sex Work and Survival Natalie West (editor) 5/5 Hurricane Season Fernanda Melchor 5/5 Starling House Alix E. Harrow 3/5 Nails and Eyes Kaori Fujino 4.5/5 Jawbone Monica Ojeda 5/5 Small Favors Erin A. Craig. 3/5 Exit West Mohsin Hamid 4/5 Bluebeard's Castle Anna Biller 3.5/5 Iron Flame Rebecca Yarros 4.5/5 Acts of Desperation Megan Nolan 5/5 How Should a Person Be? Sheila Heti 5/5 Educated Tara Westover 5/5 The Glass Castle Jeanette Walls 3.5/5 Idlewild James Frankie Thomas 4/5 The Guest List Lucy Foley 4/5 Ruthless Vows Rebecca Ross 4/5 Sharks, Death, Surfers: an Illustrated Companion Melissa McCarthy 5/5 Minor Feelings Cathy Park Hong 5/5

#books and reading #booklr #book review #book blog #bookblr #books #books & libraries #literature #bookish #reading #best of 2023

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theavenuebox · 1 year

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Swipe Troy Heller was just 10-years-old when he decided to create his own messag...

Swipe Troy Heller was just 10-years-old when he decided to create his own messag…

Swipe⬅️ Troy Heller was just 10-years-old when he decided to create his own message in a bottle with looseleaf paper and an old Pepsi bottle. The letter remained at large until last November when Hurricane Nicole washed the bottle on shore in Sebastian, Florida (13 miles from where it was originally released). Two teachers were cleaning the beach following the storm and came across Heller’s…

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nichenarratives · 28 days

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Hurricane Heller 25

A Niche Narratives Fanfiction

last | first | next

25. Lackadaisy Austerity

Even in his youth, Mordecai was never an athlete, struggling to keep pace with peers and often the last to finish even after those with weak chests. As with most innate insufficiencies, the nine year old tom had refused to accept he wasn't athletic and instead turned to his strengths, studying how to become a fit and healthy young man who could rival an Olympian on the track. The scrawny tom believed he could do it as well; books had yet to fail him, from botany to mathematics, so was certain all he needed was to buckle down and understand, to flourish here too.

Though he was aware of his intellectual differences well before fourth grade, the discrepancy between Mordecai’s attempt to overcome this challenge with applied research, compared to how his teacher and peers responded, would ultimately skew any future interactions with others for the worse. Attempts to discuss his physical limits or potential adaptations to optimise both his own and classmate’s development were met with irritation; his notes stuffed into a desk, he was escorted out by the ear and deposited back into the school yard roughly, a reminder to respect his tutors ringing in the sore appendage.

To wit, he was pushed harder in gym class, until an inescapable physical exhaustion claimed his body and he fell. This was received with amusement by his peers, especially when it was usually followed by a yardstick to the rear and accusations of laziness. For the rest of the year he was at the epicenter of his tutor’s storm, miserably exhausted and never able to improve his physical state. Yet adult Mordecai would look back on those months as an important learning experience, one he subscribed to even neck deep in the Savage Family Corporation.

If he wanted something done right, he should remove the middleman and simply do it himself.

While he hadn't been particularly successful with an extracurricular exercise routine - life seemed to develop an uncanny ability for throwing proverbial spanners in those particular cogs - a discernment of keen proprioceptive capabilities in adolescence allowed Mordecai to ‘hack’ his biological malleability.

According to the physiology books, proprioception is an awareness of where one’s appendages remain in space without thinking. Realising he’s acutely aware of this sense, preteen Mordecai would consciously engage his entire body’s muscle framework while he undertook mundane tasks like paperwork to enforce an almost ambient regime into his schedule.

The initial results were as expected; a deep seated exhaustion and a dread of repeating it all tomorrow, which he almost surrendered to on a monthly basis. Every night, he’d collapse into bed, his entire body aching but thankfully too exhausted to be kept awake by pain. He'd sleep fitfully and awaken with residual soreness in his core, both a physical and mental battle of wills to overcome and rise before the day even began, but he persevered regardless.

Until one day he realised the pain was simply gone his mind and body finally in sync as both analysis and reaction became a seamless response to any stimuli. While Mordecai never became the Olympic contender he'd envisaged as a kitten, he gained something more useful; a finely tuned core strength that enabled swift, precise movements within a tiny window of inaccuracy, a margin of error easily rectified with basic calculations.

It still bothers the tuxedo that he can't pinpoint a day his muscles adapted. Applying tension upon waking eventually became automatic, as much a part of the mask he wore to sequester his emotions. This skill is what made him an exacting amateur surgeon for interrogations, a formidable foe with a firearm and a swift, decisive hand in high tension altercations.

It likely saved his life the night Fiores attempted to murder him also, though as he sprints through the back alleys of Queens in driving rain, path heralded only by the cloud-crested moon, the unanticipated limitations of his biological hacking quickly become apparent. Already fatigued from constant flexion, his core muscles reject the sudden exertion and begin to ache as they drown in an excess of lactic acid, low base energy stores swiftly exhausted.

His legs feel immensely heavy, his chest tightened by an underdeveloped lung capacity, but as a shot whistles past his ear the tuxedo forces himself on through sheer willpower, towards the station he can see a few blocks away. A small part of Mordecai's mind agonises over his missing satchel, but there is no time to return for it; he has no money or papers, just a pen, a pocket watch, and a useless safe code wrapped around a dime in his pocket.

An awkward step on the cobbles and he stumbles. Mordecai gasps and barely prevents a fall onto the glistening streets by grabbing at the nearest wall in desperation, claws digging into the mortar with an unsettling scratch across brick. He pauses only long enough for the moon’s shine to glint off of the barrel of a pistol and pursuer’s eyes before pushing off the wall, ignoring the growing stitch in his side and the burning in his lungs, hellbent on survival.

The station is barely fifty feet away when a thought hits him. I can't purchase a ticket. A revelation that is swiftly accompanied by a trajectory shift towards the unfenced tracks extending from the southern side of the illuminated building. It troubles Mordecai to know riding the train without procuring a ticket is theft - something he refused to indulge even in the depths of poverty - however, he decides imminent mortality is an effective extenuating circumstance to allow it this once as by divine doctoring, a train pulls out of the station when he's a mere twenty feet away.

With a grunt and a final surge of energy, Mordecai sprints the distance with a burst of speed before he leaps forward, jumping for the nearest carriage as the rear stairs draw level.

Time seems to stop when airborne. Breath caught in his throat and heavy body suddenly weightless, his heartbeat becomes a rapid, dicotical metronome in his ears and throat as hot smoke envelops his body. Suddenly blinded, the tuxedo is forced to have faith in his calculations and physical reflexivity, reaching through the choking gray smog with little more than a muttered prayer to a god abandoned years prior.

When his hand closes on a cold metal railing, time resumes with a sudden explosion of sensation; rain raps heavily on his bare head and chugging engines are thunderous in his ears as he clings to the railing for dear life, soaked loafers slipping on metal steps before finding purchase. Exhausted but relieved, he clutches onto the guide rail and sucks deep breaths into aching lungs, unstable legs threatening to give as he casts his gaze out in search of his pursuers.

Between the darkness, smoke and driving rainfall, viability is poor. Mordecai squints towards the alley he'd fled from as the train begins to pick up speed, pulse still hammering and breaths drawing deep. He can see nothing; lanterns eaten by darkness, smog too thick to dispel. Assuming they can’t see either, the tuxedo finally sags against the guide rail, acutely aware of the patter of rain on his head and the deep thrumming of engines rattling through his teeth.

As the adrenaline surge begins to wane, his body comes alive with aches and pains. Both his throat and lungs burning with exertion, his thighs aching almost as much as his blazing calves, a stitch in his right side flaring with each heavy breath. Whipping winds and unsteady legs mean he dare not release the guide rail lest he simply fall into the tracks, so he remains steadfast as they gain momentum, taking a moment to recover from-

A bullet pings off the train car barely a half inch over his head. Hair waving wildly in crosswinds between carriages and eyes startled wide, Mordecai ducks behind the guide rail with a gasp just before another shot dings off the metal right where his head had been moments before. The tuxedo peers around the edge of the carriage behind his own and squints in the smog, until he sees two dark figures hanging off a guide rail two train cars down, attempting to fire as the rails jostle their aim.

His second adrenaline rush is more like a trickle, a heavy delay between noticing the danger and acting on survival impulses. He jerks back being the train car between them as a third shot pings off the metal guide rail and with the last of his remaining strength, Mordecai wrenches open the rear door and throws himself inside, slamming the door behind him.

The air within the train car is still, the trundling of the train and heavy rainfall muted by thick window panes and thick metallic architecture. A couple of yellowed or green pairs of eyes turn to observe their belated fellow passenger before they return to their books, newspapers or work. None take interest, nor inquire of his arrival mid transit, merely sneaking a covert glance as he stumbles down the middle aisle to an empty pair of seats at the front of the carriage and collapses against the window.

Finally safe, if only for a short period of time with his pursuers just two carriages down, Mordecai allows olive eyes to flutter closed as he can truly catch his breath. He barely feels the usually uncomfortable sensation of soaking clothes on coarse fur or the way his hair sticks to his face, his mind distracted processing the events of the night with the clarity of a man aware of his imminent demise. There's no time to dwell on misfortunes when it's at a premium.

He shuffles through data, from limited inventory to loose ends, until finally, the tuxedo has a course of action to follow. Sitting straighter in his seat, he first pulls a pencil from an inside pocket and digs it into the inner lining of a coat pocket, destroying stitches he'd added the week prior to extract the dime, and paper wrapped around it containing the safe code in his apartment bedroom.

Using a tissue from another pocket, he soaks up the worst of the water from his right knee and folds his right leg over the left. It's only as he begins writing he truly notices his left glasses lense is cracked, but it does not stop him from transcribing his last words.

Mother,

Forgive my unannounced departure. Circumstances relating to my employment have required me to travel on short notice. It may be some time before I am able to correspond again, but you will find savings in my rented room above the dry grocery adequate for living. Give Mrs. Kovitz the name Ezra and she will allow you upstairs. There is a safe hidden in the southeast corner behind the baseboard.

He makes sure to outline the safe code where it had faded slightly from formerly hurried penmanship. He may have sat there for hours procrastinating the end of the hastily scrawled letter were it not for a sudden and short lived increase in engine noise and driving rain. The rear carriage door opening and closing, a shuffle of fabric as someone silently takes a seat, an additional passenger changing carriages amidst the rainstorm worrying for the pursued tuxedo. Incensed to finish his letter, Mordecai carries on.

Please use some portion of it to relocate to more suitable living space, expeditiously. Purchase somewhere if you are able. The building is poorly ventilated, molded and unhealthful.

-M

Before he can sign his name, a thick drip of red falls to the crumpled page. The tuxedo pauses to stare at it, distracted brain struggling to comprehend what it is and where it might have come from, before a thick warmth oozing down his lip preludes an accompanying second drip of blood joining the first. Mordecai rubs at his snout with the back of a hand and pulling back, is greeted by a smear of red on dark fur. His own body betrays him, coating his only note paper in blood of all things, which he cannot send his mother lest she worry or ask questions of unsavoury people in the city.

“Damnit, damnit.” He rubs his nose roughly on his sleeve, inadvertently smearing the blood across his muzzle, before ripping the bottom of the letter away to remove both his blood and the laments regarding Mother’s current housing. Casting a glance over his shoulder as he crumples the soiled paper in hand, he spots Brady’s sour face immediately beside a man Mordecai recognises as Gabriel’s chauffeur.

They don't meet his gaze, but Brady smirks for the briefest of moments, hand thumbing something in his pocket. Dark ears folding flat as time speeds past, the non-stop train journey to Missouri rapidly closing in on its, and his, inevitable end.

Fatigued adrenals activate a final time when he turns forward to find an unfamiliar man in a flat cap also observing him over the back of a seat. This man watches him openly, a lit cigarette dangling from thin lips and a brow quirked in a question the young tom cannot decipher. Noticing the three men briefly sucks the air out of the carriage, a suffocating sensation making it nigh impossible to draw breath.

Fear isn't an emotion Mordecai entertained often in recent years. He'd become as adept at masking that weakness of character as any other, sequestering it beneath a stony façade and severe tone most were themselves too intimidated by to query. In the face of death however, a young tuxedo cannot prevent bile churning in his stomach any more than the rapid jittering of his leg, an outlet for the intense anxiety created by knowing his time is running short.

Mordecai inhales and the spell is broken; the man in front turns away and lights a cigarette, the train still trundles along its track, rain beating mutedly against thick panes of glass. With a ragged exhale, he digs in an inside coat pocket for the blank envelope that so recently held a thick wad of cash and presses the folded letter to his mother inside. The sealing glue is bitter on a dry tongue, taste lingering as he scrawls her name and address on the front.

This very envelope previously had once contained a payout, monies accrued through sanctioned abuse, suffering bloodshed at his own hand.

As a kitten, Mordecai was enraptured by fairytales not for their whimsy and wonder, but the dichotomy of good and evil so frequently portrayed. Black and white, heroes and villains, light and darkness. The concept had made perfect sense; that badness was as inherent to a soul as was blood to a paper cut, to know even as a child whether you were good or evil. It was a comfort in an otherwise difficult childhood to know he was good and that would never change.

Joining the Savage Corporation had congealed bad and good into various shades of malignant gray. In order to benefit his family he was forced to entertain fixed odds, inflated prices, lying and stealing his way to middle management in an organisation with its very foundations rooted in moral debauchery. The kitten so sure of his integrity had become tainted by shadows and soon, was no better than those who now sought his death.

All before one final, poorly conceived embezzlement endeavour had left Mordecai staring down the barrel of his own pistol. He grimaces, pencil stilled on the last digit of his family address, his grip on the shaft so tight his hand shakes. It's almost poetic that the former vessel of such funds should deliver his final words home but the prospect that money tainted by moral ambiguity required his untimely demise before Mother could discover and utilise the funds?

In hindsight, that is nothing short of zemblanity, but now is not the time for lamentation. The tuxedo tom tucks his pencil away safely and leaning forward, he speaks softly to the man sitting in the row in front of his own. “Excuse me,” Mordecai begins, then clears his throat softly to attract more attention. Though his eyes never leave his paper, the man’s head turns toward him, which is enough for the desperate tom. “You wouldn't happen to have a postage stamp, would you?”

“Sorry kid, I don't.” The man goes back to his paper without pause, leaving Mordecai to mumble half hearted thanks and lean back in his seat, ears flat to his skull and tail tucked beneath his legs. While the response is polite, it's useless; even if he manages to alight in St Louis and find a post office, he can't afford to buy a stamp with just a dime to his name.

Resisting the urge to surrender to anxiety he casts his gaze around and spies a finely dressed woman reading, one seat back and across the middle aisle. Suppressing the growing anxiety in his chest as the train speeds towards its destination, Mordecai turns in his seat to try a more direct approach. “Pardon me, uh… perhaps I could impose on you to post a letter? I wouldn't ask a stranger, except that it’s-”

The carriage plunges into darkness as it enters a tunnel, a cavern of semicircular bricks and mortar that couples as an echo chamber, exponentially and rapidly increasing the thrumming of metal wheels on tracks. A clamber of engines and a heavy trundle of bolts and divots of very carriage pulled forthwith all join the cacophony of screeching couplings, rattling window panes and screeching horns that only grows by the second, a locomotive thundering through a wonder of modern architecture with all the disruption that seemingly accompanies industry.

With the accumulation of these sounds, the carriage interior almost becomes intolerable. Yet Mordecai does not notice intense auditory stimuli that would normally cause him great discomfort. Instead, the sight of a man standing in the aisle, a glimmer of something in his hand catching tunnel lighting as it flashes past, has his blood run cold. White fingers tighten on the pivotal envelope still in his grasp as desperation devolves into desolation, for as Close as he came to achieving his objective, this is where it must end.

The figure takes a step closer, the cover of darkness and intermittent flashing of passing lanterns keeping his identity shrouded in mystery. The glinting in the figure’s hand comes closer and the tuxedo flinches, eyes squeezing shut and head turning away. Final breath caught in his throat, he awaits an inevitable oblivion as overt peril draws his overwhelmed mind inwards, to a nauseatingly empty vacuum sans the rapid biological metronome drumming in his ears.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Chest burning with depleting oxygen, his body tense for anticipated pain, it takes until early morning light falls on his face as the train exits the tunnel for the tuxedo to date squint as his executioner. Mordecai is not met by the barrel of a gun however but rather, a visage he will remember for decades to come as a moment his life changed forever; a gray tabby with pure white across his muzzle, a glinting cane under one arm and a newspaper under the other, the pale tips of his fur illuminated like a beacon of hope by the sun’s tender morning rays.

While not a particularly spiritual man, Mordecai is captivated by the imagery even as the tabby takes a seat directly opposite, placing his newspaper down out of sight before resting his cane against a hand. Impeccably dressed; a sharp three piece of better quality than anything Mordecai could dream, fitted leather gloves and manicured whiskers, he's flawless even as he stoops to spark up a cigarette, a habit the tom holds with a deep level of scorn as a wasteful vice.

As if feeling the young tom's gaze upon, the man tilts his head to regard Mordecai in return. Despite his obviously ruffled appearance, this businessman looks upon him without distaste or irritation, but a curious interest. Dark ears turn forward as yellow eyes meet olive across the gangway, a long moment of mutual, silent study before the gentleman turns his gaze to the rolling Missouri fields outside.

Time speeds past and soon, the train is pulling into its final stop in St Louis, Missouri. Palms slick with a nervous sweat, Mordecai watches as the gray tabby stands and disembarks without a second glance, leaving the newspaper on his seat. Mordecai’s only respite is seeing the unfamiliar man in a flat cap at the front of the carriage follow, after briefly meeting his anxious gaze. Not another assassin then, but a concerned third party, or perhaps a bored traveler concocting gossip for his next tiresome meeting.

The relief is short lived, for when the well dressed woman also stands to depart, it leaves him alone with Brady and his chauffeur. The tuxedo feels his nerves fray as they stand, wordlessly reaching into their jackets, cold eyes and wicked smiles telling of their intentions. Breath so heavy yet fruitless, the young tom feels he might faint. He clutches onto the seat in front of him and murmurs a quiet plea to the God he’d lost faith in years prior.

One last chance, that's all I ask. One more-

It's surely coincidence alone that he notices the glint across the aisle at that moment, a metallic shimmer catching the sun’s still virgin rays. Wide olives settle on the newspaper the gray tabby left behind and finally sees the gift wrapped within; a revolver with an ornate handle, ivory or bone to contrast a brown casing and the sleek sliver of a metallic barrel. A custom piece, one not left behind easily, and a clear direction for a lost kitten to take.

Mordecai dives across the center aisle just as a shot embeds in the seat in front of the one he'd occupied. He crouches between one bench seat and the backrest of the next as he retrieves the revolver, a heavier kind than he's used to. A swift check of the chamber to know precisely how many practice shots he has before he can't afford to miss - four shots, far more than necessary to recalibrate - and he's ready to take this final chance seriously.

With the swift mobility he's come to rely upon, the tuxedo rises, aims and fires at the chauffeur within a second and a half. As expected, his aim isn't sure with an unfamiliar weapon; a shot intended for the chest instead rips through the chauffeur’s left bicep. Mordecai ducks just as Brady curses and takes a shot, the bullet searing a path through air so close to his face, the tuxedo feels the heat of expulsion graze his face before the bullet embeds in the seat behind him.

The proximity doesn't phase Mordecai now he has a tool to wield. He takes a breath and makes a swift stab at ballistic trigonometry. Intersecting axes, angles and calculations overlays the memory of his failed shot behind sharp olive eyes until the basic math completed, Mordecai once again rises, aims according to estimated mathematical adjustments, and fires. This shot lands just shy of his intended mark, striking the chauffeur in the lower right lobe of his heart for a fast, fatal wound.

Blood blossoms on a white shirt as the strong scent of iron fills his nostrils. The man screams in terror, a gun clatters to the floor as shaking hands clutch at a punctured heart, desperate wails swiftly suffocated by blood rising up his esophagus. Brady hesitates, his gun raised but eyes averted to the chauffeur. It's all the time Mordecai needs to reload the chamber, adjust his aim and finish the job.

Only once Brady hits the floor beside his compadre does the world flood back into focus; screams and shouts echo beyond the train car, fluffy of shadows in all directions as panicked passengers scramble to flee the platform. A whistle screeches over the noise as calls for police cut through the chaos, orders for men to surround and search each carriage issued in short order. Mordecai has to get out of here, before he's apprehended holding the murder weapon in a strange city, with no papers or credentials.

Pocketing the ornate revolver, Mordecai skulks low between the seats to the rear exit, diligent as to not step in the rapidly widening pools of crimson around his former pursuers. Unseen from without as chaos unfolds, Mordecai unlatches the door and slips into the masses, joining civilians fleeing the gruesome scene of a double homicide that will make the papers in just a few hours.

A Shadow in St Louis: Double Murderer Disappears Without Trace from Overnight from NYC!

#lackadaisy #mordecai heller #lackadaisy cats #tracy j butler #niche narratives #lackadaisy mordecai #fanfic #fanfiction #hurricane heller #no beta we die like atlas may #ch25

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