#Context: I was cleaning out my camera roll when I found a photo I had taken of the comic at the library | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zenonaa · 3 years

Text

'Like the rest of the group, he also wondered what could have driven out such a grin from him, out in the open like that. Worse, it could have not been a ‘what’, but a ‘who’. He had prided himself on never letting anyone slip under his skin, never letting anyone become close to him. Learning to rely on others, and let others rely on him, was one thing. This felt more personal, like a kick to the stomach.'

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fukawa Touko/Togami Byakuya Characters: Fukawa Touko, Togami Byakuya, Naegi Makoto, Naegi Komaru, Kirigiri Kyouko, Asahina Aoi, Hagakure Yasuhiro Additional Tags: TogaFuka Week 2021 Summary: Togami and the others stumble across a photograph of him smiling, but he can't remember the context so the others try to figure out what happened for him to do that.

Comments: owo what's this? togafuka week day 1: happiness! i haven't actually written something for all the days but this is one of the things that i did manage to squeeze out.

💗 Please like, share and comment if you enjoyed it! 💗

***

Cleaning up Hope’s Peak wasn’t an afternoon affair. Beyond the old school building that Byakuya knew too intimately, debris clogged hallways, trash lay scattered throughout the campus like weeds and the air smelled of rust and blood. The group of seven started with the art building on the east side of campus. For the first few hours, Yasuhiro hummed as he hauled cardboard boxes, Komaru still had the patience to prepare and bring lemonade, and Aoi’s sunshine voice beamed between walls as she shared a story about the time her family held a second-hand sale in their backyard.

By the end of the day, however, their lively chatter had dimmed with the sky. Inside remained as bright thanks to Byakuya and Yasuhiro reconnecting the electricity, but darkening windows reminded them of the aches in their limbs, the ebbing flames behind their eyes. Byakuya swept his gaze across what used to be a theatre but was currently a sorting room filled with boxes instead of chairs. Makoto, Touko, Komaru and Yasuhiro were sitting together on boxes, while Kyouko and Aoi had just walked in with a dirty wheelbarrow.

“We should adjourn until the morning,” Byakuya announced. He reached a hand toward his glasses, intending to push them up, but stopped himself when he remembered the grime clinging to his palms. Not wanting to dirty his glasses, he lowered his hand.

The Byakuya of the past would have deemed this sort of manual labour beneath him, yet he had willingly spent most of that day working alongside his companions. His friends. How things changed.

“There is so much stuff,” said Aoi, who by now had parked the wheelbarrow and was slouched against it. She wiped her vest against her forehead.

“And not a lot of it is useful,” added Kyouko, next to Aoi. Yasuhiro straightened up.

“Nonsense. All we need to do is spruce them up, and they’ll be ready to go on sale.” He walked over to a broken lamp, its shade bitten and discoloured, as dirty as the floor it lay on. “Like this lamp. Fix this up, and it’ll be as good as new. Then all we need is a good pitch and b’am,” he punched his palm, “sold.”

“You can’t do that with everything here,” said Komaru. He put his hands onto his hips.

“Not with that attitude! But with the right mindset, you could sell anything here, guaranteed.”

Yasuhiro rubbed his finger against his nose, grinning like a fool. Some things changed, but others stayed remarkably the same. Byakuya’s gaze drifted over to Touko, who was scowling at Yasuhiro. Touko was both different and the same. Different, because she stood firm where she used to cower, and she let others into her world where she used to cloak herself in darkness.

And same because while like Byakuya, she had learned to allow herself to rely on friends and for friends to rely on her, she was still head over heels in love with him.

She pointed at a black bag containing hunks of metal. “What sales pitch do you have for this?”

“Easy! All you have to do is make the contents into sculptures,” replied Yasuhiro. “Their only purpose is to be admired, ‘right? Add a backstory to go with them and boom, sold. You can do that to practically anything even if it’s trash.”

“No way,” said Aoi.

“Want to bet?”

The group roused to accept his challenge. Makoto found a used wipe container, and Yasuhiro clicked his fingers and said to fill it with plastic bags, turning it into a dispenser that was portable and could fit easily into a car drawer. Aoi presented him with pizza boxes, at which Yasuhiro laughed and demanded more so they could be decked in wrapping paper and transformed into a drawer unit. When Komaru found a metal pipe, Yasuhiro claimed it needed a clean and spray paint and it could sit contentedly on a shelf.

Yasuhiro even sucked Byakuya and Touko into the game. The cork in Byakuya’s hand changed into a keychain, and Yasuhiro’s voice fashioned an old juice carton into a recyclable purse ideal for coins and trips to the arcade. Each item that the others found, Yasuhiro repurposed it into something else.

“There has to be something you can’t reuse,” Komaru insisted. She peeled the lid open on a cardboard box and lifted out a hardback red book from inside it. “What about these photos? Who’d want to have pictures of strangers?”

“Photos?” said Kyouko, intrigued.

“Yeah, there are a whole load of albums in here. I went through a few earlier but didn’t recognise anyone, so I forgot about them.”

Touko rolled her eyes. “Typical...”

Kyouko and Aoi each took out an album. The box seemed to contain several of them, their covers glazed in dust and cobwebs.

“Gekkogahara-san is in this one,” said Kyouko within a few seconds of skimming.

By now, the rest of the group had gravitated over. Inside the album that Kyouko was holding, the photographs were contained in plastic flaps that overlapped so only the one on top could be seen unless it was flicked up, revealing the photograph beneath. In the photograph currently on display, Miaya Gekkogahara was sitting next to a pale guy with dark hair and dark shadows under his eyes, who Byakuya recognised as Yasuke Matsuda. They appeared to be seated at a computer desk, their heads turned toward the photographer.

“It’s really her,” murmured Makoto. “And not a robot masquerading as her.”

“Do you think these are all photos of her class?” asked Yasuhiro as he and the others picked up their own photo albums to browse.

“If that’s true, then everyone in these are deceased,” said Touko.

Aoi winced. “When you phrase it like that, this feels kind of morbid.”

Makoto flipped through a few flaps in the album in his hands. Then his creased forehead exploded as his eyebrows shot up. “This album contains our class!”

Everyone crowded around him. The photograph showed a pink room with a television screen hanging on the wall. Blurred writing glowed on it that Byakuya struggled to decipher. In front of it, Couch seats were positioned around three sides of a table, and on the seats sat members of their class. The only classmate not in the photograph was Sakura.

“Sakura-chan must have been taking the photograph,” said Aoi. “No way would our class exclude her.”

Holding the album in one hand, Makoto scratched his head with his other.

“I vaguely recall this,” he said. “Kuwata-kun... yes, I think it was him... booked a karaoke room, and the whole class packed in. All of us sang at least once.”

While Future Foundation had aided them in recovering from the memory loss inflicted by Junko, some memories were stronger than others. For Byakuya, he could recall plenty of events, but none came with any emotion attached. It was as though he was reading about them in a newspaper afterwards.

“Byakuya-sama graced us with his voice,” Touko piped up. The ends of her lips curled upward as she squeezed her hands together. “I r-remember... he made the air taste like chocolate syrup... his words spread a chill across my skin... ah...”

Byakuya remembered performing a single song, but he hated singing, and he couldn’t remember what compelled him to accept a microphone.

“Enoshima tried to steal such a precious memory from us.” Aoi rubbed the heel of her hand against her eye. “Sakura-chan sang a beautiful song about friendship. Her voice washed over the room like the ocean.”

Kyouko placed a hand onto Aoi’s shoulder. Komaru flicked through the other photographs in the album. Byakuya didn’t pay Komaru any more mind, frowning at Touko as she seemed to relive the experience of him singing. Her recollection appeared much more intimate than his own. Part of him wanted to ask her for more details. Another part was repulsed.

Komaru gasped.

“What is it?” asked Makoto as they all focused on the album again. The photograph that had captured her attention depicted Byakuya. Nothing extraordinary appeared to be in the photograph - he was sitting on a bench at an angle, not facing the camera.

Yet the others stared with their mouths agape.

“I have never seen Togami-chi smile like that,” said Yasuhiro.

Byakuya inspected the photograph closer. Though it had been taken at a distance - probably so he wouldn’t realise someone was taking a photograph of him - there was a definite smile gracing his lips. It wasn’t a smirk, or a cruel grin, or the faint curve he sometimes showed around his friends, but a smile showing teeth, one that didn’t just meet his eyes, but made his gaze, no, his face glow.

What he was looking at, however, was unclear. It was now that Byakuya realised the photograph had been torn, and the section that held the object of his attention wasn’t in the album.

“It must have been something amazing to have made him smile back then,” said Yasuhiro.

They all turned to Byakuya, who pursed his lips.

“Putting aside whether I would tell you if I knew, I don’t actually recall when this took place,” he said.

“Maybe we could help jog your memory?” Aoi suggested. “When I want to remember something, I write it on my palm three times.”

“That won’t help,” said Touko. “You can only do that while you still remember the thing.” Her teeth gritted. “Argh... if only I knew what could have elicited such a pure smile from Byakuya-sama...!”

She dragged her fingers down her face.

“It’s not a big deal,” said Byakuya. While the others burned with curiosity, discomfort stewed in his gut like when he had watched Touko reminisce about the karaoke session.

Like the rest of the group, he also wondered what could have driven out such a grin from him, out in the open like that. Worse, it could have not been a ‘what’, but a ‘who’. He had prided himself on never letting anyone slip under his skin, never letting anyone become close to him. Learning to rely on others, and let others rely on him, was one thing. This felt more personal, like a kick to the stomach.

“There has to be some way to reawaken the memory,” said Komaru, her tone light without the burden of his thoughts. She turned to Kyouko. “You must know a way.”

“Must I?” Kyouko’s eyebrows rose.

“Because you’re from a detective family,” said Aoi, nodding.

“Actually...” Komaru’s smile cringed on her face. “I um... just assume Kyouko-chan knows everything.”

“There are a few techniques we can try,” said Kyouko, faintly amused. “Perhaps if we pinpoint when and where exactly the photograph took place, that may stir something in Togami-kun’s brain.”

Other than Byakuya, no one else was in the frame. A briefcase leaned against a bench leg and a pile of papers rested on his lap. Annoyingly, he couldn’t see any writing that may have been on the papers. In the photograph, he wasn’t looking at them. He was focused on the nothingness where the other half of the photograph should have been.

“That has to be the main plaza,” said Aoi. “I recognise the benches. Sakura-chan and I finished our morning runs there. Then we would sit down and drink some water. We never saw Togami there though.”

“Yeah. That looks like the fountain at the back,” added Makoto.

Kyouko stroked her chin. “The sliver of sky in the background appears rather pale, and judging by the colour of the leaves, it’s approximately autumn.”

“Togami-chi never missed a lesson, so it had to be late-afternoon at the latest, ‘right?” said Yasuhiro.

“Unless it was the weekend,” Makoto pointed out, prompting Yasuhiro to exhale frustratedly through his teeth. The thoughtful expression on Kyouko’s face, however, didn’t waver.

“We can deduce whether he had lessons on that day,” said Kyouko.

“How?” asked Aoi.

Byakuya already knew. “I’m not in uniform.”

“Indeed,” said Kyouko with a bob of her head. “So unless you changed into another outfit after your lessons, this scene transpired at the weekend.”

“Does that ring any bells for you?” Komaru asked Byakuya, clasping her hands together, eyes wide with optimism. “Visiting the plaza on the weekend, and catching sight of something that brings joy to your face...?”

His jaw clenched. All of them were staring at him. They had a campus as large as four high schools to clear and they had only made a dent so far, but the arduous task appeared to have been pushed aside in favour of probing his brain for some memory. Oh, how they tried his patience at times.

“I can’t say it brings anything to mind, though it is unusual for me to be there,” he said in a level tone. “Usually, during the weekend, I would be indoors, either in my room or in the library.”

Certainly not at the plaza. Certainly not with a brazen smile chipped into his face.

“I think we’ve followed the photograph’s lead as far as it can go,” said Yasuhiro. “Now we must turn to guesswork. If we bounce ideas off each other, that might help Togami-chi remember. Perhaps you had come from a meeting, where you struck a billion dollar deal?”

“Or you emerged from the cafeteria after they served some tasty donuts?” Aoi chimed in.

Byakuya’s frown sank in deeper.

“Or you finished a really good manga?” said Komaru.

“Or listened to a good song?” added Makoto.

Yasuhiro clicked his fingers. “I once read that listening to music is a good way to stir up memories. If we find a piece with the right mood, Togami-chi ought to remember the scene!”

“What sort of mood do you guys reckon we should play?” asked Komaru as she shoved her hand into her coat.

“Something cheerful,” said Aoi.

Komaru retrieved her phone from her pocket and tapped on her screen. A few seconds later, a series of beeps sang out of her phone, playing over the sound of clapping and a fast drumbeat. She side-stepped back and forth to the rhythm, and Byakuya lasted until the first few lines of Swedish auto tuned singing.

“Turn that off,” snapped Byakuya. “It’s not helping me think. It’s giving me a headache instead.”

With a pout, Komaru switched it off.

“Perhaps we should visit the location,” said Kyouko.

Touko’s brow creased. “Won’t it be dark?”

“Don’t worry, Touko-chan, our phones can provide you with light,” Komaru assured her, patting Touko on the shoulder.

They set off, departing from the old theatre and winding through corridors toward the plaza. Byakuya stayed silent, lagging behind most of the others slightly. Only Touko seemed to take note of this, and though she didn’t speak to him, she hovered further back than him, and he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck like flies crawling against his skin.

As they drew closer, he concluded that they wished so desperately to discover the source of his smile because they planned to use it against him. Perhaps they intended to humiliate him, or blackmail or manipulate him. But they were his friends, weren’t they? Surely they didn’t plan on using what they learned against him?

Yet... if that wasn’t the case, then why?

The plaza was no longer the picturesque location it once was. It couldn’t have been in a brochure promoting the academy, like the photograph in the album. Weeds grew between upturned slabs, gnarled fingers reaching toward the sky. Nearby, the rubble corpse of the fountain didn’t spout water, dry as sun bleached bone. They all stood silently for a while, observing their surroundings. There were no benches to sit on.

“It sure has changed a lot,” said Yasuhiro.

“It’ll do. Hagakure, bend over on all fours.” Aoi pointed at her feet. “You will play the part of the bench.”

Yasuhiro balked. “Why me? You’re stronger.”

Her stare didn’t relent. He managed a few more seconds before he dropped to his knees and planted his hands in front of himself. Once he was in position, Aoi turned to Byakuya expectantly.

“I am not sitting on him,” said Byakuya flatly.

“Please, Togami-san!” Komaru pleaded, shaking her phone in both hands. Light from the screen danced across her face and when her hands stilled, so did the glow. It seeped into her skin, accentuating the crinkle between her eyebrows and the stare from her eyes that pulled, pulled, pulled at Byakuya until he snapped.

“Why are you all making a big deal of this?” Byakuya asked not only Komaru, but all of them. He flung up a hand. “There is a photograph of me smiling. That’s it. It concerns me that you’re so obsessed with finding out what caused me to smile.”

His question clenched them in its jaws, burning the air with acid. He waited for one of them to answer. For Touko to do more than fidget, and Komaru to stop chewing her lip. Finally, the pressure squeezed out a response from Makoto.

“You’re our friend,” said Makoto. “You’re usually so serious, and you rarely ever seem happy. We thought if we could find out what made you that happy back then...”

“... we could bring that happiness back to you now,” finished Touko, curling her fingers into her palms. Byakuya tensed.

That explanation had never occurred to him. For most of his life, he had been forced to be on the defensive, to anticipate betrayals and attacks from anyone. Then again, for most of his life, he hadn’t been acquainted with people like this. Friends. He grimaced, staring at Touko for several long seconds before averting his gaze and pushing up his glasses.

“Nuisances...” But he seated himself on Yasuhiro’s back, setting his feet firmly on the ground.

Byakuya tried to imagine the sky was a pool of water, not ink, and that he was on a bench, and that water streamed from a fountain behind him. However, the air remained as dry and dark as his mouth, and no matter how often his mind mended the slabs of the plaza, they would crack and decay within moments.

“Anything?” said Touko, wringing her hands.

He folded his arms over his chest.

“No,” said Byakuya. A collective sigh spread, though Makoto was soon grinning again.

“I guess we’ll have to keep trying to make you happy.”

Byakuya clicked his tongue, but his lips twitched outward and he quickly hid it behind his hand. Nuisances.

“Does this mean you can stand up now?” Yasuhiro asked from beneath Byakuya.

Aoi stretched her arms upward, arching her back, and yawned. “We ought to call it a day. It’s getting late.”

While the others headed toward the dormitory building that they were currently living in. Byakuya stayed where he was. Their footsteps faded, the glow of their phones shrinking into five pinpricks of light before disappearing completely. Despite his friends’ efforts, they had failed to uncover the story of the photograph. Now that he knew their motives hadn’t been nefarious, he could appreciate their attempts and found himself wondering what had happened all those years ago.

“It’s a shame we don’t know what made you so happy back then,” said Touko next to him, echoing his thoughts. She hadn’t retired for the night with the others. He glanced at her, meeting her gaze. Her phone shone a light against her wistful expression.

“I suppose so,” he said in a casual tone.

“With many of my memories, I don’t recall exact details, but they evoke certain feelings.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction in interest. “Oh?”

“Yes. For example, standing here... is stirring some emotion in me. I think I have a memory associated with this place too.”

Byakuya turned his whole body to face her.

“What emotion?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away, as if letting the thought sit on her tongue, tasting it.

“Warmth,” she said. “Like the warmth I feel when I’m with you. Perhaps I will never remember what happened to give me that feeling. B-But... I have many other precious memories... and I can work on creating more with you, Byakuya-sama.”

Her lips twisted into a smile. Meanwhile, his insides twisted, much like they did whenever she referred to him in a romantic manner. He had been experiencing the sensation more frequently around her lately. Sometimes, all she had to do was meet his gaze or brush against him, and his stomach would coil like she had pressed her lips against his.

“Byakuya-sama?” Touko’s voice broke into his thoughts. “A-Are you feeling all right?”

He did not want to think what about his face had made her ask that all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” he said, and he adjusted his glasses. “We’ve dawdled here for long enough. Let’s return to the dormitories.”

“Together?” blurted Touko. Without a word, Byakuya strode away, and she darted after him, keeping abreast. “Are you going straight to sleep when you arrive back?”

His eyes stayed forward.

“No. I will have some tea and read first,” he replied.

“What do you plan on reading?”

“Out by Natsuo Kirino,” he said. Her head jerked back.

“I r-recently finished that!”

“I know. After seeing you reading it, I thought I would give it a try. I was more interested when I learned that it’s not a romance, but a crime novel.”

“I specialise in romance, but I read for a variety of genres,” she said. “I can recommend some more books i-if you want. Have you read The Inugami Clan? You may find the start slow, but I think you will enjoy the cast and the premise...”

He listened as they walked back together. The more she spoke, the more passionate she became, and he couldn’t help looking at her as she lit up, waving her arms around.

A smile poked at the corners of his lips, and he finally felt a sense of déjà vu.

#togafuka #togafukaweek #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #junko enoshima #dr3 #komaru naegi #makoto naegi #kyouko kirigiri #yasuhiro hagakure #aoi asahina #fanfiction #one shot

29 notes · View notes

amusedyan · 3 years

Text

Monthly Meetings

A Peaky Blinders commission!

Words: 2k

Once a month there was a meeting. It was something dreaded by both parties, but one that was necessary- it was neutral territory, where mutual suggestions were discussed, grievances were gone over and business settled. No one officially came armed- but that was never written into the deal. Just like it wasn’t discussed that both parties came with a small coterie of their most trusted, each eyeing the other and waiting for a twitchy trigger finger.

Tommy Shelby was never on time to any meeting.

He came early when he was the one to suggest it- to get the drop on the other person, to make an impression. You waste my time, and you have no right to ask anything of me, was the goal there. When told to meet someone, he always made it a point to arrive 5 minutes late, because you aren’t worth my time.

This meant that meeting Alfie Solomons put him in an uncomfortable position- he had to come on time. And sometimes Alfie was there already, smug, or sometimes Alfie was late and dismissive about it, but with a stack of papers and grievances to make up the difference.

Tommy was continually unimpressed with the Jewish mobster, though you could color him surprised when word got out through the grapevine that Alfie Solomon had started going steady with some bird from the local flower shop.

He’d never figure him to be one to settle down, but those same rumors claimed that he ws continually trailing after her. Considering how…temperamental his associate could be, Tommy could believe it.

When Alfie actually entered the restaurant, Tommy reflected that the rumors must be true because the man was practically glowing. More importantly though, his usual stack of gripes was noticeably absent.

“Tommy-boy!” The man grunted, taking his seat at the table. There was already whiskey poured- courtesy of Tommy, of course.

“Alfie,” Tommy greeted, watching the man settle.

It was such a waste of his time to come here, and it took active work not to lose his temper about it. He could be home now

“So, to business. Would you like to begin?” Tommy offered magnanimously.

Alfie drank from his glass and winced at the taste. “Shit, that is,” he mused, shaking his head. “How’ve you been, Tommy? How’s life treated you?”

Suspicion colored Tommy’s thoughts. What was Solomons up to? Small talk wasn’t part of the meeting, ever. As if reading his thoughts, Alfie chuckled. “Don’t be like that, Shelby. I’ve been advised to try diplomacy.”

“By your new conquest?” Tommy countered. The expression on Alfie’s face closed off, and no longer was he looking at a man blatantly in love and feeling charitable to the whole world for it. It made things much easier to deal with. But a moment later, a sly smile crept across Alfie Solomon’s face, and Tommy wasn’t much fond of that expression.

“You’d know all about conquests, wouldn’t you, Tom?” Alfie folded his hands across his midsection and leaned back against his seat, leveling Tommy with a look just as cold.

Fury unfolded, and beside that, fear. What did that mean? Who had talked?

Chuckling, Alfie waved it off. “Now, there’s no need for that look, my good man. There’s been whispers, same as there have been for me. About a pretty girl. What’s her name?”

“We aren’t here to discuss women, Alfie.” Tommy said flatly, trying not to growl. From the corner of his eye, he could see Finn watching intently. He was waiting for a signal. No, he needed to reign it in.

Alfie was just intent on pushing his buttons though, grinning broadly, damn near leering at Tommy. “Well, her name’s Margaret.” His finger drummed against the glass, the ring he was wearing clinking methodically. “I doubt her name’s in your network, yeah? Every fucking thing else, but not that.” He shook his head. “Beautiful name.” And there was that lovesick look again.

“Is that all?” Tommy asked. What would it take to get the meeting back on track? Alfie eyed him, and reached into his coat-

Finn and Isaiah were drawing their guns, Alfie’s men were responding-

“SIT THE FUCK DOWN!” Alfie boomed, stilling the room. Tommy saw that what he’d withdrawn was his wallet.

“What are you planning, Solomons?” He asked, withdrawing a cigarette from his case.

The Camden bastard rolled his eyes and withdrew a photo. “Here,” he grunted, “have a look at this.” He handed it over to Tommy.

And honestly the last thing that Tommy expected to see was the image of a young woman posing for the camera. Rather lewdly, to put it mildly. Like a whore if you wanted to be blunt.

“My Margaret,” pride dripped from Solomons’ voice, like he hadn’t just shown off the parts of a woman that only her husband would see.

Tommy weighed his answers- would Solomons light up with fury if he complimented the woman? Or would he be offended if he didn’t? The trouble was that you never knew with him. He took a contemplative drag of his cigarette.

“Lovely,” he settled on.

Alfie scowled. “Oh like yours is any better,” he taunted. “C’mon, let’s see ‘er then.”

“I don’t have pictures of my woman on me, Alfie.” Tommy said, unable to stop the slight condescension from creeping into his tone, like he was talking to a child, or else someone very simpleminded.

“Well why the fuck not? How’m I s’posed to know if this woman exists, eh?” Alfie accused, smacking the table.

This was all very confusing honestly. What the hell was he playing at? “I didn’t claim she was real.”

“What man doesn’t have a picture of the woman he loves?”

“What man carries filthy pictures of his?”

“Oi mate, those are fuckin art!” Alfie argued with surprising vehemence. It was a strange hill to make a stand on, but hey, he could relate.

“Whatever you say, Alfie,” Tommy sighed and blew out another cloud of smoke.

It was raining now. Storm clouds had been gathering all of yesterday, and he’d been able to taste the moisture, along with the filth in the city air. Rain was ugly here, didn’t clean a fuckin’ thing. He found himself thinking, longingly of the estate. The Shelby Estate, a grander name than something like Arrow House. But little things like a name change kept your feet on the ground. Sylvia would be there, reading. It was raining, so she couldn’t ride today.

At first she’d hated being in the house. She’d wanted to be back in Birmingham. Always liked the action, wanted to support him. It had been charming before, but now that they were together, it couldn’t be tolerated. Too many risks.

“Are you fucking ignoring me, Tommy-boy?” Alfie’s voice was dangerous now, angry and short. Shit. He stubbed out the remains of his smoke in the ashtray.

“No, Alfie, I’m not ignoring you,” he said on the exhale. Clearly, he reflected, nothing was going to get done with this meeting. It was a shame, but at least that meant things were secure where they stood.

Either Solomons was happy or about to betray him again.

“So, I’ve told you about my Margaret, tell me about your girl.” Alfie ordered, pouring another drink.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Tom said, but at the disbelieving look on Alfie’s face, he shrugged slightly.

“I just don’t understand how a man can have a woman and not want to talk about her. Obviously you’ve heard how proud I am, but you? Are you ashamed?” It sounded like it was amusing- the idea that Tommy Shelby would be ashamed of anything in his life.

But the idea of being ashamed of Sylvia? That struck a nerve and that pissed him off properly.

“I’m not ashamed of her.” He snapped.

Alfie’s grin was positively disgusting. “So she does exist? Well, come now, what’s her name?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he spoke begrudgingly, “Sylvia.”

“Sylvia, aye.” He nodded, turning it over. “She a gypsy like you?”

“No. She is not a gypsy.” Eye contact was key. “It wouldn’t matter either way.”

“So why don’t you talk about her? I could talk all day about mine, as I’m sure that you’ve noticed,” of course he had. “You move her in yet?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Tommy mocked, making Alfie roll his eyes.

“Neither of us are gentlemen, Tom, no matter how you fuckin’ pretend. I moved Margaret in almost right away, you know? We just, we just had this connection- I saw her and I wanted her. Sent her gifts every day, came into the store when I could- her smiles, they lit up my fuckin’ life.”

“I’ve never known you to be so open about your business, Alfie. Aren’t you worried that someone might overhear?” It wasn’t a threat, not at all, not for once. This hit a little too close to home for it to be anything more than idle curiosity, and luckily Solomons knew it.

“No, mate. I need her to know how much I love her. And I need other people to know. Because if someone thinks that they can hurt her? I will…” he laughed, and it didn’t sound sane at all, but it didn’t bother Tommy, “well fuck, I think I’d burn the fuckin’ city down. But,” and he looked at Tommy, and that affable, unstable mask came off for a moment, and Tommy was looking at the emptiness that came from the war, the same emptiness in every soldier who’d been in the field, “but I think you know that, don’t you Tom?” He sighed and shook his head. “I figured, hell, if anyone on this Earth knew what I felt- how far I’d go- it’d be you.. And you do, don’t you?”

Tommy thought about Sylvia. He always thought about Sylvia.

He did horrible things on a daily basis. What would he do if something happened to her?

And the thing was, Tommy didn’t even need to ask himself that question. He’d known the moment that he’d seen her what he’d do for her, what he’d already done. She was safe, that was what he told himself, she was under constant watch, by men he trusted, where he didn’t need to worry about someone running off with her, or an accident, or any of the things that could take her away.

“And you just keep her in an apartment?” He muttered.

“How else would I see her?” Alfie countered evenly. “I take it you don’t?”

Tommy didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to, not in the context of the question.

“No, no, the way I see it, it’s better that I can keep an eye on ‘er. I get to come home to a nice meal, lovely company, and everyone knows what’ll happen if they fuck with her. You keep yours,” and he pointed at his business associate, “in some isolated fuckin’ kingdom and what happens? People get curious. You can’t see her as often. She goes missing. There’s no fuckin’ neighbors to pay to keep watch.” And hell, that was actually a very good point, but he didn’t want to hear that from Solomons.

“Let’s just agree to disagree.”

“Oh I fuckin’ disagree, mate. You don’t get that shit in hand-“

“And what might happen, Solomons?” Tommy asked calmly. He knew what this was- this was Solomons trying to knock him off his game, disturb him. And why? What the hell did Solomons have up his sleeve? “What are you planning?”

“Well I dunno mate.” The glass in Solomons’ hand was empty now, “what do you think I’m planning?”

“I think you’re just being a prick.” The other man barked out a laugh.

“Fair enough, so- grievances.”

And there it was.

When it was over, Tommy went over the meeting- all of it, bullshit included- in his head, thinking it over.

Alfie Solomons was a two faced bastard.

But Tommy found himself making plans to go visit Sylvia as a surprise, nonetheless.

#yandere peaky blinders #yandere alfie solomons #yandere tommy shelby

147 notes · View notes

ordinaryunordinary · 3 years

Text

Change

After receiving some alarming news Valerie ask to meet with Arlo in an attempt to make sure his views haven’t changed

4000+ Words

CW: Death/mentions of murder

In the Bureau of Authority, a blonde woman sat at her desk typing away on her computer. For the second time that morning her phone buzzed away next to her. A sigh escaped her, she knew it was her nephew calling, but she was so absorbed with work that she didn’t have to time to answer him. She had just finished typing up another referral when the door to her office opened and a young man stepped in.

“Hello Kingsley, is there something you need?” The man fiddled with his fingers as he approached her desk, looking nervous as the blonde stood and now towered over him. “I’m V-Valerie I received some news.” But before he could speak anymore, Valerie lifted a hand in the air to stop him. “Chin up and stop stuttering.” The man nodded and took a deep breath.

”ma’am, I received some news about your nephew today. It involves one of the three students you are inspected and I just thought you want want to know.” Valerie arched an eyebrow, “continue.” The man dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone and came to stand beside Valerie. “I found these on a social media account run by a woman named Elizabeth, who I believe is the mother of Remi.” Valerie nodded as the man opened his files and presented the screen to her.

She frowned, the photo was of four individuals. Arlo, Remi, a greenette and bluette. “Who are the two older boys,” she asked. “Rei and Kuyo. Rei is the superhero known as X-Static that was successfully terminated three months ago and we still have no connection as to where Kuyo is. However, we do know the two boys attended the same college so we have a lead.” The woman hummed before studying the picture once more.

In the picture Arlo was still clearly a first year, his ever present frown on his face but his eyes, showed joy. The group of four was sitting on the steps of Wellston highschool, though this “Kuyo” bore a brown uniform rather than the Wellston one and Remi was in casual clothing.

“This picture was taken the day before Rei’s graduation, and the group later went to the park and hung out until the stars were out.”

Valerie frowned once more, the Arlo she remembers was never the social type. Preferring to stay on the side lines and watch rather than take part in the activities. “There’s more,” the man spoke before swiping to the next photo.

In this one, Arlo was a second year, him and Remi wearing matching uniforms while the older boys wore matching black uniforms. In the back there were fireworks going off and a clear crowd could be seen gathered around them, but the four were huddled together and everyone was smiling. Including her nephew Arlo. Valerie looked to the male for context.

”The group went to a concert for Kuyo’s birthday.”

Now Valerie was even more confused. Arlo had his moments where he could be social, but she knew for a fact that the blonde would never attended a concert such as the one in the photo. “Is there more,” she asked and the man nodded. “There’s two more, this next one was taken at Remi’s birthday party during your nephews third year of highschool.”

Valerie scoffed, that Remi girl was sitting on top of the green guys shoulders while Arlo sat on the blue guys, the older males standing in a pool while Remi and Arlo held pool noodles in their arms. “This one is actually a video,” the man spoke and pressed play.

”En garde, Arlo!”

“You think you could beat me Remi, you forget that I took fencing in middle school.”

Kuyo laughed while Rei giggled, “don’t fall Remi.” Remi looked down at her brother offended giving Arlo the perfect chance to strike. He whacked her one with the noodle causing her to lose her balance which then cause Rei to lose his and they both fell back into the pool. “That was fast,” Kuyo laughed and reached up to high-five the blonde.

However, Kuyo was soon knocked off his feet and he and Arlo splashed into the pool with Rei and Remi coming up behind them. “This is revenge, you won’t get rid of us that easily.” A woman’s laugh could be heard from behind the camera before the video stopped. Valerie blinked, she could feel a vein in her head throbbing and urged the man to move to the last one.

In the final photo, it was Arlo taking the photo and from his stance it was a selfie with the other three behind him. This was the same Arlo she had met with just a few weeks ago but this Arlo held a warm smile and his eyes had shown happiness. “This was taken on Arlo’s birthday in his fourth year. The group surprised him with an ice cream cake and they spent the night at his apartment playing board games.”

The man paused when Valerie slowly pushed the phone away and turned toward the window. “Ma’am?” Valerie didn’t turn, “thank you for bringing this to my attention, but I think I see the point you were trying to make.” The man understood when he was excused and quickly thanked Valerie for her time before briskly leaving the room.

Valerie glared at the sky, Arlo has always cared about the hierarchy and keeping a clean image. Her mind flashed between the photos and video she had seen, but around those three, it seems as though he couldn’t care less. The woman looked back to her phone to see two missed call notifications looking back at her. She sighed before picking up the phone and pressing the call back button. I have to be sure that his opinions haven’t been swayed.

———

Valerie drummed her fingers on the table of the cafe. She arrived a little earlier than the time she had suggested to reserve a table in the back so they could talk privately. The doorbell chimed and she looked over to see Arlo come in and thank the person who opened the door for him. Valerie smiled as her nephew came over and joined him. “Hello Arlo, how have you been.” Arlo shrugged, looking unimpressed as usually, but there was a certain apprehension hidden in his eyes that wasn’t there when they met before.

“I’m the same as I was last time Aunt Val.” The woman nodded and kept a kind smile hoping it would prompt her nephew to do the same but he simply blinked at her. “Anyway, what did you call me here for?” Valerie sighed, “well I figured last time we talked too much about business and such so I figured we could have a more personal conversation.” Arlo drummed lightly on the table before nodding, “sure.”

Arlo moved to rest his arms on the table folded over one another, “what have you been doing these past years? I haven’t gotten to speak personally with you since my first year of highschool.” The woman nodded, “I’ve been so absorbed with work I hardly have time to myself. However, I did manage to sneak away for a beach excursion a few months ago.” Her nephew nodded, “you enjoyed it.”

”Oh yes, very much. It was exactly what the getaway I needed.” Valerie smiles recalling her moments relaxing in the sand. “Getaway huh?”

Arlo still drummed away on the table, never looking interested in the slightest. His aunt frowned, “and you? How have you been?” Arlo shrugged, “same old.” Valerie let out a deep exhale. Her nephew had never been one for many words, but she had never experienced this much difficulty in getting him to talk.

“How are your friends,” she decided to subtle approach the topic. She couldn’t outright ask if it’s opinion on the hierarchy had changed without offending him, so she would have to creep slowly. Arlo narrowed his eyes before glancing at the table, “they’re fine.”

“What about your classmate who lost her ability?”

Arlo’s eyes widened and she watched as he chewed on his lip before speaking, “she’s fine as well.” The woman hummed, leaning back in her chair and eyeing her nephew. “Any news on her recovery?” Arlo shook his head, “there’s no sign that she’ll ever get it back.” Valerie nodded, “I’m sure the authorities will figure it out.” To her dismay, Arlo let out a huff, his face set to a small smirk, “sure.”

A few seconds of silence passed, enough time for their drinks to come out, before Valerie spoke again. “Any progress toward getting your king position back?” She seemed to strike a nerve, Arlo’s grip on his drink tightening and eyes falling down into a glare. “I already told you I’m fine without it, I don’t want it back.” The woman scowled, “and why is that, you should aim to be at the top.” Arlo scoffed, “I’m number three aunt Val, I’m high enough. I’m comfortable where I am, and I still help around the school. I don’t need to be the king to better the kingdom.”

The blonde sighed, taking a sip of his drink before speaking, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so aggressive.” Though Valerie dismissed the behavior, she had a feeling that his words had been genuine. “Well, what have you done around the school since you lost your title?” Arlo rolled his eyes, “just small things, I’ve mostly been helping with Remi and the safe house.” Valerie arched an eyebrow, “safe house?”

Arlo nodded, “it’s a space where students can hang out, get school work done, or just chill regardless of their rank or ability and feel safe.” Under the table, Valerie clenched her fist. Remi, that was the name of the girl from the files and the photos. So she is having an effect on Arlo, that will have to end . She knew her next words would be a low blow, but she had to see her nephews reaction to gauge how far these people had drug him down.

“So in your first few years of highschool you were friends with Remi, Rei, and Kuyo, why don’t you guys do that now?”

———

Arlo froze, his hands rolled into fist and he stared down at his lap.

“How come you never told me about this little friend group you had?”

I have never mentioned anything about them to my aunt, so she must’ve gone through some files somewhere and found info on them. However, that thought unnerved him. That was implying that Valerie was looking for information related to the four of them, which could potentially mean that they were in danger.

He took a deep breath, he had to play this safe. The worst thing that could happen was him revealing that he knew that EMBER was created by the authorities;he couldn’t allow that to happen. Although he was nervous about how to answer his aunt, he was also hurt. He knew, that she knew that Rei was dead. And from that she could likely assume why the group didn’t get together anymore, so what was her reason for bringing them up?

“Aunt Val, Rei died three months ago. We discussed this a few weeks ago when you met Remi.” His aunt nodded, his chin resting in her palm and her eyes narrowing at him to where he felt she was trying to stare into his soul.

He felt like he was sitting in front of someone with a lie detector ability. If he said the wrong thing some alert would go off in their head and they would take immediate action. Though he assumed that was how it had to be in the authorities. In all honesty, he never expected himself to be in this situation, choosing his words carefully to avoid punishment from the authorities. He had always been in their side, but now, he quite despised his past self that defended them without any hesitation.

“Ah, that’s right, my apologies. However my second question still stands. How come you never told me about this?” Arlo shrugged, his next words weren’t even a lie, it was a truth he had come to terms with years ago. “I didn’t want to.” He couldn’t hide his slight wince at his aunt shocked look. Though she quickly covered it up, he could tell she was hurt by his statement. The young man sighed, “it was nothing against you personally. It was just,” he took a breath,” I want to make a friendship that wasn’t made through connections. I wanted someone to be friends with me because they liked me. Not because I was related to some high ranking authoritative figure.”

His aunt nodded, and he hoped that he worded that right. Because truthfully, Valerie herself had nothing to do with his decision. Leading up to his highschool years, most of Arlo’s “friends” had only been friends with him because of his level or affiliation with the authorities.

“So what was so special about them,” Valerie then asked. Arlo huffed, he could sense the interrogation coming from a mile away. But if he wanted to avoid raising any suspicion he would have to go along and answer her questions as truthfully as he could.

“Because that’s exactly what they did. Rei came first, I actually met him outside of school and only realized he was the king when I later saw him in the hallways. I just remember we were looking for the same book at a bookstore and got into a conversation about the series.” A faint smile made his way onto his face, “and our friendship simply grew from there. I don’t think we ever discussed ranks or ability until his graduation. And even then, it was an awkward conversation because we had never spoken about it before.”

Valerie shifted, crossing her legs over one another as she listened intently to her nephew. But at this point, Arlo had forgotten that she was there and was merely reminiscing.

“Because I made such quick friends with Rei, it was long until I met Remi. And Remi was like Rei on drugs. Rei was a lot more soft spoken and sometimes reserved, while Remi was always out there ready to change the world. Of course, so was Rei, but in his own time. When he was around others he was more focused on them than whatever worries he had.” A small laugh escaped his lips.

“I remember I didn’t like Remi that much when I first met her. She felt like she was just trying to be Rei, but the more I got to know her, the more I discovered the difference between the two. Even so, Remi was just like her brother in the fact that she accepted me for me and had no concern about my background or who I was related to.”

Arlo huffed, “and Kuyo, I absolutely hated Kuyo at first. But it was mostly because I had such high respect for Rei and valued him as a friend. Rei and Kuyo didn’t get along for their first two years of highschool and I heard from Kuyo that he used to say a lot of mean things to Rei that really damaged his mental state. But the reason I got to be friends with him, is because he’s the kind of person that realizes he’s made a mistake and tries to fix it. Of course, I’m sure Rei helped him with some of that, but Kuyo eventually became a better person. And I’m sure that’s the whole reason Rei introduced me to him. It gave me an example of someone who was obsessed with levels and all that stuff but eventually changed and went by their own values.”

Arlo had to swallow, his throat becoming slightly dry. Huh, he hadn’t talked about his friendships with anyone aside from his mom. And while he wasn’t the biggest fan of revealing all that stuff to his aunt, he was happy to remember those events again.

“Sounds like a blast,” Valerie hummed. Arlo nodded, taking a breath and forcing himself to focus on on the situation once more. He had allowed himself to be a bit vulnerable, hopefully that would throw Valerie off of him for a bit. “Now obviously,” she began, “you seem to hold these people very close to your heart.” Arlo nodded, “I consider those three my closest friends and they are among the people I trust the most.”

He could see his aunt bite her cheek, a sign that she was thinking of her next words. “So how did you handle having different viewpoints on things such as the hierarchy? Because it’s obvious that you firmly uphold the hierarchy, but these three don’t. With one of them being a vigilante and the other two having very close relationships with him.” Arlo sighed, he knew this question could get him in trouble.

A part of him wanted to believe that his aunt wouldn’t report anything he said to the authorities, but he also had a dreadful feeling that everything he said was being memorized and stored somewhere for Valerie to repeat his exact words later on to her superiors. Arlo didn’t know if his aunt had any connection to the part of the authorities that created EMBER, and he really hoped that she had nothing to do with it, but he had no guarantee that her words wouldn’t be overheard by someone who was involved with the shadow organization. So no matter how much he wanted to trust his aunt, he couldn’t bring himself to let her know everything.

“As I said before, it wasn’t really brought up. I’m sure we had conversations and debates every once in a while, but it was never the main focus of our friendship.” Valerie frowned, “you never brought it up? With it being such a controversial topic, I would assume that you would want to surround yourself by people with agreeing opinions.”

“Quite honestly aunt Val I didn’t care,” Arlo flinched, he didn’t mean to say that. Valerie narrowed her eyes into a glare at him, “you didn’t care?” The blonde boy gulped and shifted in his seat, “no, I didn’t. I mean, it was definitely something I thought about from time to time-“ Valerie held up a hand, “don’t make excuses Arlo, you meant exactly what you just said, you didn’t care.” Arlo took a shaky breath, he was walking on thin ice with his aunt. One wrong step and the ice would crack and welcome her into all of his past actions through the past month.

Helping Seraphina recover her ability, working in the safe house, discovering the truth about EMBER. There were too many secrets he was keeping from his aunt, and there was no way back, he had to tread carefully.

“I wanted it to be a genuine friendship, not a business rank related friendship.” The woman hummed, “I can understand that.” Arlo held in his sigh of relief, he wasn’t out of danger yet, his aunt still held a level of suspicion in her eyes. “So have you not met with the other two since the vigilante’s death?” Arlo nodded, “I see Remi nearly everyday at school so we often speak to one another,” by mentioning his school, he hoped Valerie would think of their friendship as a casual schoolmate relationship. “And the other boy,” Valerie continued. Arlo shook his head, “I haven’t spoken to Kuyo since Rei’s funeral, he kind of shut himself away from everyone after Rei died .”

That part wasn’t entirely true. He had talked to Kuyo over the phone about a month and a half ago to check up on him. Physically he actually hadn’t seen the blue haired man since the funeral, but they had stayed somewhat in touch. Arlo did know where Kuyo lived though, since he and Rei shared a dorm and Arlo would often visit, so it wasn’t impossible for him to see the other. But he understood that Kuyo wanted space and was willing to leave him alone for the time being.

“Interesting, most people seek comfort when they are grieving.”

“No, I understand where he’s coming from.”

Valerie arched an eyebrow, “you do?” Arlo nodded, “when Rei died…I didn’t know how to handle it. So I pretended to be angry, rather than admitting how hurt I was. I pushed everyone away, I went to the funeral, and then I never wanted to see any of those people again. I didn’t want anything to remind me that Rei was dead, I wanted to pretend that he never existed in the first place. I thought it would be less painful than admitting he was dead.”

Arlo swallowed, a lump forming in his throat as he spoke. “When…when my mom died, I want to be left alone. But I was instantly bombarded by every member of my family. And I understand that they all had good intentions, but it just became, overwhelming.”

Arlo shook his head, swallowing again to ease the tension in his chest. “Well, everyone handles death in different ways.” Arlo nodded, slightly glaring at his aunt. She had gotten over his mother’s death too quickly for his liking, but as she said, everyone had their ways of coping.

“But if anything, I feel that experience has made you stronger. Look at the person you are now Arlo, I feel like without that boys influence you wouldn’t be in this same position.” Arlo’s teeth grinded together. She isn’t wrong, if it hadn’t been for Rei, I would never be questioning the authorities. I wouldn’t be aiding the others in their own investigations .

“Be that as it may, I would trade everything I have gotten just to bring him back.” Valerie leaned back, not expecting the words that came out of her nephews mouth. “I may have grown stronger but I would become the weakest person on earth just to see him again. I would trade my position and rank in this world just to give him another hug.” Arlo’s head hung low, “if I had known that I would only get one more day with him, then I would’ve stopped running away from those hugs.”

Valerie tapped her fingers in the table as he continued, “I don’t care what it would take, I would do anything to get him back. I’d become a cripple, I’d throw myself at EMBER, I would become a vigilante just to see him smile one more time.” As Arlo’s voice rose, so did his emotions. “What did he do aunt Val? What did he do that made EMBER kill him? Did he know something about them, did he have the strength to take him down, what did he know that made them have to kill him?” Valerie simply blinked as Arlo balled his hands, his face pointed toward the table and teeth clenched as hard as he could.

“What was it? Was he too kind, too genuine, was it because he actually wanted to help people. He was a hero aunt Val, a hero ! He wanted to keep people safe, he didn’t even care if he got hurt in the process. So why? Why him!” Arlo panted, two tiny droplets of water resting in the table below him as he tried to regain his composure.

“I don’t remember you talking about your mother like that.”

The blonde flinched, “Valerie, I tolerate a lot of things.” He lifted his face, look at his aunt throw the hair of his bangs. “But I will not tolerate you talking about Rei or my mother with the tone you have now.” Valerie clicked her tongue, “continue.”

“My mom died of age, of an illness she had since she was a child. But she died happily, she fulfilled every goal she set in life, her bucket list was empty when she died. She left this world in piece.” Arlo stop to catch his breath, a few moments of silence passing between the two of them.

“Rei was murdered and left in a filthy alley.”

Valerie studied Arlo, watching as he tried to calm himself, but would ultimately tense up again. “My mom died surrounded by her family, we sent her away peacefully when she died in her sleep. Rei died alone and in pain. There was no one there with him, no one to tell him everything would be okay. He died from his injuries, so it probably took hours for him to finally bleed out and succumb to his wounds.”

Arlo sighed, “no one was there for him.”

Nothing more needed to be said, Valerie knew she had offended her nephew and Arlo didn’t plan on telling her anything else that was personal to him. “Well,” she sighed, “I apologize for bringing up such painful memories.” Arlo shook his head, “my mom liked them, she said they were good influences. I’m sure you disagree, however, I think I finally see what my mom was talking about.”

Arlo could see it, Valerie scratching her nails against the table as she grew frustrated. Those weren’t the answers she wanted to her and he knew that. But all he could do was paint a smug smile on his face and watched as his aunt glared. “Well, it was lovely to see you again Aunt Val, I have to get going now. Remi is organizing an event for the safe house and I volunteered to help.” The young man smiled to his aunt before he stood to take his leave.

“Arlo,” Valerie called, she had to try one last time before she was sure her nephew had turned his back on her. “I can recommend you to the authorities, they’d accept you on the spot, and then you can have anything you want. What do you want the most, the authorities can give that to you.” Arlo sighed, a bitter smile on his face, “I want Rei back.”

Valerie nodded as Arlo officially turned away from her. He could feel her stare burning into his back as he thanked the door person once again. Arlo left with a bitter taste in his mouth and an urge to visit the cemetery. To visit both his mother and Rei, but first he wanted to see if Remi was up for dinner.

——

Valerie watched through the window as Arlo walked away from her before she pulled out her phone and called one of her workers. It only took a single ring for them to pick up, they all knew not to keep her waiting. “Kingsley?”

“Yes ma’am.”

As much as it pained her to say so, “please add Arlo into our files along with the other three.” She swallowed, she wouldn’t allow her emotions to get in between herself and her work. “Moving on, how is our latest experiment going?”

“Surprisingly well, Keon finally managed to break down his walls and get into his head. We’ll have a war machine on our side here soon.” Valerie nodded to herself, a sinister smile making its way into her face.

Patrons in the cafe would say they felt a sudden chill and yet it also felt like flames were licking at their skin as the blonde woman left the cafe.

“Experiment Zero was a success Volcan.”

“Yes, tell Keon I will be there soon. Though he may have broken through, I have to be sure he stays broken.”

The woman hung up, pocketing her phone before cracking each of her fingers. A sudden thrill went through her and she found herself clicking her growing nails.

‘ I want Rei back.’

She smirked, the authorities can give you anything you want Arlo. I never said you would like it.

#unordinary #unordinary webtoon #webtoon

10 notes · View notes

for-emilia · 3 years

Text

Reveal.

“Are you ready to go, sexy?” Xavier smirked, wiggling his eyebrows at his own comment as Emilia emerged out of the hallway.

“Come on then, are the others there?” Emilia questioned as she wiggled her dress down slightly in the mirror near their front door, receiving a teasing hand pulling her dress back up coming from Xavier’s direction, “pack it in.”

“Yeah, I think they’re all practically there, cos you took forever,” Xavier teased, preparing himself for her come-back and opening the door to not waste anymore time or increase their taxi fee even more.

“Excuse me Mr Mbuyamba?! Who was the one who spent about an hour picking his creps?!” Emilia drew in a hasty breath at the freezing outside air on her exposed body. Her boyfriend dropped his racer style jacket around her shoulders in a little silent gesture to keep her warm and happy despite the walk to the taxi only being a few more steps.

“Worth it though, jeeez, have you seen this fit?” he half joked, making cocky movements and making Emilia giggle as she climbed into the door he held open for her.

“You might be right, Xav,” she held onto his muscular bicep as he climbed into the black cab after her, pecking him on the lips lightly not to smudge her lip colour.

The cab ride passed by pretty quickly as the couple resided only a short distance from central London where they were meeting with Billy, Hannah, Fikayo and Mason for a casual dressy dinner, just because.

“Heyyyy, hello hello,” Emilia smiled, greeting her friends and pulling each of them in for a hug. She stopped on Fik last to do their stupid little handshake god knows when they made up, making everyone roll their eyes at their childish behaviour in an expensive restaurant. Xavier carried on conversing with Hannah and Billy, greeting each other and laughing over some joke Xav made regarding why they were late.

“Okay?” Xavier placed his hand on Emilia’s waist just as they sat down at the table situated in the corner of the restaurant, just making sure she was okay and caring for her, as he always did.

“Yep,” she replied simply, her smile confirming it, sealing it all off with a small kiss before they both turned to the rest of their friends on the table.

They hung out in groups quite often, whether it was with Xavier’s friends, Emilia’s friends, some of the squad, a mixture of all of three, they were often in groups and yet it always felt like they were still together. More often than not, they’d have sneaked away by the end of the night, and certainly throughout the night they’d rarely leave each other’s side.

It did, however, make it easier to hide their relationship and keep things under wraps for now. The pair had been together for the better part of a year and didn’t have any doubts that it would last a lifetime more, but it was still something they weren't ready to share with the world just yet. Although, they had had a few slip ups along the way.

Both Xavier and Emilia frequently posted little insights onto their story, photos of buildings or the TV or meals, anything really, and there had only ever been two slip ups. Both times were extremely simple mistakes, one of which being her heels in the back of a photo of some clothes he’d put on his story to thank the brand, and the other being slightly more obvious of her nails/hand on his thigh as he panned around the room showing off on his story how he’d cleaned ’his’ living room and put on a film. Luckily the perks of Hannah having both of their story notifications on was she saw a few minutes after it was posted, spamming the couple with messages to take it down and refilm if they didn’t want anyone to be suspicious. Emilia was just grateful that month she got pretty basic plain nails that could belong to anyone and not some lavish design which could be easily traced back to her.

Eagle eyed fans had started to question Xavier’s relationship status, also noticing how he was rarely pictured with the other single Chelsea lads on nights out in the papers. It became harder to hide as crazy fan pages on Tumblr began to connect the dots, noticing crossovers between their clothes, locations of their pictures, tiny corners of furniture in each of their photos. It was a pain in the arse to have to keep checking if there was anything that could link them to one another before each story or feed post; it truthfully made them wonder if they should just go public.

As the night progressed, the group laughed and dined, always loving each other’s company alongside some good food and drinks. The meal came to a close and the 6 of them decided to carry the night on in a bar down the road since the lads didn’t have training the next day as a result of the 2-0 win earlier that day.

“What the-” Mason laughed out his distinctive cackle. Xavier instinctively looked over at what was happening, only to be met with his girlfriend and Fikayo leapfrogging over boulders and giggling like children on the playground as they went. Undoubtedly, whenever Fik and Emilia met up they’d get up to all sorts of shenanigans fuelled by each other’s encouragement, bets, alcohol and laughter.

“Oh lord,” Xavier laughed, looking over as Mason pulled out his phone and started filming the pair messily hopping over the bollards at the end of the road. He posted it to his Instagram story without a second thought alongside the caption of ‘can’t take these two anywhere 😂’ with both of their @s.

They all continued the night on, Xavier and Emilia sitting together once again at the bar and socialising with everyone else with their legs pressed together underneath the table, feet intertwined. It wasn’t until his gorgeous girlfriend stood up to go to the toilets with Hannah that he looked at his phone for one of the first times that night.

It started with a text from his brother Noah simply reading ‘Go and search Fik’s name on Twitter 😭’ which of course covered his face in confusion and made him immediately exit the message stream to open Twitter.

The first tweets that loaded up adorned the video screen-recorded from Mason’s Instagram story and he instantly panicked that her dress had come up and she’d flashed or something. Needless to say the rush of relief that washed over him when he watched the video intensely and realised that wasn’t the case was euphoric. He began reading the tweets that accompanied the videos and discovered just what his brother was talking about.

‘Fikayo and his girlfriend are too funny’

‘my CB winning on and off the pitch’

‘Wait is that Fik’s gf?’

‘damn, tomori and his girlfriend are goals’

Xavier’s eyebrows unintentionally furrowed as he read the words on his phone screen, scrunching his face up at the sheer quantity of tweets he saw on the matter. Screenshots and screen recordings flooded the search with everybody taking Mason’s post as confirmation HIS girlfriend and Fikayo were a thing.

“What’s your face for? You alright?” Mason questioned, letting out a little laugh at the disgusted face Xavier was pulling as he was normally always smiling and any issue was like water off a duck's back to the 6’5 Dutch.

“Look,” he pushed his phone across the table to Mason to allow him to look, watching as he scrolled through the tweets before looking up and making a sour face.

“Oops, sorry mate, I’ll take it down if you want,” Mason apologised, sliding the phone over to Fik after he began asking what they were talking about.

The girls soon returned from the toilets and immediately felt an off atmosphere around the table, making them suspicious of what had happened while they were away.

The busy bar was still roaring with noise, sounds of laughter and conversation and clicks of glasses and music flooded the room but the silence of the table was louder.

“Whaddup bae,” Fik broke the silence, pulling Emilia’s chair back out for her as she laughed at his joke, not knowing the context behind it yet, “we’re dating now.”

“Of course we are,” Emilia joked back as they always did, blowing him a kiss and throwing him a wink for the banter.

“According to Twitter at least,” Fik added, continuing the round of passing Xavier’s phone, still with the twitter search of his name open and the plethora of tweets gushing over the ‘couple’ visible on the screen.

“Eh?” Emilia’s eyes ran over the screen, immediately realising what was happening and smacking her hand over her mouth finding it absolutely hilarious. The group of friends was a right sight: Billy was explaining what was happening to Hannah who was holding her head in her hands at hearing the mess Mason has caused, the boy in question was still reading over Emilia’s shoulder as she scrolled through the tweets (finding them funny but also revelling in the compliments thrown her way), Fikayo sat simply observing everyone and laughing every so often as his ‘girlfriend’ turned the screen to show him the best tweets she found, and finally Xavier, sat at the end of the table just watching Emilia quietly.

Fuck, he loved her so much. Just watching her giggle and concentrate as she scrolled through the tweets and read made his heart swell. He didn’t know whether it was the jealousy of the world thinking his girl was someone else's, or an amalgamation of how she looked and how carefree she was tonight, but his love for her was uncontainable; he was so proud she was his.

He hated anyone thinking she belonged to anyone else; he knew for an absolute fact they were in it for the long run. She’d not be anyone else’s for the rest of time, and Xavier hated to admit it but it made him feel overwhelmingly possessive that the world thought that wasn’t the case. So he was gonna put a stop to it.

Finally he got his phone back and he set about sorting through the photos of the two of them in his camera roll that they took before they left. Some were of them getting ready earlier in the night and some were posey photos of them just before they left. Between the flowing drinks and non-stop laughter, he’d picked out 3 of his favourite photos: the first one was of them posing together, pressed close with Emilia’s gorgeous hourglass figure and Xavier’s height displayed perfectly, the second was a more cutesy photo in a similar position although this time she had one hand splayed across his chest as he kissed her on the top of the head, his hand just out of shot as he groped her arse, and the final one of Emilia standing up looking in the mirror, holding up her middle finger to Xavier as he sat behind her. The last photo was his favourite, the shot taken from his perspective as you could see the back of her dress and long hair but also the front of her in the reflection of the mirror, checking herself out. You could also see his reflection as he lounged on one of the arm chairs in the dressing room, smiling up at the reflection of his girlfriend flipping him off for taking sneaky pictures of her.

Xavier had tucked them away in his favourites folder in his camera roll and went back to his group of friends with a smug smile on his face. The night quickly came to an end and he was back bundled into a black cab with the love of his life.

“That was fun,” Emilia smiled, moving over to the middle seat without a care, purely so she could cuddle into Xavier’s side, the hours of socialisation into the late night taking a toll on her, “got to see my boyfriend.”

“Oi,” Xavier warned, digging his fingers into her hip bones slightly as a reprimand. Quiet streets of chilly London passed them by on their short journey back to their shared apartment, the soft street lights and gentle movements lulling Emilia into a peaceful rest leaning on Xavier’s shoulder.

He pulled out his phone, being sure to turn the brightness down to not stir her, and opened up Instagram. Emilia and him had talked about going public before, both coming to the conclusion that it’d make sense to do it soon as they were more than secure, not to mention the growing suspicion of fans and Xavier’s growing success. The 3 photos he’d selected earlier in the day were ordered in a swipe along post, writing out a short caption of ‘my love 🤍’ alongside her @. The defender cast his soulmate one last look, smiling at how content she looked snuggled into his side, and pressed post.

“Cmon, sleeping beauty,” he whispered, brushing her hair out of her face and leaving his thumb lingering on her cheek to wake her, helping up out of the cab as it came to a halt outside their apartment building. She’d not checked her phone yet to be able to see the post, but the rest of the group clearly had (bar Hannah who had undoubtedly fallen asleep the minute she got home, blissfully unaware of the fact her best friend’s relationship was now out to the world).

Mason (03:11)

Oops sorry again mate, cute pics, at least you’ll be able to post more like that! Bet your ig turns into a fanpage for her 👀

Fikayo (03:12)

why you postin pics with my gf back off bruv

nah jk, love u two

but let me have her back on weekends xxx

Billy (03:15)

Trust it to be Mason bro 😭 good to see you tonight

Billy (03:17)

PS Hannah’s gonna scream when she wakes up and sees it, cheers 😭

4 notes · View notes

thezeekrecord · 4 years

Text

GAGEGN ch14

[index/summary]

REPORT: Regarding G.Freeman's recovery from the resonance cascade (pt.2)

“I really think I should be there.”

“It’s fine! You should really stay home and rest.” Bubby insisted as he pulled on his shoes. “Gordon can cope with not seeing you for a single day. I already went through this whole process, I know how it works, so I’m just as capable of helping him as you are.”

“I had one dissociative episode yesterday. That doesn’t mean I should miss out on being there for my friend!” Harold argued.

“Harold, I know you all too well. You’re going to overextend yourself.” Bubby said sternly. “You can swing by tomorrow if you’re so worried. But for now, you’ve earned yourself some rest.”

Harold sighed miserably. “I don’t want Gordon to think I don’t care.”

“Trust me, if there’s anyone in this whole group who’s made it known that they care about Gordon, it’s you. He knows, and he’ll understand if I tell him you’re not feeling well.” Bubby told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, we have a whole week of checkins to be doing. Missing one isn’t going to kill him.”

“Just...” Harold squeezed his fingers tightly in his hand. “Be gentle with him, Bubby.”

Bubby rolled his eyes. “Alright. I’ll refrain from kicking his ass. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Bubby, my dear, I love you very much, but you do have a tendency to be mean.”

“I know.”

“And Gordon doesn’t need mean right now. He needs a compassionate friend to show him kindness.” Harold went on, holding him firmly by his shoulders. “Be gentle with him. Okay?”

“Of course I’m going to be nice, Harold, he’s my friend. I care just as much as you do.” Bubby said hurriedly. “I’ll be back in a little while. Call if you need me.”

Harold pulled Bubby into a quick kiss before letting him go. Bubby did his best to look serious as he turned around, heading out the front door and across the street to Gordon’s house.

As he approached the door, he could hear shitty music coming from inside. Good, at least that meant he was awake this time, Bubby thought as he tried the door. Locked. He knocked on it a few times, unsurprised when Gordon never answered. He opted instead to head around back, hoping to find the back door unlocked. The music was louder here, and this time, he got a good look at what Gordon was up to through the sliding glass door.

Gordon was enthusiastically singing along to the song he was playing at full volume—I tried so hard, and got so far / But in the end, it doesn’t even matter—using a hairbrush as a pretend microphone as he sang. What a cliché, Bubby thought as he rolled his eyes. Sat sideways in the armchair, though, was Benry of all people, pressing his palms to his ears and his hat pulled over his eyes. Maybe Gordon was trying out psychological torture as a means to get Benry to leave, Bubby mused. Bubby tried the door, finding it just as locked as the front, so he knocked again, watching Gordon expectantly as he jumped in surprise and looked at Bubby.

The music grew painfully loud as Gordon slid the door open for Bubby, causing Bubby to plug his ears the same as Benry. Gordon swiftly reached for a little remote, turning the music off for them.

“Gordon, what the fuck?” Bubby questioned.

“I was just—I was trying to prove a point.” Gordon explained with a hesitant, lopsided smile.

Bubby squinted at Gordon, then looked around at the living room. There were empty beer bottles everywhere, along with an empty vodka bottle and a half-drunk mixer.

Harold’s words echoed in Bubby’s head. Be gentle with him. But he was already finding it hard to follow up on that promise.

“Are you fucking drunk?” Bubby demanded.

“Uhhh—I mean, I had a few drinks.” Gordon said sheepishly.

“It’s nine o’clock in the fucking morning!”

“...I haven’t slept.”

“Please tell me you at least did something to benefit your life before you started drinking.”

Gordon sank down onto the couch, clumsily brushing his hair out of his face. “Well, I mean—I talked it out with Benry.”

Bubby looked to Benry, who waved at Bubby.

“Should I ask? Or is it gonna be a whole story that’s just gonna make me angry?” Bubby asked.

“Uhhh...”

“Gordon, that’s all well and good, but this isn’t appropriate right now.” Bubby scolded, indicating broadly at the mess in the room. “Tommy and Darnold are watching your son so you can figure your shit out. Not so you can get drunk with Benry!”

“Hey, you guys were the ones who wanted me to make peace with Benry.” Gordon argued. “And now that I have, you’re getting mad at me over it?”

“I didn’t say you talking to him was a bad thing! You’re putting words in my mouth.” Bubby snapped. “The thing I have an issue with is you getting drunk and ignoring your responsibilities!”

Gordon deflated, burying his face in his hands. “God. I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just—I got a little carried away.”

Bubby let out an exhausted sigh. “It’s fine. Whatever the fuck was going on in here stops now, though. You—”

“Yooo, you’re gonna be a party pooper?” Benry asked with a huff.

“You’re not helping!” Bubby growled before turning back to Gordon. “Let’s just start easy. You two start cleaning up this mess.”

“What? What’re you telling me what to do for?” Benry complained.

Bubby lifted his hand, a controlled flame sparking into his palm threateningly. “Because you let this happen! Get up!”

Benry let out a long-suffered groan, rolling off the armchair and flopping down onto the floor.

“I’m going to need to borrow your computer, Gordon.” Bubby announced.

“Oh, yeah, uhh—you can grab my laptop from my room. It’s on the nightstand.” Gordon muttered.

Bubby nodded and headed up the stairs. Was he being too harsh? He wondered. What would Harold have done? Probably coddle him until he got back up and got to work, which would’ve taken a good while. Bubby’s approach may have been harsh, but it was efficient, at least. Gordon would have things shaped up in no time.

He wasn’t actually mad at him, he thought as well as he found the laptop and unplugged it to take downstairs. He paused, glancing around at the mess in Gordon’s room. He was just...worried. He didn’t know how to act when he was worried. Maybe that would have to be something he discussed with his therapist, he contemplated. That thought made him recall clipboards around him, hushed scientists talking about his “emotional dysregulation”—Bubby shook the memory out of his head and shifted the laptop underneath his arm as he left Gordon’s bedroom.

Bubby returned downstairs with Gordon’s laptop, sitting down on the couch and opening it up. He pulled out the page he’d torn from his own confidentiality agreement packet with the list of recommended therapists, trying to be sly about the fact that he’d clearly taken notes on it—he didn’t want to admit to Gordon he was going to therapy himself if he didn’t have to. Gordon turned the music back on, much quieter this time as he and Benry slowly worked through getting the living room organized. By the time they were done with the living room, Bubby had gone through and created a list on Gordon’s computer of therapist options he’d deemed viable.

“What is this band?” Bubby asked in disgust as he closed Gordon’s laptop.

“It’s Linkin Park.” Gordon replied with a smile. “They’re good!”

“No, this is horrible.” Bubby said with a grimace.

“Don’t insult them, he’s just gonna—” Benry tried to warn him, but was brutally interrupted by Gordon.

“Craaawwwling iiiin my skiiiiin!” Gordon sang along, practically at the top of his lungs.

“Ugh, stop!” Bubby shouted over him. “I’m starting to regret helping you!”

“Hey, you’re the one who knows all the words to Iron Man by Black Sabbath.”

“That’s because it’s a good song!” Bubby said defensively.

Gordon laughed playfully. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

Bubby set Gordon’s laptop aside, agreeing to help him get the rest of the house in order and help finally unpack the rest of Gordon’s things. He wouldn’t want to admit it to their faces, but it wasn’t too bad once they got in the groove of things. The three of them talked as they worked, listening to more of Gordon’s horrible music; it was a weird taste of genuine domesticity out in the real world Bubby hadn’t quite gotten used to—not to mention, it was a relief to not have Gordon immediately attempt to kill Benry any time he even breathed too loudly. The curiosity about what had quelled such an intense grudge overnight was really starting to eat at Bubby—not that he’d admit to that, either.

Benry wasn’t necessarily too much help, but with Bubby picking up his slack, they were clear to move on to unpacking relatively quickly. Bubby knelt in front of one of the boxes in Gordon’s bedroom, rifling through it to set items out for Gordon to look over. He paused, however, when he found a photograph tossed loosely inside, slightly crumpled after being squished between an old cassette player and a busted-looking camera. He looked it over closely. It took a moment for Bubby to recognize him, but given the context of the photo, he was able to determine it must have been Gordon before T, knelt down on the floor with a baby Joshua. His hair was cut much shorter, he had no facial hair, and he looked exhausted—but happy. Not intensely traumatized by a horrible event that nearly killed him several times over. Or an event that had cost him his arm. Guilt washed over Bubby at having found a pre-T photo of Gordon without realizing, but something stopped him from putting it down. Behind Gordon was one of those full-length closet mirrors, and in the reflection, Bubby could see the lower half of the photographer. There wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about them—all he could see was a plain pair of sweatpants and socks.

“Oh, hey, you found another baby picture.” Gordon commented, suddenly hovering over Bubby’s shoulder.

“Uhh, yeah.” Bubby held it out sheepishly to Gordon for him to look at. “Who’s that taking the picture?”

Gordon stared at the photo for a long time before sighing, combing his fingers through his hair. “Uhhh...I don’t know.”

Bubby quirked an eyebrow curiously at him. “You don’t?”

“Logically, I guess it would probably be Josh’s other parent, but...I don’t...remember anything specific from before the game.” Gordon said as he sat down cross-legged beside Bubby, still staring down at the photo. “I remember vague stuff about like, how society works, what stuff Joshua likes—that sort of thing. But...I guess since whoever Josh’s other parent is isn’t in my life anymore, I just...don’t remember them.”

Bubby frowned. “Really? Like, you just...woke up in the game?”

Gordon nodded.

Bubby put a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “That sort of makes sense. You’re the player, so...”

“But what the fuck does that mean? ” Gordon questioned suddenly. “I don’t feel like the player. I just—I just feel like...a guy. Am I like, the player, or am I just the player character? Was I being controlled back then? Am I being controlled now?”

Bubby shrugged. “I don’t know, I was just an NPC. That’s something you would have to figure out.”

Gordon buried his face in his hands with a long groan. “None of it makes sense, Bubby.” He mumbled into his hands.

“Uhhh...” Bubby looked awkwardly at Gordon, clearly miserable in front of him, needing some sort of comfort. “I-it...it’ll be okay, Gordon.”

Gordon peered up at Bubby, not looking at all convinced, but slowly lowering his hands to rest in his lap.

“Hey, can we be done? I wanna eat.” Benry chimed in from Gordon’s bed.

Bubby glanced at the unpacking they had left to do. It might take them a little while, he determined, so a break to eat might be acceptable.

“Alright. I’ll order food.” Bubby sighed, trying to feign more annoyance in his tone than he was feeling.

They ordered Chinese food from a restaurant nearby—Bubby ordering Harold’s usual choice as well to set aside for him—and they all sat down at Gordon’s table, Bubby listening to Gordon and Benry argue about some video game as they ate. Bubby tuned them out, resting his head in his hand as he thought about what Gordon had said. He didn’t remember anything pre-game, and he didn’t know what it meant to be the player. Bubby had gotten vague ideas of what the game was supposed to be like just through being an NPC—or, more accurately, what it wasn’t supposed to be like. They weren’t meant to be self aware, they weren’t meant to follow Gordon through the entirety of Black Mesa like that, Gordon wasn’t meant to get his arm cut off, and Benry most certainly wasn’t meant to be the final boss. Also, Bubby had the sneaking suspicion that Tommy probably wasn’t supposed to be that guy’s son, and Chuck E. Cheese wasn’t in the original plan.

So, they had sway over the game while they were in it, but to what extent? Bubby wondered. Benry had a lot, clearly; but he wondered how much Gordon would have been able to influence things as the player. Did he have some subtle sway, just without realizing? Or was the player someone actively and knowingly pulling the strings, without Gordon’s knowledge? That would be unnerving, to say the least, Bubby thought.

“No! I’m not gonna let you talk shit about Kane and Lynch!” Gordon shouted suddenly. “I bet you haven’t even played it.”

“No, ‘cuz it looks like shit.” Benry replied.

“You spent three hours last night trying to tell me that some fucking—god, what was it? That shitty Playstation game?”

“Croc.”

“You were trying to tell me that Croc was a good fucking game, and then I looked it up, and that looked like shit!” Gordon argued. “You—”

Benry cut Gordon off, making obnoxious mocking noises as he tried to talk.

“You’re literally the most annoying person on the fucking planet.” Gordon said through amused laughter. “If Croc is so good, then—”

“Power critically low. Ten minutes remain. Please charge immediately.” A familiar mechanical voice interrupted. Bubby recognized it instantly—it was the voice used in the HEV suit. It came from Gordon’s prosthetic, rested comfortably on the table as he ate with his left hand.

Bubby hadn’t quite noticed that before—was Gordon really doing everything with his left hand now? That must have been a hell of a learning curve, he thought guiltily.

“Ah, fuck.” Gordon muttered. “I didn’t end up charging it last night.”

Bubby frowned uncomfortably as a few things came together in his head. First off, whatever sway he had in the game, he’d ultimately used it to hurt Gordon. Getting taken by soldiers was a scripted event, he was sure—but there was something about it, something about their presence that had caused him to suffer lifelong consequences. Second off, as proven by the other night, Gordon was still pissed about it.

He had every right to be, of course, Bubby thought as Gordon took his prosthetic off and headed upstairs. In the game, it was easier to set all that aside in order to get through to the final boss—but now, they had all the time in the world to really meditate on their mistakes. And the ways they were wronged. Bubby dropped his fork and sank down in his chair a little as Gordon returned without the prosthetic, sitting back down with a sigh. Bubby was tense all over, something negative stirring so harshly in his stomach, he almost could’ve thrown up right then and there. Gordon glanced up at Bubby.

“Hey, Bubby, you alright?” He asked.

That mysterious negative emotion spiked at Gordon’s attention on him. “I’m fine.” Bubby replied through gritted teeth.

“Whoa. You sure?” Gordon pressed, setting his fork aside and reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Bubby tensed and brushed his hand away. “I said I’m fine. I don’t need you to coddle me.”

Gordon put his hand up defensively. “Okay, okay! I was just checking.”

They fell into a tense silence as Bubby started to contemplate just leaving. He wasn’t unfamiliar with this pattern in his behavior; he'd experienced this countless times over his years living in Black Mesa. He was feeling something extreme building up in him, threatening to blow up before he got the chance to regulate himself. Before he could gather his things up, though, Gordon spoke up again.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked, furrowing his brow.

“I mean—you’re the one angry with me!” Bubby blurted out, indicating at his arm. “What are you checking in with me for? Why do you care?”

Gordon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well...yeah, I guess I am still mad about that. But I mean—”

“Yeah, so what am I even here for?” Bubby demanded, standing up and gathering his boxes of food.

“I never said you had to be here! You came here without me prompting.” Gordon argued. “Dude, I appreciate everything you did today and how you helped me out, but...I mean—listen, I feel like you’re jumping to conclusions or something, man. Maybe I’m mad, sure, but we’re still friends!”

“Why?” Bubby questioned venomously. “Because I have to be your friend, right? Because of the game? How we’re all NPCs, and you’re the player, so we just drop everything for you, no questions asked?”

Clearly, Bubby had hit him where it hurt—he looked confused and mortified, staring back up at Bubby for a long, quiet moment.

“Dude, what?” Gordon finally asked. “I—...I never said any of that. You came with me, you fought Benry with me, you helped me clean my whole house today! I never told you you had to do any of that, I...I assumed you did it because you cared.”

“What, so you’re free to have shit you’re pissed at me about without talking to me, and I have to bend over backwards for you?” Bubby accused.

“Well—okay, yeah, we did need to talk about the arm thing. Maybe it wasn’t best for me to bottle it up and then blow up at you, so...I’m sorry.” Gordon admitted. “But dude, to be fucking fair, I’ve kind of been processing so much lately, I just—we should talk about it, but I don’t even know what to say right now. And it shouldn’t be up to me to initiate that conversation for you! You could have fucking apologized on your own without me sitting you down and coaxing it out of you! And like, you don’t have to be bending over backwards for me! Again, like I said, I literally never asked for you to do any of this! You’ve been initiating all on your own! What do you fucking want from me?”

Bubby opened his mouth, then closed it, pausing for a long, tense moment. He had no idea what he could tell him he wanted. He’d already crossed so many lines and overblown things he’d only been vaguely concerned about, just for the sake of, what? Making Gordon feel bad? Why? Why was he saying all of this? He thought, glancing down at his food. Without anything to say that made any semblance of sense, he was starting to feel backed into a corner—Gordon was right, of course he was right, but what could Bubby do now? He’d already fucked up. He fucked up ages ago, in the game, when he’d called with Benry for the military to take Gordon. There was nowhere for Bubby to go but down. He was certain of that.

“I’m not going to devote my fucking life to you just because you’re the player.” Bubby finally growled. “I did it all because that was what was expected of me. But you know what? I’m going home. Harold can come here and coddle you all day long, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Gordon frowned deeply at Bubby, looking somewhere between confused, furious, and heartbroken. “I-...I’m not the player.” He said quietly.

“What difference does it make?” Bubby demanded, turning towards the door. “Player, player character—it makes no difference to me. You are what you are. And if my life doesn’t have to revolve around you anymore, that’s fine by me.”

“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Benry questioned from the table.

Bubby paused mid-step, glancing back at Benry for only a second before huffing and continuing towards the door. He struggled to get his shoes on and open the door with all the boxes of food in his arms, only to drop his own box all over the floor as soon as he got the door open. He hissed in frustration, leaving it behind and slamming the door shut behind him.

[previous | next]

0 notes

sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

White Noise by Sergeant_Darwin

I’ve never been much of a man. I barely crack 5’6”, can’t handle my liquor, and I’ve never been in a fight in my life—but when Lainie got pregnant, I decided it was time for a change. I started working out. I learned how to change the oil and tires on the Buick. Hell, I even bought a pistol. I was going to protect them, Lainie and my unborn child both, whatever it took.

I could tell Lainie thought it was all a little silly, my newfound quest for manhood. It was easy for her to say. She was doing her part. Carrying the burden of life inside her, while all I could do was hold her hair, in the early stages of pregnancy, as she puked into the toilet—and sometimes I even fucked that up. She seemed to think she could do it all herself, and she was probably right. When I brought home the gun, she was livid. All we needed, she said, was a baseball bat. And someone strong enough to swing it, she might have added.

I took it back the next day and bought a Louisville Slugger instead.

The baby came without a hitch—little Annika, looking just like her mommy—and what we lacked in protection, Lainie made up for with near-neurotic preparation. She had it all; the books, the vitamins, the breastfeeding techniques. But perhaps her favorite new mom-toy came in the form of a Kiddos Baby Monitor that she got at the baby shower. I can’t remember who gave it to her.

It gave off a small hum, scarcely a whisper, every single night. Vague static; white noise—interrupted, only on occasion, by a cough or hiccup or whimper from sweet Annika. She wasn’t a fussy baby at all. The monitor rested on Lainie’s nightstand, securing my wife like a second quilt. A small red dot, indicating the device was alive and well, dimly bathed the room in crimson, and an optional display provided a blue-tinted camera feed aimed at Annika’s crib. We could hear her, we could see her, and all was well in paradise.

Oh, there were tough times, sure. The jaundice was bad and it led to things even worse. Pneumonia. Strep. Infections no fun for an adult but an enormous goddamn deal for a baby. We spent plenty of time in the hospital. The nurses all loved Annika. They always remarked on what a well-behaved baby she was.

The marriage grew stale, but what marriage doesn’t? The sex was rare and forced, just another thing for Lainie to check off her to-do list. Was it ever really not that way, though? I tried to remember, but life before Annika seemed trapped in a cloudless haze. Becoming a father seemed to alter the very structure of my brain.

The first year came and went. The Kiddos Baby Monitor ran out of batteries, and we never bothered to replace them. Annika was crawling. Then walking. The first word, spoken at the dinner table, which Lainie and I were both there for: Mango.

The words kept coming. Mommy. Diaper. Full. They were all expected, yet all met with excited applause from her mother and me. And then, one day, while Lainie was at spinning class and I was doing the newspaper crossword on the couch, Annika piped up from her playpen with a word I did not expect.

Fa-ther.

I sat up, straining silently to listen, sure I had misheard. But then it came again, even clearer than before.

Fa-ther.

Most dads would be thrilled. I was confused, and frankly, a bit unnerved. I had no idea where she’d learned that. I was always ‘daddy.’ In fact, as far as I’d seen, nobody had ever so much as breathed that word in front of her. Yet there she sat, squawking away, giving voice to a word uncomfortably formal as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Father. Father. Father.

Lainie didn’t seem as interested as I did. In fact, she seemed more than a little bit miffed—Annika had been growing more distant from her lately. This was the age children usually clung tightest to their mothers, yet Annika seemed to have no such proclivity. One doctor theorized that Annika might be having her needs met through another source—did she have a stuffed animal she was particularly attached to? A blanket, maybe? We could think of nothing.

We had her tested for autism. Hell, we had her tested for everything. Nothing could explain her level of detachment from us, nor her remarkably tame behavior. The professionals had never seen anything like it, but didn’t seem to think it much cause for concern.

“Count your blessings, friend,” one of them told me in a heavy English accent as he escorted me from his office. “Between you and me, nine out of ten kids her age is a right little shit.”

Still, we couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. One night, Lainie had decided she’d had enough. She dug the old Kiddos Baby Monitor out of a box in the attic. She put new batteries in it, rewired the camera in Annika’s room, and for a few hours, the white noise hummed beneath our sleep once more.

I awoke to the sound of Annika babbling away in her crib. I turned toward the monitor, and my eyes swam, barely open, in the sea of crimson from its light. She was repeating the same word, again and again.

Fa-ther. Fa-ther.

I rolled over toward Lainie. She was still asleep—Annika wasn’t being very loud. I stumbled out of bed, wiping my eyes, and picked up the monitor. My fingers fumbled for the switch on the back, and when I flicked it, a dull blue glow sprang from nowhere. I squinted my eyes to see into Annika’s crib, and I let out a strangled cry. The monitor slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. Lainie woke with a start, mumbling.

“Whatsamatter?”

But I couldn’t speak.

Someone was holding my daughter.

Without a word, I ran into the hallway, not even bothering to grab the Louisville Slugger from the closet. The door to Annika’s room was open. My socks slid out from under me and I crashed to the wooden hallway floor as I reached it, and as I lie prone I had a clear view into the bedroom.

Annika sat up in her crib, crying wildly for a change, startled by the noise. Nobody was holding her.

“I swear to God, honey—”

But Lainie wasn’t having it.

“The first night we start using the monitor again, and it just happens to be the night an invisible man breaks into our house? And leaves her placed all neat in her crib where he found her?”

“He wasn’t invisible, and I can’t explain it, Lainie, I’m telling you what I saw.”

“Alright,” she said, as though humoring a child. “What did he look like?”

At this, I drew blank. I couldn’t exactly describe him—I hadn’t looked long enough. I felt that I had seen him before, though. Somewhere. I felt that seeing him at all, even in a completely non-threatening context, would have made me deeply uncomfortable. But I didn’t know how to explain this to Lainie, this vague recognition. So I just shrugged. She scoffed.

“Jesus. What am I supposed to do with this.”

But the whole thing had her spooked, I know it. That night she told me—if you hear anything from the monitor, anything at all, you wake me up right away. So I did.

Father. Father. Lainie’s voice rang out above the dead white noise.

Lainie snatched the cooing monitor from her bedside table less than a second after I’d woken her. She sat up and flicked the switch.

Lainie shrieked a horrible sobbing shriek. She flung the covers from her and leapt from the bed in one fluid motion, leaving the monitor face-up on the sheet behind her. On it I could see the man, cradling Annika with a light bounce, more clearly this time. And in a flash I knew exactly who he was. And this time, I stayed right where I lay.

It took Lainie a long time to calm Annika down—that scream had put a good scare into her. I don’t think Lainie even noticed that I never came in. By the time she got back to our bedroom, the lights were on and I sat on the bed, spread out with a couple of her old college photo albums.

She walked into the room and stopped in her tracks. She looked at me, at the albums, and back to me. I think in that moment we both knew it was over.

“He wasn’t in there,” she said after a long pause. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t him. Nobody was in there.”

“Fine,” I said. “But he was on the monitor. You know he was on the monitor. Why, Lainie?”

She looked down at the albums, at the old pictures from which Will Harding’s dumb fucking face grinned up at both of us, feigning innocence.

“Father...”

She looked at me, and the guilt shone in her eyes.

“Will’s the father. Not me. Will Harding.”

She started to cry. I stood up and walked out of the room, pausing a few inches from her face to say, softly, almost sweetly:

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

Then I left the house and never walked back inside. Lainie brought all my stuff to my new apartment a couple days later. The divorce went through quickly; she didn’t want it but she understood. She, of course, got custody of Annika, having the tremendous advantage of not only womanhood but of actually being Annika’s biological parent. I didn’t fight it. It’s amazing how quickly I stopped loving both of them.

Will Harding was a big, brash man. He had tattoos, muscles, and watched football and drank beer and got mean when he did. That’s why Lainie left him, after two passionate, terrible years. She once told me she married me because I was everything Will was not. But it wasn’t long before she realized that by the same token, Will was everything I was not. I guess old habits die hard. And three months after Annika was born, so did Will. He found out that Lainie had had a baby and came to the house. She shut him out, screaming at him that he wasn’t the father, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. But he knew—she was lying. So he got real drunk and real mad and didn’t put on his seatbelt and on his way back to our place he sped his fucking Camaro up a curb and into a big brick mailbox.

Lainie went to his fucking funeral. She told me she was getting her teeth cleaned.

She sent me a Christmas card last year—she and Annika, smiling underneath a hearth in cheesy red sweaters, stockings hung on either side of them. I looked at the little girl I used to call mine, now seven years old, and felt nothing. I wondered absently if I should feel guilty, and if I’d somehow failed as a dad. But those thoughts, often though they came, never lasted long. She didn’t need another father—she already had one, after all, and she seemed to like him just fine.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

3 notes · View notes

pussymagicuniverse · 4 years

Text

‘Getting Nowhere Fast’: Girlhood, Illness, and a Strange Predilection for Beauty in Contagion

We're not looking forward and we are not looking back We've lost the warranty, we'll never get our money back My baby's buying me another life, getting nowhere fast.

– “Getting Nowhere Fast” by Girls at Our Best!

Earlier this week, I went through the tedious work of scrolling through my Instagram feed. I have not had a personal Instagram account for six-months, but I recently cracked and created a small account to follow a subset of bloggers, therapists, artists, and writers as a pool of (meticulously curated) inspiration. As I scrolled in my typical glassy-eyed fashion, I happened upon an account titled @GirlsofIsolation. My interest was instantly piqued at the somber black-and-white photographs that were carefully laid out on the account’s feed. I went through each image diligently in that sort of hungry way that consumes me when I feel a spark of connectivity in the mass of social media panic. @GirlsofIsolation brands itself as an archival project which showcases the self portraits of girls and women during their self-isolation and quarantine. The creator of the account, Isabella (@isabella_fldw), wrote the following caption on a post from April 2nd:

“I’ve always been in awe of the ways girls decorate their bedrooms. What we put on our walls is a continuous reflection of whatever it is we are obsessed with at the moment, whoever we’ve decided we want to be. But beyond that, a girl’s bedroom is often one of the few places where she is the one in control. So these are the girls of isolation, or self-portrait of a lady in quarantine. Or quaranteen girls.”

During times like these, most things that I have ever found beautiful or purposeful feel immensely trivial. There is a certain seductive quality to romantic mundanity – baking, taking an afternoon stroll (in a socially distant fashion), breathing in deeply and feeling thankful for that life that has been granted to this mortal coil. It’s seductive… and difficult to maintain without feeling like it is a performance. For me, trauma, performance, and fear go hand-in-hand. That frantic urge to bake decorated focaccia, diligently clean and scrub the floors, take a mile-long walk at exactly 5:00 PM each day. There is the necessity to maintain your vitality, your viviality, I know. But as someone who has lived to perform femininity, womanhood, and beauty in the most perfect of measures for the better part of twenty-three years, I know this anxiety all too well. I know this frantic energy all too well. And I know the crash even better. Surviving these days of quarantine feels an awful lot like the quivering, brittle edge of an uncertainty that has become my strangest and closest bedfellow. What is this strange predilection for beauty in contagion?

In the 1892 short story, The Yellow Wallpaper, our unnamed narrator slowly descends into madness after she is forbidden from working in order to treat her “temporary nervous depression – a slight hysterical tendency.” As her decline begins, our narrator begins to notice the strange olfactory qualities of the wallpaper in her room:

“... It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.

It gets into my hair”

When I look through “Girls of Isolation,” I see the kind of ennui and subtle restlessness that settles in the bones, carries itself in the eyes, waits for you and gets into your hair. It is the heavy kind that wraps itself around your shoulders, allowing you to do nothing else but surrender to its cause. There is a paucity of performance in these photographs; honest displays of girlhoods suspended by the onset of pandemic. The images are displayed in the format of a collage. Each photograph and selfie is carefully organized as if they were behind the clear plastic pocket of your mother’s college photo album. The camera’s gaze on each photograph has the distinct intimacy and nuance of imagery that is controlled, selected, and delicately submitted by the individuals in the photo themselves. Girls surrounded by the ephemera of their lives, strings of fairy lights and sports bras and vanity mirrors. Tender photos of their beauty processes collapsing the visage of constant construction. Girls taking photos at angles where their bodies bend, roll, slump, lay. This is not tucked and cinched imagery. It is not a commandeering or performative lens. It is simply girls at their best. And also, perhaps, their worst.

The toll of self-isolation in this context is not a topic I wish to broach callously. As I write this, I am swaddled under five pounds of polyester cotton sheets and the weight of the world. Yes, it is dramatic. Yes, it is heavy-handed. But the moment through which we are living is one that lends itself to a bit of maudlin sulking. The other option is a grim despair that takes me to the edge of that which I cannot, or refuse to, touch. So I am swaddled in my drama and my grief for a world teetering on the brink of a certain collapse- perhaps not total collapse, but a certain one nonetheless.

The outbreak of the novel coronavirus has chipped apart the facade of a system that had already lost its glimmer for many of us. Though there is mass effort to collectively mitigate the global trauma that we are experiencing, the breadth of this trauma may not be parsed until after the contagion has reached its zenith. As a girl in isolation, a girl whose early womanhood is shaped by the consequences of quarantine, I give myself time to pause. These nights, I cannot sleep in the dark any more. My apartment is too quiet at the midnight hour. I’ve taken to turning on my honey-colored lamp and watching seasons of “Bob’s Burgers” on Hulu until I am too exhausted to keep my eyes open. The fear that grips once the sun sets is entirely irrational, but it seems that if I let my eyes close one moment too soon, the world as I know it will be gone by the time they open once again. It is dramatic, I know. But it is a fear that I know I do not struggle with alone.

Milka is a Kenyan-American writer interested in the intersections of beauty and power. As an English Literature student, they primarily centered their research on marginalized bodies and the interiority of black women in postmodern literature. Currently, they focus their writing on creative non-fiction narrative that explores desirability politics, beauty labor in the Internet age, and the tender magic of body liberation. You can find their work in Turnpike Zine, Undertone Magazine, and in little Twitter musings.

0 notes

endlessworkinprogress-blog · 7 years

Text

Who’s In Control? (Final)

To what degree do I control my use of social media and my self-representation online? To what extent has it controlled me? In her TED talk, Ulrike Schultze describes the “Human-Technology Entanglement” as “a co-constitutive kind of relationship … [wherein] we become what the technology allows us to become.”

#chasingreflections

I’ve long held on to some notion of an “ideal me”, but I’ve also long been aware of my inaction as an obstacle – hence the blog title, Work in Progress. This ideal has been shaped by observing others’ online identities as well as my own. Northwestern CTD’s blog post “The Self in Selfie” posits that “differences between our ‘real’ and online identities can shape not only how others perceive us but our self-perceptions, creating pressure to be more like the often idealized digital versions of ourselves and our peers.”

Above: a post inspired by one I had seen by @nycbambi a year before.

My giving into said pressure is evidenced in some Instagram posts that I made based on other people’s posts that I wished to emulate, and even in my behaviour as a consumer.

#IN$PIRATION

Peter Roesler’s Business Journals article cites a Deloitte report which “found that 47 percent of millennials are influenced in their purchases by social media.” My shifting personal interests and interactions with social media accounts have certainly been reflected in past purchases:

Beauty: buying makeup, a lot of which was infrequently or never used

Clean Eating: collecting recipes and filling my pantry with “health-nut” staples like organic apple cider vinegar and hemp hearts. (Confession: I’m still using chia seeds I bought 3 years ago.)

Fitness: Along with clean eating, I gave into an Instagram promotion by Alexa Jean Fitness to purchase her bundle of fitness programs at 75% off. The PDFs are sitting in my Dropbox. (Exercises I’ve attempted since my purchase: 0)

#picsoritdidnthappen

I am undeniably guilty of making my friends wait to start eating their food so that I can take a photo of our meal. Tim Highfield and Tama Leaver’s “Instagrammatics and Digital Methods” cites Susan Sontag’s statement that photography is “‘one of the principle devices for experiencing something, for giving an appearance of participation’” (48).

This evidence of participation can be community-building, but the need for it has occasionally impinged on my ability to simply enjoy life’s sweet or funny moments.

A notable example: I went hiking with a group of friends, and to save on data charges, I allowed my snaps to fail to post to my Story, intending to try posting the preserved posts again later (This was before Snapchat allowed you to post from your Camera Roll). When I finally got wifi access, I found that the snaps had disappeared. Even though I had other media to post, like the photo above, I was still upset that the other moments were lost.

#nofilter?

Highfield and Leaver highlight the importance of the visual in self-representation, and they argue that “the visual aesthetics of social media can complicate attempts to … determine ‘authenticity’. Questions of self-representation, of performance and of the authentic/inauthentic self are ongoing concerns for social media research” (52).

The visual is a powerful tool in self-representation that I have used it on social media to compensate for my feelings of inadequacy. Who I am online doesn’t have to reflect who I am in real life. Realizing this produced a compulsion to continually produce visuals that conveyed a certain idea of my identity.

#doitforthegram

There is a certain power in projecting an image of yourself that may appear more put together than your authentic self, but looking back, there is also some delusion to it. How far was I willing to go to produce such deceitful visuals?

Contrary to the caption, there is no coffee in that cup. Only the nails on my left hand were painted specifically for the photo. I downloaded an app in order to access a self-timer for my iPhone 5 camera in order to take this. (In accordance with the caption, however, I am indeed a klutz.)

#iamwhoiam?

In Chapter 1 of Seeing Ourselves Through Technology, Rettberg points out that “the ease … of deleting digital images and taking new ones allows us to control the way we are represented to a far greater degree” (12). On Instagram, I prioritized maintaining an aesthetic feed, which sometimes meant deleting selected past photos from my account. I took it even further by creating an album in my iPhone photo library wherein I could experiment with the order and placement of potential posts before putting them online.

#selfcontrol

According to a video by ASAP Science, “5-10% of internet users are actually unable to control how much time they spend online.” Unsurprisingly, while I try to control the representation of my “self” through social media, in my use of it, I have a severe lack of self-control. To tackle my compulsion to check social media and my trouble focusing on schoolwork, I have tried various tactics, from small to drastic:

Deactivated Facebook temporarily

Asked someone to change my passwords

Deleted apps from phone

Purchased Pomodoro app to try the Pomodoro technique

Downloaded Self Control for Mac to blacklist websites for a set amount of time

The last two are the only ones that ever worked, and I still use them sometimes, but even they are not foolproof.

But even on social media, my focus is limited. Writing and Editing for Digital Media points out that “people interacting with digital media aren’t … reading as [reading] has been traditionally understood” (34). This is true: I often give up on reading an article or post online if I find it is too long.

#memeandyou

Widespread Internet meme culture is now purportedly said to contribute to building connections and strengthening bonds with others. I think this is because memes allow us to recognize shared experiences, feelings, and interests. “Humans are uniquely individualized … but when their interests are joined, or one perceives or is persuaded to believe that they are joined, then identification occurs.” (Writing and Editing for Digital Media, 37) How many of us have shared memes with friends attaching a message or comment like, “Me right now,” or “So relevant, I can’t”?

I’m not incapable of making connections through conversation, but I can’t deny that sharing and commenting on memes have become a significant part of my socialization online.

#cantstopwontstop

I must concede with The Guardian’s Tomas Chamorro-Premuzic’s observation that “online activities are no longer separable from our real lives, but an integral part of it.” Although I’ve given up on maintaining a certain idea of myself on Instagram, it’s clear that social media has dominated my life in numerous ways and to varying degrees.

At present, I’ve given up trying so hard to control my identity on social media. I’m more inclined to observe and to privately share content on social media. In other words, it probably controls me more than I control it.

But you know what? I ain’t even mad.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

“Here I go again.” Stream de la meme, Facebook, 23 Mar 2017, https://www.facebook.com/Streamdelameme/photos/a.623662911114554.1073741828.623660944448084/814130572067786/.

“The Self in Selfie: Identity in the Age of Social Media.” Northwestern CTD (blog), Northwestern University Center for Talent Development, https://www.ctd.northwestern.edu/blog/self-selfie-identity-age-social-media. Accessed 25 Feb 2017.

Carroll, Brian. “Writing for Digital Media.” Writing and Editing for Digital Media, 2nd ed. Routledge, 2014.

Chamorro-Premuzic, Tomas. “How different are your online and offline personalities?” The Guardian, 24 Sept 2015, https://www.theguardian.com/media-network/2015/sep/24/online-offline-personality-digital-identity. Accessed 25 Feb 2017.

Highfield, Tim and Tama Leaver. “Instagrammatics and digital methods: studying visual social media, from selfies and GIFS to memes and emoji.” Communication Research and Practice 2.1 (2016): 47-62. Taylor and Francis. Accessed 27 Feb 2017.

Moffit, Mitchell and Gregory Brown. “5 Crazy Ways Social Media Is Changing Your Brain Right Now.” Youtube, uploaded by AsapSCIENCE, 7 Sept 2014, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HffWFd_6bJ0.

Rettberg, Jill Walker. “Written, Visual and Quantitative Self-Representations.” Seeing Ourselves Through Technology: How we Use Selfies, Blogs and Wearable Devices to See and Shape Ourselves. Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. pp. 1-19.

Roesler, Peter. “How social media influences consumer buying decisions.” The Business Journals, 29 May 2015, http://www.bizjournals.com/bizjournals/how-to/marketing/2015/05/how-social-media-influences-consumer-buying.html. Accessed 20 Mar 2017.

Schultz, Ulrike. “How Social Media Shapes Identity.” TEDxSMU, April 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSpyZor-Byk.

Tyler, Christie (nycbambi). “So I listened to @the1975 ‘s new single...” Instagram, 30 Oct. 2014, https://www.instagram.com/p/uym79aplT3/.

0 notes

endlessworkinprogress-blog · 7 years

Text

Who’s In Control (Rough Draft)

To what degree do I control my use of social media and my self-representation online? To what extent has it controlled me? In her TED talk, Ulrike Schultze describes the “Human-Technology Entanglement” in terms of “a co-constitutive kind of relationship … [wherein] we become what the technology allows us to become.”

#chasingreflections

My giving into said pressure is evidenced in some Instagram posts that I made based on other people’s posts that I wished to emulate (below), and in even in my behaviour as a consumer.

(photo 1)

#IN$PIRATION

- Beauty: buying makeup, a lot of which was infrequently or never used

- Clean Eating: collecting recipes and filling my pantry with “health-nut” staples like organic apple cider vinegar and hemp hearts.

o Confession: I’m still using chia seeds I bought 3 years ago.

- Fitness: Along with clean eating, I gave into an Instagram promotion by Alexa Jean Fitness to purchase her bundle of fitness programs at 75% off. The PDFs are sitting in my Dropbox.

o Exercises I’ve attempted since my purchase: 0

#picsoritdidnthappen?

This evidence of participation can be community-building, but the need to it has occasionally impinged on my ability to simply enjoy life’s sweet or funny moments.

(photo)

A notable example: I went hiking with a group of friends, and to save on data charges, I allowed my snaps to fail to post to my Story, intending to try posting the preserved posts again later (This was before Snapchat allowed you to post from your Camera Roll). When I finally got wifi access, I found that the snaps had disappeared. Even though I had other media to post, like this photo, I was still upset that the other moments were lost.

#nofilter?

Highfield and Leaver highlight the importance of the visual in self-representation, and they argue that “the visual aesthetics of social media can complicate attempts to … determine ‘authenticity’. Questions of self-representation of performance and the authentic/inauthentic self are ongoing concerns for social media research” (x).

#doitforthegram

There is a certain power in projecting an image of yourself that may appear more put together than your authentic self, but looking back, there is also some delusion in it. How far was I willing to go to produce such deceitful visuals?

(photo)

I am who I am?

In Chapter 1 of Seeing Ourselves Through Technology, Rettberg points out that “the ease … of deleting digital images and taking new ones allows us to control the way we are represented to a far greater degree.” On Instagram, I prioritized maintaining an aesthetic feed, which sometimes meant deleting selected past photos from my account. I took it even further by creating an album in my iPhone photo library wherein I could experiment with the order and placement of potential posts before putting them online.

(photo)

#selfcontrol

Unsurprisingly, while I try to control the representation of my “self” through social media, in my use of it, I have a severe lack of self-control. To tackle my compulsion to check social media and my trouble focusing on schoolwork, I have tried various tactics, from small to drastic:

Deactivated Facebook temporarily

Asked someone to change my passwords

Deleted apps from phone

Purchased Pomodoro app to try the Pomodoro method

Downloaded Self Control for Mac to blacklist websites for a set amount of time

(photo)

The last two are the only ones that ever worked, and I still use them sometimes, but even they are not foolproof.

But even on social media, my focus is limited. Writing and Editing for Digital Media points out that “people interacting with digital media aren’t ... reading as [reading] has been traditionally understood” (x). This is true: I often give up on reading an article or post online if I find it is too long.

#memeandyou

The widespread Internet meme culture is now purportedly said to contribute to building connections and strengthening bonds with others. I think this is because memes allow us to recognize shared experiences, feelings, and interests. “Humans are uniquely individualized … but when their interests are joined, or one perceives or is persuaded to believe that they are joined, then identification occurs.” (Writing for Digital Media) How many of us have shared memes with friends attaching a message or comment like, “Me right now,” or “So relevant, I can’t”?

The sense of community is heightened when memes use references that I can identify. As Highland and Leaver write, “additional levels of meaning or significance may also be apparent to those who are familiar with the relevant source texts” (x). I appreciate being able to recognizing a moment from The Office applied to a new context, for example. I’m not incapable of making connections through conversation, but I can’t deny that sharing and commenting on memes have become a significant part of my socialization online.

Bibliography

(To be written, links and images to be added)

0 notes