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stereksecretsanta · 4 years

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Merry Christmas, @Froggydarren!

To Jen: Merry Christmas! In this story I hope you find a few of your favorite things. May your holidays be filled with love and joy, great food, relaxation, and GREAT FIC!

Title: stepping out of body

Rating: T

Word Count: 7K

Tags: Hypothermia, Hurt/comfort, Bed sharing, Accidental baby acquisition, alternate reality, parallel universe, dreams, hallucinations, Hobrien, Tyler Hoechlin/Dylan O’Brien, swearing, sexual innuendo, kissing

Read on AO3

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steppin out of body

Stiles is ninety-seven percent sure he’s going to die out here.

The violent shivers and chattering teeth ceased ten minutes ago, and not even the line of Derek’s werewolf heat down his right side makes any difference. It turns out the discount boots he bought last year from Bob’s Bargain Bin aren’t such a bargain; frigid water seeps through the seams, turning his toes to ice, to fire. He wiggles them regularly as they trudge through the thickening carpet of heavy snow, fearing the numbness he could easily succumb to.

Stiles isn’t stupid. He can decipher the messages his very-human body broadcasts loud and clear.

“No,” Derek commands, slapping at his cheek with a gloved hand, the impact dull and muted against his frozen skin. “Eyes open, Stiles. Stay with me. Stay with…”

Damn the Nemeton, screaming out to every worthless supernatural pain-in-Stiles’-ass. This time it called down a Chenoo, a man-eating ice giant from the Great White North. The demon slid down the west coast like an avalanche, bashing through the border, ushering in plummeting temperatures, a torrent of wind-driven snow and sleet slashing Stiles’ face like werewolf claws. Vicious gusts of icy wind followed, slithering inside Stiles’ thin jacket to coil around his heart and crush his lungs. Stiles would have preferred it brought Kraft dinner and Molson Canadian, like a typical tourist.

A California boy born and bred, his genetic makeup lacks an adoration of arctic temperatures. He’s ill-equipped for a blizzard in November.

Even Derek’s nose glows Rudolph-red from the chill.

“You can kill a Cheeno by melting its heart with salt,” Deaton supplied earlier that afternoon, “but a few legends claim you can save the man within the monster.”

“Save a cannibal? Yeah, fuck that noise,” Stiles had said, tossing down the magazine he’d been reading and grabbing the cannister of Morton’s Iodized, slipping his feet into his crappy boots. It seemed like a good idea at the time, he and Derek against the latest monster of the week. Nothing new. But now a blanket of white makes it impossible to see ten feet in front of them, flakes floating down from the sky like errant feathers, dancing in front of his eyes like a whirl of stars. It blinds him, envelopes him. Every minute lasts an hour.

He should have taken the FBI assignment offered when he attended the academy. Memphis. It didn’t snow in Memphis. Why hadn’t he taken it? Oh yeah. Scott. His father. Derek.

The sun dips below the horizon, adding insult to injury.

Stiles can’t feel his nose anymore, or his toes. He inhales broken glass with each breath. The longer he stares into the white void, the more everything starts to feel peaceful and pointless. Stiles closes his eyes.

“Do you hear that?” Derek hisses. Stiles’ eyes snap open in time to see the breath billowing out of Derek’s windburned lips in rolling clouds of steam. “It sounds like…”

Stiles hears the violent wind rattling dry, bare branches of winter-dead trees, and the random song playing on repeat in his head. Going down with my wings on fire, guess I’ll see you in another life. He prays that in a few years, in a decidedly less stark and frozen landscape, the lyrics will blast through Roscoe’s shitty speakers, and Stiles will stop and listen, say “ah yes, that time I almost froze to death,” just another moment unfolding in the supernatural shitstorm of his life, and not the soundtrack to the end of it.

But Derek cocks his head, eyes narrowed into slits, frost clinging to his bushy black eyebrows, so Stiles tugs up the ear flaps on his hat, strains to hear past the snow’s white noise, so like a chorus of howling werewolves. Yowling, squalling, wailing…

“A baby,” Stiles gasps, voice rasping through blue-tinged lips, knees threatening to buckle in shock. Who would ever bring a baby out in this storm? He was tired, drained, and dispirited before, and now, a thin film of desperation stretches over it all like saran wrap. “I hear a baby crying.”

Derek pulls Stiles impossibly closer, abruptly turning them to the left and floundering through calf-deep snow mounds and crushing darkness. Derek blunders toward the cries with steps as uncoordinated as a newborn foal, his confident gait lost to the storm. Stiles grits his teeth and slogs on.

Mother nature pummels him into a Popsicle.

“Oh,” Stiles says some indeterminable time later, “I see something.” Up ahead, a small cabin materializes, rising from the bleak isolation like a desert mirage, windows alight with a dim glow. Every blink of his heavy eyelids brings the cabin into better focus; green tin roof, stainless steel chimney pipe puffing out grey clouds of smoke, two rickety steps leading up to a narrow porch laid with red cedar planks.

Derek takes Stiles under the armpits and hauls him up over his left shoulder, heading toward shelter with Stiles bouncing clumsily into Derek’s back with each step. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, going statue-still.

“Wha?” Stiles mumbles toward Derek’s ass.

A moment of hesitation. “I only hear one heartbeat.”

The desperate mewling raises in pitch. “Derek, can we please go inside? If the damn Cheeno has somehow lured us here, at least I’ll be warm when I die.”

Derek drags them both through the front door, leaving a track of icy puddles and slushy clumps of snow as they stumble over the threshold. Stiles finds himself dumped unceremoniously onto an oriental rug in front of a slowly dying fire. “Get your clothes off!” Derek barks at him as he kneels in front of the weak flames, pulling off his gloves and reaching for the stack of wood next to the stone fireplace.

Stiles always wanted to hear Derek say those words, and he’s honestly a little pissed they’re wasted on a life-or-death situation.

Stiles isn’t capable of finesse on his best days, but his numb fingers fumble pathetically at the snaps and zippers of his clothes. Each new piece of blue and purple dappled bare skin he uncovers sets alarm bells peeling inside his skull. “Wh-wh-where is the b-b-baby?” The chattering teeth return, his neck swollen and stiff as he turns it this way and that until his gaze lands on a bassinet in the corner.

“Fire first, then I’ll get the baby,” Derek says, blowing on the growing blaze. “Take everything off. All your wet clothes.” He closes the wire mesh curtain across the hearth and stands, shedding his own clothes piece by piece as he crosses the small living space. Derek blows warm breath into his cupped hands before he reaches into the bassinet, pulling out a wiggling red blanket and clutching it gently to his bare chest. It’s a sight to behold, but Stiles can barely keep his eyes open.

Unable to stand, Stiles reaches for the corner of a quilt thrown haphazardly over a worn plaid couch, dragging it down and pulling it across the floor. Derek keeps the baby in one strong arm and hoists Stiles’ limp body onto the quilt with the other, settling down next to him on the carpet.

“Come here,” Derek says, reclining with one arm around Stiles’ shoulders, maneuvering him, so Stiles’ backside faces the fire, and Derek’s werewolf body heat blazing down Stiles’ front, the baby a warm weight on Derek’s ribs.

“The parents?” Stiles slurs, imagining the bloodbath that will ensue when an unsuspecting mother and father find two butt-naked grown men cuddling their kid.

“I can’t detect any other scents. It’s just us.”

“Hmmm.” The heat of the fire and the safety of Derek’s body make Stiles’ eyelids very heavy.

“Don’t go, Stiles,” Derek orders. “Stay with me. Please.” For a brief moment, a white halo frames Derek’s beautiful face. He cups Stiles’ jaw, and Stiles could swear his fingers feel like scratchy wool mittens.

“I’m always with you, dumbass,” Stiles replies and promptly falls asleep.

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Stiles wakes with the luxurious Saturday morning feeling of having slept in with no alarm, despite early dawn light seeping into the room through sheer curtains, casting everything in soft dream-like shades of gray. He’s so warm and content he buries his face back into the plush pillow under his head, determined to retreat once again into sweet oblivion.

“You know I adore your mom, but she was wrong about this co-sleeping thing. Best decision we ever made,” murmurs a tender voice behind him. The words get emphasized with some semblance of a kiss, all hot, soft lips and tongue leaving goosebumps in their wake as they travel lazily down the back of Stiles’ neck. The easy-going morning disperses like mist as Stiles blinks open his eyes to see the tiny, angelic face of a baby–presumably the same one from the cabin–wrapped in a thin red muslin blanket and sleeping next to him. It lies in a strange contraption attached to the bed with three breathable mesh sides, atop a fitted sheet adorned with fluffy dancing sheep wearing nightcaps. As Stiles watches, the baby’s tiny bow mouth makes adorable little sucking motions.

Wait a minute.

Stiles knows he’s in trouble when the baby makes sense, but the king-sized bed he’s woken up in doesn’t.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Stiles has run with wolves since age sixteen and can keep a tight lid on a furiously beating heart. “Pretty sure this place did not look like this last night,” he says, words falling from his mouth in a smooth line as his stomach ties itself in knots.

A huffed laugh. “I’ll do the laundry today, I promise. Who knew a baby could go through so many clothes?”

Not me, Stiles thinks, sitting up in bed and kicking away a blue sheet. He’s wearing unfamiliar light-gray sweatpants and a maroon t-shirt. The man next to him grunts at the loss of body heat, and Stiles glances over. Yup, it’s Derek, black hair sticking up every which way like he stuck his head in a blender.

Stiles crawls to the foot of the bed, tip-toes to the sliding glass doors leading to a balcony, and parts the curtains an inch. Pre-dawn light paints the curving facade of the U.S. Bank Tower mellow orange. Stiles has only ever seen it in movies. Free from alien encounters and earthquake damage, the staggering architecture looks like a staircase up into the pink morning clouds. He puts his hand up to the cold glass. “We’re in L.A.”

Another grunt behind him. Stiles’ head pivots back and forth between the skyline and the majestic view of Derek sprawled on his stomach, broad shoulders tapering down a smooth, naked back. He follows the line of Derek’s spine to his boxer-brief clad backside on full display. The cotton clings to every dip and curve of Derek’s perfect ass.

“How did we get to L.A.?”

Derek’s head rises from the pillow. “Huh? Come back to bed before you wake Conor.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing.” He scrubs a hand down his face, huffs out a breath. “The bed. That wasn’t here before. Or the fancy baby crib, or your underwear, or the god-damn city of Los Angeles.”

Derek twists, sitting up in bed and rubbing crust from his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?” He asks. Then he does something so crazy Stiles thinks he just may have died out in the snow.

Derek smiles.

Not just any smile. Stiles’ has seen Derek produce some mean ones, some faux-flirtatious ones, some blood-thirsty ones, but he’s never seen one like this: huge, happy, full of white teeth. It lights up Derek’s whole face, makes his green eyes go adorably squinty.

“No, nope, uh uh.” Stiles tries to take a step back, but his shoulders collide with the slider. What imposter wears Derek’s flawless butt and happy face? Stiles has a mini heart attack.

“Who are you?”

Now the smile falls away, leaving behind comically-wide green eyes and an arched brow. His Derek would never show this level of befuddlement. He’d school his face into an impossibly hard mask.

“Dylan,” he answers, very slowly, “I’m your husband.”

———-

Imposter-Derek’s name is Tyler, and he remains unfailingly patient and positive in the face of his husband’s epic freak out and insistence that a mythological creature in an alternative universe cursed him. ”I should have paid more attention to Deaton when he talked about annihilating the Chenoo, but there was a fascinating article in Entertainment Weekly.”

“This better not be a ploy to get out of diaper duty,” Derek-Tyler says with a smile. Honestly, the guy’s demeanor baffles Stiles. This level of sweetness doesn’t exist outside a candy store.

Baby Conor wakes up with a chortling wail, demanding food and a clean butt, which Tyler supplies as Stiles does a convincing imitation of a lost puppy and follows him around. “You’re good at this whole thing. At parenthood,” Stiles praises. The sight of Derek–or a Derek look-a-like–gently cradling a tiny infant in his massive beefcake arms, holding a warm bottle of formula in his meaty fist, makes Stiles want to swoon. Even the greedy pig-like noises Conor makes causes a strange effervescent bubbling behind Stiles’ ribs. What in the world is happening to him? Gas? Or did he show up in this parallel universe with a uterus and a biological clock? He pulls the waistband of his sweatpants away from his torso. Well, at least the equipment on the outside remains the same.

Stiles and Tyler get dressed, and migrate into the kitchen through a narrow hallway and spacious living room; walls painted the color of buttery suede. Books and baby toys litter the floor, framed family photographs, and baseball paraphernalia hanging on nearly every wall of their home. Upon closer inspection, Stiles finds one of the pictures is of Tyler in a Sacramento River Cats uniform, mid-run, right arm slung back, ready to throw.

“Dude, do you play professional ball?” Stiles asks, impressed, fingertips tracing the edges of the black wooden frame.

Tyler blushes, becomingly, one muscular arm cuddling the baby closer to his broad chest. “Yeah. I played baseball in college and got drafted, but I injured my hamstring a few years ago. I doubt I’ll ever get called up to the major leagues. Want some water? Juice?”

The seamless transition of conversation, the quick, subtle deflection onto Stiles and away from himself is such a Derek move it leaves Stiles dizzy, struggling for balance as he straddles two worlds.

“Water,” Stiles croaks.

Tyler opens the refrigerator, reaches for the Brita with his free hand, and at least twenty glass bottles stacked on the door shelves clink together like Christmas bells. “Uh, why do we own so much root beer?”

Tyler shrugs. “You’re a big root beer guy.”

Huh. Stiles can’t remember the last time he had root beer, but his mother adored root beer floats “Actually, I’ll take one of those.”

At the kitchen table, Tyler leaned his chin into his hand, gazing at Stiles while he sips his carbonated sugar. A shaft of late-morning light catches the fizzing bubbles surging up the neck of the bottle, sending little sun sparks dancing across the wood between them.

“I don’t know how you can remain so calm in the face of all this,” Stiles says for the millionth time in the few short hours they’ve been awake. “Does your husband typically try to convince you that he’s someone else?”

Tyler props Conor on his shoulder, gently rubbing and patting his back. “Only when we role-play.”

Root beer sprays from Stiles’ mouth in an inelegant arc, splattering all over the tabletop. Fantastic, now his overactive brain supplies him with enough jerk-off material to last a century. It’s just his luck to land in a universe where Derek smiles and laughs and is kinky to boot.

“But seriously, Dylan, we’ve been through worse than a little memory lapse.” Stiles lays his head down on the wet surface, resolutely refusing to ask. He doesn’t want to know. Knowing would mean caring. “Though I do wish you’d reconsider going to the hospital. They could run some tests and-”

Stiles holds up a hand. “No. No tests. At least, not today. If we wake up tomorrow and nothing has changed, then yes, I promise I’ll go to the doctor. Just…” He remembers having an MRI, the fear and panic before rolling into the claustrophobic tube, the loud clunks and bangs, of what bad news the results will bring. Because it’s doubtful skipping universes like a pebble on a lake produces anything positive. “Not today.”

Tyler nods. “Okay. I have an idea. Here, hold Conor.” He passes Stiles the baby and walks into the living room, opening the doors on a TV stand and pulling out an old DVD player. Stiles watches as he fiddles around behind the flat-screen television, plugging it in and powering it up. “I’m going to grab our wedding DVD,” Tyler says, heading toward the bedroom.

Stiles is left alone with Conor for the first time. “Hi, little man,” Stiles whispers into the crook of the baby’s warm neck. He smells sweet and powdery, and the unique scent kind of makes Stiles feel high. He’s adorable and small, and fragile, and now that Stiles thinks about it for half a second, completely panic-inducing. Who in their right mind would leave Stiles in charge of a baby?! He breaks everything. Hopefully, this Dylan guy is a bit less accident-prone than Stiles.

Tyler pops in the video, and they lay the baby on a blanket in the living room with a few toys, and Stiles gets to watch two hours of footage of himself marrying Derek.

Half-way through the reception Erica and Boyd waltz by, and Stiles sees Isaac in profile, standing at the bar laughing at something Jackson says. He desperately wants to ask, but doesn’t think he could handle it if these pack members, lost to lies and danger and that merciless bitch the Grim Reaper, are just phantom faces with different names.

“That was sweet and kind of funny,” Stiles says after listening to himself recite his vows.

“Yeah,” Tyler agrees. “You’re pretty amazing.”

Is this who Derek would be if there’d been no Kate? No Jennifer? No Paige? Seriously, it’s like a case of the body snatchers. Fuck Stiles’ life (but not this one! This one’s pretty perfect).

“Did it jog any memories?” Tyler asks when the TV goes black.

Stiles hates letting down someone so earnest. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s all right.” Tyler squeezes one of Stiles’ shoulders in a firm grip. “I have one more idea if it’s okay with you. Then we can give it a rest until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay. But first, do you mind if I shower?” A phantom layer of dried sweat from his trek through the snow yesterday still sticks to Stiles’ skin.

Dylan and Tyler’s shower has soapstone walls, duel jets, a rain massage showerhead, recessed lighting, and a cedar plank ceiling. If he ever gets home, he’s convincing Derek to build a replica of this shower, and let Stiles use it any time he wants. Derek’s trust fund should go to something other than tight pants and dark colored shirts. Something that benefits Stiles directly (since the clothes benefit his eyeballs indirectly).

After he’s dressed, Stiles leans against the sink, wiping the fog from the mirror with the corner of his damp towel. He studies his reflection—same number of moles on his cheeks, same wide amber eyes. Fingertips poke at his cheeks, eyebrows, forehead. A hand rubs between his eyes. Why do you get to keep him in this universe, but not your own? his reflection asks.

Hushed voices filter in from the living room, and he sneaks a peek around the door jamb. A pretty middle-aged woman stands by the front door, shooting a frown at Tyler, her head tilted. “What do you think it is?” She asks, shrugging out of her cardigan sweater and draping it over the oversized recliner. “Stress? PTSD?”

“I don’t know,” Tyler replies. Wait, PTSD over what? “If the memory loss persists, we’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. I thought maybe seeing you would help him.”

Stiles steps into the living room, capturing their attention. The woman isn’t familiar, he’s never seen her in his life, but he knows her face the minute she looks at him. Stiles’ father has filled his life with love, but there’s no substitute for a mother. And that’s who this woman is, his mother. No one’s looked at Siles this way since he was eight years old. A razor edge of pain cuts into his heart.

His eyesight blurs, and red, blotchy heat creeps up his cheeks. Stiles swipes a thumb under one eye and tries to make it look like he’s scratching his cheek.

“Oh, Dylan, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m your mom, Lisa.”

—————

Halfway through Lisa filling him in on Dylan’s early life growing up in New Jersey, their move to California when he was twelve, and his stint in a band, Stiles’ stomach lets out a growl loud enough to rival a werewolf.

“We haven’t eaten anything all day,” Tyler says. “Root beer doesn’t count.”

“Why don’t you both go out for dinner,” Lisa offers. “I’ll watch Conor.” She makes kissy faces at their son, who yanks at her brown hair, and warmth swells in Stiles’ chest. He’s missed being part of a family, and this one sits gift-wrapped like a present just for him.

They walk outside, shoulders bumping. “We could drive into downtown,” Tyler offers, “but the traffic will be terrible, even at this time.”

Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jeans, scoping out the view of the city skyline in the distance. “Whatever, dude. I’m game for somewhere local.”

Tyler eyes him, weighing the options, then graces him with another one of those megawatt smiles. “I think this day calls for The Coop.”

Stiles finds himself at a hole-in-the-wall, family-run pizzeria, scarfing down the best-tasting pizza ever. They split a large pie, ordered off a red menu adorned in green and white writing that makes Stiles think of Christmas.

Tyler wipes the grease off his lips with a paper napkin and leans back, resting his elbows on his chair arms. “You love eating here,” he tells Stiles. “We don’t often come here because I’m usually trying to stay in decent shape for baseball, but when we get here, we always order the works, hold the pineapple. You’re known to demolish an entire pie by yourself.”

At least this Dylan guy has good taste in pizza. Slow roasted tomato sauce and melted cheese punched him in the nose as soon as he walked in.

Stiles throws down his napkin, a white flag signaling his defeat to the single slice left on the pizza pan. He picks up the red plastic cup half-filled with root beer–turns out this stuff is pretty addicting– and gnaws on the cardboard straw between sips. “So, how’d we meet? Did I accidentally traipse across your yard, and you tell me I was trespassing?”

Tyler blinks. “That’s weirdly specific.” He picks up his beer bottle, takes a swig. “No. You’re a sports broadcaster, and you came to one of my games to interview me.”

“Love at first sight?” Stiles inquiries, tongue chasing his straw across his lips.

Tyler raises a brow, gesture a mirror-image of Stiles’ Derek. “That’s very distracting. Who taught you to use a straw?”

Stiles places the cup back down on the lacquered tabletop. “Sorry. D-” he pauses. “My friend back home complains about that too.”

“This friend who looks suspiciously like me?”

“Yeah. Him.”

Tyler laughs. “I’m sure he finds it distracting, too. Give the poor guy a break.”

“Anyway…” Stiles doubts he’s ever the person to steer a conversation back on track, but today is a day of firsts. First time I woke up in bed with Derek. There’s more, but his brain keeps getting stuck on that one. “Was it love at first sight for you and your husband?”

Tyler’s eyes go soft, unfocused. “We clicked right away, but no. Every date we went on just got better and better until we eventually moved in together.”

“When did you know he was the one?” Stiles asks, trying to imagine a world where he and Derek didn’t immediately clash like oil and water.

Tyler’s cheeks bloom apple-red. Oh, there’s a story here, and I want it. “I knew the first Christmas we spent together when I watched you hump an artificial tree. I said to myself, ‘Tyler, you’ve gotta keep this one.’”

Laughter bursts out of Stiles’ mouth. “Please,” he wheezes, “tell me more.”

Tyler does.

“How’d we end up an old married couple with a kid?” Stiles asks as they push through the doors of the restaurant, spilling out onto the warm pavement. Stiles thinks of the freezing temperatures of the blizzard he trudged through with Derek the day prior and shivers despite the sun’s heat.

Here Tyler hesitates, shoulders pulling high and back, spine lengthening. It’s Derek’s ’going into battle’ pose. Stiles has seen it enough times to know it by heart, his own body reacting on instinct, stepping closer to Tyler, creating a united front.

“We were going along great,” Tyler says, “having a good time. We both figured we’d get married, eventually. Our careers kept us busy; we didn’t rush into things. But one day, I’m in Sacramento, practicing at Raley Field, and my manager calls me off second base to tell me I’ve got to get home; you’d been in an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Stiles asks. Just as disaster-prone, I see.

Tyler’s hands clench at his sides. “A car hit you at work.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, stupidly. I’m usually the one running over people.

“You had a terrible concussion, the doctors worried about brain damage, and pretty much the entire right side of your face needed reconstructive surgery.”

“Jeez.” Stiles presses fingertips to his right cheekbone. “I can’t imagine your terror.” Derek’s reactions every time Stiles gets hurt is bad enough; he can’t imagine what Tyler must have gone through watching the man he loves lay injured in a hospital bed.

“All of a sudden, things didn’t seem so carefree. The thought of losing you was-” Tyler stops, takes a deep breath. Before he registers the movement, Stiles grabs Tyler’s hand, entwining their fingers and squeezing reassuringly. Tyler smiles shyly, presses back, and air stalls in Stiles’ lungs. Quicksand paves the road they’re walking down; the more Stiles flails around in memories of a life that isn’t his own, the deeper he sinks.

“We got married a year later after you’d recovered from surgery. We know we’re lucky to have this nearly stolen life, and we wanted to share that with someone. Now, we have Conor.”

Tyler stops walking, turns to face Stiles—to face Dylan. “It took us a long time to get here.” He pulls Stiles into a tight hug, and Stiles willingly goes, lets himself get wrapped up in arms he never thought he’d feel around him. “But we got here.”

———-

They dismiss Lisa with a round of hugs and promises to call in the morning if nothing has changed. Conor gets a bath in a tub they place in the ample kitchen sink, gurgling happily over the plastic bath toys Stiles flies around his bald head while Tyler scrubs him down. “My mom used to wash the Thanksgiving turkey in the sink,” Stiles tells them.

“Are you comparing our son to overstuffed poultry?” Tyler honest-to-god giggles. Did Derek ever giggle? Could Stiles help him find that much joy?

Stiles pokes at one of Conor’s adorably chubby legs, earning a gummy smile. “The resemblance is striking.”

Tyler does the bedtime routine, and they eat a quiet, amicable dinner of grilled chicken and baked potatoes at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know about you,” Stiles says around a yawn, “but I’m freaking beat, man. This day has been an emotional rollercoaster.”

“Agreed,’ Tyler replies, rolling his shoulders. “Sleep?”

“Totally.”

“I can take the couch?” Tyler offers when they walk into the darkened bedroom. Stiles eyes the bed between them, bathed in the milk-light of the moon streaming through the curtains. Conor is a tiny lump in his bassinet, soft snores echoing around the room.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. It’s totally fine. Married people sleep in the same bed.”

Tyler smiles, shoulders dropping from where they’d migrated to his ears. Stiles has stared at that smile all day, but he’s still not immune. It’s a flash of lightning, bright and dazzling, rolling through him like thunder. He’s shaken. “I’m glad. Honestly, I always sleep better when you’re with me.”

I’m always with you, dumbass.

Stiles can see why. As soon as they slide under the covers—Stiles in the sweatpants and T-shirt ensemble from the morning, and Tyler in his boxer-briefs and nothing else—Tyler cuddles up next to him, sighing deeply. He’s a comforting line of heat and weight, and Stiles turns toward him, instinctually. Tyler’s already drifting off, blinking sleepy half-lidded eyes at him.

“Goodnight,” Stiles whispers.

“Mmm, goodnight,” Tyler replies. He leans forward, rubs the tip of his nose against Stiles’, and brushes his mouth against Stiles’ lips, tongue lazily surging, tasting like mint, fresh and sharp. Is this wrong? It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels right. Tyler threads his fingers into Stiles’ hair, pulling him closer, cradling the back of his head like he’s something precious, beloved. Large, strong hands skim across Stiles’ skull, cup his face, thumbs brushing featherlight over his cheekbones. Stiles hums contentedly into the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Tyler slurs, pulling away just far enough to look into Stiles’ eyes. “I know you don’t remember, and I-”

“Tyler, kiss me again.” The next few moments simmer between them, threatening to boil over, but they dial back the heat, let it cool until their foreheads pressed together, lips and noses gently rubbing.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself believe that Derek Hale, the king of drawing lines in the sand and chasing Stiles back to the other side, cards long, gentle fingers through Stiles’ hair as he falls asleep. Stiles could get used to this; he wants this. And because Stiles lies to himself on the daily, he refuses to acknowledge that he has desired this for as long as he can remember knowing Derek.

Would it be so wrong to stay here and keep this life? It’s a luxury he hasn’t dared to allow himself to ponder since he woke up in this alternate reality.

Conor lets out a couple of guttural, cranky sounds. Tyler grumbles and starts to stir, jerky, half-asleep movements, “Shh,” Stiles says, running a long-fingered hand down Tyler’s back. “I’ve got this. You sleep.”

He carries Conor—his son—to the changing pad atop their dresser, and flicks on the lamp. It casts the little corner of their world in a soft golden glow. “We got this, buddy,” he tells Conor in a sing-song voice. “I’ll be a diaper changing expert in no time.” Conor blows spit bubbles at him. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Stiles answers. “We’re both doomed.”

Changing diapers is a little more involved than Stiles realized, and he ends up with baby pee all over his shirt and Conor’s onesie. He divests Conor of his wet suit and takes a moment to plant a few raspberries against the soft soles of the baby’s feet, earning delighted squeals and flailing limbs. “This little piggy went to the market, and this little piggy stayed home,” Stiles recites, wiggling Conor’s tiny toes. “This little piggy ate roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And this little p—”

Stiles rubs his eyes frantically, blinks hard a few times. Counts. Counts again. One, two, three, four, five…

Six.

He studies the other foot. Six toes. Heart in his throat, he takes Conor’s grasping little hands in his and counts. No, no, no. Six fingers on each side.

How do you tell if you’re awake or dreaming?

Your fingers. You count your fingers. “You have extra fingers in dreams,” Stiles tells Conor, and then he wakes up.

❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄

Stiles wakes in a panicky stupor, faces of nurses, doctors, and the Sheriff, who looks like he’s aged ten years, staring down at him, blurring together like paint on a canvas.

He flings out one hundred-pound arm, reaching for his child, for Tyler, for a world where his pack is alive and well and happy. I’ve only had the perfect life for a day and a half, but if anything happened to it I’d kill everyone in this room and then myself. A giggle hiccups out of his dry throat.

“…nerve damage…dead tissue,” the surgeon explains, but some morphine-derivative courses through his system and he listens to it all from the deep end of a warm tunnel. “The bad news is, you lost the one toe to frostbite, but I saved the others. And the loss of a pinky toe doesn’t impede balance at all.”

Stiles nods. The conversation hangs around him like a dense fog. “That sucks,” he croaks out, words lengthening as the drugs pull his tongue like taffy. “But…where is my husband?”

Behind the doctor, two nurses exchange glances, eyes wide over their surgical masks. His father shakes his head back and forth. “Stiles… you’re not married.”

”I am, ” he insists. ”And my baby. I have a baby.”

“Completely normal,” the doctor consoles. “Nothing to worry about. Some patients experience hallucinations and dreams as the anesthesia wears off.”

Oh yeah. Conor’s happy squeals, Tyler’s glorious smile, having a mom again. None of it was real.

“Recovery time typically takes between two and six weeks. You’ll have to keep the incision clean diligently and the stitches covered, but before you know it, you’ll walk again,” the doctor tells him. “You’ll run.”

Laughter gallops up his throat like a wild horse. He’s shaking again as he did in the snow, bones rattling and teeth clicking audibly together even as he desperately tries to clench his jaw and keep them still.

I’ve been running since I was sixteen. I don’t want to run anymore.

His father plucks a Kleenex from the box on his hospital tray, hands it to him. The thin tissue is sandpaper between Stiles’ raw fingertips. “Wh-why are you g-giving me this?” Stiles asks between gasps of air.

“Son,” his father says softly, “you’re crying.”

———-

His hospital room smells like a funeral parlor. Lily of the valley, morning glory, and peony. Scott charges in the moment Stiles can receive visitors outside the pathetic roster of family members, carrying a vase of blue dicks. “Get it?! Because you had hypothermia! You were freezing your-”

“Yeah, buddy. I get it.”

Get Well Soon the generic message on the flower card commands, but the problem is, Stiles isn’t sick. He’s grieving. But how can I mourn a life I never had?

By lunchtime, the snow stops, the sun shines, and Derek saunters into his hospital room as if he owns it. He looks stoically handsome in his black leather jacket and signature scowl, calm and composed, and smells like fresh air. Stiles’ emotional state soars dangerously from elation to despair, settling somewhere in the realm of weary acceptance.

“They obliterated my toe,” Stiles tells Derek when he approaches the bedside, pulling back the sheet to reveal his foot wrapped up in a mountain of gauze.

“I know,” Derek replies, pulling up a folding chair and falling gracefully into it. He props his sneakers up on top of the room’s air-conditioning unit. “I brought you here and stayed until your Dad could come. The doctor said he’d try his best, but…” Derek shrugs. He knows all about good intentions.

“Scott told me you went back out after I got out of surgery, killed the Chenoo.”

Derek grimaces. “I have salt in crevices where salt should never go.”

“I’m ah, I’m sorry I was wea-”

Derek holds up a hand. “Stiles, stop. Never apologize for your humanity.”

But it’s more than physical feebleness. It’s the mental weakness that settles on Stiles’ shoulders like a villains cloak—stitched with shame, edged in anger, dyed red because he looks damn good in red, and no one can tell him otherwise.

Stiles pulls a flat hospital pillow into his arms, holding it across his chest like armor, curling tighter around it with each word. ��Scott said you know about the hallucinations.” Might as well get this over with now, when the wound is still fresh enough to heal with a minimal amount of scarring.

”I do, ” Derek replies. ”Did Scott tell you I stayed the entire time? I only left this morning to kill the Chenoo.”

”He may have mentioned something along that line.” It’s the sole reason Stiles is brave enough to tackle this conversation now. Dude, Scott had said, Derek stood outside the ICU for hours. Your dad totally thinks you’re boning him.

“Derek?” Stiles fidgets with the sheet covering his leg. “I need to ask you something.”

Gold-flecked green eyes bore into him. Lacking Tyler’s delicate laugh lines, they feel sharper than a knife. “You can ask me anything, Stiles.”

He already grilled his father in every detail, but he needs to hear it from Derek’s mouth. “Did we find shelter from the storm in a cabin in the preserve? Was there a…” He stumbles; Conor’s face flashes before his eyes. “Was there a baby there? A baby boy in a red blanket?”

Derek’s punctuates his gentle but firm statement with a shake of his head. “No, Stiles. You passed out, and I carried you here.”

“From the preserve? Dude. That’s like… Miles.”

Derek nods. He doesn’t say it, but somehow Stiles can hear the unspoken And I’d do it again because he’d do the same for Derek. Sadness surges like a wave, sudden and powerful, the words pulled from his mouth in the tide. “I dreamt we were a family.”

“We are family, Stiles. Pack is family.”

“No.” Stiles bites his lip. “I imagined it all, made it up in my head, but it felt so damn real. We were a family; you, me, and our son.”

Derek’s feet drop back to the floor, his spine a tautly pulled string. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me more.”

Stiles tells him everything.

“Wait,” Derek says after Stiles finally stops speaking. “This sounds vaguely familiar.” Derek unfolds from the chair and moves toward the hospital room door.

“It does?” Stiles asks, hope igniting inside his chest. Maybe Derek’s dreamed about this before too.

“Stay right there,” Derek commands, eyebrows furrowed as he walks out of the room.

“Where do you imagine I’m going to go?” Stiles calls. “My foot is—”

“Yeah. I thought it sounded familiar!” Derek declares as he rushes back into the room, waving a magazine in front of Stiles’ face.

“What the heck, man?” Stiles struggles to sit up. “Did the nurses at the desk see you using werewolf speed?”

“Look,” Derek says, ignoring Stiles as usual. “Your surgery took two hours, and your father was scrambling for coverage so he could get over here. I sat in the waiting room, reading every magazine they had. I read this one.” He flips open an Entertainment Weekly and holds it under Stiles’ nose. There’s a handsome, dark-haired man in profile on the cover, looking down at a baby in a red blanket nestled in his arms. Another man flanks the infant; a smiling face turned toward the camera. The cover line reads, Tyler and Dylan may have ended their run on Teen Wolf, but their story is far from over.

Oh my god, you are such an idiot.

“Oh my god, I am such an idiot!” Stiles squeals, snatching them magazine out of Derek’s hand. No. No, it can’t be. Stiles did not almost die of hypothermia just to imagine he Freaky Friday-ed with a couple of actors.

“I knew Tyler and Dylan sounded familiar. They’re those actors who got married in real life, the ones on that stupid teenage werewolf soap opera you and Scott loved. And then they—”

“Adopted a baby last month,” Stiles finishes, flipping through the familiar pages. He’d perused the same magazine in Deaton’s clinic while they discussed how best to destroy the Chenoo.

“It makes perfect sense, Stiles,” Derek says, laying a hand down next to him on the bed. “Your brain latched onto the last thing you focused on before we left to hunt the Chenoo. It’s almost like that one episode of the show where Dylan’s character ends up in the Phantom Train Station between dimensions.”

“Hey,” Stiles gives Derek the stink eye. “You swore you never watched the show.”

An overly exaggerated eye roll. “I may have caught a couple of episodes.”

Stiles’ eyebrows smugly say, I told you so, and Derek’s answer, shut the fuck up, Stiles.

“Which one were you again?” Derek asks. “Which guy?”

Stiles looks at the happy face of the actor. “Dylan.”

“So I was Tyler?” Derek grimaces. “That guy looks like he’s thirty-five.”

“Yeah, but in the best way,” Stiles insists.

He huffs, but Stiles sees the tips of his ears burning bright pink. Derek looks down, rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “You know I’m not him, right?” Derek asks, pointing to the handsome, besotted face on the magazine cover. “I’m not some happy-go-lucky ray of sunshine.”

Stiles tosses the magazine to the window ledge, where it falls between two flower vases. “Yeah, I know,” Stiles softly replies. Butterflies flutter in his stomach; they tingle at the ends of his ten fingers and nine toes. “Doesn’t stop me from loving you, though.”

Derek climbs into Stiles’ hospital bed, presses his face into Stiles’ throat and sighs, warm breath fanning over Stiles’ skin, words vibrating. “The entire trek to the hospital, I was terrified.” Derek brushes an errant lock of hair from Stiles’ forehead. “Then we got here, and they wrapped you up in this insulation, trying to raise your body temperature. It took hours, and I spent every minute thinking I might never get the chance to tell you…I don’t know for sure what’ll happen; marriage, kids, all of the above, none of the above. But I know I never want to lose you.”

And he remembers Tyler, standing on the busy streets of Los Angeles, looking like a lost little boy when he talked about almost losing his husband. It’s the same face Derek wears now.

“I’m always with you, dumbass,” Stiles answers. Why did he think this would be hard? It’s as natural as breathing. “Important question, though. This might make or break everything, so think hard before you answer. How do you feel about bathroom makeovers? I have some ideas.”

“I feel strong to very strong about dual shower jets.”

“Dude,” Stiles says. “There’s a definite possibility we’re soulmates.” And then, Derek smiles. It’s not as big or as bright as Tyler’s, not nearly as all-consuming as his subconscious conjured, but Stiles thinks, with time and love, it will get there.

They’ll get there.

#froggydarren #stereksanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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douxreviews · 5 years

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The 100 - ‘What You Take With You’ Review

"Things are about to get weird."

Aren't things always getting weird??

If you showed up this week like I did thinking we were getting a filler episode, I hope you held on to your hat. We went for a ride.

The episode does remarkably well juggling multiple plot threads and character points of view. Even within each sect the performances are layered and felt on more than one front. That's not easy to do. I mean I was even starting to feel something for Josephine at one point.

Pike: "The path to the future goes through the past, Miss Blake. Psychology 101. We are what we've done and what's been done to us. I'll ask you again. Who are you now, Miss Blake? Your brother's sister or the monster who would have watched him die in this very arena?"

I really hate that she's still widely labeled by other people (brother's sister, monster, girl under the floor, Blodreina...) but the first order of business is Octavia's redemption. Not that she's redeemed herself with anyone really, but acknowledging that she wants it is at least a start. I've been looking forward to watching her let her walls down for weeks now and secretly hoping that it wasn't a sloppy after school special. I wasn't disappointed. Taking her back to the moment that she decided to kill Pike in cold-blooded revenge and not one of the 97 tragic things that happened to her was genius, if you ask me.

Pike said that we are what we've done and what's been done to us. For Octavia, killing Pike was maybe the only choice she ever made on her own. Being stuck under the floor or forced to fight to the death for your people or watching the love of your life die (just to name a few) were all traumatic events that shaped who she is, but she more or less had no wiggle room in the corners that she was backed into. Killing Pike, though, that was a calculated decision. He saved her life and fought along side her looking for his own redemption and Octavia made the decision to end his life. Going back to that moment and seeing Blodreina as Pike and Pike as Lincoln, she was able to make peace with the fact that he, Pike, was a person that (maybe) deserved to live just like Lincoln was and her mother was and she is now.

Everyone deserves a second chance and when she made the decision to take his away, that was when Blodreina was really born. When she gave into the violence and anger, that was the moment she had control over and could have made a different choice. I never liked Pike and was glad to see that mustache-twirling villain get the boot, or axe as it were, but something about that being the moment that Octavia needed to redo in her mind resonates with me. If Lincoln had shown up to whisper sweet encouragement in her ear, it wouldn't have played as well. If her mom had shown up to give her a pep talk, it wouldn't have carried the same weight. But Pike pointing out the moment she became the dictator that she never wanted to be and Octavia being able to figuratively prove that she would make a different choice was really beautiful. Love love love. You go girl.

For whatever it's worth, I was mildly thrown off for a while thinking that because Octavia lived under the floor that she wouldn't have taken earth skills with Pike so it was grating my nerves that he was being so teachery with her. Later I remembered a flashback episode where he was brushing up the OG 100 before they got shipped to the ground and felt better about it, but it's not a great sign to be distracted so easily.

The next order of business is Abby and Kane and the case of the missing bottle of ooze consciouses.

Indra: "On the Ark, you floated people for stealing food. On the ground, my people cheered as children fought to the death to lead us. Is this so much worse?" Marcus: "Yes, lives have been lost in the worshiping of false gods before, more than can be counted. But if we let it stand when we could stop it, then our new world would be no different than the one we left behind."

I love that we didn't listen to Abby and Raven whine about what a stellar moral compass Kane is just for him to show up and embrace this new body-snatcher reality. I love that he, like so many others, recognized that taking peoples lives is downright rude and unlike Gabriel and that other mechanic prime dude (Striker?), he didn't ignore his skeevy inclinations and keep his consolation body prize. More than all of that though, I was so, so happy to see Indra back with us and very happy that these two bffs got to have once last powwow. And how on point was it that she was barely fazed by yet another ridiculous turn of events. I mean she and Kane did live through cannibalism and cage-fighting to the death. I can see how this could've easily been written off as just one more atrocity on the list. Not on Kane's watch!

I appreciate that three-way conversation hammering home why they can't stand for this. Why it can't be weighed against other horrible things and why it's important to stand up now and push back. Be the good guys. Do better. Now that he's gone, though, who is going to make sure that the next thing gets addressed and not simply added to the list? I don't love the idea that everyone that puts their money where their mouth is on the moral high ground finds themselves dead. I prefer a little levity in my TV.

RIP, Kane. Again.

Josephine: "My father was a fool for letting you people stay. All that time spent building a sanctuary for the human race, and he destroys it because of the most human thing of all – love."

Was letting them stay really the big mistake here? Because my money would've been on the attempted murder of Clarke Griffin. If Russell hadn't let them stay, they would've taken Sanctum by force, right?

And while I'm harping on unreliable characters, there was the moment that Josie seemed genuinely upset at the thought of seeing Gabriel and taken aback at Bellamy's declaration to Clarke. Why? She had to wonder if Gabriel was still alive somewhere in the weird woods and Bellamy didn't say anything that he hadn't already said. And Josephine is a master manipulator.

My love for the dynamic duo that is Clarke and Bellamy knows no bounds. They were part of this episode together for such a tiny speck of time, but I still lived for it.

Solid 3 out of 4 ghosts of massacres past

Bits and pieces

Do we know what was in Octavia's green box? Any guesses?

There was something particularly heart-wrenching about Octavia being chained to the fighting pit that she created. It made me think of all the time she spent under the floor and confined to that tiny room practically chained to the wall there as well. Marie G. played it very, very well. It was my favorite choice in a very well acted scene.

Octavia had to make a choice between a red box and a green box. Red is the color of blood and violence and anger. Green is the color or nature and renewal and peace. In the pit there was a small green light surrounded by a lot of red smoky light. Blodreina has a lot of red blood on her hands. The woods have a lot of greenery going on. Was the swirly green too? Is any of this relevant? Also, do I have to start calling the swirly the anomaly?

Kane came completely full circle floating himself to save humanity. When we met him, he was mercilessly floating people – also to save the human race.

Exceptionally lovely that Indra gave Kane the SpaceKru and Grounder sendoff. Her whole thing got me in the feelings. Much more than Abby snotting on the glass. Why am I so annoyed with Abby? Even Raven is cutting her slack.

Kane: "Everything is wrong."

Kane: "I am not one of the sheep you raised to follow you into oblivion." Wow.

We're all meant to blindly accept that Kane needed to be holding the serum to get it to fly into space, right? Okay. Okay, fine.

Josephine: "I’ve been in love with Gabriel for 236 years, the last 70 of which he’s been trying to kill me. You know, relationships."

Bellamy: "When the people we care about are in trouble, then we do what has to be done."

Bellamy: "I won't let you die."

Are TPTB going to do anything with the Children of Gabriel?? They're so one-note.

Gabriel: "Things are about to get weird."

---

Laure Mack

#The 100 #Clarke Griffin #Bellamy Blake #Octavia Blake #Raven Reyes #Marcus Kane #John Murphy #The 100 Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

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galivantingg · 4 years

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Short Story Slam 2020

June 5th 2020

for @short-story-slam

The war was bad. Really bad. All war is bad, but this one was horrific, not because of the atrocities committed by one country to another, but the atrocities committed from one person to another. People took the war as an excuse to pillage, rape, and kill. Neighbours turned on neighbours, family on family. In the areas where I lived, it was less common. I was very privileged in that sense. I was very privileged in general. In fact, it took a know at our door to really understand how bad things had gotten. The news didn't show the full story, didn't show the crimes being committed in the streets, meters from out door. And when that knock finally came, it was to drag us out of our home by the collar of out shirts, pilled into a truck with a bunch of other young twenty somethings, separated from the rest of our family by age and gender.

That was the first time I had heard about the Citadel. There were many rumours, the main one being that it was a small group of extremists that had been part of the group called Anonymous. I hadn't heard of them either, but they were supposedly a super powerful hacker group who knew too much about too many things, and had threatened to release all the evidence of the government official's crimes. The government officials hadn't taken the threat seriously, which led to the release of the information, and World War Three. Entire government systems collapsed over night, and where was I? Sitting comfortably in my home, enjoying three meals a day, and air conditioning.

I almost threw myself from the truck right then and there, hoping the one following us would crush me. I felt ashamed that I knew nothing of what had been happening, that my family and I had gotten off scot free. But something held me back. The curiosity of what would happen to us. we were taken to a castle of sorts, it looked big and old, and we were divided again. They didn't speak to us, what looked like police officers, except to tell us to step forward or move or get into a line. They had lots of weapons, and no one else was seemingly planning on fighting back, so I did as I was told. I found out later that we were one of the last batches of people picked up by the Citadel, and that there had already been uprisings that had been squashed almost immediately.

All I really remember form the sorting is that I was assigned Zone Three, and when I asked about my family, the woman at the table laughed and told me cruelly that I would not be seeing my family again. She took away anything I had of value, my family necklace and a woven bracelet my best friend had made for me, before sending me along to be packed up in the back of another truck. This ride was longer, and was spent in the dark. I could hear some quiet sobbing and some reassuring going on, but I paid it no mind. I couldn't place why I felt nothing. None of this was affecting me in any way. I didn't care that I had been separated from my family, that I was now living in a totalitarian government. I just didn't care, at least, not until months later, when they announced the Hecatomb. The real world's version of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. That got a reaction out of me. I didn't know what to call it, maybe I was too scared to admit what feeling it had given me, but in any case, it doesn't matter now.

What matters now is that we are gathered in the Square to listen to the Choosing. I was standing with the other twenty three year old women, near the back. The boys and men were across us, separated by a stage where our mayor was standing. Unlike The Hunger Games, your name is not added once every year you are eligible, and the eligibility age doesn't start at twelve. We start at the age of fifteen, which is still a little barbaric, and your name is entered as many times as you are old. Since this is the first Hecatomb, my name is only in there twenty three times. The youngest kids only have their name in fifteen times, and the oldest have theirs in twenty five times. The next year, your name is added again for the number of years you are. So next year, my name would be entered an extra twenty four times. The thing about the Choosing that is like Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games is that you can enter your name up to once per day for extra money or food.

Now, I am not a good person.

I do not enter my name extra times to protect others, I enter so I can live a comfortable life, because I know I will never be chosen. It just won't happen, my luck always seems to work out like that. So I took the extra money and food, and sometimes, when the guilt of how I had changed so drastically wormed it's way into my mind, I'd go out around the town and hand out money and food to those who need it more than I do. There weren't any babies, but there were young children, taken from their mothers and fathers and given to other men and women.

There was one reason I started doing this more regularly, as opposed to just once a month. That reason is Nyima. I see her around the community, handing out food and money too. I've also seen her in Town Hall, entering her name. She has young kids she takes care of, no doubt entering solely to feed them. She is the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. She stood tall and proud, a toddler clutching at her legs. Our eyes met for a second, and I was instantly drawn in, and found myself looking forward to seeing her every day at Town Hall. We never exchanged words, but we crossed paths once while we were both handing out food and money, and the nod of approval she gave me was all the motivation I needed to be hitting the streets every day.

She was a sudden light at the end of the tunnel, my light. She was the reason I didn't drink myself into oblivion, the reason I didn't starve or overeat just to feel something. She was the reason I am who I am today. Which brings us to our present day. A this point, it had been almost ten months since we had been rounded up and sorted into our zones. So that means roughly three hundred days that the both of us had added our names to the twenty three and twenty four that were already in there. I still wasn't a good person, but I knew good person habits and tendencies, so maybe I was like a goat in sheep's clothing? Not quite a sheep, but close enough.

Back to the moment. The Square. We were all standing there, those of us eligible roped off and the rest standing on the outskirts of the Square. Listening. Waiting. Mayor Reyes was digging around in the bowl that held three hundred and twenty three slips of paper with my name on it, and I was just starting to think that maybe I would get picked when the Mayor finally spoke.

"Eavan," her voice was loud and clear, and it took a while for it to register.

"Well shit," the words left my mouth before I could clamp it shut, and apparently I said it loud enough that the people around me heard as they looked at me with shocked expressions. I don't know why they're so shocked, and then I remembered that I don't really exist in their lives. I was the faceless hand that gave them money and food, nothing more. These young adults had never interacted with me. These young adults have never heard me swear, let alone speak. I think it's quite fitting, given that I've just been chosen as the first female Contender. Ever. Well, not the first, since the other two Zones have probably already picked what with the time difference, but she is the first from her Zone. The first ever from Zone Three.

"Eavan?" Mayor Reyes called out again. She searched the crowd for any signs of someone stepping forward, and for a moment I considered not moving, staying right where I was and letting her pick someone else's name. But I shook that thought off. That was horrible. I would accept my fate, because, because why? Why would I accept my fate? Because they'll kill everyone who knows you. The little voice of reason in the back of her head spoke up. It had a point. The Citadel knew a lot, including everyone I had ever interacted with. At the beginning, before the Citadel had full power, there was a lot of fighting, a lot up uprisings. But the Citadel knew something we didn't and when they took prisoners those prisoners became soldiers for the Citadel. No one knows what happens in there, because no one has ever escaped. The Citadel was the most effective conversion camp of them all.

One of the girls behind be prodded my back and I glared at her. She looked to young a frightened that I forgot for a moment that she was my age, twenty three. I looked at all the faces around me, we were the third oldest group that could become a Contender, but everyone looked so young, so helpless. I probably looked the same, but that's something I could use to my advantage. I raised my head and marched forward, a path clearing for me. I didn't try to hide my shaking, I wouldn't have been able to anyway, but I curled my hands into tight fists to give off the illusion that no matter how scared I am, I was not going to just lay down and take it. I didn't look very intimidating, I was tall sure, but because of my luxurious way of living, I was a little pudgy around the stomach. Despite that, I was strong, very strong, and I could move fast when I need to. I maybe wasn't as big of a threat as others, but I wouldn't die without a fight.

I wasn't going to win, I knew that much, but maybe I would die around the middle? I wasn't sure, and I tried remembering everything The Hunger Games had taught me about survival, which honestly aside from my archer lessons, was next to nothing. I walked up to the stage where the Mayor was waiting for me, and had me stand next to her. There was no volunteering in the Hecatomb. Your name gets drawn, you are a Contender. There is no changing that. I tuned out most of what she was saying next, and only tuned back in when she called the first male Contender's name. Spider O'Riley. A silly fist name, but a name nonetheless. He was a spindly sixteen year old, his eyes big in his head and unblinking, just like a real spider. It was freaky. We shook hands and he stood to Mayor Reyes right, waiting for the next woman to be called.

I almost didn't catch the name called, but it clicked when I saw her walk towards the stage. Nyima Basnet. Nyima! I was suddenly horrified, because Nyima was exactly the wrong person to be heading for this death trap. For starters, she's Tibetan, which I found out only by over hearing the Tow Hall staff so rudely mock her. And another thing, she's the sweetest person I had ever met, which technically we haven't formally met, but whatever. She is pure, and kind hearted, and everything good about a person. But most of all, she is peaceful. She's physically stepped in between fights to break them up, using only her words. Sometimes she got injured in the process, which I'm sure if you looked closely, you'd be able to see some healing bruises.

She steadily walked up the stage and across to the other Contenders, and shook all of our hands mechanically. I caught her eye, and in that small moment, I vowed to myself that I would make sure she won the first ever Hecatomb.

#short story slam 2020 #short story #short story slam

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pope-francis-quotes · 7 years

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10th September >> Pope Francis Homily During Mass in Colombia: ‘Peace requires healing of sins’ (photo ~ Pope Francis celebrates Mass in Colombia - AP) (Vatican Radio) Pope Francis celebrated Mass in Cartagena’s port area on Sunday at the conclusion of his Apostolic Visit to Colombia. The Holy Father reflected on the peace that Jesus brings through the community and how necessary it is for Colombian society. “For decades Colombia has yearned for peace”, he said, “but, as Jesus teaches, two sides approaching each other to dialogue is not enough; it has also been necessary to involve many more actors in this dialogue aimed at healing sins.” He said people cannot be ignored when making peace, in placing reason above revenge, and in respecting “the delicate harmony between politics and law”. “Peace is not achieved by normative frameworks and institutional arrangements between well-intentioned political or economic groups. Jesus finds the solution to the harm inflicted through a personal encounter between the parties,” he said. Please find below the official English translation of the Pope’s prepared homily: Homily: “The Dignity of the Person and Human Rights.” Cartagena de Indias Sunday, 10 September 2017 In this city, which has been called “heroic” for its tenacity in defending freedom two hundred years ago, I celebrate the concluding Mass of my Visit to Colombia. For the past thirty-two years Cartagena de Indias is also the headquarters in Colombia for Human Rights. For here the people cherish the fact that, “thanks to the missionary team formed by the Jesuit priests Peter Claver y Corberó, Alonso de Sandoval and Brother Nicolás González, accompanied by many citizens of the city of Cartagena de Indias in the seventeenth century, the desire was born to alleviate the situation of the oppressed of that time, especially of slaves, of those who implored fair treatment and freedom” (Congress of Colombia 1985, law 95, art. 1). Here, in the Sanctuary of Saint Peter Claver, where the progress and application of human rights in Colombia continue to be studied and monitored in a systematic way, the Word of God speaks to us of forgiveness, correction, community and prayer. In the fourth sermon of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus speaks to us, who have decided to support the community, to us, who value life together and dream of a project that includes everyone. The preceding text is that of the good shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go after the one that is lost. This fact pervades the entire text: there is no one too lost to deserve our care, our closeness and our forgiveness. From this perspective, we can see that a fault or a sin committed by one person challenges us all, but involves, primarily, the victim of someone’s sin. He or she is called to take the initiative so that whoever has caused the harm is not lost. During these past few days I have heard many testimonies from those who have reached out to people who had harmed them; terrible wounds that I could see in their own bodies; irreparable losses that still bring tears. Yet they have reached out, have taken a first step on a different path to the one already travelled. For decades Colombia has yearned for peace but, as Jesus teaches, two sides approaching each other to dialogue is not enough; it has also been necessary to involve many more actors in this dialogue aimed at healing sins. The Lord tells us in the Gospel: “If your brother does not listen to you, take one or two others along with you” (Mt 18:16). We have learned that these ways of making peace, of placing reason above revenge, of the delicate harmony between politics and law, cannot ignore the involvement of the people. Peace is not achieved by normative frameworks and institutional arrangements between well-intentioned political or economic groups. Jesus finds the solution to the harm inflicted through a personal encounter between the parties. It is always helpful, moreover, to incorporate into our peace processes the experience of those sectors that have often been overlooked, so that communities themselves can influence the development of collective memory. “The principal author, the historic subject of this process, is the people as a whole and their culture, and not a single class, minority, group or elite. We do not need plans drawn up by a few for the few, or an enlightened or outspoken minority which claims to speak for everyone. It is about agreeing to live together, a social and cultural pact” (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 239). We can contribution greatly to this new step that Colombia wants to take. Jesus tells us that this path of reintegration into the community begins with a dialogue of two persons. Nothing can replace that healing encounter; no collective process excuses us from the challenge of meeting, clarifying, forgiving. Deep historic wounds necessarily require moments where justice is done, where victims are given the opportunity to know the truth, where damage is adequately repaired and clear commitments are made to avoid repeating those crimes. But that is only the beginning of the Christian response. We are required to generate “from below” a change in culture: so that we respond to the culture of death and violence, with the culture of life and encounter. We have already learned this from your own beloved author whom we all benefit from: “This cultural disaster is not remedied with lead or silver, but with an education for peace, built lovingly on the rubble of an angry country where we rise early to continue killing each other... a legitimate revolution of peace which channels towards life an immense creative energy that for almost two centuries we have used to destroy us and that vindicates and exalts the predominance of the imagination” (Gabriel García Márquez, Message About Peace, 1998). How much have we worked for an encounter, for peace? How much have we neglected, allowing barbarity to become enfleshed in the life of our people? Jesus commands us to confront those types of behaviour, those ways of living that damage society and destroy the community. How many times have we “normalized” the logic of violence and social exclusion, without prophetically raising our hands or voices! Alongside Saint Peter Claver were thousands of Christians, many of them consecrated… but only a handful started a counter-cultural movement of encounter. Saint Peter was able to restore the dignity and hope of hundreds of thousands of black people and slaves arriving in absolutely inhuman conditions, full of dread, with all their hopes lost. He did not have prestigious academic qualifications, and he even said of himself that he was “mediocre” in terms of intelligence, but he had the genius to live the Gospel to the full, to meet those whom others considered merely as waste material. Centuries later, the footsteps of this missionary and apostle of the Society of Jesus were followed by Saint María Bernarda Bütler, who dedicated her life to serving the poor and marginalized in this same city of Cartagena.[1] In the encounter between us we rediscover our rights, and we recreate our lives so that they re-emerge as authentically human. “The common home of all men and women must continue to rise on the foundations of a right understanding of universal fraternity and respect for the sacredness of every human life, of every man and every woman, the poor, the elderly, children, the infirm, the unborn, the unemployed, the abandoned, those considered disposable because they are only considered as part of a statistic. This common home of all men and women must also be built on the understanding of a certain sacredness of created nature” (Address to the United Nations, 25 September 2015). Jesus also shows us the possibility that the other may remain closed, refusing to change, persisting in evil. We cannot deny that there are people who persist in sins that damage the fabric of our coexistence and community: “I also think of the heart-breaking drama of drug abuse, which reaps profits in contempt of the moral and civil laws. I think of the devastation of natural resources and ongoing pollution, and the tragedy of the exploitation of labour. I think too of illicit money trafficking and financial speculation, which often prove both predatory and harmful for entire economic and social systems, exposing millions of men and women to poverty. I think of prostitution, which every day reaps innocent victims, especially the young, robbing them of their future. I think of the abomination of human trafficking, crimes and abuses against minors, the horror of slavery still present in many parts of the world; the frequently overlooked tragedy of migrants, who are often victims of disgraceful and illegal manipulation” (Message for the World Day of Peace, 2014, 8), and even with a pacifist “sterile legality” that ignores the flesh of our brothers and sisters, the flesh of Christ. We must also be prepared for this, and solidly base ourselves upon principles of justice that in no way diminish charity. It is only possible to live peacefully by avoiding actions that corrupt or harm life. In this context, we remember all those who, bravely and tirelessly, have worked and even lost their lives in defending and protecting the rights and the dignity of the human person. History asks us to embrace a definitive commitment to defending human rights, here in Cartagena de Indias, the place that you have chosen as the national seat of their defence. Finally, Jesus asks us to pray together, so that our prayer, even with its personal nuances and different emphases, becomes symphonic and arises as one single cry. I am sure that today we pray together for the rescue of those who were wrong and not for their destruction, for justice and not revenge, for healing in truth and not for oblivion. We pray to fulfil the theme of this visit: “Let us take the first step!” And may this first step be in a common direction. To “take the first step” is, above all, to go out and meet others with Christ the Lord. And he always asks us to take a determined and sure step towards our brothers and sisters, and to renounce our claim to be forgiven without showing forgiveness, to be loved without showing love. If Colombia wants a stable and lasting peace, it must urgently take a step in this direction, which is that of the common good, of equity, of justice, of respect for human nature and its demands. Only if we help to untie the knots of violence, will we unravel the complex threads of disagreements. We are asked to take the step of meeting with our brothers and sisters, and to risk a correction that does not want to expel but to integrate. And we are asked to be charitably firm in that which is not negotiable. In short, the demand is to build peace, “speaking not with the tongue but with hands and works” (Saint Peter Claver), and to lift up our eyes to heaven together. The Lord is able to untie that which seems impossible to us, and he has promised to accompany us to the end of time, and will bring to fruition all our efforts. [1] She also had the wisdom of charity and knew how to find God in her neighbour; nor was she paralyzed by injustice and challenges, because “when conflict arises, some people simply look at it and go their way as if nothing happened; they wash their hands of it and get on with their lives. Others embrace it in such a way that they become its prisoners; they lose their bearings, project onto institutions their own confusion and dissatisfaction and thus make unity impossible. But there is also a third way, and it is the best way to deal with conflict. It is the willingness to face conflict head on, to resolve it and to make it a link in the chain of a new process” (Evangelii Gaudium, 227)

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gardnerffox · 6 years

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Read chapter one from Five Weeks in a Balloon

CHAPTER ONE

The wind was a screaming fury.

It caught the great balloon and whirled it, tossing it as if its silken mass and the great gondola suspended from its netting were of no more weight than a fallen leaf. Clouds were high above; below, the jagged peaks of the Scottish highlands made a craggy wilderness, stretching upward as if to embrace the men clinging so perilously to the suspension ropes.

This wind was the dreaded haur, that black gale which whips across the highlands in an easterly or westerly direction according to its moods. It whistled through the guide ropes and brought tears to the eyes of the four men whose muscles ached from the strain of their handholds. When they spoke, they had to shout against its blustering and found their words carried away almost instantly.

"Fergusson—we're going down!”

"Lift her, man—get her up higher!"

Professor Samuel Fergusson shook his graying head, but did not speak. No need for him to talk; his companions were doing enough of that; he only tightened his fingers on the gondola moldboard and waited. This balloon which flirted so closely with the jagged highland rocks looming closer and closer below their feet was his invention. His also had been the invitation which had brought Major General Sir Henry Vining aloft with him, his the proposition which so interested his assistant, young Jacques Verlaine, who was staring down at the nearness of the giant crags, his the reputation as explorer and scientist which intrigued Dr. Morton who stood just beyond the others, swaying to the violence of the haur.

He believed in his invention—in this magnificent balloon whose red and purple bag appeared to be failing them in their desperate need, in this ornate gondola which seemed destined to be splintered to fragments within short minutes—and he well knew its capabilities. Down and down it swept, nearer and nearer to the grim death waiting amid those crags, yet he stood clinging to the rail capping and made no move.

"Do something,” screamed Sir Henry, forgetting his dignity and military discipline in the anxiety which paralyzed him. "Are we to be hurled into oblivion by this—this infernal contraption of yours, Fergusson?”

Gone for the moment was the stuffy, arrogant cavalry commander, the soldier who boasted Sandhurst as his background, who had served his queen with distinction at Khartoum in the Sudan. His usually rigid back was bowed before the wind, his normally ruddy face pale in despair, the monocle he affected long since swept away.

Fergusson turned his gaze toward Morton.

Fright had crumpled his features into a caricature of themselves. Forgotten was the fact that he was treasurer of the Royal Geographical Society; instead he was merely a man terrified of dying, intent only on remaining alive as he regarded the inventor with dismay in his eyes.

"There must be something you can think of, Sam."

“Ballast!" bellowed Sir Henry. "Isn't that what you do? Throw it out or some such thing?"

Fergusson appeared to ponder, nodding his head. "That is true. Throwing ballast overboard is the accepted way to make a balloon rise. The only trouble is, gentlemen—we have no ballast."

Morton groaned and closed his eyes. Major General Sir Henry Vining screeched, “Imbecility! Stark raving insanity! You brought us here to demonstrate this wretched balloon of yours and—and you neglect to take the most fundamental precautions for our safety."

Upward came the jagged Grey peaks of the Grampians. Less than fifty feet now separated these four men from the deaths which awaited them on those sharp gneiss needles. Now they could see the slate veins in the rock, the blue waters of the loch, the pine needles strewing the ground where the conifers raised their green height skyward.

All the bag need do was scrape against the jutting rocks. The silk would be slit as if with a Scottish claymore. The hydrogen would explode outward, the silken remnants collapse—and the four men would plunge downward to be crushed on jagged stone or on the smooth waters of the loch which, from such a great height, would be like hitting a stone wall.

Fergusson cleared his throat. "In a sense, gentlemen, we do have some ballast of sorts aboard."

"Ah, now—that's better," declared Sir Henry with a trace of his old military stiffness. "Get to it, man. Get to it."

"The ballast I was referring to is human ballast, Sir Henry. One of ourselves, so to speak. If one of us will volunteer to jump overboard—sacrifice himself so the other three may, go on living,"

Vining was apoplectic, face purple and eyes bulging. "Can't believe my ears. Must have heard you wrong. Otherwise were you joking, sir?” he roared.

Morton was shaking uncontrollably. The crags were thirty feet away and rapidly coming closer. Twenty feet! Any second now the bottom of the gondola would hit the great rock which towered before them—overturn as it splintered—spilling its living cargo earthward to their doom.

With a harsh cry, Morton covered his eyes with his palms. "I can't look. I can't!" Echoing his despair, Sir Henry Vining followed his example.

Neither man saw Professor Fergusson nod and wink at his young assistant. As if that were a signal previously agreed upon, the young Frenchman whirled toward an iron heater fitted with pipes leading upward toward the great valves of the huge balloon. His hands went out, closing on a handle.

The red and purple bag quivered like a living thing in response to that turning handle. It strained until its gores hummed with tension as it battled gravity and the black haur wind.

The highland crags remained stationary, twenty feet below.

And then—

Upward rose the great balloon, slowly at first and then a little faster. The great tongue of rock ahead of them dropped away as the gondola skimmed above it by mere inches. The bag was lifting perceptibly now, ascending more swiftly at every second.

Doctor Morton and Sir Henry felt the lift of the gondola floor against their legs. Their hands fell away and they stared wildly about them, seeing the dropping highlands, the humming creaking bag overhead, the strumming suspension ropes.

"Wha—what happened?” whispered Sir Henry. "What miracle saved us just when—when I was preparing myself to meet my Maker?”

"No miracle, Sir Henry—but an application of what I fondly call 'the Fergusson secret."

"Fergusson secret?” echoed Doctor Morton. "What's that?”

"A ballooning 'break through', gentlemen—in which the use of heat is applied to the hydrogen in the envelope causing it to expand, thereby giving our craft the ability to ascend or descend at will."

The major general gaped at him. Twice he strove to speak but no sound came from his lips; then in a rush, he exploded.

“Do you mean to say, Professor Fergusson, that you had this contraption under control all the way? Even back there where Morton and I were reconciling ourselves to the inevitable?”

The professor made a little inclination of his head. “So often in the past my inventions have been shrugged off as mere 'contraptions' that I planned this little trip exactly as it took place. Melodramatic, perhaps. But I think you will agree—highly effective!"

Sir Henry Vining stared back at the inventor, his mottled cheeks revealing the flush of anger still inside him, mixed only slightly with relief at finding himself alive and likely to remain so for some time to come. He was a proud man, this ex-commandant of Khartoum. There was a subdued shame in him when he realized how he must have looked to Fergusson with his big hands covering his eyes, as if cowering in fear from imminent death.

The professor wondered uneasily if he had made an enemy.

In the days of Robert Bruce, Fergusson Manor had been a small castle housing the chief of the Clan Fergusson and his tartaned retainers. From its Grey stone walls and over its drawbridge, armored men had clattered out to victory at Bannockburn and later to defeat at Flodden Field and, in the time of Bonnie Prince Charlie, at Culloden.

Now its moat was gone and from the turret poles which once had flown the red lion of Scotland, the Union Jack flapped lazily in the breeze. Bayberry bushes supplanted the old outbuildings. Smooth green lawn replaced the smithy and the tilting yard.

Those lawns were crowded now with people staring upward.

Å hand pointed. A voice cried out, sharply and with pleasure.

“There they are. Can you make them out?”

“Yes, yes. I see them. The black dot."

The dot grew larger until it widened to become the great red and purple bag with its dependent gondola. Downward it swept in a graceful curve, ropes taut, painted gondola gleaming in the bright sunlight. Arms lifted and waved. Voices rose into a great cheer. The four men in the car contented themselves with waving their arms, since at such a height it would have been impossible to make themselves heard.

Swiftly yet gracefully the balloon came ground-ward The young Frenchman reached for the whistle cord and as he tugged it, a loud blast heralded both their approach and the triumph they had achieved. The crowd roared in delight, then surged forward. As if to meet them, the balloon itself came skimming the treetops, rose above the fence-work bordering a distant field and valved down on the wide stretch of lawn.

Professor Fergusson leaned on the gondola rail and drew a deep breath. Victory! At long last, he had triumphed. Over ranting critics, over unbelievers and skeptics, over such august personages as the members of the Royal Geographical Society who, with a dozen newsmen, made up the crowd running to share his moment of glory. No longer would his name be the target for snickers behind upraised hands. From this day on he would be one with other aerostats, with Pilatre de Rozier who had been, with the Marquis d'Arlandes as his passenger, the first man ever to make a free ascent, with Joseph Montgolfier who first had filled a balloon with hot air and sent it aloft carrying a sheep, a rooster and a duck.

Yes, with his Fergusson secret, he would rank with the immortals. Even that martinet Vining must admit as much. Inner satisfaction made him swing about and smile at the British officer.

"And now, Sir Henry? You’ll admit I have the Royal Geographical Society's blessing? I may count on its financial backing for my venture to Africa?”

Sir Henry went red with anger. "Blessing? Blessing, indeed! Financial backing? Not a penny, sir! You must be out of your mind to suppose me so gullible as to lend my support to any such hare-brained voyage as you contemplate."

"But I surely thought—"

"You thought to gull me with your mountebank methods!”

The professor looked down his nose. "Melodramatic, yes. But—"

Major General Sir Henry Vining drew himself up as if on parade before Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. "Professor, let me speak plainly. I am an expert on Africa. I have served in the dark continent many years. Your toy—"

"Toy!" bellowed Fergusson.

“I repeat, your toy would not last out the week in such a climate. So you want to go exploring East Africa in a wooden basket, do you? Hah! Stuff and nonsense! Both you and your toy would perish in seven days."

Fergusson felt his veins distend in fury. He extended a hand toward the baronet, shook a finger in his face as he opened his mouth to speak. It was then that his young assistant, Jacques Verlaine, thrust forward to brave the brunt of the Vining temper.

"M'sieu," he began smoothly, “surely there has never been such a balloon as the professor's! You yourself have seen how easily she handles. She goes up. She goes down."

"As does the stock market," retorted Sir Henry, slinging a leg over the gondola railing and reaching for the eager hands rising to support him. With both feet firmly planted on the ground, he swung about, his back like a ramrod.

"Not one penny shall you receive, Professor Fergusson. Not one blasted cent. And take my advice. The next time you contemplate any such tomfoolery—be advised to choose some victim other than the President of the society from which you seek to obtain your backing!"

His bellowed words fell like thunderclaps in the sudden stillness which held the crowd spellbound. Men turned embarrassed stares toward one another. Reporters for the Daily Telegraph and other British papers were hurriedly scribbling on their scratch pads.

Sir Henry expelled his breath with a last, "Good day to you, sir!” He whirled on a heel as if at drill and marched off toward a waiting carriage.

Professor Fergusson looked around him, shrugging, attempting to fight his despair at this unexpected reverse in fortune. He had counted so much on this demonstration! Money from the Society with which to blaze an aerial pathway over unexplored East Africa, mapping it as he traveled, was his lifetime dream. Fergusson believed in aerial cartography. As of now, it was relatively unknown. With the help of his balloon, he hoped to demonstrate that it could be converted into an exact science.

Instead, he had met bitter defeat, ending all his hopes.

Tired and disillusioned, bowing his head as if his graying hair had become an intolerably heavy helmet, he made his way from the balloon, shaking off questioners, greeting the newsmen with helpless little gestures of his hands. He had no heart to meet them with words, nor any stomach for explanations and evasions.

"Sorry, gentlemen,” he murmured. "I'm very sorry. No, no comment.” What comment could he possibly make for publication? "Let's just say that this is another of my projects which died aborning."

"Maybe not, professor,” exclaimed a voice with a strong American accent.

At first the words did not register with him, he was so sunk in gloom. Then as the tall man in the expensive sack coat, with velvet collar cleared his throat and smiled in genial fashion, the professor found himself looking more sharply at him. He noted little details, seeing the engraved card he was holding out, the cut of his garments, his gray derby, the gold-handled cane he carried.

Faintly bewildered, he accepted the card, staring down at it.

Cornelius P. Randolph.

"Of the Randolph Newspaper Chain, Professor Fergusson," went on the tall man with another expansive smile. "Here by invitation of one of my British fellow journalists. I want to tell you I like what I saw today. Very much. So much so that—if you're willing to gamble your life, I'm willing to gamble my money."

"You are?” asked the professor, not quite accepting the evidence of his ears.

"Exactly. The Randolph Chain will be happy to finance your African expedition. Naturally, we'll want sole rights to the story. I'll have one of my top reporters go along with you, write it up for publication in my newspapers. Young fellow by the name of O'Shay. Now, then. How long will it take to ship your balloon to your starting point?"

Still somewhat dazedly, Fergusson said, “I'd intended to launch from Zanzibar on the east coast."

"Zanzibar, eh? Good. What's your earliest launch date?” "Three months from now. I—I couldn't make it sooner."

"Good enough. Young O'Shay is in Paris at the moment. Give him time to take a steamer there himself. Make it sooner, naturally, if the canal at Suez were finished.”

"I hardly know what to say," murmured Fergusson.

“You'll like O'Shay," went on the American expansively, ignoring Fergusson's words. “Nice quiet, inoffensive fellow."

The fog rolled in off the Thames across the West India docks, blotting out the high-masted schooners, Black Ball packets and clipper ships riding their anchors in the river waters. Its whiteness crept across the cobblestones of docks and quays, coating them with wetness that glistened in the few gas-lamps visible on shed walls and iron posts. In the distance the deep moan of a horn betrayed an oncoming steam brig seeking passage.

Two men in heavy woolen greatcoats walked out of the darkness around Thames Street and stood a moment staring at a windjammer, listening to the scrape of its heavy anchor-chain and the low voices of the men dragging at it as they chanted in unison with their moving arms and straining backs.

The two men looked at one another in alarm.

"We'd best hurry," said the taller.

They broke into a run, heading toward the ship.

Professor Fergusson was poring over a map of the African coastal waters when the knock sounded on his cabin door. At first he did not hear it, being too absorbed in his calculations. Instead of ink and paper and the curlicues which marked the east coast of Africa, he was seeing green waters and a low sandy shore rimmed with mangrove trees. The circle of brightness from his Argyl lamp had an almost hypnotic effect upon him. His eyelids were heavy but there was an inner excitement sustaining him. His fingers moved for a caliper.

The knock sounded a second time, more sharply.

"Professor? Professor Fergusson?"

"Eh? Oh, yes. Come in, come in."

A seaman in striped jersey and tight trousers knuckled his brow. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. There's two men from Scotland Yard on the main deck askin' for you."

"Scotland Yard? But—but why in the world should—oh, well, I'd better go along. I do hope there's nothing wrong. Especially now when—when I've raised my hopes so high.”

Shrugging into a worn frock coat, he followed the seaman from the cabin and up the companionway to the main deck. He had forgotten how bad the fog was; he could see scarcely four feet ahead of him; the two men waiting by the port rail were shadowy figures until he was within arms' reach of them. Only dimly was he aware of Jacques Verlaine at his elbow.

“Gentlemen? I'm Professor Fergusson. Are you really from Scotland Yard?"

"I'm afraid we are, sir," said the stockier, shorter man in a gruff voice. “We have orders, you'll understand. You're to come along with us. Right now."

“Oh, I simply can't," exclaimed the professor unthinkingly. "All our gear's aboard. Those sailors forward, singing that sea chanty. They're raising the anchor right at this moment, you know.”

"The ship's about to sail," interposed the young Frenchman. "The professor can't possibly leave now.”

The taller plainclothesman coughed politely behind an upheld palm. “We 'ave orders, gentlemen. We're to bring you with us, promptly."

The professor looked helplessly at Verlaine who arched his brows and shrugged his inability to offer further aid. Slowly he turned to the man from Scotland Yard, nodding slowly.

"All right," he said heavily. "If we must, we must."

“Very good, sir. Glad to hear you say that."

“We 'ave a carriage waiting."

At least he was to ride in style, Fergusson thought glumly.

The brougham rattled over the cobblestones of the Strand, heading toward Whitehall. The fog had lessened in this section of the city; through the damp window, Fergusson could see houses leaning together in the darkness; a trick of the gas streetlamps, he supposed. A candle was lit in an upper window of a brownstone building, making a bright loneliness in the night.

The hooves of the horses clop—clopped steadily.

There was anger in Professor Fergusson–a righteous anger, he told himself as he sat back against the carriage cushions in a sullen silence—born of this high-handed interference with his personal liberty. Things had come to a fine state of affairs in England when a man could move about only after the consent of the Metropolitan Police.

Kidnapped, by the old Harry! He was being kidnapped.

Innocent of any crime, he had no worry on that score. Besides, the deference with which he was being treated told him this was no ordinary manhunt that occupied the plainclothesmen. His teeth nibbled his lower lip as he fought back the temptation to lash out with words at these men who sat so imperturbably bundled in their greatcoats against the raw night.

Glumly, he scowled straight ahead.

A horseshoe struck sparks. Leather harness squeaked. The carriage lurched on its thorough braces as it slowed. The detective to his left stirred. Professor Fergusson peered through the window at the stone building before which the carriage was pulling to a stop, aware that his baffled rage was almost at the exploding point. Lips tightly compressed against his indignation at this cavalier treatment, he stepped from the cushioned carriage to the moist pavement, feeling the raw air bite through his MacFarlane coat.

"If you'll be so good, sir?"

A hand gestured an invitation up the few stone steps toward the door which, even as he put his foot on the first tread, began to open for him. The professor was aware of a uniformed footman, dim lights and a thick carpet underfoot, high walls rich with tapestry. He walked silently as in a dream.

Then he was in the doorway of a Victorian study, the footman bowing him in and saying, "Professor Fergusson." As he moved forward, a male secretary came to meet him.

The anger which he had been controlling so admirably burst into flame. “May I ask the meaning of this—this intrusion upon my private affairs?” he questioned, drawing himself up straight. "I've been working many weeks to gather my equipment and get it safely aboard ship. Now at the last minute I'm dragged off like a common criminal by two detectives."

He drew a deep breath, ignoring the shocked surprise in the face of the man before him. "By what right do you make free with my person, sir? Why have I been brought here to—just what is this place, anyhow?"

"I—I thought you knew, professor. This is number ten Downing Street."

Shock held Fergusson motionless. No. 10 Downing Street! The heart of English government, the seat of its Prime Minister, the building where foreign policy began and was put into execution. Because of decisions made here, soldiers might quell a rebellion in India or statesmen pay a visit to President Abraham Lincoln of the United States.

Confusion caught at him. In that moment of hesitation a shadow moved to one side of the room. The professor swung around seeing for the first time an ornate desk, heavily curtained windows and an old man rising to his feet from a gilt-work chair.

The man smiled faintly, apologetically. "Never fear, professor. Your ship will wait for you."

He wore full evening dress, black cloth coat and white waistcoat, linen shirt and cravat, with black satin knee breeches. Fergusson recognized him instantly.

"Mr. Prime Minister!” he gasped.

Sir Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston, was in his late seventies. Of a family long distinguished for its service to the Crown—an ancestor had been secretary to Sir Philip Sidney, another had been speaker of the Irish House of Commons—he himself, at the age of eighteen and recently out of Harrow, had been elevated to the peerage. Over half a century ago he had entered Parliament and been made a junior lord of the Admiralty. In 1830 he had assumed control of the department of foreign affairs. Now, slightly more than thirty years later, he was Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

The professor was overwhelmed. His usually precise speech was infected with hesitation and stammerings as he asked, “Your Honor, pray excuse—I was not given to understand—may I ask why this favor has b—been done me?"

Lord Palmerston advanced upon him, smiling in friendly fashion. “I wanted to wish you god-speed, for one thing. Your balloon ascension with its application of the Fergusson secret is a scientific first for England, you know. It shouldn't be passed over and forgotten, by any means."

“But at such an hour," murmured Fergusson, spreading his hands. “And under such—ought I say, mysterious circumstances?"

The Prime Minister nodded. "Your bewilderment is understandable, professor. All I can do is remind you that affairs of State go on day and night. The Queen herself wishes to convey, through my lips, her own warmest regards and congratulations on your past feats and extend at the same over Africa." time her very best hopes for success in your coming venture

“Why, I–I thank Her Majesty, most humbly."

“I'd intended to send along these felicitations to your ship this evening but fortunately, as it developed, I was placed in a position where I might say them in person."

Numbly, the professor murmured, "I was not aware that my balloon." the Queen was even aware of my existence or—or of that of my balloon.”

Palmerston chuckled. “You're far too modest, sir. The whole world knows of your African project. And we in Downing Street like to think that what the world knows, we also know. As you are aware, not since George Stephenson invented the locomotive has such publicity been given to any scientific achievement as it has to your balloon. It catches at the imagination, professor."

Fergusson inclined his head. The newspapers—even so staid a journal as The Times—had been most generous in their coverage of his sailing and his projected flight over the Dark Continent. He had spent hours reading them, finding in those rivers of printed words a vindication for his own beliefs, his trust in himself and his balloon. There were times too, when a little corner of his mind wondered if Sir Henry Vining—that stiff-necked martinet!—also might be reading about his triumph.

Palmerston said more heartily, "And this is fortunate—most fortunate, I might say—under the immediate circumstances."

Ferguson looked puzzled. "What immediate circumstances, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Palmerston gestured the professor to follow him, leading the way toward a wall covered by a great colored map of Africa. The Viscount paused a moment, staring upward to study it and the professor found himself marveling at the wisdom of this old man, his energy and knowledge, whose fingertips balanced an entire world for the betterment of England. Now he lifted a hand and pointed toward the east coast of the great continent.

His fingertip touched the island of Madagascar, the city of Zanzibar and the inland country of equatorial jungles and great rivers, largely unknown and only now—by Livingston, Spaeke and Burton—being explored.

"Rich country, this, professor, abounding in animal life and mineral wealth. Good farm land, too, probably. Following in the footsteps of our explorers—Captain Spaeke and Mr. Burton—this is the wilderness area you will map." He turned and now the professor could see the taut skin above his cheekbones, the brilliance of his eyes. "How long do you expect to be out of touch with civilization? Two months? Three?"

"Perhaps four. East Africa is a big territory."

The Prime Minister nodded his approval. “Excellent. In that case, nobody would expect you to turn up in west Africa."

"Naturally not. Entirely out of the question."

"Quite." The Prime Minister smiled, then added firmly, "It will be a shock to everyone, won't it?"

"Shock? What will be a shock?"

The Viscount moved his hand across the map—from Zanzibar on the Indian Ocean as far westward as Cape Verde on the Atlantic—spanning in one sweeping gesture more than four thousand miles of desert, jungle and mountain. A whole world lay under that hand, a world inhabited by Kikuyu and Masai, Watusi, Mangetu, pygmy and Ashanti—fierce tribal warriors wearing skins of animals and acknowledging no law but the whims of their own chieftains, a world of gold and ivory and human beings sold into slavery.

"When your balloon finally drifts down on the Atlantic coast, you'll have traveled over this section of central Africa, as far as the Niger."

"But I'm not crossing the Continent," Fergusson explained.

"Ah, but you are, professor," smiled Viscount Palmerston. "Unless Her Majesty and I have mistaken our man."

"I don't understand, sir. What insane talk is this? You've just waved a hand over four thousand miles of unexplored wilderness. Whether you know it or not, those jungles are infested with savages. If anything went wrong with my balloon, my companions and I would come down in a land given over to paganism—even cannibalism. You ask me to commit suicide!"

"If we ask that,” murmured Lord Palmerston, "we ask it in the name of humanity."

"Humanity?" echoed the professor.

"Let me come to the point. Only this evening—short hours ago—the British government received a secret communique from our agents in Lisbon. Those secret service men have uncovered the fact that an expedition of slave traders, being fitted out now in Bissau on the African west coast in great secrecy, will set out for the interior. Their first destination is the Senegal River. From this jumping off point the column will head south and east through the vast tropical jungles of unclaimed Bambarra to an unknown destination somewhere in Masima country, south of Timbuktu.”

The Prime Minister paused to draw breath before turning back to the map and indicating the spot of which he spoke. "So far, this area has been visited only by Arab traders." His fingertip sketched out the bend of the Volta River. "This column of slave dealers will plant a flag on the far bank of the Volta, thereby laying claim to an incalculably immense area of Africa."

Outside the study windows a dray cart trundled and in the sudden silence after its departure, the lonely moan of a foghorn from the river touched the study. Professor Fergusson ran quivering fingertips through his Grey hair. Even now, he told himself irritably, he did not fully understand the problem which so obviously troubled Viscount Palmerston and, by implication, her majesty, Queen Victoria.

The Prime Minister smiled slowly. "Believe me, sir—it is not a question of land. No, no. Not so much land as it is morality."

Professor Fergusson blinked in sudden understanding.

The Viscount nodded gently.

"In 1807, England abandoned slavery in her dominions. Not so, certain other European countries. You're well aware that even now in the United States a great civil war is being fought over this same question. Let's not bother ourselves about that, however. Our only concern is official sovereignty over such a large amount of land which will result in an ever increasing extension of the already notorious traffic in human beings.

"I speak of the wholesale deportation of tens of thousands of natives—men wrenched from their wives, mothers from their babies, children from their parents, of their deaths from torture and disease. Those slavers, Professor Fergusson, are readying the rape of an area greater in its dimensions than all Europe."

Sweat stood out on the old man's forehead, so tremendous was his emotion. His lips worked a moment silently, as his nostrils distended to the deep breaths he was taking. "There is only one way to prevent this rape, sir!

“I have already said the slave trade has been outlawed by us, and by Portugal too, but it has not yet been stamped out in Portuguese territory. So those slave dealers plan to plant the flag of Portugal on the bank of the Volta—because the Portuguese government will be helpless to prevent wholesale enslavement."

"Aye, 'tis a mess. I can see that."

“We have it within our power to do away with any such mess, professor—if we plant the Union Jack before those slave traders can plant the blue and white flag of Portugal. In such an event—this land will belong to us. There will be no slavery within its borders."

The Scotsman gloomed. "It canna be done. If you start preparing an expedition—"

Viscount Palmerston spread his hands. "Quite obviously it's too late for us to undertake an overland expedition, even supposing we could do it without discovery. Since these slavers and their agents dominate the white habitations which fringe the west African coast, such discovery is absolutely certain. The slavers will move immediately. Their land grab will become accomplished fact.

"No, professor. The only way to beat them is to go into Volta country by the back door—from the east coast. Ah, but it would take two, even three years properly to equip and despatch an exploratory expedition, you say. Exactly! This makes Professor Fergusson and his balloon so vital to his country.

"A balloon can travel swiftly, easily above the jungles which hold so many terrors from wild animals and natives. High in the air, your personal danger would be reduced to a minimum.

“This is why, immediately upon receipt of the communique from our secret service men, it became necessary for me to speak with you before you sailed tonight."

The Viscount went on talking. The professor found himself listening to that soft, persuasive voice which had a mesmeric effect upon his entire being. The mapping of East Africa by Professor Samuel Fergusson was known to the entire world, Palmerston pointed out. Newspapers had convinced everyone of that fact. No one, then, would be surprised when his balloon launched skyward from Zanzibar.

Ah, but the surprise would be complete. Once aloft, how could anyone determine which way the northeast trade winds, which blow across Madagascar and the island of Zanzibar westward toward the Congo, would carry him? As far as the Volta River and an opportunity to sink a flagpole containing a Union Jack into the soil of the Volta riverbank! He was being asked to undertake a mission infinitely more dangerous, yet infinitely more important, than the mapping project which he planned. Her Majesty understood that he risked his life, as did her prime minister.

"Short of war itself,” concluded Lord Palmerston, "we can see no other way to beat those slave traders to the Volta. In three or four months you should be there, unknown to the slave dealers, unknown to the world.

"Your balloon is our lone hope, sir. It is heaven—sent, the one in a million chance which can save the situation."

Fergusson was surprised to discover that his chest ached as he let the air out of his lungs. He had been standing here, unbreathing and frozen almost rigid by the voice of this man who held the destiny of England in his hands. His mind troped hazily for reasons, snatching desperately at cold logic with which to dispel this verbal hypnotism.

"Without a fantastic amount of luck on my part, you fully understand that you are condemning me to death?” he asked quietly.

"I do understand, professor. Believe me, were it not for the urgency of circumstance, the lack of time in which to meet this threat to all humanity—we would never be standing here this night. Permit yourself to look at it this way: you risk your life in the hope of saving the lives and freedom of untold thousands, perhaps millions, of other human beings. Is it so great a gamble?"

The Prime Minister shrugged as he continued. "The choice is up to you, naturally. You are no soldier to be ordered into battle. And yet, I think you are a humanitarian. As a humanitarian—as a simple human being—I ask you to make your decision."

There was no choice to be made, the Scotchman realized. From the beginning, his decision had been arrived at deep inside himself. His common sense had fought against it, his instinct for self-preservation had argued long and loud; but cold reason had no defense against the promptings of his heart.

"Just as naturally, Mr. Prime Minister—I'll go."

The old man's stern face became wreathed in smiles. "Excellent, my dear professor. Excellent! Her Majesty will be delighted to hear of this. I myself shall carry the news.”

"Hmmmm, speaking of news—what about my financial backer, the American newspaper magnate, Cornelius P. Randolph? He may raise objections to any change in plan."

"I don't see why," frowned Palmerston. "Surely the story of your planting the British flag in the heart of darkest Africa—with an American reporter along as a witness and after a race against time and those slave traders—will be far more exciting than the report of a routine cartographical expedition. In any event, since the change of plan is to be a secret, the Randolph newspapers won't know anything about it until it's all over."

“I daresay you're right," Fergusson chuckled, then sobered. "Still, one member of the expedition may put up a how— I'm speaking of the reporter himself who is to join us in Zanzibar—but I really don't anticipate any trouble from him.

"I've been told he's an inoffensive young man."

Their hands met and clasped in mutual respect.

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catholicwatertown · 7 years

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Pope in Colombia at Mass: ‘Peace requires healing of sins’

(Vatican Radio) Pope Francis celebrated Mass in Cartagena’s port area on Sunday at the conclusion of his Apostolic Visit to Colombia.

The Holy Father reflected on the peace that Jesus brings through the community and how necessary it is for Colombian society.

“For decades Colombia has yearned for peace”, he said, “but, as Jesus teaches, two sides approaching each other to dialogue is not enough; it has also been necessary to involve many more actors in this dialogue aimed at healing sins.”

He said people cannot be ignored when making peace, in placing reason above revenge, and in respecting “the delicate harmony between politics and law”.

“Peace is not achieved by normative frameworks and institutional arrangements between well-intentioned political or economic groups. Jesus finds the solution to the harm inflicted through a personal encounter between the parties,” he said.

Please find below the official English translation of the Pope’s prepared homily:

Homily: “The Dignity of the Person and Human Rights.”

Cartagena de Indias

Sunday, 10 September 2017

In this city, which has been called “heroic” for its tenacity in defending freedom two hundred years ago, I celebrate the concluding Mass of my Visit to Colombia. For the past thirty-two years Cartagena de Indias is also the headquarters in Colombia for Human Rights. For here the people cherish the fact that, “thanks to the missionary team formed by the Jesuit priests Peter Claver y Corberó, Alonso de Sandoval and Brother Nicolás González, accompanied by many citizens of the city of Cartagena de Indias in the seventeenth century, the desire was born to alleviate the situation of the oppressed of that time, especially of slaves, of those who implored fair treatment and freedom” (Congress of Colombia 1985, law 95, art. 1).

Here, in the Sanctuary of Saint Peter Claver, where the progress and application of human rights in Colombia continue to be studied and monitored in a systematic way, the Word of God speaks to us of forgiveness, correction, community and prayer.

In the fourth sermon of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus speaks to us, who have decided to support the community, to us, who value life together and dream of a project that includes everyone. The preceding text is that of the good shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go after the one that is lost. This fact pervades the entire text: there is no one too lost to deserve our care, our closeness and our forgiveness. From this perspective, we can see that a fault or a sin committed by one person challenges us all, but involves, primarily, the victim of someone’s sin. He or she is called to take the initiative so that whoever has caused the harm is not lost.

During these past few days I have heard many testimonies from those who have reached out to people who had harmed them; terrible wounds that I could see in their own bodies; irreparable losses that still bring tears. Yet they have reached out, have taken a first step on a different path to the one already travelled. For decades Colombia has yearned for peace but, as Jesus teaches, two sides approaching each other to dialogue is not enough; it has also been necessary to involve many more actors in this dialogue aimed at healing sins. The Lord tells us in the Gospel: “If your brother does not listen to you, take one or two others along with you” (Mt 18:16).

We have learned that these ways of making peace, of placing reason above revenge, of the delicate harmony between politics and law, cannot ignore the involvement of the people. Peace is not achieved by normative frameworks and institutional arrangements between well-intentioned political or economic groups. Jesus finds the solution to the harm inflicted through a personal encounter between the parties. It is always helpful, moreover, to incorporate into our peace processes the experience of those sectors that have often been overlooked, so that communities themselves can influence the development of collective memory. “The principal author, the historic subject of this process, is the people as a whole and their culture, and not a single class, minority, group or elite. We do not need plans drawn up by a few for the few, or an enlightened or outspoken minority which claims to speak for everyone. It is about agreeing to live together, a social and cultural pact” (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 239).

We can contribution greatly to this new step that Colombia wants to take. Jesus tells us that this path of reintegration into the community begins with a dialogue of two persons. Nothing can replace that healing encounter; no collective process excuses us from the challenge of meeting, clarifying, forgiving. Deep historic wounds necessarily require moments where justice is done, where victims are given the opportunity to know the truth, where damage is adequately repaired and clear commitments are made to avoid repeating those crimes. But that is only the beginning of the Christian response. We are required to generate “from below” a change in culture: so that we respond to the culture of death and violence, with the culture of life and encounter. We have already learned this from your own beloved author whom we all benefit from: “This cultural disaster is not remedied with lead or silver, but with an education for peace, built lovingly on the rubble of an angry country where we rise early to continue killing each other... a legitimate revolution of peace which channels towards life an immense creative energy that for almost two centuries we have used to destroy us and that vindicates and exalts the predominance of the imagination” (Gabriel García Márquez, Message About Peace, 1998).

How much have we worked for an encounter, for peace? How much have we neglected, allowing barbarity to become enfleshed in the life of our people? Jesus commands us to confront those types of behaviour, those ways of living that damage society and destroy the community. How many times have we “normalized” the logic of violence and social exclusion, without prophetically raising our hands or voices! Alongside Saint Peter Claver were thousands of Christians, many of them consecrated… but only a handful started a counter-cultural movement of encounter. Saint Peter was able to restore the dignity and hope of hundreds of thousands of black people and slaves arriving in absolutely inhuman conditions, full of dread, with all their hopes lost. He did not have prestigious academic qualifications, and he even said of himself that he was “mediocre” in terms of intelligence, but he had the genius to live the Gospel to the full, to meet those whom others considered merely as waste material. Centuries later, the footsteps of this missionary and apostle of the Society of Jesus were followed by Saint María Bernarda Bütler, who dedicated her life to serving the poor and marginalized in this same city of Cartagena.[1]

In the encounter between us we rediscover our rights, and we recreate our lives so that they re-emerge as authentically human. “The common home of all men and women must continue to rise on the foundations of a right understanding of universal fraternity and respect for the sacredness of every human life, of every man and every woman, the poor, the elderly, children, the infirm, the unborn, the unemployed, the abandoned, those considered disposable because they are only considered as part of a statistic. This common home of all men and women must also be built on the understanding of a certain sacredness of created nature” (Address to the United Nations, 25 September 2015).

Jesus also shows us the possibility that the other may remain closed, refusing to change, persisting in evil. We cannot deny that there are people who persist in sins that damage the fabric of our coexistence and community: “I also think of the heart-breaking drama of drug abuse, which reaps profits in contempt of the moral and civil laws. I think of the devastation of natural resources and ongoing pollution, and the tragedy of the exploitation of labour. I think too of illicit money trafficking and financial speculation, which often prove both predatory and harmful for entire economic and social systems, exposing millions of men and women to poverty. I think of prostitution, which every day reaps innocent victims, especially the young, robbing them of their future. I think of the abomination of human trafficking, crimes and abuses against minors, the horror of slavery still present in many parts of the world; the frequently overlooked tragedy of migrants, who are often victims of disgraceful and illegal manipulation” (Message for the World Day of Peace, 2014, 8), and even with a pacifist “sterile legality” that ignores the flesh of our brothers and sisters, the flesh of Christ. We must also be prepared for this, and solidly base ourselves upon principles of justice that in no way diminish charity. It is only possible to live peacefully by avoiding actions that corrupt or harm life. In this context, we remember all those who, bravely and tirelessly, have worked and even lost their lives in defending and protecting the rights and the dignity of the human person. History asks us to embrace a definitive commitment to defending human rights, here in Cartagena de Indias, the place that you have chosen as the national seat of their defence.

Finally, Jesus asks us to pray together, so that our prayer, even with its personal nuances and different emphases, becomes symphonic and arises as one single cry. I am sure that today we pray together for the rescue of those who were wrong and not for their destruction, for justice and not revenge, for healing in truth and not for oblivion. We pray to fulfil the theme of this visit: “Let us take the first step!” And may this first step be in a common direction.

To “take the first step” is, above all, to go out and meet others with Christ the Lord. And he always asks us to take a determined and sure step towards our brothers and sisters, and to renounce our claim to be forgiven without showing forgiveness, to be loved without showing love. If Colombia wants a stable and lasting peace, it must urgently take a step in this direction, which is that of the common good, of equity, of justice, of respect for human nature and its demands. Only if we help to untie the knots of violence, will we unravel the complex threads of disagreements. We are asked to take the step of meeting with our brothers and sisters, and to risk a correction that does not want to expel but to integrate. And we are asked to be charitably firm in that which is not negotiable. In short, the demand is to build peace, “speaking not with the tongue but with hands and works” (Saint Peter Claver), and to lift up our eyes to heaven together. The Lord is able to untie that which seems impossible to us, and he has promised to accompany us to the end of time, and will bring to fruition all our efforts.

[1] She also had the wisdom of charity and knew how to find God in her neighbour; nor was she paralyzed by injustice and challenges, because “when conflict arises, some people simply look at it and go their way as if nothing happened; they wash their hands of it and get on with their lives. Others embrace it in such a way that they become its prisoners; they lose their bearings, project onto institutions their own confusion and dissatisfaction and thus make unity impossible. But there is also a third way, and it is the best way to deal with conflict. It is the willingness to face conflict head on, to resolve it and to make it a link in the chain of a new process” (Evangelii Gaudium, 227).

(from Vatican Radio)

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artsyarchangel-blog · 7 years

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Gunbreaker (Part 2)

HERMES: They started out as weapon manufacturers funded by their countries, nothing suspicious about them, only that they provided the tools necessary for killing. And since humanity so loves to kill each other, to snuff the flames of life, they rose in power and wealth and eventually in influence. For if you bring the money, everyone will soon bow to your whims. They bribed politicians, other public figures to speak favorably of their weapon-businesses, to pass little bills, just to make the life of an arms dealer a little easier. We now believe that these were just tests, to see how far they could go without being detected or obstructed. At some point they awakened to a truth: that whoever holds the power to kill someone, anyone, would be destined to rule this world. Suddenly, people lost their lives, political figures advocating a demilitarization, suffering convenient accidents or turning to suicide. The general public is a simple beast, but the frequency of these incidents raised even the suspicion of your average person. So they changed tactics and turned back to bribes and threats. I know this is a lot to take in, I let you take a minute, Initiate. ANON: No, it's fine! Please continue!

Really, I was glued to the screen as Hermes told his story.

HERMES: I see, as you wish. So in the end, these weapon manufacturers established a shadow government, with the acting prime minister as a mere puppet, needed to quell the suspicions of the people. That was the plan at least, but it never worked out, there were riots, there were rebels, people trying to convince the public of the truth, just as we do now. So they turned to extreme measures. Pumping out weapons, they supplied all the criminal scum they could get their hands on. Ruthless tribes, violent bands of mercenaries, the organized crime, all of them suddenly found themselves with a new stock of lead and were ready to wreak havoc. After it all became to terrible to bear, the citizens armed themselves and the world had an all-out war on their hands. Not struggle between nations, but simply between men. This massacre raged for years and now all that is left are the five cities, each ruled by a designated Warlord. ANON: This is insane. A war like that, someone has to know about it, an event like this can't simply be forgotten! HERMES: It is lost to time, simply because no one is alive to remember. Only the Warlords know about it, passed down through their lineage. We managed to obtain this information through great sacrifices.

They never told me how exactly they could get a hold of such vital intel, the real history of our world. It was groundbreaking, if it was true, but again, they showed me no proof, I just swallowed it all up. ANON: But what can we even do against an organization that plunged the whole world into chaos? HERMES: They needed a smaller population, to control them easily and indeed, the plan is sound. Our capabilities to strike back are basically nil. We don't even know the identities of these Warlords, only that they named themselves after animals. We are working on a breakthrough in that regard and you might be able to help us. We assume you are well-versed when it comes to hacking? Why else would you approach us, right? ANON: Of course, absolutely not a problem.

I lied without a moments hesitation.

HERMES: Good. Do not be alarmed, it is a simple matter. We need to gain access to the local warlords mainframe, but to do this, some of our members will stage a distraction. You just got to attack some official websites, keep their staff busy. We take care of the main task. Are you truly capable of that?

They must have felt that I was just bullshitting, they were pretty insistent and it felt really bad, when I repeated my lie.

ANON: I am willing and able to participate in this attack! HERMES: We will redirect you to another room, there you will meet the leader of your operation, but this can wait until tomorrow. Find some rest, digest everything we told you today and be ready. Your fight for liberation begins now.

I was stoked as I crawled out of my chair and into my bed. The monitor continued to shine its cold light into my room. I hardly ever turned it off. A million thoughts were running through my head, it was impossible to find any sleep that night, but I had my orders. Yes, starting with this night I saw myself as a soldier, a warrior for the network called Hermes, loyal and obedient. It's kinda scary how easy it is to manipulate some high-school-freshman. The problem remained however: I had no idea how to assist in this attack. Nothing, there was nothing I could contribute, all I had was a superiority-complex and a mouth too big for my own good. Well, surely, they would forgive me once they'd find out, right? We'd just laugh it off, what's the worst that could happen, it was just a game after all. Still, sleep would not find me. I entertained the thought to return to my computer-screen, play some games, but in reality, I was too excited to concentrate on anything. So Hermes tried to gather the identities of these so-called Warlords, that was their, our, goal at the moment, but it didn't go far enough. We had to truly and utterly erase all conflict on this planet. We had to get rid of the demon called “Weaponry”. This was my personal goal, but as I said, I was loyal, I wouldn't further my own interests when there were orders to fulfill. That is, until I started to warp the truth a little. I just assumed that my goal aligned with Hermes', that I acted in their interests and from here on out, it all comes tumbling down. Be assured though, no harm came to me. As I sit here, telling my story, reminiscing about my embarrassing childhood, I am still in possession of all my limbs and received no scars, be it physically or emotionally. Oh, and I am very much alive obviously, I won't pull a plot twist on you, someone else actually narrating the story, a close friend standing in front of the grave of the actual protagonist in the end. We will have none of that. But just because I say that, don't think that they are no stakes involved. No, terrible things happened, it's just that I am sturdier than the average person so none of these events ever really affected me. I am getting sidetracked here...So what I first intended, my first plan to erase all conflict was simply to tell everyone the truth. I was going to lay it all out, about the warlords, about the wasteland surrounding us, about our forged history, everyone needed to know. Screw the consequences, I had a narrative to share. The people deserved to know the truth. So when I finally fell asleep, I wasted no time, skipping school without even thinking about it and went online. I needed a new handle, a new identity and soon, all over the internet, a mysterious name popped up, educating the masses. The infamous GunBreaker. That's the title card right here.

So suddenly, the GunBreaker popped up everywhere, posting comments, writing long blog-posts, which seemed more like fictional writing, but the whole story was true! At least, I thought so, after all, I trusted my anonymous source, why wouldn't I? But as one can imagine, nobody believed me, instead they trolled me into oblivion. However, while I might have hated all these spiteful messages, the people who laughed about my crazy theories, I steadily gained some sort of twisted fame. People started to reference me, things like “A new conspiracy? Better get GunBreaker on the case.” or “not even GunBreaker would buy that shit.” Now, nobody took me serious and that was a problem, but it was still a weird feeling, seeing my new name popping up all over the sites I used to frequent, as a total nobody. They knew my name now and whenever I posted a comment, people were all over me, asking me questions, making fun of me. As I said, no one actually believed me or took me seriously, but also no one hated me. I was like the jester of the internet. Wait, that's something my teenager-self thought at the time, more realistically, they treated me like a retarded child. That's a little harsh, I know, but that doesn't make it any less true. And of course, how else could it be, I was happy about all this attention they threw at me. Eventually, I received another Invitation from Hermes, leading me into another room. Honestly, I almost forgot about the operation we were supposed to carry out, too caught up in my own hijinks. Yet as I saw the message, the memory returned, crystal-clear and I gulped audibly. I still had no idea how to “distract” the government, how to hack into any website. Damn, I was dumb, I had at least a little time, enough to understand the fundamentals at least. Here I was, completely clueless. So I entered the room, but this time, I changed my screen-name. GUNBREAKER: Hey, guys. Was all I typed and the response followed swiftly. DECOY: So it was you... I am the appointed leader of this operation, everyone else is already instructed.

Yet again, I found myself in a one-on-one chat-room, I guess to many participants would only complicate things, so it was fine by me.

GUNBREAKER: Nice to meet you. DECOY: I trust Hermes already told you? Our goal is to attack the official sites of some government institutions, like the high council, the ministry of finances,nothing to exciting. Every skript-kiddie would be capable of shutting these down for a few minutes, but that is exactly what we want them to think. While we strike at their main-frame, a treasure trove of information, the identities of the warlords will be the least shocking revelation if we actually manage this.

Man, this guy must have felt like some military commander instructing his troops right before they jump into a decisive battle. So embarrassing...

DECOY: We appoint the Ministry of city development to you, these sheeps will be surprised to find out that there is no information about the next construction area. Serves them right, being stuck in traffic for believing these lies.

Uh huh...

GUNBREAKER: I understand completely. When will we carry out the operation?

DECOY: At 2200, tomorrow, hit them at night, when their bosses sleep peacefully. We can deal with some bored IT-guys, no problem. It is imperative that you act on time. Shut down your designated homepage and keep them busy. Further instruction should be unnecessary, but do keep in mind that we operate on a tight schedule, every attack needs to happen, otherwise our professional team will miss the time to successfully break in and leave without any traces. Do you understand? Please confirm these mission directives.

GUNBREAKER: I understand my orders. Bring down the public website of the Ministry of City Development, I will not disappoint you.

DECOY: Understood, we meet at 2100, to coordinate the attack. Just be there, we will invite you again. Decoy out.

I was so fucked! Then again, why would a single attack matter? Who knows how many hackers and crackers were on the job, why should a single failure doom the entire mission? So the operation to liberate all of humanity was not at stake, what relief. However, I was still screwed, if the site of this ministry would not go down, if they noticed, then Hermes would know that I am at fault, that I didn't do my part. Surely, they would throw me out then. I couldn't let this happen! So naturally, I did what everyone would do in my situation. I sat down in front of my computer, brought up a search-engine and typed:”How to hack a website”

I actually found some interesting results! Judging by how heavily curated our network seemed to be earlier when I conducted my research, I expected absolutely nothing. Yet here I found multiple guidelines, detailing how to easily bring down a webpage. There was just one problem, despite their claims, it wasn't easy at all! I couldn't wrap my head around it, what the hell? Maybe I could have, if only I had more time, but until tomorrow? There was no chance! I read about scripts, directory listings, source codes, saw some weird programming chains, remote files, none of it made any sense to me. Clutching my head, staring at the screen, I tried my darndest, but nothing would sink in. I was only a teenager, not even particularly smart, no one could expect this shit of me. They would though, Hermes would expect this of me and if I was unable to deliver, who knows what they would do to me. I seriously started to get a little scared, recalled the stories I heard about him, true or not. He seemed like a badass, I didn't want him to come after me... So I did my best, I spent all my time reading up on this hacker-business. Even an idiot like me could do this, I just needed to put in the effort. Some time later, I grasped some of the ideas. And I needed tools, these guides clearly stated I need some programs to actually start. Obviously, I looked for them...and found absolutely nothing. That was bullshit, the guide clearly stated that these tools were easily obtainable! There was absolutely nothing, no matter how hard I looked! Was that a joke, did the government intervene here? They leave the guidelines up, but then remove any possibility to actually follow through? Are they taunting me? Or worse tracking me as soon as I made my search query? What a scary thought, I just wanted to quit at this point. I simply was not allowed to, Hermes probably knew all about me already, if I just left now, there would be retribution. A new dawn rose, the sun annoyingly caressed my sleep-deprived face. Then, after a few hours of morning despair, I even went so far and visited some nearby bookstores, for the first time in my recent memory. Analogue reading is only done by losers after all, but I was running out of options here. “Programming for absolute Morons” caught my eye, but I didn't want to learn how to program, this was useless. “Even a skript-kiddie could do it”. Does this mean I'm not even on this level? What an embarrassment, how tragic! I seriously started to loose it, but there was nothing to be done. So at 9 pm I sat in front of my screen, clueless, utterly useless, but at least I was on time. As before, an invitation, it was second nature by now, I struggled to stay awake, being up for over 24 hours, as I entered the chat-room. This time it wasn't just me, multiple people were gathered, I counted eight including our operations-leader. Their names were such typical products of a teenage mind: Iceglazier, Bloodedge, AcidicKiller, you get the idea. I vividly remember thinking how cool they all sounded, but I didn't need to hide. Gunbreaker was an awesome name, after all, nothing to laugh about. Well, I am laughing in embarrassment when I think back, especially since it only got worse over time. But wait a second, was eight even enough? Could we pull this off? I'm saying we, but obviously I couldn't really contribute. DECOY: So you all have gathered here, very well. Our role is just as important as the main groups work, without us, they can only fail. I just wanted to make this clear one more time.

Nobody replied here, this was Decoys show and he seemed to really enjoy himself. Or herself, hell if I ever found out.

DECOY: Everyone present here already received their orders and we got precisely 43 minutes until this mission commences. If there is everything still open, something that's not clear, now is the time to ask. There shouldn't be, though, we are professionals after all.

Yes, excuse me, but how do I exactly hack a website? I don't really get the bare-bone fundamentals. Like I'd ever ask something like that. But goddammit, what could I do instead? The truth was out of the question, my lie already to advanced to safely pull out now.

BLOODEDGE: How long will it take the main-team to fulfill their objective?

DECOY: We estimate around 15 minutes. Just clear your mission, that should give us enough time. Is there anything else?

No response. Maybe these guys actually were professionals. Or maybe it was just that nobody dared to ask a stupid question, just like myself. At this time in the past, I of course assumed the first point, no doubt about it.

DECOY: Then you are dismissed. Our mission is nothing less then the liberation of all humanity. Act accordingly and do not disappoint us. Don't let Hermes down! And do it for our future, do it for our children and do it for their children. And the past, can't forget the fallen warriors coming before us, the billions of lives lost in the great Wars that lead our planet into this cruel fate. Also, do it for Jenny, I'm gonna tell her my feelings after this!...yeah.

God, how did I ever get tricked by these losers?

DECOY: Afterwards, you will be invited again for a post-mission briefing, good luck!

Everyone left the room one after another and then there I was, slumped down in my comfy chair, staring blankly at the screen, while the clock was ticking. I had to act, I could not let them down. I opened the site for the ministry, just looking at it, expecting a clue to pop up, a gate leading me to a solution. Maybe I should have asked where the other ones got their tools from, but then I had to admit that I never done this before. Before I reached out to Hermes. Why, you might ask? Why was it such a big deal? This is so childish. The thing is: yes, exactly, I was a child after all, none of this shit really mattered if you think about it. But to a useless teenager, who had no talents, nothing he was really good at, this was very important, it was everything, a chance to finally be someone. Five minutes left until 10 pm. My head crashed on my desk in frustration, but more then a small bruise on my forehead was not achieved by this. Then I had to surrender, I had to finally admit, that there was nothing I could do, that I lost. I was lying to myself thinking I could achieve something, anything to change the world...with Hermes help! Indeed, I had to do this on my own, this was my conclusion out of this event. GunBreaker would go on a solo-mission, using his unflappable mind and his sharp rhetoric to open the eyes of the population. Hermes would become my rival, a friendly relationship, our goals aligned, yet our methods would be different and it would be very interesting to see who would come out on top. Just you wait, Hermes, you are not the only one who will free humanity of its shackles, breaking the walls of their cities. Curiosity, however got the better of me and I absolutely wanted to see if they could pull off their attack. It was 10 pm by now, so I just brought up the official site of our High Council and there it was. “This page is unavailable while we perform maintenance. Please refer to our social media-account for updates.” I kinda expected something more flashy, the Hermes logo all over the site, mocking words behind it, while the allegedly teenage hacker celebrated his victory over the stupid authority. Something like this, not some official statement, that might as well be a coincidence. I checked the city development page next and my eyes went wide. The same message? But I didn't do anything. That was very weird, really suspicious even! However, highschool-me just shrugged it off, like the moron that he was. Someone else must have taken my part as soon as they realized I wasn't participating, a simple answer to a rather complicated problem. They succeeded apparently, this was all I took from this, good for them. For my newfound rival, a worthy opponent. And for the following weeks, the net was haunted by the GunBreaker, more determined then ever before.

#creative writing #light novel #web novel #gunbreaker #chapter1 #part2 #writing practice

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