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vagrantblvrd · 6 years

Text

Breaking Light (1/1)

Summary: Gavin’s a goddamn freak of nature.

Notes: Because reasons. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

AO3

Gavin’s a goddamn freak of nature.

And, right, sure, that sounds super shitty when you say it out loud, but it’s true.

“Michael,” Jeremy says, sad little look on his face because he’s still too new to the crew to really understand what Michael means when he says shit like that.

Especially when it comes to Gavin.

“Okay, look,” Michael says, leaning closer to Jeremy. “Remember last month?”

No other description necessary because they all remember last month, the heist that went fucking swimmingly until the escape vehicle just up and quit on them. Fucking three thousand and something feet up in the air and the engines had quit on them, Jack somehow pulling another miracle out of his ass and landing them in more or less one piece in the goddamned mountains.

Phones either trashed in the heist and consequent getaway or out of signal range.

Long-ass trip back down the mountains and somewhere they could call for a pick-up, and Gavin, okay.

Like.

Fucking Survivor-ed them the fuck out of there, only with less drama and backstabbing and actual, practical survival skills.

The four of them falling into line and actually listening without giving him (too much) shit when he just casually took charge.

Acting like he always did when he knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. Like it wouldn’t be odd that he knew which plants were edible because they were expecting to be at a safe house by sundown and didn’t have any food or water on them.

That he knew how to follow a game trail – knew to fucking recognize it as one at all – until they crossed over an old hiking trail. Knew how to build them shelter for the night when it became clear they weren’t making it out of the mountains before dark and temperatures started to drop.

Knew a whole hell of a lot about living off the land in the wilderness outside of Los Santos for someone who’d grown up in another fucking country.

“...Okay, yeah,” Jeremy says slowly, “That was kind of weird.”

Just a little.

There are other things weird when it comes to Gavin too, not as blatant, but when they happen, you notice. Or should, but Jeremy’s kind of horrifically oblivious sometimes, and he still looks at Gavin like he’s the coolest guy around.

Which, fair. Gavin does seem pretty cool until you get to know him, learn the kind of asshole he is and then it’s just downhill from there. (Jeremy will figure it out soon enough though, he’s a smart guy.)

Gavin, though. Has this odd array of skills that somehow end up saving the day more often than not. Weird, really random shit sprinkled in there with the everyday practical things. Bits of knowledge that they’ve been able to use to their advantage time and time again.

And maybe that wouldn’t be all that odd, except for the fact this is Gavin, and he gets weirdly evasive when they ask about it.

“I dunno,” Jeremy says with a shrug, still trying to give Gavin the benefit of the doubt or some shit. “Maybe he likes camping?”

Michael sets his beer down slowly, gives Jeremy this look.

Gavin’s not averse to the whole outdoors thing once in a while – as long as it’s on his terms.

And there are times when Gavin takes off for a while without any real explanation. Just tells them he has business he needs to take care of, this odd little look on his face and disappears on them.

For all Michael knows he could be living it up in the wilderness somewhere. Build himself a little lean-to or shack out of twigs and shit and going primal man whatever the fuck else, who knows?

But it’s still Gavin, and Michael has a hard time seeing that when the fucker spends most of his time in his room with his computers and tech. Gets this confused look on his face sometimes when one of them drags him out into the sun like he’d forgotten what the big glowing ball in the sky was.

“Okay, okay,” Jeremy says, holding his hands up. “You win this one.”

Michael snorts because hell of a victory, that one, getting someone to agree that Gavin’s a freak of nature.

========

Michael’s known Gavin for a while now. Worked with him a time or two before they joined up with the Fakes, this hacker who knew how to keep his mouth shut and get the job done and a sense of humor that meshed amazingly well with Michael’s.

The kind of asshole Michael worried about even then because Gavin took jobs with crews that would have sold him out in a heartbeat. All smiles and deflections even when he’d show up at whatever bar they’d settled on for bevs with a busted lip or black eye or one memorable moment a fucking broken arm.

Acted like it wasn’t anything to worry about really, Michael, accidents happen and all, and then he’d find a way to change the subject and neatly avoid questions after that.

It had been a relief when Geoff brought Gavin on because that way at least Michael knew there would be people around to watch his back. People who’d give a shit about the idiot.

It was clear at the time that Geoff was worried about introducing Gavin to the rest of the crew, because Gavin -

There’s really no other way to describe him than to say that Gavin is very much Gavin.

Definitely a little shit, annoying as hell and fucking infuriating at times because he knows exactly what buttons to push when it comes to people. Figures them out real fast and gets a kick out of fucking with them for the hell of it.

Gavin will bitch and complain like it’s the end of the world when he’s got a fucking splinter, but won’t say a goddamn thing when some fucker gets lucky and he catches a bullet in his vest that breaks a rib. (Infuriating for a different reason, and goddamn Michael hates him so much for that.)

The kind of guy who stays up three days straight coordinating things to get all of them home again after a heist goes bad. The guy who works himself ragged without a word of complaint because that’s what he does. Pushes himself harder than anyone else would because he looks at the crew the way the rest of them do.

Like the Fakes are more than a random bunch of assholes who happen to work together for the money to him. Like family.

So when Michael realizes something is going on with him, that Gavin’s gotten...not quite fidgety so much as. Watchful? Something like that anyway, Michael worries.

“Gavin.”

Gavin looks up, confused look on his face like he has no idea why Michael might be a little concerned when Gavin’s been acting weird all week.

“Michael?”

Michael sits down across from Gavin. Watches him for a bit while Gavin fidgets, tries to go back to whatever he was working on before Michael interrupted him, but this is Gavin.

A minute, two, and then Gavin sighs, like Michael's being difficult.

“Is there something you wanted?” Gavin asks, sounding a wee bit minged off, as he’d put it.

Michael looks at Gavin. Usual bags under his eyes because the fucker’s never figured out that sleep is a thing people need to function. So fucking stupid about taking care of himself sometimes.

“You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right?” Michael asks, gives up on being subtle because Gavin will act all confused, like he has no idea what Michael could possibly mean by that if he doesn’t.

Gavin cocks his head and Michael can see the fucker thinking about it, like it’s a more complicated question than yes or no.

And then he smiles, a little off, and says in this tone of voice Michael doesn’t buy for a fucking second:

“Of course, Michael boi. You know I would.”

The urge to call bullshit on Gavin is so fucking strong it's like a physical thing, but somehow – somehow – Michael pulls it all back and smiles at Gavin.

“Good to know, Gav,” he says, and wonders what the hell he’s managed to get himself into this time that he’s not telling them about.

========

Gavin gets into a lot of accidents in the following weeks. Fender benders and the like and while he's not the best driver in the crew, even he's not that bad.

Whenever Michael tries to ask him about it Gavin laughs, makes little jokes about taking a refresher driving course and leaves it at that.

And it could be nothing because God knows the majority of the drivers in Los Santos should never have been allowed behind the wheel of a car. Might just be bad luck catching up to Gavin for once, because the little shit seems to have more than his share of good luck.

Scrapes through situations that would have killed anyone else with barely a scratch on him to the point here it’s honestly gotten a little ridiculous.

Still, it’s a bit of a concern. One that even Jeremy’s started to listen to instead of pretending to humor Michael, and then -

“Gavin’s late,” Geoff says, glancing at his watch.

Those words shouldn’t be as ominous as they sound because Gavin’s not exactly the most punctual of people, but after the last few weeks -

Well.

Jeremy’s already out of his seat, Jack close behind, and the elevator ride down to the garage is filled with tense silence. All of them coming up with various scenarios in their heads because Los Santos is a bitch of a city, and they’ve all made enemies here. Gavin maybe more than most because he’s a nosy little shit.

The doors open and they spill out into the garage, Geoff taking a moment to try Gavin’s phone again. Jeremy moves over to stand next to Michael, so very still, and Jack is watching Geoff.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Geoff says, trying to sound annoyed but its Geoff and the poor bastard worries far too much about them.

Michael opens his mouth to say something, maybe tell Geoff to get B Team on things, when they hear the garage door open. Turns to see Gavin’s stupid little Blista dragging through the entrance.

He’s lost his back tires somewhere, ungodly screech of metal on cement echoing eerily, and sparks shooting up.

They all stare in silence as Gavin pulls into an empty spot, engine rattling and shuddering alarmingly as he shuts it off, smoke curling out from under the hood.

The damn thing is riddled with bullets, back windshield gone and rear fender fucked up like someone hit him. Tried to run him off the road from the look of it.

Gavin has to fucking kick the driver’s side door to get it to open, metal groaning as it finally gives. When he notices them, Gavin has the gall to look surprised.

“Hey guys,” he says, and holds up the cup of coffee in his hand from the place he likes down the street, sheepish little smile on his face. “Sorry I’m late, the line was unbelievable.”

And then he takes this dainty little sip, fucking savors the stupidly expensive and unnecessarily complicated drink before wandering over to the elevators, little bounce in his step like nothing’s wrong.

The four of them can’t seem to move, focus on the poor Blista –

And the moment the elevator doors shut on Gavin, the rear bumper that’s hanging at a crooked angle finally gives up the ghost and falls to the floor with a clanking clatter like a death rattle.

========

Like the little shit he is, Gavin plays stupid when they catch up to him in the penthouse.

“I thought we were going to go over plans that job you were talking about?” he asks Geoff, little frown of confusion on his face.

Geoff looks like he could cheerfully throttle Gavin, but he forces a smile. Plays Gavin’s little game because fucking Gavin.

“Alright,” Geoff says, and claps his hand together, waving the others towards the heist room look on his face like he’s planning on talking to Gavin later, “why the fuck not, right guys?”

========

A sniper misses Gavin’s head by inches when he goes with Jack to a meeting with B Team about some territory issues that have come up. Shatters the windshield of Jack’s Entity and leaves him visibly shaken while Gavin is just so very blasé about all of it.

“Eh,” Gavin says, when they calculate the bullet’s trajectory and pinpoint its origin point. Michael and Jeremy looking for anything that might give them an idea as to the identity of the shooter while Gavin watches. “Not very good, were they?”

Michael stares at him as Jeremy trots over with a camera he’s ripped out of a wall, wires dangling. Gavin takes it from him, notes the battery pack still attached and sees the camera’s still transmitting.

Fucking smirks before he disconnects everything and shoves it in his coat pocket. Gives them this little smile and heads downstairs where Jack’s on the phone with Lindsay.

Jeremy gives Michael a look, and Michael shrugs because hell if he knows what’s going on with the little idiot.

========

After the mess with the sniper Geoff insists that Gavin doesn’t go anywhere without on of the crew with him at all times.

He puts up a fight about it, insists it’s not necessary and that everyone’s overreacting but gives in when Geoff pulls out the big guns. Calls Burnie up and lets him work on Gavin until he caves, grudgingly agrees.

But because he’s Gavin, he’s a bastard about it.

Drags them around the city for the tiniest of reasons at all hours.

Shakes Michael awake at four in the morning because he’s out of Red Bull and Michael, Michael, what if he’ll need it later in the day and the store runs out, what then, Michael? What then?

Pulls Jeremy out of a multiplayer match with Michael and B Team because he has a craving and he could go by himself, really, it’s only on the other side of the city and surely he’ll be fine on his own.

Makes Jack go along with him when he needs to upgrade his shit. Forces Geoff to sit through shitty movies.

And on and on and he’s wearing them all down because he’s an asshole and petty as fuck when he thinks they’re treating him like some kind of helpless damsel in distress.

“I’m going to kill him myself,” Jeremy mutters, face down on the living room couch. “Swear to God.”

Michael knows exactly what he means because for all of Gavin’s bitching? Geoff has a point about making sure someone’s with Gavin because someone very clearly wants Gavin dead as fuck.

They’ve found ignition bombs wired to Gavin’s cars he keeps in this little garage by the airport. Sticky bombs attached to whatever car he’s using for his bullshit errands in the handful of minutes they were seeing to said errands.

A few more run-ins with the mystery sniper they can’t find no matter how hard the look and goddamn poison in Gavin’s coffee just that morning. Gavin tripping and spilling it, this distinct scent that had Jeremy snatching the cup out of Gavin’s hands before he could take a sip of the remaining coffee.

“Tempting,” Michael admits, because he’s pretty fond of Gavin, but at the moment he wouldn’t mind beating the stupid out of him.

Jeremy groans, rolling over on his back to stare at the ceiling.

Michael feels for him because the shine’s worn off, Jeremy finally able to see Gavin as the piece of shit he really is.

“Just like, a little,” Jeremy says, and holds a hand up, forefinger and thumb spread apart as wide as they’ll go. “Really.”

========

They all forget just how good Gavin is, sometimes.

That before he joined the crew he held his own in one of the most unforgiving cities in the world. Fucking thrived, and even though he pulls miracles out of his ass for them on a regular basis they never really think about how fucking incredible it is.

How Gavin could, if he wanted, just disappear on them.

Just walk out of the penthouse and vanish, even with all the resources the Fake AH Crew has at its disposal with their network of allies all over the country, contacts overseas.

“Jesus Christ,” Geoff mutters, watching the video feeds of Gavin doing just that. Pauses to toss off a jaunty salute before taking off in Geoff’s Reaper.

B Team found it in down by the Del Perro Pier, traffic tickets tucked under its windshield wipers.

“Geoff,” Jack says, because Geoff’s watched that same video on loop for almost half an hour, trying to glean the tiniest scrap as to what the hell Gavin thought he was doing from it.

Muttering to himself about getting Gavin microchipped, slanting looks at all of them like he wants to get them all ‘chipped, with this look in his eye like he means it.

Lindsay and Trevor have B Team on it, scouring the city for any sign of Gavin and they haven’t turned anything up, which says something about the hold Gavin has on their contacts out there. People who’d cover for Gavin even with the rest of the Fakes looking for him.

And then Michael’s phone buzzes in his pocket, has him stepping away from the others to answer it.

“There’s semi-good news, good news, bad news, and worse news,” Lindsay says, bright and cheerful, sounds of faint yelling in the background. “Which one do you want first?”

Michael looks over to where Geoff Jack has finally pulled Geoff away from that damn video. Geoff seeming to listen to him as he nods along to whatever Jack’s saying, and rubs a hand over his face.

“Surprise me,” he says.

========

So.

B Team’s finally gotten a break, Matt managing to hack Gavin’s phone and track him down to an abandoned factory. Managed to get them access to the it’s microphone function so the get to listen in while Gavin plays some kind of fucked up cat and mouse game with the goddamned Vagabond.

They pile into one of Geoff’s cars and head out to the factory with B Team sending backup and this horrible knowledge they won’t get there in time.

A feeling that’s compounded by the way Gavin will just not stop fucking taunting the guy, needling him about all the near-misses and shoddy work. How close he came and really, for someone with a reputation like his he’d expected better of him.

“Holy shit,” Jeremy says, wide-eyed look of disbelief on his face. “What the hell is he doing?”

Michael would really like to know the answer to that too, really. Would love to shake his explanations out of him in person, and then tell him in vivid detail what an absolute asshole he is because fucking Christ.

========

They pass a wreck a couple of blocks from the abandoned factory. Some soccer mom van that hit a pile of bricks in an empty lot. An old Buccaneer plowed into the back of it and Michael shoots Geoff a worried look when he makes this noise.

Small, angry, probably going to rip into Gavin for being the reason he's going prematurely gray like he wasn’t born an old man.

And maybe Michael muttered that last bit out loud because Jeremy snorts beside him and when Michael looks up, he sees Geoff watching him in the rearview.

“Uh...”

“You and me are going to have a little talk,” he says, little twist to his lips like maybe he’s not planning to kill Michael and claim it was an accident, oops, “after we deal with this mess.”

Fantastic.

========

The factory is a disaster. Picked over by scavengers in the days since it’s been shut down, broken glass and who knows what the hell else all over, and big as hell.

A lot of ground to cover and they split up into pairs. Geoff and Jack going left while Michael and Jeremy go right.

Make their way through long corridors checking offices and storage rooms and find nothing. Head through to the main floor and freeze when they hear noise. Yelling, words distorted by odd echoes and distance.

A look at Jeremy shows he’s ready for whatever they're going to run into, and they head towards the noise Find themselves in a large room, spot flashlights across the way. Geoff and Jack, all of them looking up at reverberating clang to see two figures on the rusty catwalk overhead, moonlight filtering down through broken skylights.

Too close to get a clean shot on the fucker backing Gavin into a corner, and Michael’s stomach turns as he looks for a way up to them. Finds a tangled, twisted pile of metal that looks to have been a ladder up to the catwalk long collapsed. Runs as fast as he can to the other side with the others on an intercept path, and the sickening realization they won’t make it in time.

Not when the Vagabond’s got a gun on Gavin, this dark, looming presence and Gavin just staring at him, hands empty.

Out of the corner of his eye Michael sees Geoff bring his own gun up, and when he looks back sees the look on his face. Torn between firing and hoping he hits the Vagabond instead of Gavin or not taking the shot at all.

“Geoff,” Jack says, like it’s killing him.

And Michael, he’s right there with Geoff, but Gavin and the Vagabond are too close together to risk it.

The only one of them who might make the shot is Jeremy, and he’s -

“I can’t,” he says, looking at Michael helplessly.

The Vagabond takes a step closer to Gavin, presses the barrel against his goddamn forehead and -

“Bang.”

It’s soft, quiet, but the word still reaches them.

The -

Wait.

Motherfucking wait.

Michael looks around at the others, sees the same stunned expressions on his face that he knows must be on his, and looks upward.

Sees the Vagabond lower his arm, and fucking laughing?

The asshole's laughing.

This weird little dorky, croaking laugh, as he tucks his gun away and holds a hand out to Gavin who takes it without hesitation. Lets the bastard pull him to his feet – still laughing – and then starts bitching.

At the Vagabond, who will just not stop laughing like this whole goddamned situation is all fun and games and what the actual fuck is going on right now?

“What the fuck?” Jeremy asks, looking lost and confused with this edge of anger creeping in.

Geoff looks like maybe he’s struggling with that himself, and Jack -

That’s. Wow.

Someone’s going to die, and odds are good it's going to be Gavin. Maybe the Vagabond, too, if the bastard's too busy laughing to notice.

Michael looks up, tracks the Vagabond and Gavin as they make their way down to the ground floor, Gavin still bitching the whole way. Something about the vehicles he’s lost in the last month or so thanks to the Vagabond? The way the crew’s been ‘like a bunch of overbearing mother hens’, and on and on and Michael is starting to feel a little anger of his own.

Especially when Gavin and the Vagabond pull up short when they realize they’re not alone. Share this little look that says better than anything these two assholes know each other pretty goddamn well.

“Uh,” Gavin says, and then lifts a hand to wave at them, awkward little thing. “Hey guys?”

Jack plucks the gun out of Geoff’s hands and everyone – even the Vagabond – moves out of the way when Geoff tackles him with a wordless yell.

========

There’s a lot of yelling after that.

A lot.

So much yelling.

All the yelling, and Michael's only responsible for part of it, which is an odd feeling for him.

Not unwelcome because Gavin sure as hell deserves it, but yeah.

Strange as hell.

========

B team shows up around the time the yelling winds down, let them take a car since Gain and the Vagabond managed to crash the ones they’d used to get to the factory.

Michael and Jeremy get tasked with making sure the two of them get back to the penthouse while Jack drives an alarmingly quiet Geoff back.

“I can explain,” Gavin says, the way he's been doing for a while now. “Michael, really.”

Michael catches Gavin’s eyes in the rearview mirror and says, clearly, succinctly, “Fuck off, asshole.”

Gavin opens his mouth like he’s going to keep pushing, but seems to think better of it, which.

Good.

Really.

========

It’s weird seeing the Vagabond in so familiar a setting as the penthouse’s living room.

Big scary guy with the dumb mask and this clear and present danger just. Chilling on the couch next to Gavin. Can of diet soda in front of him on the coffee table while everyone stares at him.

“So, uh,” Gavin says, scratching his head like he doesn’t know where to start even though he’s been telling them he can explain everything for a while now. “This. Um.”

He looks to the Vagabond for help, but the guy just shrugs.

“They’re your crew,” he says, this note to it like he’s getting a kick out of Gavin’s predicament.

Gavin glares at the Vagabond and sighs.

“In my defense,” he says, odd little inflection to those words, “I didn't realize it was him at first?”

That.

What.

Everyone’s staring at Gavin now, even the Vagabond.

“He does this thing,” Gavin continues, waving a hand at the Vagabond in the room. “Where he tries to kill me? It sounds a bit strange when you say it out loud, but, well. There you go.”

Michael has no words for this. None. Zip. Zilch.

“But he’s been out of town for a while, so I thought it was someone else trying to kill me.”

This is...not getting any better?

Gavin sounds so – he sounds like someone being out to kill him is this mild inconvenience that just happens sometimes Some small annoyance thrown his way, not someone out to fucking kill him.

“Okay, we’ll get back to that part later,” Jeremy says, pushing the conversation forward because that – yeah. That’s going to need some time to deal with. “What the hell do you mean the Vagabond trying to kill you is a ‘thing’? Are you talking like a hobby or what? Help us out here, Gav.”

“It’s just like it sounds like, isn’t it?” Gavin asks, looking a little confused himself that they don’t seem to be grasping such a simple concept. “The man’s a damn lunatic.”

Gavin tries to sound annoyed and put out, because you know, small annoyance ad all, but he just ends up sounding fond, and a look at the Vagabond shows the guy’s clearly amused by this whole situation, because of course he is.

Jeremy and the others keep asking questions. And it becomes clear that the reason Gavin has such a random pool of knowledge and skills and abilities is thanks to the weirdo in the mask trying to kill Gavin all the damn time.

That Gavin was forced to learn them if he wanted to survive and it’s this completely messed up situation that has Michael feeling quietly horrified. And a little like certain things make a hell of a lot more sense when it comes to Gavin now, all these little quirks of his that make sense in hindsight.

Still.

Fucking weird, both of them.

========

The Vagabond disappears a little while after that, and Michael, for one, is relieved because the guy’s goddamn weird.

Sure, Gavin trusts him, doesn’t seem overly concerned at the attempts on his life from the guy, but.

Fucking weird</i>.

His absence gives the crew time to accept that maybe the two of them know what the hell they’re doing if Gavin is somehow – miraculously – still alive.

And then a few months later Gavin comes in with some excuse about a ruptured gas line making him late.

There’s this. This pause, everyone sharing a look.

“Is this Vagabond related or something else?” Geoff asks, oh so careful because he’s a little touchy about the whole mess still, for understandable reasons.

Gavin smiles, this odd little thing as he nods.

“It’s got his name all over it,” he says, like that’s something to be happy about.

They stay out of this time around, let Gavin deal with the accidents and close calls on his own, although they make sure to ask him each time if it’s the Vagabond or some other fucker out to kill him, just to be sure.

And Gavin, alright. Gavin seems to realize that maybe it’s a stressful thing, this, watching him fend off attempts on his life on a near daily basis and not step in. He’s careful to keep them in the loop this time around. Checks in to let them know he’s fine, no need to worry.

(So goddamned weird.)

========

The cycle repeats every few months until Michael and the others – well, they don’t quite get used to it so much as they learn to work around it.

Anticipate it, and Lindsay and Trevor have been using it as a training exercise for members new to the B Team, a way to test their own skills and abilities in a relatively safe environment. Let them practice surveillance and the like while the Vagabond stalks Gavin like a twisted version of the ‘The Most Dangerous Game’.

The Vagabond takes to sticking around a little longer between each cycle. Coming to the penthouse with Gavin and sitting in on multiplayer death matches (where surprise, surprise, he mainly focuses on killing Gavin). Chatting with Jack about cars and bikes and becoming his new favorite target of Jack’s special brand of assholery to everyone’s delight.

Bonding with Jeremy over weapons and how best to apply them for maximum carnage. Which is probably a thing they’re going to need to keep an eye on right the fuck there, because thought of letting the two of them loose is definitely alarming.

There’s this bit of tension between him and Michael because the whole part where he occasionally tries to kill Gavin and all. But really, the guy’s not all bad.

Dark sense of humor and this assholishness to him, but Gavin seems happier when he’s around. Gets all smiley and shit, like he'd break into some mushy as hell song if he was in some shitty musical.

So really, it’s not that big of a surprise when Geoff comes out of a meeting he had with the goddamned Vagabond looking like his world’s been flipped upside down.

Drops down on the couch next to Michael and stares at the television where Jeremy’s been beating the shit out of Michael’s character for the last fifteen minutes.

“Geoff?”

Geoff waves a hand in the general area of somewhere and fails to make words happen, so Michael pauses the game, ignoring Jeremy’s noise of protest.

“Geoff.”

After a moment Geoff turns to look at Michel, eyes flicking to Jeremy for a second before he looks back at Michael.

Says, like someone’s come in and told him the world is, in fact, flat, or that the moon really is made out of green cheese:

“They’re married.”

Michael shares a look with Jeremy.

“Who?” he asks, in case they’re not on the same page here.

Geoff flails some more.

“Gavin and the Vagabond, they’re fucking married.”

Okay, well. Not that much of a surprise with the way they act around one another when the whole attempted murder thing isn’t happening.

“Someone hired him to kill Gavin years ago, and now they're married.”

That's -

Okay, that's not the usual progression of events, but given they're talking about Gavin, it doesn’t seem all that far fetched. (Fucker has a habit of getting the most unlikely people at his back.)

No doubt there’s a story to it, though, one that Michael isn’t sure he wants to hear because everything about the relationship those two have is so goddamned bizarre. Shit that shouldn’t make any sense at all, but when you factor them into it, somehow does.

“I invited the Vagabond into the crew and he accepted,” Geoff adds belatedly, which, again, not a huge surprise given how much time the guy’s been spending at the penthouse, but is nice to know.

Geoff looks a little broken still, which is just another reason for Michael not to ask, really. So long as the Vagabond doesn’t actually kill Gavin, he’s good not knowing.

“Want to play?” Michael asks, holding a controller out to Geoff.

It’s not exactly the kind of therapy Geoff needs after learning a little bit more about Gavin and the Vagabond, but it’s a start.

Find the Strand

#freewoood #ragehappy #vagrant fic #fahc #idek anymore #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#Woven Threads

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blatherkatt · 6 years

Text

Title: The Calm Is Terrifying When The Storm Is All You Know [Homestuck]

Chapter 33: Declarations

Summary: There were two kinds of trolls who went to Earth: rich shitheads with too much money and free time, and desperate assholes who couldn’t survive on Alternia, even with the best efforts of the young Condesce. Karkat hated the planet almost immediately, but with his home planet too dangerous for mutants, he really didn’t have any choice but to hide out on this weird little diurnal planet. At least he’d be safe. Or so he thought, right before blundering his way into an accidental friendship with the son of an anti-troll terrorist.

Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Implied/Mentioned abuse, mentions of terrorism, death mention, injury mention, depiction of an emotional breakdown, trauma aftermath; Illustrated; Pesterlog

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

— carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling tipsyGnostalgic [TG] —

CG: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

— tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is an idle chum! —

CG: FUCK YOU, I CAN SEE THAT FOR MYSELF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT PROGRAM. I’M GONNA FUCKING YELL ANYWAY.

CG: I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO PICK ME UP AT NOON. IT’S LIKE, 1:30 AND YOU STILL AREN’T HERE, WHAT GIVES?

CG: IF YOU GOT KIDNAPPED, TOO, I SWEAR TO FUCK I’M PERSONALLY PUTTING THIS ENTIRE GODDAMN FAMILY UNDER PERMANENT WATCH.

CG: I’M NOT ABOVE SITTING ON YOU ASSHOLES IF THATS WHAT IT TAKES.

TG: okay first off i know youre like a literal alien but heres a protip for ya:

TG: general human earth etiquette is to not text people who you know are probably driving?

TG: its like a whole thing

CG: WHY

TG: idk probs because texting while driving’s a great way to fucking crash lol

TG: anyway!!

TG: yeah im real sorry about that mom fucking rang me up like

TG: hi im at the airport come get me!

TG: out of fucking nowhere because everything has to be a fucking hassle with this woman

TG: so i had to go get her

CG: WHY THE FUCK WAS SHE AT THE AIRPORT?

TG: because fuck me is why

TG: and THEN shes like

TG: ooooh i gotta do some mysterious whatthefuckever errand at some mall out in the middle of nowhere

TG: so now im sitting in the parking lot waiting for her to get back which might be a while because her bad leg’s been acting up lately

TG: and thats why im not there yet >:(

CG: WAIT. WAIT, HOLD ON, I’M CONFUSED.

CG: BY “MOM” ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT RACHEL? I DIDN’T EVEN THINK SHE HAD A BAD LEG.

TG: nonono

TG: ray is like. dirk and dave and rose’s mom

TG: i dont call her mom i just call her aunt ray cuz shes not my mom yknow

TG: my mom is aunt ray’s sister

TG: aunt ramona? they talk about her?

CG: OOOOOOH. YEAH.

CG: THE WOMAN WHO WRITES THOSE SHITTY SUPERNATURAL ROMANCE BOOKS KANAYA LOVES.

TG: hahaha yeah her trashy shit is great

CG: SHE’S HERE?

TG: apparently!!!!!!!!

CG: I’M SENSING SOME BITTERNESS.

TG: ugh its fine she just always does shit like this

TG: womans always gotta make a fuckin entrance even if that means not telling anyone shes coming

TG: and its goddamn annoying as shit!!

TG: but its fine i get it shes here to help out and we are kinda all hands on deck

TG: speaking of tho i heard something about kanaya not coming along after all?

CG: NOT YET, NO.

CG: SHE’S BEEN TALKING TO ROSE, AND APPARENTLY DAVE’S BEEN PRETTY UNEASY WITH THE NUMBER OF NEW FACES AT THE HIVE.

CG: HOUSE. WHATEVER.

CG: TEREZI’S PROTECTION DETAIL HAS HIM KIND OF ON EDGE, I GUESS?

CG: SHE’S GONNA COME AROUND LATER PROBABLY. AND MIGHT END UP STAYING WITH PORRIM AND KEEP IT TO VISITS, AT LEAST UNTIL THINGS SETTLE DOWN A BIT.

CG: SO IT’S JUST ME FOR NOW.

TG: ooooh yeah geez i bet

TG: poor dave :( :( :(

TG: i gotta tell you and mom some uh. serious shit about him when i pick you both up

TG: id pass it on here but its probs better if i just tell you face to face?

CG: OH, WONDERFUL!

CG: MORE NO DOUBT HORRIFIC NEWS REGARDING DAVE.

CG: I CAN’T WAIT. THIS PANIC ATTACK’S GONNA BE ONE FOR THE RECORD BOOKS, I CAN JUST FEEL IT!!!

TG: :(

TG: tl;dr hes not in great shape but hes getting better but theres some stuff we gotta go over

TG: jfc mom what the fuck are you doing its been ages

CG: SO WAIT. SHE JUST HAD YOU DRIVE HER OUT SOMEWHERE AND WALKED OFF ALONE?

TG: yeah

TG: woman can take care of herself just fine so like im not worried??

TG: but still, like. cmon woman!!! whatever it is hurry up a little

TG: it cant be that important we got places to be

In terms of location, it was almost an outlet mall; somewhat detached from the nearest city and surrounded by forest. It was mostly all one building, positioned in a dip in the ground next to a clear stream, and these features had helped make it a serviceable fortress during the invasion, although Derek had regularly complained that he’d have preferred a site that held the high ground. Still, they’d made do; the roof was high enough that one could see for quite some distance, the stream offered fresh water, the trees provided decent enough cover during skirmishes, and the walls were thick enough to turn away most weather and weapons. It hadn’t been much, but it had served well enough as home for six years for around threescore ragtag survivors-turned-fighters.

Out in the surrounding forest, those who hadn’t survived that conflict still lay buried in pitiful graves marked only with a stone or a chunk of wood. There hadn’t been time to properly put anyone to rest; it had been risky enough for two or three people to slip out during a stretch of quiet with a shovel and a body. They simply hadn’t been able to afford to have any sort of formal burial, not with the threat of an attack constantly looming.

Even so, even so…

Derek had picked a spot he would remember.

In life, the oak tree would have been the kind people would have thought of as a monarch, with branches spread wide and gnarled wood ancient and strong, holding children in its branches as easily as if they were made of nothing; but the tree had already been dead by the time the invasion started, a great, ancient, dried-out husk. Even so, decades later, it still stood, its branches reaching toward the sky, the other trees forming a circle around it as though too respectful to come too close. Mushrooms and trails of greenery crept about a quarter of the way up the ancient trunk.

At its roots, a rotting wooden spar stuck up out of the ground. This, too, had been reclaimed by flowers, grasses and mushrooms, decorating the splintered and decayed timber with dark summer greens and pale white-and-lavender blooms.

Derek Strider, down on one knee with his sheathed sword held in his right hand, sighed. Of course, the trouble with having to bury the dead so hastily meant that there’d been no one to look over the graves, so it was to be expected that it be in such disrepair, but even so, seeing this one choked out by the invading flora was…

It wasn’t right.

Overhead, the ancient branches rustled slightly, and the raucous calling of a bird broke the silence. Derek narrowed his eyes and ignored it, tried to write the disrespectful noise out of the scene.

The crow seemed to have other ideas. The bird lighted down on the wooden grave marker, red eyes fixed on Derek’s face. It flapped its wings a few times, cawing incessantly. Derek scowled, unsheathed his sword, and struck —

The blade passed through the bird with no resistance whatsoever. The creature’s body split in two, bloodlessly, as though Derek had cut through smoke — it even looked like smoke, like a cloud cut in two by a passing jet. As Derek looked on, uncomprehending and with a growing sense of dread, the bird’s body seemed to pull itself back together, a video played in reverse, and the bird’s accusatory squawks started up again as though nothing had happened.

Derek was on his feet in an instance, stepping away from the beast, and as he did, he happened to look up…

Perched on nearly every branch of the old tree were ravens. Unlike the crow, they were all silent, and aside from the occasional shifting of a foot or tilting of a head, motionless. Scores of staring animal eyes bored into him.

Derek had never been a superstitious man, but nor was he the sort of fool to ignore the truth his own eyes showed him. He’d spent six years fighting alongside a witch, and seen enough to learn that some things really couldn’t be explained away as coincidence.

Had it been anyone else, he would have responded to the sound of footsteps approaching this site with a furious attack; even Ben knew better than to disturb him here. But when he whirled to face the intruder, he froze.

She’d aged more since he’d last seen her than he would have expected. Hints of silver streaked her hair, and she leaned heavily on her gnarled black cane. A faint breeze stirred the black fabric of her dress, playing with the light shawl laying across her shoulders. The crow had fallen silent.

“Put that thing away before you take someone’s eye out,” said Ramona, nodding nonchalantly at Derek’s sword.

Derek narrowed his eyes, and did not respond aloud, instead choosing to slowly and deliberately slide the sword back into its sheathe. Only after his left hand had returned to his side did Ramona nod and continue.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now we can talk things over like reasonable adults. Mind you, I ought to do the world a favor and wipe you out right now,” and Derek took a slow, deep breath at that, as she continued, “But I’d prefer not to desecrate your brother’s grave by staining it with your blood. I respect him far too much for that. You, however, have somehow managed to exceed all of my worst expectations to a nearly unfathomable degree, as of late. I’ve held off on this confrontation out of respect for the past, but I can see now that this was a mistake.”

Derek shifted. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect our damn planet, Ramona,” he started, but was cut off.

“Really?” she said, “Well, then. I’m not about to attempt to ask you to cease killing trolls, as we both know that would be pointless, but I would very much like to know how exactly burning your own son alive plays into your grand battle strategy?”

“He…he turned on us,” Derek said, through gritted teeth, “He forced my hand, left me no choice!”

“He is a child!” Ramona snapped. “And you, of all people, should know better! If you really must follow this path of self-destruction to its end, fine, but he should never have been involved!”

“I—”

“And in any case, you had a perfectly good sword on hand, I’m sure. If young Dave really did need to die, you could have executed him with minimal pain, but no, you wanted him to hurt, to know he was dying and to fear you and suffer as he passed. How do you justify that, Derek? How does anyone, especially a child, deserve anything of the sort?”

The eyes of the ravens and that damned crow still drilled into him. He could feel the stares on his back, but kept his eyes locked on Ramona’s, refusing to back down.

He wasn’t going to take back what he’d done. There’d be no guilt, he’d done nothing wrong except overreact a bit. It was justified. That…that boy wasn’t Dave. Ramona was using the name like a blade, but she’d not win that way. He didn’t deserve the fucking name, didn’t deserve to have anything to do with Dave, he never would have let Rachel name the kid that if he’d known he was going to grow up to be such a pathetic, useless little coward.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he said.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” said Ramona, folding her hands over the top of her cane. “I’ve a fairly good idea, in any case.” She sighed. “The war is over, Derek. The time to put aside this violence and misery is long since behind us. Our children do not deserve to grow up as we did.”

“The trolls are still here,” Derek spat.

There was a long silence. Ramona sighed again.

“Fine, then,” she said, “So be it. Do as you will. Chase violence as long as you like. But if you come near my family again, I will consider it an act of war.”

She turned, and he was tempted to take the bait, to try attacking her while her back was turned, but he held still. It was infuriating, knowing what a pointed insult turning her back on him was, knowing that she knew he would not risk attacking her—but she was right. She was much too dangerous.

“Come along, little one,” she said, abruptly. The crow rose off the grave and flew to land on top of Ramona’s cane. If Derek had cared to pay any attention, he might have noticed the crow look back at him with something like regret in its eyes, but Derek was already far too lost in his own thoughts.

As one bird, the ravens took wing, dispersing in all directions, leaving him alone again.

The trouble with trying to go from Alternian to English was a multifaceted one, to be sure, but so far the most obnoxious piece of it that Karkat could see was the tendency of guides on how to speak English to simply use the closest Alternian equivalent as an English word’s translation. More and more, the two languages were notably extremely different, and while he could speak English well enough that he’d never had any serious problems, there were any number of words that he kept tripping over as a result of a translation being extremely unclear and culturally misleading.

Witches, for instance, were clearly something very different on Earth. The Alternian word that was translated to English as “witch” was, like most Alternian words, a series of noises in the ‘click and growl’ family that most humans lacked the anatomy to create, and generally refered to certain lowblood prophets and healers in Alternian folklore. They were those who lived away from society and who, through some lucky genetics and convenient psychic powers, were able to fend of drones and effectively disappear from the world at large’s knowledge. They kept to themselves, sought to harm no one who didn’t attack them first, offered shelter to the weak and the hunted, and as such were always portrayed as utterly despicable beings in fiction, as no writer with any sense of self-preservation had dared to portray such reckless treachery under the rule of the last Condesce. There might have been some changes to the lore under the new one’s rule, but things like that changed slow.

In any case, they certainly weren’t anything like the old woman in a shawl who was sitting next to Roxy in the front of her car.

She was dressed all in black, for one thing. Alternian witches didn’t tend to wear much black. Some Alternian witches didn’t tend to wear all that much clothing at all, really. Most seemed to belong to ancient religions that weren’t particularly fond of shirts.

Ramona was definitely magic as shit, though, Rachel’d been right about that much. Was that all a witch was on Earth, just someone with magic? Fuck, if that were the case, then probably like at least a third of all trolls were witches by Earth’s standards. Then again, maybe magic was another poorly translated word? English didn’t seem to have a word to separate “things that we (read: trolls) know exist, like psychic powers and psiionics and ghosts and chucklevoodoos,” and “things that are super fake and don’t actually happen ever and make no sense.”

Whatever. In any case, Ramona didn’t look at all like Karkat had expected, and when he climbed into the back of the car, she didn’t react to his presence with anything stronger than an amiable nod. She seemed to have her mind on other things, and was largely silent at first.

Roxy wasn’t; she immediately piped up happily as Karkat swung open the door with a “Hey, man! Sorry about taking so long! Can you, uh, do me a favor and check on Jaspers? He’s in the carrier behind Mom, Rose asked me to pick him up while she and Aunt Ray were gone. He’s been missing them a lot, all staring out the window and kneading his blanket and shit, and he’s not a huge fan of car rides.”

“He’s asleep,” Karkat said after glancing into the little crate.

“Awesome. Alright, buckle up and we’ll get this damn show on the road.”

“On the road again, just can’t wait to get on—”

Karkat tilted his head as the car’s radio abruptly changed from quietly playing some human pop song over to something much louder and completely different. Ramona stifled a snort as Roxy stabbed a button, switching the radio back to the previous channel.

“No, thank you,” she said, glaring. “Christ, the fuck is with this thing today, I swear to god.”

“I suppose it may simply be getting into the spirit of things,” said Ramona with a smile. As the car pulled away from the curb, she turned back a bit to face Karkat. “It’s Karkat, isn’t it? Rachel’s been sending me any number of emails with updates, and from the sound of things, you’ve been rather instrumental in bringing young Dave back into the fold, so to speak.”

“…Into the what?”

“It’s a figure of speech, meaning in this case that you’ve helped us return him home as well as helping him to adjust to being there,” she said. “For which you have all of our heartfelt thanks. Ours is perhaps not the most functional of families, but it is ours, and as I’m sure you’ve seen firsthand, ripping away a piece of it the way Derek did has had some very painful consequences for all involved. We owe you a great deal.”

“Yeah, man!” Roxy said. “And from what Rose has been telling me, you were kind of a big part of why he finally spilled what he knows. Which, he did bee-tee-dubs, which means he’s off house arrest finally, so that’s good—”

“—And a partridge in a pear tree,” the radio crackled.

“What the fuck? It’s August,” Roxy scowled. She turned the radio off altogether as Ramona glanced hurriedly out the window.

“Speaking of Dave,” Karkat said, hopefully before anyone got distracted again, “Roxy, you mentioned that there was something that you needed to say face to face?”

“Right, shoot, yeah,” said Roxy. The car turned onto the long road that led eventually to the Lalonde hive. “Okay, so, like. There’s definitely some shit you should know before we get there, but I wanna preface it all real clearly by saying that Dave’s okay, y’know? He’s got a lot of healing to do, but the doctors said that as long as he’s looked after and we change bandages and shit and he gets plenty of rest, he’s definitely not in any danger anymore. He’s…weak, but he’s not like gonna keel over at any moment, okay?”

“Not actually making me feel any better, Roxy!” said Karkat. Oh, boy, with a preface like that…

“Well, fuck, I tried, I guess. Uh. So, Dave did get hurt…pretty bad, and there were some other complications—oh, for fuck’s sake!!”

“Watch me, watch me, hey, watch me, watch me!” The radio was louder than ever. Ramona’s hand flew up, poorly hiding a grin.

Karkat leaned around Roxy’s seat to glare at her.

“What the fuck, Roxy,” said Karkat.

“I’m not doing this!” Roxy said, waving her hand wildly. “I swear to fuck, I wouldn’t! I really do need to pass on some shit about poor Dave, and the radio’s never done this before? It’s been acting up since a little before we picked you up, keeps changing on its own and shit, augh!”

She fought with the controls, but the song stopped only for a moment before getting even louder.

“Why the fuck do you humans even have this obnoxious song?! Who listens to this?? It’s literally just some squawking wiggler screeching for its lusus’s attention!”

“I mean, I kinda love it for that honestly, it’s terrible and stupid and wonderful, but like, come the fuck on??? What’s with this thing?! Now is not the time!”

“Ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass—“

“GOD, that’s even worse!!” Roxy yelled, slamming her fist down on the dashboard. “Fucking stop!!”

“That’s enough for now,” Ramona said, almost murmuring it.

The radio turned off. Karkat and Roxy both turned a suspicious eye on Ramona, and with equal simultaneity, decided to drop it for now.

“Anyway,” Roxy said slowly, “What I was trying to say is, um…Karkat, do you know what it means for someone to ‘flatline?’ Because, um. Dave kinda did, for like, a minute and a half.”

Karkat shook his head, realized Roxy probably couldn’t see him with her eyes on the road, and said, “Uh, I have no idea what that word means, no.”

“Well, um…”

“It refers to a heart monitor indicating that the heart has ceased beating,” Ramona said. “The machine indicates activity with a line which shows peaks and valleys, and it goes flat when that activity has stopped, thus, ‘flatline’. The organ we call a heart serves an equivalent function to what trolls call a ‘blood pusher’ or a ‘pump biscuit.’”

Karkat felt for a moment like his own pump biscuit had stopped.

“Shit, Mom, when did you get so good at translating to trolls?” Roxy murmured.

Ramona shrugged. “I’ve made efforts to reach out,” she said. “The war ended, after all, and since we’re allies now, it doesn’t hurt to learn about each others’ cultures.”

“His fucking—What?!” Karkat screeched, unable to keep the harsh buzzing whine out of his voice. God, that was such a moirail noise, and any other time he’d have yelled at himself for not keeping it under control, but not now, not when… “His fucking blood pusher stopped and I’m supposed to be calm!?!”

“They got it moving again!” Roxy said. “He’s okay now, the doctors said it was going strong! It was, um, mostly just exhaustion, they think? Like, the burn wounds could’ve killed him on their own, sure, but they got on those quick enough that if he’d been healthy to begin with he probably wouldn’t have been so bad off? But between ten years of, you know…and just, apparently he hasn’t been eating enough even while he’s been back with us? And Ray’s gonna get on his ass about that, but, just—look, the thing is, Dirk doesn’t know about this yet, and Aunt Ray’s asked that we try to keep it that way, and I don’t really get why but I think she has her reasons?”

Karkat was definitely hyperventilating, oh fuck, oh fuck—Ramona’s hand reached back to touch his own, snapping him out of it.

“It’s fine to be worried,” she said, gentle. “I promise you, though, it is as Roxy says: he’ll be fine given time to recover and the safety with which to do so. He’ll be alive when we get there.” She sat back in her chair, turning towards the road again. “As for Dirk, I suspect Rachel is waiting for things to settle down before breaking it to him gently. He is, for better or worse, very like his father, and Derek handled his brother’s death poorly, in large part because at the time we could not afford to mourn. Rachel probably wants to make sure that Dirk does not feel he has to force himself to be strong when she tells him.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Roxy muttered. “Anyway, the main thing about that is that he’s not got a lot of energy right now, so don’t…take it personally if he just falls asleep on you sometimes? Especially with the painkillers he’s on, apparently that’s a side effect, too. He can walk short distances, but he gets wobbly quick and needs help sometimes, so there’s that too.”

“Fuck,” said Karkat, softly.

The next ten minutes of the ride were carried out in tense silence. This was broken by the radio once again bursting back on and blasting the ass song again, at which point Roxy threatened to pull over and smash the fucking thing to smithereens.

By the time they actually got to the fucking house, Karkat felt like his soul was going to vibrate right out of his fucking body with impatience. They had yet another delay in the form of Terezi’s protection detail—Terezi herself wasn’t there, but some officers were, and they insisted on knowing about any weapons the three of them had as well as names, and went in to check with the family while making them all wait outside by the car. Karkat already had his fucking bag in hand, he was ready to go, but no, they had to go through this tedious procedure! Sure, it was probably a smart move, and when he was feeling a little more sensible he’d be more okay with it as it was the sort of thing that probably would make them all feel a bit safer (especially poor fucking Dave), but right now the were a pain in the ass and he was going to fucking explode!!! If they didn’t!!! Let him get in the fucking hive!!!!!

Rose stepped out as they were still talking to the police, and for the first time in his life Karkat was unspeakably happy to see her. She quickly confirmed to the police that all three of them were in fact expected and trusted by this household, and then gently let Jaspers out of his carrier. The cat immediately yowled and threw himself into her arms, kneading at her shoulders and rubbing his face against hers, and it all would have been super cute if Karkat didn’t have his mind on other fucking things.

“Come on in,” Rose said, nodding towards the door. “Dirk’s on the couch and Dave’s in Mom’s room, as neither of them can handle stairs right now and Dave needs his bandages changed at least twice a day. Karkat, do you—”

She was talking to air. He was already in the fucking door.

And then had to face the fact that he’d never actually been to Rachel’s room. Fuck. Rachel was coming up the hall, though, and a slightly bewildered young human (wait, fuck, that was Dirk, what happened to his hair? It looked so weird hanging down like that instead of spiked up) was sitting on the couch with an Earth husktop on his lap. Roxy pushed in the door with Ramona right behind her, dropped a heavy wheeled bag right next to the door, and immediately launched herself at Dirk, who gave a startled yelp as she did so.

Rachel rested a hand on Karkat’s shoulder as she passed him, rushing up toward Ramona throwing her arms around her shoulders. The two shared a long hug, and Rachel kissed Ramona’s cheek.

“God, I’m so glad you’re here,” Karkat heard Rachel murmur, before Rose tapped his shoulder.

“I was asking if you knew where Mom’s room is,” Rose said.

“Uh.”

“It’s down the hall to the observatory, but you take a left before you get to it. Make sure to make plenty of noise on the way over, Dave gets really jumpy when he’s the only person in that room. He can’t block the door since we need to be able to come in and out, and it’s got him a bit on edge.”

Karkat nodded, unable to get any words out past the lump in his throat. He more or less just dropped his bag on the ground and pushed past, zooming around toward the room indicated. Dave looked half-asleep when Karkat pushed the door open, and waved as he sat up with some effort.

God, the photo Rose had taken didn’t do justice to how fucking bad he looked. There were bruises across his face and neck turned a weird greenish-gray but still dark against his skin, and bandages everywhere, his hair was a mess (although that might have just been from sleeping). He was in some oversized shirt with an Earth hoofbeast on the front that was probably Dirk’s judging by the size, and Karkat had no idea why Dave had it on but right now he didn’t care.

“Hey, man, uh. Shit’s been crazy, huh?” Dave said with an awkward grin. He didn’t have his shades on either, which made sense if he’d been sleeping, except they weren’t on the bedside table (which did instead contain a nearly empty glass of water, several bottles of pills and salves, and a first aid kit from which clean cloth bandages overflowed).

Two weeks of emotion boiled over all at once. Wordless, Karkat stomped across the room and grabbed Dave’s stupid fucking shirt in both hands and tugged him close.

“It was three days, Dave,” Karkat hissed.

“Wha—?”

“Three days! And you got yourself fucking kidnapped by a terrorist on day goddamn two!! What the fuck, Dave?!” His voice was threatening to abandon him, but Karkat forced it right back into place by sheer willpower. This tangent would not be fucking stopped, hell no. “I take my eyes off of you for two days, and you get yourself into shit again! What the fuck!!! Do you have any idea how-how fucking agonizing it’s been waiting for news?! And you’re just sitting there like ‘Oh, hey! What’s up?’ What’s up is my foot up your waste chute, you hopeless fucking—!” Okay, nope, his voice was leaving after all, actually. He felt tears roll down his face, and he should’ve been more worried about that, but Dave already knew about his blood color and he was the only troll in the house right now, so, fuck it, fuck it all! Helpless, he tugged Dave closer again, letting his face press against that stupid shirt, claws still twisted into the fabric as he sobbed.

“Holy shit,” Dave muttered.

“I was so fucking scared,” Karkat gasped. This was pathetic, they weren’t remotely a couple, Karkat had no right to be this worked up and he knew it, but…Dave wasn’t exactly pushing him away, either, was he?

“I’m sorry, man, I didn’t even…It wasn’t planned this time, it just sorta happened, and Dirk got hurt, and I…”

“I’m not actually angry at you, despite having so much right to be that legislacerators everywhere have preemptively declared me innocent. I’m just fucking screaming for the sake of it, dumbass.”

“Oh.”

The awkward pause that followed was filled with only the sound of Karkat’s weeping, which, fuck, he was probably too fucking embarrassed to tell him off. Except…Dave’s hand lifted up to rest gently against Karkat’s back, so, maybe he didn’t mind that much? Was that wishful thinking?

“Sorry for this,” he said, just in case, as he pulled away a bit. “It’s really fucking embarrassing, I know, I just…”

“It’s cool, man,” said Dave. Then, with a wink, he said, “I know you got your massive Strider homocrush, it’s only natural—”

“Dave, I swear to fuck, injured or not, I will pummel you into dust with a fucking pillow, don’t test me!” Karkat snapped.

Dave snorted. “Hey, man, it’s fine, everyone’s allowed to be a lil gay sometimes with their friends, it’s only natural.”

“I’ll ‘natural’ you!! Motherfucker, I spent the two weeks worrying about your wellbeing and you come at me with more of this bullshit!!”

Dave cackled with laughter. Karkat rolled his eyes and sniffled. He feigned annoyance as best he could, but, God, it was such a relief to hear Dave laugh. Rubbing a sweater sleeve furiously across his eyes, Karkat pulled back, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “Okay, but seriously, what’s with the shirt?” he asked, gesturing at the floating head of the hoofbeast. It wasn’t even a joke or a drawing. It was just…a straight photo of a hoofbeast’s face, with no text or explanation of any sort. What the fuck??

Dave glanced down, and snickered. “Oh, shit. Uh, yeah, we needed something that’s easy to get me in and out of, since the bandages on this fuckin’ burn need to be changed like, a lot, not to mention the gross-ass cream they have us slathering all over it on the regular. We tried a button down, but the buttons were kinda chafing, and like…who the fuck wants to ruin a fancy shirt with gross burn juices, right? And Dirk’s shit is more comfortable, and this one’s big enough that it’s real easy to take off even if I’m high on the damn painkillers.”

Karkat winced slightly, but decided not to comment. The scream from the video echoed somewhere in his think pan. “Where’re your shades?”

“Bro fuckin’ stepped on them or something, man, I dunno. They fell off at some point, and they were already cracked before all that, and Terezi just found pieces. Which fucking sucks, I mean God dammit, those were a gift from John. Shit sucks.”

“John?” Karkat tipped his head.

“Yeah, he’s like, an old friend of mine. Have I not mentioned him to you? Whatever, he, uh.” Dave scratched at the side of his head. “He was an online friend from before Bro started doing the, uh, raid shit, and I kept talking to him and another friend, Jade, for a while afterwards even though I wasn’t supposed to?”

“Jade’s name I remember,” Karkat said.

“Haha, yeah, yeah cuz I told you about…anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I guess since Dirk’s college is starting up again soon, not that he’s going for the first couple weeks with his leg and a fucking concussion, but, it’s starting up, and John’s sister goes there too, and he’s gonna come with so we’ll be able to hang out for a bit? Which is fuckin’ rad, I haven’t even talked to the guy in three years and we’re finally meeting in person.”

“You want him to be here? While you’re this badly injured?” Karkat yelped.

Dave blinked at him like he’d just grown a secondary head.

“I mean, yeah?” Dave said. “Like, yeah, I’m not in great shape and I guess it’ll be a lil weird for him to see me like this, but I’ve missed him.” Before Karkat could press the question further, though, Dave yawned. “Ugh, fuck, I wanna keep talking, but I’m…halfway to falling asleep, shit.”

“Oh,” said Karkat. He got up, ready to leave. He wanted to stay, wanted to curl himself around Dave’s obnoxiously lanky frame as best he could and protect this fragile idiot human from the entire universe, but…it wasn’t his place, was it? No.

“You leaving?” said Dave, rubbing at his unbruised eye.

“You said you wanna sleep,” Karkat said.

“Right. Uh. Could you, like…fill this back up for me, then, I guess?” Dave said.

“…Sure,” said Karkat.

He was…still confused, but Dave was tired, so he didn’t press. But he couldn’t wrap his head around wanting a friend around while he was so injured—well, he’d wanted Karkat around, hadn’t he? He’d seemed happy to see him, aside from the, uh, yelling. Still, it didn’t make sense! Every troll knew as a small child that the only people you could trust when you were injured were your lusus, your moirail, and maybe your matesprit! Anyone else might take advantage of the weakness and kill you, that was just basic logic! But Dave didn’t even seem to be thinking about it.

And…and yet, come to think of it, Roxy’d been awfully forthright about how bad Dave’s condition was. Hell, she’d heard it from Rose, who seemed like the one most likely to know not to spread that weakness, but the humans were all sharing it and passing it around. It wasn’t just that they didn’t seem to care who knew that Dave and Dirk were injured, it was like they wanted people to know.

And as he filled up the glass of water in the kitchen, he watched as Roxy and Dirk talked on the couch, as Dirk told her that he’d passed on the news of their condition to Jane already, that Rose had told her and Dave’s friends, and it just kept going. Everyone had to be up to date on the fact that both brothers were injured and vulnerable, and yet…

“I hope the flight wasn’t too long,” Rachel was saying to Ramona.

“Nothing would be too long right now,” she said in turn, blowing gently on a cup of tea that Rachel had just poured her. “Times like these, we all need to do our part. I know I might not be able to do much, mind you. My leg’s been acting up something fierce, as of late, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

Something clicked. All at once, the curtains pulled back and Karkat saw the whole picture—saw maybe not what it always was, and certainly not what the Lalondes achieved on any sort of regular basis, but what it was supposed to be, how it was meant to work.

On Alternia, everyone lived in constant competition. Trolls had to be strong as close to all the time as they possibly could, or at the very least find a moirail who could, because otherwise their society wouldn’t particularly care much if they died. That just meant they didn’t deserve to be a part of the gene pool or to contribute to society. If they were injured badly and left vulnerable, it was seen as normal for others to take advantage of that weakness and exert power or outright kill a rival. It was how they survived so long, or so the cultural narrative had so long stated: by this competition, the strongest survive. Nevermind that this survival was built on the corpses of uncountable trolls who didn’t make the cut, it Worked.

As a result, trolls had been bewildered just as Karkat had by how humans as a species managed to be so frail and yet so reckless and to still survive, especially when they didn’t exactly have the kind of numbers that trolls did. Humans lacked the numbers to be expendable, lacked the strength and toughness that kept Trolls alive, and yet they looked Death in the eye and pointed and laughed, and pushed themselves to extremes for no purpose other than to have some warped idea of fun. It was a question that had lingered around his consciousness for ages; how the fuck do humans even work as a species? How had such a seemingly doomed race not died off yet?

The answer that hit him now, as he watched Roxy help Dirk stand up and balance himself on a pair of crutches, was that humans didn’t have to be strong all the time, and that was the magic of their little social units, their families—they took care of each other. No one person had to be good at everything, or so good at one thing that it could keep them safe in any situation. It didn’t matter that their skin was thin or that they weren’t particularly strong or fast, they always, always had others around who would pick up the slack, others who would come even across oceans to offer what aid they could in times of strife; they weaved together all their strengths and weaknesses into a fabric able to withstand just about anything. Fuck, no wonder they’d wanted Dave back so badly. The Lalondes may have been less a tapestry and more a patchwork quilt, but it was still their quilt, and Dave was a part of it….

He felt a near-agonizing pang of envy that he didn’t have a quilt of his own. Humans might have been stupid about a lot of things, but this…this they’d gotten right.

“Fucking water? Is that really the best you could think of? Fucking dumbass,” Dave muttered to himself. God. This was stupid. This was all really fucking stupid. He couldn’t even deal with being alone while he was asleep, for Chrissakes! Too scared of nightmares of a big mean dog, like some fuckin’ little kid.

Yeah, he was tired, but he really, really didn’t wanna be alone right now, was the thing. Not with that fucking troll-drug-induced nightmare lingering around the edges, waiting to chase him down again at its first chance. But. Like. Karkat was kind of right? Bros don’t watch each other sleep, that’s fuckin’ creepy. Like. Okay, so maybe they’d done a bit of that way back when Karkat had been kidnapped, but they didn’t have a choice back then, and anyways they mostly slept at the same time during that experience, which was super different from just asking his best alien friend to fuckin’ hold his hand so the bad dreams wouldn’t get him. Fuck.

So he’d asked Karkat to refill his glass, even though he wasn’t thirsty right now, because it was an excuse to make Karkat come back, at least for a few more minutes, and they could talk for a bit, and maybe Dave’d stop being tired, wouldn’t that be rad.

Karkat came back in looking really thoughtful. He handed the glass over, and Dave took a sip to try and look like he hadn’t been 100% bullshitting there, and mumbled a thanks as he set it down. Then, just as a thought, he jerked his head toward the rest of the bed—it was a big king-sized one, probably left over from before the divorce and Mom had just never downsized or whatever, so there was a lot of space to Dave’s right—and told Karkat he could sit down if he wanted, Dave wasn’t gonna, like, pass out right this minute or anything, haha.

Karkat stayed quiet, which was fuckin’ weird, but he did sit down. He stared at the sheets for a minute, and then spoke up suddenly, saying, “I think I get it.”

“Get what?” said Dave.

“Why they wanted you back so bad,” said Karkat. “I mean, way back when you were first arrested. I kind of fought with Dirk over it at one point, because my only experience with the word Dirk used for why you should be with him was fucking Strider. And also I think I get why this shit all works, for humans in general. I mean, I’m probably just saying obvious shit, but it’s not how trolls work, we don’t take care of each other, not like this.”

Dave tipped his head.

“I mean with the whole fucking family thing,” Karkat said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been trying to get it this whole time, but this shit’s used to justify so much bullshit with you humans, and I think I get it now, and why it’s so fucking important to you as a species.”

Dave snorted. “Dude, it’s not that big a thing—”

“It is, though! It just seems normal to humans because it’s how you always work, but, Dave, I’m serious, back on Alternia it’s every troll for themself. Maybe you have one person who has your back if you’ve got a moirail, maybe some are lucky like me and have friends who are actually consistently on your side and won’t take the first chance they get to kill you or fuck you up some other way, but we definitely don’t have a whole cluster of others we can just fall back on any time we’re met with something we can’t handle alone.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Dave started, but Karkat just kept going. Apparently he’d had some sort of fuckin’ epiphany in the past two minutes.

“It took me so fucking long to get this, but I get it now! You know what I don’t get, though, is why the fuck you ever tried to convince me that Strider is part of your fucking family.”

Something in Dave dropped like a stone.

He’d…had a similar thought, really. Repeatedly. Multiple times, over the past week or so. He’d been kind of trying to avoid it, because every time it popped up, he got really stressed out.

“And don’t give me any of the bullshit about being ‘related’ or what the fuck ever, I don’t wanna hear it,” Karkat kept right on going. “I still don’t get why you humans care so much about that. The whole point of this family thing is that you all take care of each other, not that you’re related or whatever! Your aunt’s here, did you know that? She flew across an entire fucking ocean just to make sure she could help out you and Dirk! What the fuck did Strider ever do for you?”

It was a good question. And the answer, of course, was: aside from trying to kill him, do you mean? Hahaha.

Karkat was still talking, but Dave wasn’t really hearing him. Fuck, this had been a mistake, he should’ve taken his chances with the fucking nightmare dog. That was better than this old song and dance with his own thoughts.

The facts were pretty simple. He’d operated under pretty clear logic when he went up against Bro: We’re family, so he loves me, so therefore if I ask him to let me leave and explain that I really can’t deal with this, he’ll let me go. Except, Bro had tried to kill him, which meant that…

That was as far as Dave ever got. He couldn’t think any farther than that.

He felt like…like the next thought should be obvious, but he couldn’t make himself think it. It was too big—not so much a square peg in a round hole as it was trying to cram a grain silo into a pinhole, and the thought threatened to overwhelm and destroy him, so instead of thinking it, his brain kept rejecting it, the effect being like a broken record skip-skip-skipping, over and over, repeating the last thought he could get to before the Big One, because he couldn’t not think the Big One, either…

It was so fucking stupid, it was just a thought, why couldn’t he…

“Hah, yeah, now that you mention it, I guess I was always kinda wrong about this shit, wasn’t I?” Dave said, unable to stop the sardonic laughter bubbling up in his throat. “I mean, fuck, no wonder it took you so long to get, I probably gave you the wrong idea. My dumb ass was convinced he’d never try to kill me, cuz we’re family, and, well, here we fuckin’ are!”

Skip, skip, skip—

Karkat was still talking in stuttered phrases in the gaps of Dave’s own flood of words, looking almost scared, but Dave didn’t comprehned any of them, and anyway, the ranting had started, there was no stopping this shit now. “Like, what the fuck was I even thinking, right? I really thought that was gonna work, that somehow he’d just let me go if I asked, like a fucking idiot! Haha, what a fuckin’ dipshit, right?! And here I was thinking he—” Frantic laughter bubbled up, overtaking the words, not that more would’ve come, that next thought was just too big. Was he crying? Fuck, Karkat didn’t need to see any of this shit, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think

Skip, skip, skip, skip, skipskipskipskipskipskip—

It wasn’t Karkat’s fault. It really wasn’t. He might’ve set it off, but the storm had been building up for days, now, and it broke hard, sweeping Dave up in a torrent of just wordless mental screaming. He couldn’t think the next thought. He couldn’t. But the thing was damming him up, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore, and he was stuck in the middle and left to just completely melt down and dissipate into the flood.

A sound like a cicada crossed with the creakiest horror movie door ever to creak ripped through the tides, and suddenly Dave found himself tugged into a full body hug, wrapped up in four limbs with his face pressed into a thick sweater. The touch dragged him out of the flood and onto dry land, brought him back into now before he even knew what was happening. Karkat’s whole chest was vibrating with some intense cricket-cat hybrid purr, and this should’ve been so embarrassing but he was so tired and so lost and it was fucking comforting, so who the fuck cared. Who cared anymore. It was all bullshit. He could be embarrassed later.

Too soon, Karkat seemed to have the same thought, and tried to pull away. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t—fuck, I’m so sorry, this is really presumptive and I know you aren’t even into boys,” he babbled.

Dave groaned, wrapping his arms around Karkat’s chest and pulling him close. “Dude, if you try to make this about alien romance right now, I swear to fuck,” he gasped out between harsh sobs. Christ, he was going harder than Karkat did like twenty minutes earlier, what the fuck.

Karkat paused. Good. It meant his warm arms were still there. “Dave, I…I mean, this is troll romance, this is textbook moiraillegience, and I shouldn’t just be throwing myself at you because you had a moment of weakness, no matter how bad I, uh.”

Dave sniffled, wracked his brain for a moment…Karkat had explained this stuff about a million times, which one was…”That’s like…the bros quadrant, right?”

“The what.”

“The one that’s, like, platonic and shit.”

“…Yeah?” The cricket-purr started up again, cautiously.

“We fuckin’ kinda do most of that shit already, don’t we?” Like. Yeah. He wasn’t gay. That was still a thing. But Karkat was warm and solid and real and Dave was fucking exhausted and didn’t want to be alone, especially not when he felt right now like he was wrapped in safety. “Please, Karkat,” he added, because why not beg. He was already at maximum pathetic, there was no digging this hole lower, fuck it. “I really don’t wanna be alone right now, just, please don’t go.”

Karkat was quiet for a long moment, but finally, the cricket-purr went back to full volume and Karkat’s arms tightened around him.

“Okay,” Karkat said quietly. Dave let out a breath he’d barely known he’d been holding and went back to crying.

“We’re going to have to talk about this later,” Karkat murmured, which put him at about normal volume for anyone else.

“Later, then,” said Dave, and let himself finally fall the fuck asleep.

#dave strider #karkat vantas #davekat #roxy lalonde #longpost//#u BET UR BUTT THIS OENS GOIN IN THE DAVEKAT TAG #ITS ABOUT TIME #fanfic #fanfiction #calmvsstormfic #calmvsstormchapter #katt does a writing #jkdfsgfjhsfjshf not the best start to a relationship but like its something #lord this got long.#why tf did i think 32 and 33 would ever fit into one chapter.

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inventedstarlight · 6 years

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aida hannah wexler — 35 — broker associate — orion — olivia wilde

— this is Aida Wexler, 35 and a real estate broker. yes, Aida like the italian opera her mother loves for some inexplicable reason. yes, she’s aware that neither the story nor the characters have anything to do with her life. she loves the name anyway.

— the eldest of three children, Aida was born and raised in a small southern town most people have never heard of. her family never had much money, not nearly enough to get all of them what they wanted and so Aida learned to make sacrifices and not think much of the people who looked down on her for what she didn’t have.

— intelligent and dedicated and an excellent student, small town life was never enough for her. she had her family and her friends and a boy she loved but she wanted more, much more than the town and the people she’d always known. Aida moved to NYC at eighteen with her things packed in a single suitcase and a scholarship to Columbia and hasn’t wanted to leave the city since.

— got into real estate to see how it would go, but she’s organized and resilient and too stubborn for her own good, so of course having to find people houses works for her. worked as a real estate agent for five years before getting her broker’s licence and runs one of the best firms in the business with a good friend.

— helps her parents and siblings out regularly but stopped going back home after a horrific breakup with her high school sweetheart. distance and rumors and things out of their control got in the way and Aida didn’t think she’d see him again. as fate would have it, he and his wife are her newest clients in need of a house and as bitter as she may be about it, she’ll be damned if she lets this ruin her excellent track record.

— she’s a bit of a workaholic and has no concept of doing things halfway: she either loves too hard or hates with every fiber of her being, is passionate about her hobbies and fiercely protective of the people she cares about. her personal life is kind of a mess bc her partners somehow find her simultaneously too much and not enough and Aida refuses to waste her time on people who don’t appreciate her.

needs: the last wexler sibling (preferably a boy, around 27-28 yo but we’re flexible), a group of friends, a business partner in real estate, maybe an ex or two?? I’m down for anything tbh, send me a msg here or on discord @ sephie#6191

#mistakesrp #ch: aida #ch #i'm not convinced this is any good but love my baby anyway #i promise she's cool

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florrickandassociates · 7 years

Text

TGF Thoughts: 1x01-- Inauguration

For those of you familiar with my posts, you know what this is. For those of you new to this fandom, I write obnoxiously long recaps of every episode (and you can find them all here). I started doing this with 6x01 of The Good Wife and I’m continuing the tradition for The Good Fight. They’re obnoxiously long because I try to be detailed, but they’re in bullet points so it should be easy to skip around and find comments on a particular scene.

As always, I’m happy to elaborate/explain/discuss any of the ideas in here. I’m hoping to get a 1x02 recap up before 1x03 goes live, but we’ll see.

Often, it’s easy to tell what a show wants to be from the way it introduces itself to the audience. First impressions aren’t all that matter—but they’re important. They’re especially important on the spinoff of a show that had an opening scene so iconic the writers recreated it seven years later, expecting viewers to get the reference. TGW’s opening scene set the tone for the whole series, so the bar was high for TGF, a show that exists essentially because CBS wants more money. How do you craft an opening scene that sets the tone for a show where the premise is PLEASE GIVE US YOUR MONEY?

The answer, it turns out, is to begin the series with a scene that acts as an argument in favor of its own existence. As Diane watches last month’s inauguration, we’re given a reason to care about this show about a diverse group of women fighting back. Why should we tune in to this show? Because we’re ready for a fight, too.

So, the opening moments of TGF—Diane, alone, watching that man’s inauguration—are irrelevant to most of what follows. You could argue (as I think the Kings have tried to, bizarrely) that Diane decides to retire to run away from the shitshow, but, come on. You and I both know that Diane decided to retire because the Kings needed a way to make her extremely vulnerable to the scandal they created. We know she would’ve retired if Hillary had won (that “shattered every glass ceiling” line they say they had to replace was terrible, btw), and we know she would’ve retired if this spinoff had aired a year earlier. As far as I’m concerned, the opening scene stands alone, and that’s fine.

In fact, since it sets the tone for the whole show (which will, undoubtedly, become more political as we get into the episodes written/filmed post-election), I’d argue it works (much, much) better as an opening scene than the Maia intro (here’s a new woman you’ve never seen before! She is a lawyer!) or the Diane intro (here is a house in France that will be important to this episode and only this episode!).

As much as I hate to admit it—because admitting it means that we’re really living in a world where that man is POTUS, the most recent presidential election gave TGF the reason it needed to exist. The moment I saw the tagline “GET NASTY”, it clicked into place. Suddenly I was excited about TGF as more than a weekly check-in with some characters I used to love. Suddenly I liked the name The Good Fight much more than The Greater Good (the show’s working title). Nothing had changed about the show itself—the “fight” in the title was still about recovering from a fictional scandal; the show was still something that came about because CBS wanted to profit more off of TGW—but it felt different. It felt necessary. And, even better: the show knew it.

The Kings claim they didn’t expect Trump to win, but they do have a knack for being eerily good at predicting what the political mood will be like in a few months. They seem to be right on the money with The Good Fight, even if they had to rethink the opening. The name and premise of the show, both decided in advance of the election, are about struggling.

(I know the Kings think there’s something darkly funny about watching Diane watch the inauguration or whatever but come on. They’re marketing to an audience that would not only understand that “Get Nasty” is a reference to “Nasty Woman” but be driven to watch by that reference.)

Before I move on: Hi, Diane… I’m sorry, but I have a message from the future—one fucking month in the future—this is really happening and it is a horrific shitshow.

Diane turns off the TV, drops the remote, and walks out of the frame as Erin McKewon’s “You Were Right About Everything” begins to play. She has the right idea.

A few seconds in and TGF is already spot-on with its music choices. Yay! (I don’t know if I like the songs used in The Good Universe because I associate them with the shows or because the people choosing them and I have similar tastes in music, but I’ll take it either way.)

Diane’s dark living room gives way to an image of an unfamiliar face against a black background. Moments later, the lights come on, and we see Maia Rindell, nervously waiting to take the bar exam. It’s hard to make much of her from this glimpse—who wouldn’t be nervous waiting to take the bar exam? Why would a character be on this show and not be a lawyer? One thing, though, is clear: she’s just starting out her career.

Cut to the French countryside, where Diane is touring a beautiful estate. She takes in the view and smiles: she’s going to love it here.

Then we’re back with Maia, sometime later. She’s waiting impatiently for her bar exam results. When she learns that she’s passed, she screams, alarming her sleeping girlfriend, Amy.

Maia begins to jump up and down on the bed and then jumps on top of Amy. It’s super adorable.

(Before I continue: I’m happy that a) Maia is queer, b) this is not remarked upon or treated as a huge reveal, and c) she’s in a committed long-term relationship. Seeing as TGW had a total of zero lead characters in relationships that resemble the ones most people actually have, this is a welcome change.)

Also: Maia and Amy’s apartment is amazing; they live behind a giant clock.

The music continues, and now Diane’s in a setting both familiar and unfamiliar: it’s familiar because David Lee and Howard Lyman are there; it’s unfamiliar because it’s an office in New York City instead of the old L/G/KeyboardSmash offices. Okay, I know they’re still in Chicago. But that... is definitely New York…

Anyway. Diane’s announcing her retirement. She stands and walks around the room, totally in control. The firm has grown since we last saw it. David and Howard congratulate her, and David secretly rejoices as the music ends. More power for him!

You know what I find odd? Lucca isn’t in the opening sequence. She’s ostensibly also a co-lead, so where is she in this sequence that starts of the show? My hope is that this doesn’t indicate she’s less of a co-lead and was instead an intentional move so her appearance later is more sudden. (Then again, this sequence doesn’t hint that Diane knows Maia or that Maia’s going to work at Diane’s firm, so… I see no reason Lucca couldn’t have been included too.)

The firm now has NINE name partners (LDGLLGLKT) because the Kings think they’re clever. I’m less amused by this than I am excited to know they (finally) understand that the audience is so over the name changes.

It’s Maia’s first day at LockhartKeyboardSmash, and she’s making friends one of the other new associates.

Maia wears a rosary ring, but she is not religious. Hm.

She is, however, nervous. She seems to be a very nervous person in general, though maybe that’s just my impression because we’re mostly seeing her in environments where she’s uncomfortable. (Maia is such an Alicia-esque character—the original casting call for her said it, not me!—that I wonder if Alicia used to act like that, too. Did Alicia struggle to put together a sentence without hesitating, the way Maia does? If so, when did she get that out of her system and learn to pause strategically instead? Law school? Being a politician’s wife? Gradually over time? Ok back to Maia now.)

I would never want to receive a job orientation from David Lee, and that’s all I have to say about that.

David calls off names of the new associates, and his tone changes when he gets to Maia. Be a little more obvious with your ass kissing, would you?

“Say hello to your parents for me, would you?” David tells her. He also informs her that some flowers have arrived for her, because apparently her parents are clueless as to the fact that she might not want to publicize, on her first day of work, that she’s the daughter of prominent billionaires.

Maia tells her mom not to send any more gifts; she doesn’t want to seem “entitled.” At least someone has some self-awareness! “Are people not being nice to you?” Maia’s mom, Bernadette Peters (!!!!!) asks. That one line is enough for me to recognize that it’s amazing Maia even understands that entitled is a thing people might call her.

Lenore, sitting in her office that looks like a living room but is really adjacent to a trading floor (what?), asks Maia if she wants Diane to give her her own office. Oh boy.

(Maia may not want to be seen as entitled… but I have to ask why, right out of law school, she took a job at her godmother’s firm. I’m not saying she shouldn’t have taken the job or anything... I’m just saying that while she understands she’s being perceived as entitled, she’s not exactly rocking the boat trying to accomplish things without her privilege. She seems pretty damn comfortable benefitting from it.)

Maia tries to rid herself of the Flowers of Privilege by mixing them in with the other LGKeyboardSmash floral arrangements. Howard walks by and assumes she’s a florist. Heh.

Maia is then called into Diane’s office. I love Diane’s new office, especially the wallpaper.

Diane also offers to give Maia her own office. This is because Diane is Maia’s godmother and she wants to spoil her. Oof. I get the impulse to help, but in what world is that helping to do anything other than make instant enemies for Maia?

Diane gives Maia a folio (is that what those things are called? I’m blanking on the word) that was given to her by Chicago’s first female public defender. She calls it a “baton” and tells Maia it’s her turn to carry it. Awww. It’s amazing how instantly I buy that Diane has a goddaughter even after seven seasons without a single mention of Maia.

Diane brings Maia into a deposition. Before we find out the topic of our COTW, we learn that Lucca’s not at LGSKGJSLG38527;;jslfj82745K anymore. What a shock.

Lucca’s been at Reddick and Boseman, the firm she’s at now, for four months. “Alicia too?” Diane wonders. “No, just me,” Lucca says pleasantly, but she doesn’t offer any further comments, so it comes off like unspoken shit went down. I don’t really care, though. I know why Alicia and Lucca aren’t working together and aren’t as close as they were, and it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with TGF’s plot. I don’t want TGF to tell me what Alicia’s up to, because I have my own headcanons. This line is the bare minimum for addressing her absence, and that’s fine by me. (I hope she and Lucca didn’t have a falling out, though. I would love to think they’re still friendly and working together, but obviously, if that were the case, there’d be a strong reason for Alicia to still show up frequently in TGF, and that’s not going to happen.)

Adrian Boseman walks in, interrupting any chance we had at learning more about Alicia’s whereabouts. I like you already, Adrian! No, but really: I like Adrian.

He sizes up the room, noting that all of the lawyers his firm brought are black and Diane’s whole team is white. Diane laughs off his comment. Sure, Diane.

The case is a police brutality case, and there’s a video. Case stuff happens; we spend a lot of time watching Maia react to it. Also there’s metadata, a word the Kings will never tire of using.

Maia thinks they should settle for 4 million (Diane’s asked for her opinion). Diane says they’ve been asked to settle for under $500,000. See, they’re representing Cook County now.

Adrian encourages Lucca to “play the radical” but she doesn’t want to; she thinks Diane will know. Lucca does anyway.

Diane makes an argument about Adrian’s firm taking on police brutality cases to make a profit. This is something I’d be interested in learning more about. The Kings said they’ve done their research on this, but I’d like to do a little research of my own.

“We’re both using this case, Lucca; why don’t you just stick to the facts?” Diane says. This is one of those arguments where it’s hard for me to determine who’s right and who’s wrong because we’re not given all the facts, but I think I’m going to side with Lucca here. There’s using a case to make a profit, and using a case to do good and make a profit. Only one of those sides contains “doing good,” so why would I suddenly only focus on the profit part?

Maia has the same questions I do. “Are we on the right side on this one?” she asks.

“We are on a necessary side,” Diane explains. Hold up. I understand that it’s necessary because this is how legal procedure works in this country and all that. But how is it necessary that Diane defend racist police departments who use unwarranted force and beat the shit out of black people? How is that a necessary side? Diane didn’t take on this case because she believes in the innocence of these particular policemen. She took on this case because Cook County is a good client to have. If she can sleep at night, then fine. But don’t tell me it’s a necessary side just because they might be innocent. You could say that about literally every single side of every single case. Isn’t that the whole point of trials? Everyone’s entitled to representation, innocent until proven guilty?

Diane continues with her speech: “People I’ve thought with all my heart were guilty turned out to be innocent, and people I thought were saints, they, um, they weren’t. That’s why you don’t go on instinct. You wait. You listen. And watch. Eventually everyone reveals themselves.” Argh. I find this so unsatisfying as an answer. It’s not bad advice to keep an open mind, but it feels like Diane’s not saying “keep an open mind instead of making snap judgments” but rather saying “keep an open mind because it’ll make you feel better about representing people you’d rather not be representing.” On second thought, that is useful advice. After all, Maia still has to defend clients she thinks are guilty, and maybe that would help her do it.

“People I thought were saints, they, um, they weren’t.” The Kings have said this line is about Alicia. If you follow me on Twitter, you know this has been under my skin for days now. At first, I thought Diane would never say these words. I’ve reconsidered. While I still think it’s odd she’d think of Alicia before, I dunno, the liberal legend who turned out to be a rapist (W205—I’m writing W in front of TGW episode numbers and F in front of TGF episode numbers, btw) or her dad who accused his best friend of being a communist (W419) or her husband who she discovered cheated on her, I suppose it’s possible, especially since this scene comes right after a meeting with Lucca. (Also, why would Diane have learned this lesson from Alicia’s betrayal in W722 and not from 40 years of being a lawyer?)

But, it irks me a little that Diane would use Saint Alicia as an example here. If anything, Diane was one of Alicia’s biggest critics throughout TGW’s run, and she was always suspicious of her (she never bought into the Saint Alicia myth!). In W101, Diane believes Alicia’s being entitled and trying to upstage her (Alicia is really attempting to help a client and clumsily moves a little too fast). There’s another season 1 episode where Diane is and remains convinced Alicia’s using SLG to fight Peter’s battles (this thought has not crossed Alicia’s mind). There’s a season two episode where Diane asks Alicia to join her new firm behind Will’s back, and the second Diane finds out Will knows about the new firm, she says that Alicia must’ve told him (Will didn’t know that Alicia knew). Diane befriends Alicia in season 3 in order to discourage her from sleeping with Will. Even in the later seasons, there are episodes like W620, where a misunderstanding is enough for Diane to believe Alicia’s scheming against her, or W703, where an even sillier misunderstanding leads Diane, for the second time in like five episodes, to mistrust Alicia. And that’s not even including the time that, you know, Alicia plotted for months to leave Diane’s firm and take clients with her. But sure. Diane thought Alicia was a saint.

I think what’s happening here is that the Kings thought they’d be cute by referring to Alicia as a saint, because SAINT ALICIA. The problem is that they put those words in Diane’s mouth, and now it sounds like Diane is saying she actually bought into the Saint Alicia crap. But maybe that’s the part of the point. Maybe Diane’s trying to save face just a little bit. After all, it’s easier to admit that you mistakenly believed in the same larger-than-life myth everyone else bought into than it is to admit that you had your suspicions, truly believed you knew someone, and were proven wrong. Ironically, if Diane’s trying to teach Maia that people aren’t always what they seem, she’d be better off telling her the full story.

(Um, also, I’m being a little unfair. Obviously a lot of the reason why Diane would reference Alicia here is that she was hurt—whether she “should have been” or not—by Alicia’s actions. I’m not questioning why Diane would mention Alicia; I’m questioning why she’d use the word saint to describe her own views towards a woman she’s been suspicious of since day one.)

At Reddick/Boseman, the attorneys are having an internal meeting about settlements, and we get our first glimpse of Barbara Kolstad, who would be my new favorite character if I didn’t also love all of the other characters. Barbara asks Lucca for advice on how to handle this. “I think Diane’s got something to prove and she’s out to prove it,” Lucca says. (Oh yeah! In all of my talk about Diane’s reasoning, I forgot to mention that this is her last case and she doesn’t want to lose it. Also, that reminds me that the last time Diane thought she was working her last case, the client fired her and hired Alicia instead. Yes. Diane definitely thought Alicia was a saint.)

Barbara understands what Lucca’s saying. I really like the way Erica Tazel plays Barbara’s thought process—her eyes express everything.

Seriously, I can’t wait to see more from Barbara and Adrian.

Reddick/Boseman is quite obviously the old LGksadjklasjflkahg set after some (minor) renovations. I think, mostly, they just painted, redecorated, and took out the central conference room. I don’t think there’s an in-universe reason they’re in the same space; I think there’s a budget reason.

Lucca has to put on a British accent so Adrian’s call will be put through faster. Haha, it’s just incredible that Lucca has a believable British accent. I don’t know how in the world they came up with that one.

Adrian is amused by Lucca’s fake/real accent, and I’m amused by his amusement. Unamused? Lucca.

Now we’re watching a retirement slide show for Diane. “Good Luck Diane! We’ll miss you!” a slide reads in an ugly font. The narration on the slideshow says that Diane was an assistant district attorney. Wait. So she practiced law somewhere other than Chicago (since it’s ADA and not ASA), and she didn’t start out in a private firm?! Woah. Also, omg, young Diane!

Diane’s many friends congratulate her and joke that if she wants to come out of retirement, they’ll have work for her.

The Rindells appear and briefly talk finances. Hmmm. Then Maia and Amy arrive, and Lenore asks when they’re getting married—they don’t have the Supreme Court excuse anymore. (So, Maia and Amy have been together for a while.)

A photo of Diane and Will pops up the slideshow next, and Diane wistfully stares at it. I’m glad that made it in. <3

Then the party’s over, and… that was fast. I was expecting to spend a whole act there.

Outside in the valet line, Maia’s dad gives her a weird warning about her uncle Jax.

Case stuff happens. Maia notices that there’s a car in the background of the video that has its own camera, so there’s an alternate recording of the events somewhere. What a great thing it is that Maia has enough money to know that! (I kid, I kid. It’s an important find.)

The familiar TGUniverse score is back now, but it sounds a bit more up-tempo and seems to have percussions now. Fine by me.

Maia feels triumphant for a moment, then Lyman mistakes her for a florist again (… ffs, I just wrote “florrist,” with two rs like I’m writing Florrick, because habit), and then she gets a call from Amy, informing her that their apartment is being searched.

Two things of note on the search warrant: one, Maia’s address is listed and it is a bogus address that gives no indication of where in the city she might live, and two, it’s dated 2/24/2017, so TGF takes place a few days ahead of realtime. I expect that TGF will be as bad with timeline as TGW was, so…

Amy tells Maia that the search is connected to Maia’s parents, then gets off the phone to argue with some agents who are trying to tell her what she is and isn’t allowed to do.

Maia calls her dad, who doesn’t pick up: he’s having a drink. Then Diane’s called out of a deposition to talk to her accountant. Uh oh.

Maia arrives at her family’s home just in time to see her dad being taken away in handcuffs. “I didn’t do it, Maia,” he says. “I know,” she replies. But does she?

Diane hasn’t heard the news yet. She turns on the TV and sees what’s going on: BILLIONAIRE INVESTOR HENRY RINDELL ARRESTED. He ran a Ponzi scheme… and now all of Diane’s retirement money is gone.

“FUCK,” Diane says when she learns all her savings are gone. That’s a very well deserved inaugural f-bomb, show!

Now it’s time for the credits sequence. At first, they seem like nothing special: cast names in an ugly font and images of objects you’d find in an office. Then the objects BEGIN TO SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST IN SLOW MOTION as the score gets more operatic. I’m not sure I understand, but I’m not sure I need to.

(I don’t associate most of the TGW/TGF score with Alicia—more with the general feel of TGUniverse’s Chicago—but it’s weird to me that the piece of music in the TGF credits is the one from the 6x21 scene where Alicia and Grace turn Zach’s room into a home office. It’s possible they’ve used it before, but it only took me a second to place it. And I’m bad at identifying instrumental music, so I must strongly associate it with Alicia. Weird. 6x21 is an episode so Alicia-centric that when I wrote about it, I suggested that TGW no longer needed most of its non-Alicia series regulars!)

This episode was directed by Brooke Kennedy. I like it when Brooke directs, since she’s the producer most involved with the day-to-day on set. She has a very good understanding of the show’s themes, and she’s usually able to find interesting ways to visualize those themes.

This show was not just created by the Kings: there’s some other dude listed as a creator. I’m not even going to bother to write his name here, because… well, because I haven’t heard much about his role in the creative process, which I take to mean that he was called in to help with the show when it looked like the Kings weren’t going to be involved, and the moment the Kings returned, his level of involvement decreased significantly. I’m curious to know the real story.

Apparently you can see some dude’s bare ass in the first scene of act 2, but it’s so hidden in shadow I’d have to raise my screen’s brightness all the way and really look to see it. And, I’m sorry, CBS, but I really don’t care enough about this guy’s ass to get excited about the nudity.

The naked guy is with Lucca. Lucca’s watching the Rindell scandal unfold on TV. She recognizes Maia and watches carefully.

Maia, Amy, and Lenore wait for the family lawyer to arrive. Maia was on the board of a foundation, which might’ve been a front. Amy realizes this is bad: Maia needs her own lawyer. Lenore tries to convince Maia otherwise, but Maia knows Amy’s right.

Some dude on the news is insisting that Maia must’ve been in on the scheme. As the news plays, Maia showers. Amy joins her and comforts her. I’m excited to get more moments like this from Amy and Maia—not shower scenes, but scenes that show how they support each other from day to day, how well they know each other, and stuff like that.

Diane and her accountant go over the details of her new financial reality. It’s bad. Her money’s gone, even money that wasn’t involved in the fund is at risk (including Kurt’s money; they haven’t divorced yet), and all the charities she’s steered towards the Rindells have also lost their money. The house in France is gone. And Diane can’t even retire. She might not even be able to keep her apartment.

Christine Baranski is amazing. Have I said that yet?

At the next Lockhart Deckler Lee whatever meeting, Diane sits at the head of the table. Brooke positions the camera behind Diane, so we see everyone staring at her. She commanded the room in the earlier scene where she announced her retirement, but here, she’s not the one with the power. And everyone can see right through her speech about not wanting to retire.

Diane’s lost most of her leverage, but not all of it: she can still remind the partners they’re going to lose Cook County’s business without her. The score from W601 beings to play. Not sure why.

In the elevator at work, someone recognizes Maia and begins to yell at her. “I know where you work, you stupid bitch,” he screams. You ruined everything, you stupid bitch, SING WITH ME!

Maia’s new lawyer, Yesha, is waiting for her when she gets off the elevator. Yesha is 25, so Maia doesn’t trust her. Yesha seems capable, but inexperienced, and Maia resents having to get a lawyer at all.

Diane embarks on a quest to find a new job. Might one of her friends that said they’d always have a position open for her be willing to take her on? Everyone thinks she’s looking for an emeritus position. She’s not. And not even her friends have room for her, not now.

Diane gets to say “bullshit” and it feels so natural and appropriate to the moment it was only on rewatch that I processed it as a curse word. I’m glad—and unsurprised—to see that the Kings know how and when to use swear words.

“You’re poison. No firm will hire you,” Diane’s friend, Renee, informs her. Quick! Where’s the nearest desk!? Shove everything off of it!!! Now!!!

After a long and frustrating day, Diane returns home to find Kurt waiting on the stairs outside her home. She invites him in for a drink, and they discuss divorce. “It’s about money. It’s not about us,” she insists. Kurt doesn’t seem to care. Diane says it’s in his lap. Kurt says he didn’t leave her; Diane says that actually, he did—when he slept with Holly. I’m not sure I understand why Diane wouldn’t initiate the divorce? Does she not really want to? Does she not want to accept that it’s over? Does she want Kurt to accept responsibility? Maybe her reasons will become clearer later on. Or maybe she’ll stay married to but estranged from Kurt until season seven and beyond. (Sound familiar?)

Kurt isn’t even sure where they stand now. Honestly, neither am I. Did Kurt really cheat on Diane while they were married?! I still can’t believe that.

At any rate, Kurt still knows how to be there for Diane. She explains her current predicament to him and starts to cry. “How is my life suddenly so fucking meaningless?” Diane wonders. “It isn’t,” Kurt reassures her. I’ve said it before and I have a feeling I’ll be saying it many times over the course of TGF’s run: Christine Baranski is amazing.

I’m rereading this section of my recap, and it just occurred to me that I didn’t even think to comment about what it means for someone as successful as Diane to lose everything she’s known. I think part of the reason my mind didn’t go there is that this screams “NEW SHOW, NEW SCANDAL” instead of “NATURAL PLOT DEVELOPMENT,” but I think I should try to treat it as the latter. Diane’s emotional arc, no matter why it came about, is something that’ll drive this show going forward. For ages, I’ve thought of Diane as a character who works best in a supporting role. She’s well-defined enough to be a lead, but she’s so stable and successful—where’s the story? I can picture her leading a procedural, or a character study drama, but a huge part of her character was that she’d worked so hard, pre-TGW, that aside from firm drama bullshit and ambitions of getting a judgeship, her life was already the way she wanted it to be. She was more captivating than her story arc, if that makes sense. Because of the way the Kings like to write, it makes a lot of sense to me that to promote Diane to lead, they’d want to turn her into an unlikely fish out of water. Now she’s a captivating character with a captivating plot. And better still, a lot of the reason this plot is likely to work is that we know what Diane’s accomplished and how hard she’s worked. When she cries about her life feeling meaningless, we know exactly what meaning she used to find in her life. And, because she was always so stable and self-assured (and well-written!) as a secondary character on TGW, watching her lose everything hits even harder.

Maia’s playing with her rosary ring and lurking in reception, waiting to greet Diane. Diane’s not in a great mood, to say the least.

“We have a little opening right here,” Adrian advises Lucca, observing the icy Maia/Diane interaction. "Go for jugular.” As he says this, from approximately his POV, Maia is literally standing in the opening between two panes of glass.

Case stuff happens. This case is barely there. Lucca makes things personal, and Diane steps out.

Elevator Asshole who called Maia a stupid bitch has returned to complain more about Maia. Dude. It sucks that you lost your money, but you’re a misogynistic asshole who’s hanging around lobbies all day to harass a 25 year old woman at her place of work. You’re pathetic. And scary. And please don’t follow Maia, you creep.

Maia runs into the ladies’ room. Lucca takes care of the creep. He screams he’s going to sue Maia, and Lucca screams at him, “THEN DO IT. BUT RIGHT NOW, FUCK OFF!” YAY LUCCA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I want so much more from Lucca in this series. In the first episode, she’s pretty much just playing lawyer and supportive friend. I’ll have more to say about Lucca in episode two.)

Lucca walks into the bathroom, and Maia scurries into a stall, not sure if whoever opened the door is a friend or a foe. Lucca looks straight into the mirror and gives Maia a pep talk.

“When they see you cry, it makes them happy. So get it out of your system here,” she begins. Maia eyes her through the opening in the stall door—Lucca’s positioned herself where she can easily be seen. And she knows Maia’s watching.

Maia doesn’t understand why Lucca, who’s on the opposing side of the case, would be helping her. So Lucca explains it’s because Maia is the New Alicia. At least, that’s the (not very sub) subtext of her words.

No, but really: why is Lucca helping Maia? Lucca may like to say she’s out for herself, and she speaks with the non-nonsense, hard, strident tone of someone you wouldn’t necessarily want to befriend… but Lucca is actually a really kind person. And she’s not just kind to people she knows or had a reason to be kind to. She’s kind to people who should be her competition. I don’t know if there’s something she finds compelling about victims of scandals (my two examples of “Lucca is a kind person” are Lucca helping Alicia and Lucca helping Maia, and obviously Alicia and Maia have some significant things in common) or if she’s normally the kind who would reach out without realizing what she’s doing, though. I have a feeling she doesn’t do this too often, because anyone that’s constantly looking out for strangers is going to have at least a few friends.

(Which makes me wonder: Lucca helps Alicia right away, but only becomes her friend after months of working with each other and watching Alicia’s 7x13 breakdown. Does Lucca help Maia because she realizes she can help, because she wants to help, or because Maia reminds her of Alicia? Or all three?)

“I had a friend. Went through the same thing. Said it was hell for a few months,” Lucca says. Maia opens the door. Lucca doesn’t turn around the whole time, and when she’s done with her speech, she turns sharply and leaves.

Lucca’s speech is long, at least by the Kings’ standards. It’s also nearly identical to the speech Alicia gives her client in W101. I wish I could appreciate this more as a moment for Lucca, but it just makes me think about Alicia. To her credit, Lucca delivers the speech in a different manner than Alicia does. Alicia manages to be empathetic without getting emotional (which is, I think, why she made such a good handholder for clients—they felt her connecting with them but she still always came across as professional). Lucca is clearly sympathetic to Maia’s situation—she’s giving the speech, after all—but it kinda sounds like she’s trying to keep her tone as impersonal as David Lee’s orientation spiel, with only occasional glances (via the mirror) to let Maia know she’s a friend.

Diane gets a case related video and it’s bad for her client.

Adrian stops by to see Diane. She seems almost too tired to talk. But then he says something interesting: “I want you to join our firm.” Diane laughs, but Adrian is serious. He offers to let Diane be their diversity hire. Heh.

Why isn’t Adrian afraid of the Rindell scandal? His firm wasn’t affected by it, because the Rindell fund “never invited black folk.”

Adrian offers Diane the opportunity to “fuck them back” for fucking her over. Why do I feel like Adrian is going to be responsible for most of the swearing on this show?

Adrian—whose office really looks like Will’s office, because I’m pretty sure it is—and Barbara fight over the offer Adrian extended to Diane.

Barbara’s concern about Diane is that “she doesn’t know her place. She’s not gonna be happy until she’s in the inner circle.” I’m not sure what new, desperate Diane looks like, but that totally describes the old, confident Diane. You don’t get to be that self-assured and content making big decisions quickly without fully believing you deserve a seat at the table.

(In the TGW Pilot, Diane had a similar suspicion about Alicia—a junior associate who doesn’t think she’s a junior associate—and that was way off base.)

Adrian argues that he and Barbara are also ambitious like that, and ambition is a good thing. Barbara’s point isn’t that ambition is bad, though: it’s that they don’t want “people who are only happy when they’re giving orders.” She calls in Lucca for backup.

Lucca’s dress has a friggin’ cat on it. I love this show’s costume department.

Lucca argues in favor of bringing Diane in because she’s a good lawyer, idealistic, and cunning. Adrian laughs at Barbara’s move backfiring on her. And now Diane’s a junior partner.

Amy is watching a sex tape. Someone’s put some generic lesbian sex tape on TMZ and is claiming it’s Maia and Amy. “This isn’t even us! This person has a tattoo!” Amy exclaims. Maia tells her to ignore it—she’s a quick study.

Diane’s in her office, looking at a picture of her and Will, when Kurt shows up.

Kurt says he doesn’t want a divorce—he “doesn’t want the door to close completely.” Is the door really open, though? “It is closed between us,” Diane states. Kurt gets a bit agitated: “Then divorce me. But I won’t do it.” I’m curious, everyone: why do you think Diane’s insisting that Kurt be the one to initiate a divorce?

“You Were Right About Everything” begins to play again. Maia and Amy are in bed getting ready to go to sleep. “My parents saw the tape,” Amy says. They don’t believe it’s not her, and that breaks my heart a little.

Diane’s back in the Lockhart/Deckler conference room. Like the first partner meeting scene, she’s standing up. She’s in control, announcing her new firm. She walks around the table on her way out, drops the bombshell that they’re going to have to agree to a $6 million payout on the police brutality case, and defiantly exits the room. “Want the door closed?” she says. She leaves before she gets the answer.

David Lee fires Maia, who’s already having a rough day (week). Maia’s returned the folio to Diane, as though to indicate that she’s giving up (Diane said the folio would force her to accomplish something that would make her feel she deserved it). When Diane goes to return it, she sees that Maia’s being fired.

As Maia leaves the firm, Howard stops her to say he’s sorry she was fired; he likes the flowers. Wait, he knows she was fired but still thinks she was in charge of the flowers? Why would that be the case?

As Diane’s packing up her office, she calls Adrian to let him know Maia’s role in the COTW. She suggests that Adrian hire Maia. This is one of those moments that seems innocent enough—Diane’s just trying to help out her goddaughter who’s going through an awful scandal—but when you think about it, Diane’s first act at the predominantly black firm that took her in when no one else would is to get her (formerly) wealthy white goddaughter a job. YMMV on this. It’s not wrong of Diane to make this suggestion, but it’s this kind of thing that, when unchecked, leads to the lack of diversity Geneva called Peter out on in W412.

Maia sits outside of the firm, staring off into space and watching a WALK sign turn to DON’T WALK. I was going to write something about how Alicia also stared at a WALK/DON’T WALK sign when she found out Will died, but apparently my memory has mixed up Alicia’s feelings after Will’s death with a visual from the scene where Prady realizes he’s lost the SA election. Don’t know what happened there. (I think I mixed up the insert of Alicia watching a mother and child cross the street with the WALK/DON’T WALK?) At any rate, the writers have used this before to symbolize an existential crisis. I think it works because it suggests that there should be movement—walk when it says walk; run when the light starts blinking; don’t get stuck at the light for another traffic cycle—when there isn’t any. Maia’s at a standstill, stuck even when she should be moving with urgency.

Diane sees Maia sitting there and approaches with the folio. “You left this,” she says. “Give it to someone who needs it. I’m done,” Maia responds. “No, you’re not. Let’s go,” Diane decides. “Where?” Maia wants to know. “Someplace,” Diane says. “Why?” Maia can’t wrap her head around this. “Because it’s not over yet,” Diane reassures her. No, it’s not. The Good Fight is just beginning.

#The Good Fight #TGWThoughts #TGFThoughts #(I'm using the old tag for archiving purposes)

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republicstandard · 6 years

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The Football Lads Alliance: Extremists?

Britain is my homeland. For all her flaws that I find in myself and all her greatness that so often I do not, there is a part of me that is forever England.

Editor's Note: This piece was originally published on my now permanently banned Medium.com account on October 13, 2017. It is still accurate in my opinion, so I have republished it here. ~A.S

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Having lived overseas for some time now, I am in a peculiar position- every time I return home, the landscape is a little different. Is it England that is changing, or I, or both? What I have noticed, is that as ever, the United Kingdom absorbs cultural norms from America, across the gossamer fine Atlantic membrane that separates our civilizations like opiates crossing the blood/brain barrier.

Scaremongering about the far right is just the latest phenomena in this grand cultural ‘exchange’.

For years, the archetype of the British socialist has fallen into one of two broadly defined categories. Firstly, there are the so-called ‘champagne socialists’ who will wring their hands at the problems of the poor and the racial minorities. Ask them to visit a soup kitchen with you, and you will be drowned under a deluge of pressing engagements and nonspecified excuses. They are, however, well versed in how jolly awful capitalism is, despite having no real desire to change anything about it.

Second come the children of these middle-class dilettantes; they who are studying Gender Studies & Sociology at a university in the middle of nowhere, with professors produced by the same system as they are. Dutch door anarchy. These kids are the twins of the ones who have taken up shields with NO HATE emblazoned on them in the US. All the better to beat veterans in wheelchairs with, my dears. The red blood of these angry men (and feminists) is fashionably juxtaposed with the black, the black of bloc anarchist.

Technically speaking, there is a third kind of quasi-socialist who flits in between the parent and child socialists at will, selling pot to both. This is, of course, the true anarchist, the greebo, the hippy. Politically and culturally irrelevant, these strange critters cloak themselves in cold war German military jackets and patchouli.

For some reason, they never age, only seeming to be replaced by a never-ending cycle of dropped out kids, who burn out on acid, decide the system is fucked, and that psytrance raves on mountains are better than houses and jobs anyway.

All three groups are rarely comprised of stupid people. Ideologues, for sure. But never stupid. They have read Proust. They understand Sartre or at least tell you they do over a poorly rolled joint with a THC content lower than their contribution to the national GDP. These people are our intellectual elite.

Do you know who is stupid? I mean, really stupid?

Football (soccer) fans. They are stupid. They fight each other over tribalist nonsense. They spend vast sums of money earned working on building sites on tickets and paraphernalia that swells the off-shore accounts of Russian billionaires. Their simple minds turn to junk food when their team loses. They don’t care about politics. They are working class, by and large. They vote as their parents voted.

Except.

Except recently this has changed, and dramatically. For decades, the left has bemoaned the lack of political engagement among the working class of Britain. The leftist wrings his hands about ways to engage the youth of today in politics. For, as we all know, the 18–24 demographic now outnumber the baby boomers, and if only they would get out and vote- well. Socialist eutopia beckons.

Jeremy Corbyn, with some… friends

This is not what has happened.

The predominantly working-class men who follow football have begun to be politicized, alright. Oh yes, they have. As Rudyard Kipling wrote,

It was not preached to the crowd. It was not taught by the state. No man spoke it aloud When the English began to hate.

The Football Lads Alliance, an ostensibly apolitical movement against all forms of extremism, on the surface looks ideologically naive. Formed in the wake of Islamic terrorist attacks in Britain that are all too soon scrubbed from the mind, the FLA planned a march through London, on June 24th.

The March Against Extremism disavowed the far right, but is in essence a response to the lack of action taken by the UK government against Islamic Extremism. After all, Islamic Extremism is by far the most threatening and deadly extremist behavior in the nation. The march paused to pay respects at London Bridge, site of the horrific van and knife attacks.

Naturally, the March has been portrayed in the press as organized by the far right. Naturally, the usual suspects on the left the communist Unite Against Fascism (UAF) and the Socialist Worker were quick to jump on the bandwagon. What is a leftist movement if you have no enemies to purge.

In all, ten thousand working-class men marched through the capital, with no violence, a far-right presence tiny enough to be insignificant, and yet, there the leftists were. Crying ‘NAZI’ at the top of their little lungs.

But, this article is not about the march. The march organizers claim to be apolitical, which is idealistic in the extreme. In the case of any social movement, you play politics, or you will be played with politics. As the Socialist Worker newspaper points out with accuracy:

“By pointing out to softer elements of the FLA that they are being used by fascists, the opposition can drive a wedge into this new right-wing movement to split it too.”

This is correct. It doesn’t matter if the Football Lads Alliance is 0% fascist. It only matters what the optics are, and who controls the narrative. Outside the group, the narrative is controlled by the left, who have successfully painted the FLA as an offshoot of the English Defence League, a nationalist group that has been explicitly shunned by the FLA. It is also indicative of the desired outcome of the socialists that the “softer elements” be brought over to their camp. As ever, when the far left cannot convince through argument, it will attempt to subvert through slander.

The Football Lads Alliance, 07 October 2017

That really should prove my point. On the inside of this growing movement, there is the danger of infiltration by the far right. Outside the group, the press and the far left are already lumping the movement in with far-right nationalism. It’s a great recruiting tactic if you are a budding Antifa, who is all dressed up and with no one to mace.

I hope I have given a complete enough overview of the situation around these events, coming as they are hot on the heels of Muslim gangs raping white girls, children losing their lives to nail bombs at pop shows, stabbings in pubs and an attempted bombing of a train, this last, that has been met with a resounding ‘so what.’

While our politicians, cowards to the last, exhort us all to Keep Calm and Carry On, You Bloody Plebs it is the working class who are finally realizing who -and what- has come for dinner.

“I already am eating from the trash can all the time. The name of this trash can is ideology. The material force of ideology makes me not see what I am effectively eating.” - Slavoj Zizek, on ideology.

Does it take a bunch of football fans to point this out? Are we Brits so mentally enchained so to be unable to discuss the elephant in the room?

So it appears, that to discuss the problem of Islam in the United Kingdom online gets one arrested. To talk about it in the workplace will result in unemployment. To talk about it in the home will split your family. To talk about it with your friends loses you your friends.

*Just part and parcel of living in a big city. *

Where then, as a culture, are we to look? We have built bridges on our walls because we are not racist enough to build walls around our nation. We quibble over Brexit, the democratically mandated will of the people because middle-class socialists like easy holidays in Tuscany. Freedom of movement across Europe is jolly good, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing on the dole queue.

Here is the clarion call that is loud and clear. The people on the Football Lads march are the people of Rotherham. The people of Newcastle. The people of Manchester. The people of London. Their opponents live in the green belts. Their opponents cry “Not All”, when the argument is never about all or none, and never has been.

Unlike the United States, the actual violent aspects of the left are incredibly small in the United Kingdom. This is proportional to the numbers of active far-right street groups, who can barely draw more than a hundred people to a rally. The idea that a bunch of sports fans can drown out both sides with a non-partisan message is highly encouraging to me. There are still dangers ahead.

On October 7th, another Football Lads Alliance march took place in London. The organizers are of the opinion that a turnout of 50,000 or more people peacefully marched through the city. This is encouraging- although for some reason the BBC and other mainstream media outlets ignored it.

The press ignored the march because there was no violence. Without violence, the march cannot be held up as an example of far-right bigotry against the left, the religion of peace, and globalism. What. A. Pity.

Despite this great success, I hope to see some development in organization within the Football Lads Alliance to protect themselves from their enemies- who are numerous, vocal, and politically astute.

Here is the issue. The Football Lads are one hundred percent correct in opposing extremism from Islam and the far right. They fail to understand that this will not deflect criticism from the leftist media that the march is a smokescreen for the far right, regardless of intentions. It will also not prevent, as the Socialist Worker again correctly noted, that the far right will recruit on these marches if they can.

And so we come to the problem inherent in having such a laudable but vague goal. Marching against extremism sounds nice enough; except that extremism is a subjective term.

Without context, extremism is meaningless, and so is the opposition to it. Extremism itself is not in and of itself an enemy. As Sam Harris has said, extremist Jains walk around looking at the floor, so to avoid treading on ants. While there is no need for the Football Lads to become a political movement, the understanding must be that the movement is political.

The Football Lads Alliance has only recently begun, and so we should not be too critical of their organization yet. Still, as friends, we should not allow friends to fumble blindly in the dark in a room full of knives.

The wry comedy we can all at least enjoy, however successful this nascent movement might be, is that the decades-long struggle for the leftists to instill class consciousness in the proletariat may be at an end. It’s just not ending up the way their Critical Theory professors told them it would. The working class has awoken, and shockingly enough, they have decided that being told that they are racist, homophobes and Islamophobes, when they are not, is a crock. About bloody time.

And where are our police force while all this goes on?

What has happened is that our police force is busy pandering to an LGBT+ crowd with freshly painted squad cars. The use of no-no words on social media will see you arrested. The very idea of criticising Islam in public will have you on a watch list. The watch list that we already have in the UK, that of 23,000 known jihadis or fundraisers for terrorists, lies gathering dust.

This is not to say the security services in the United Kingdom do not do a seriously heroic job preventing and catching terrorists when they are allowed to. Our leaders were told for years that cutting the policing budget in the face of Islamic Terrorism was an awful idea. Those senior officers who said so were ignored and portrayed in the press as simply greedy for more tax revenue.

It’s good to know who our masters consider to be the real problem. It’s not the terrorists. It’s not the socialists. It’s everyone else. It’s you, with concern for your family as another rape gang is arrested and passed off in the press as simply Asian. Strangely we are yet to see a group of Japanese men in the dock for passing around teenage white girls like sex dolls. It’s the people who voted for Brexit. It’s the working class themselves, who resolutely vote against what they are told is in their best interests.

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And so, tired of being ignored, sick of being disparaged, the English have begun to march. Let us all hope they do not begin to hate.

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