i love you oversized clothing I love you thick fabric I love you long sleeve shirts I love you long pants I love you warm jackets and I love you blankie

My Baby Takes the Morning Train

Steve’s hand tightened around the cold metal bar as the elevator gave its first lurch and then sped higher and higher at a dizzyingly fast pace. He could swear he could hear a whirring of the air rushing past them outside and a nervous clench captured his stomach. He and machines never got along so well. Ma always used to joke he could break anything running on electricity with a single look.

A soft smile came to his face at the hazy memory, faded from years of disuse, and his hand continued to constrict as the elevator shot up; never knew when his luck might strike, Steve thought on a nervous huff of a near-laugh.

To his left, Steve felt more than saw Bucky shuffle, and the scrit-scratching of his shoe on the carpet started. Steve took it for the tell-tale sign that it was. The noise of a car gearing up, revving its engines.

He felt a tenseness begin its ascent up his shoulders as he glanced to his right.

The young man had settled in besides him right as the doors were closing. Well, more like slid in through a barely there slit and shoot a glare up towards the shiny, reflective ceiling like it had personally offended him. The man hadn’t so much as given them a cursory glance as he lodged next to Steve.

Steve eyed him, curiosity spiking in his gut. The young man’s nose was practically glued to the screen in front of him, a white reflection shining in round, clear glasses. Brown eyes shown, wild and excited beneath the frames lining them. There was a slightly wild twist to his dark brown hair that Steve suddenly wanted to capture in wild whips on a canvas.

Blinking, Steve realized he was staring, or, rather, openly gaping at the stranger. Glancing away, he caught a soft whiff of cherries circling his nose from the man’s direction, and Steve looked over again, captivated.

It was a good distraction. The fluttering in his stomach started to take the form of that nervousness he got whenever someone interesting caught his eye. The feeling, a swooping, thrilling sensation, was a little different, though. Stronger than any of those other times and easily overcoming his first day jitters.

He and Bucky had gotten the interviews via an old friend. An old co-worker of his mom’s who’d come to the funeral and given Steve peonies that made him think of the sunsets she used to enjoy. Steve couldn’t remember the gentleman’s name after his tour. There was a flicker of guilt there that Steve couldn’t quite place. From not remembering the name or for being so outwardly desperate and weak enough to need a man he barely knew anymore to offer them help.

Still. Stark Industries.

He couldn’t turn his nose up at such an offer; couldn’t afford to. Neither of them. Not after Bucky had been honorably-discharged and given a barely usable arm and a small wad of gauze to patch it up with. Not after the medical bay diagnosed Steve with PTSD and depression because of the mission that sent Bucky home and then the mission that cost Steve the rest of his team mere days later.

The only thing that greeted him when he came home were screams that echoed in his ears at night, lasting so long the line blurred and Steve couldn’t tell if the screams were his or theirs. Sometimes, he could still smell the dirt that coated his nose and skin so thick, they were almost another layer of skin. Or maybe a layer of armor. Armor that had done no good at protecting him from the gut-wrenching scent of gunpowder and burning skin.

The attack had been a surprise. It hadn’t been his fault. That’s what they’d told him, at least.

Steve took a deep breath in.

Cherries.

He glanced back to the right. Bucky had made some comment a moment ago, under his breath, about the young man’s choice of attire, adding on some tacky line about kids-these-days and getting-old-and-going-downhill. Steve smiled to himself. The man couldn’t be younger than twenty, and he and Bucky were only twenty-five. But he could understand that the outfit wasn’t the most professional of choices. Didn’t mean Steve didn’t appreciate and find the clothes absolutely stunning.

The man wore a sleek button up shirt absolutely surging with bright yellows and reds, buttons parting all the way down the man’s chest only to join back together just above his belly-button. The shirt was hanging open just enough for Steve to get a glimpse of a gorgeously lithe frame and a slight mottling of red, puffed skin at the center of the man’s chest. Like he’d been burned.

Steve wanted to reach forward and run his fingertips along the ridges. Find out if there was a way for him to make any lasting pain go away. And he couldn’t help but think how brave this man was to be showing something so personal so proudly.

Lord knew Steve didn’t have the guts to do that himself. There were thirty-eight missed calls, all contained in a little, red bubble, from doctors and pharmacists reminding him to make appointments and pick up medications he couldn’t afford and Bucky knew nothing about.

The front of the man’s shirt was tucked neatly into a tight pair of skinny jeans that left very little to the imagination. At the man’s ankles, the pants were folded up to show a glimmering patch of tan skin that disappeared into bright, white Oxfords.

His eyes stuttered up to find the young man staring back at him, phone dark in his hands. Steve quickly felt heat threaten to take over his entire face and forced it back. In a miracle of all miracles, despite Steve’s highly invasive checking-out of the man’s everything, he gave Steve a small smile.

Automatically, Steve smiled back, quickly looking away at the sight of that doe-eyed look from beneath sinuously long lashes.

On his right, Steve heard Bucky shift again, and Steve shot him a reproachful look. A warning he knew Bucky wouldn’t listen to. But, well, insanity and all that. However, a bored Bucky had never been good, and the returning mischievous grin only lent to Steve’s worry.

He stepped a little closer to the young man, furtively trying to put his body between the man and Bucky.

The man glanced up again and caught Steve’s eye. Steve gave another soft smile before swiveling his head to the ground to stare at his shoes. God. They weren’t nearly as nice as the man’s next to him. He frowned at one particular scruff over the faux-leather covering his big toe. From the corner of his eye, he thought he might have caught the man returning his smile, something Steve couldn’t quite place lurking in those amber eyes.

Steve felt the man’s continued gaze on him like a physical branding, leaving his skin hot and twitchy. Like the caress of a barely-there touch from calloused fingertips, and Steve had the wild thought of asking this man if he played violin or guitar. What had caused the callouses? The question seemed important for no other reason than he so desperately wanted to know.

Tilting his head back up, their eyes instantly snapped to one another’s. This time, Steve could clearly make out something akin to confusion swimming through flecks of deep greens and golds. He got the distinct impression that he was being asked some silent question he couldn’t possibly hope to answer.

He sent another shy smile the man’s way and then looked down again.

Bucky cleared his throat, and Steve suddenly had to close his eyes and pull in a slow, deep breath. The scent of cherries calmed over his nerves. He wanted to give the man some kind of warning, but Steve was pretty sure saying, “Sorry that my best friend is probably about to make the rest of this elevator ride miserable and uncomfortable for the both of us because he’s bored,” was grounds for ending whatever they were doing with their game of eye-tag. He found he really, really didn’t want that.

Steve raised his chin, watching the man immediately train his focus on Steve. An unsure smile crossed the man’s pink lips, and there was a startled quality to it. Like he wasn’t used to whatever it was that they were doing.

Sending the man a sheepish grin, Steve realized it was the only warning he was willing to risk.

“So who are you?” Bucky finally spoke up from behind Steve. He felt Bucky shift so that he was leaning around Steve’s own bulk to get a look at the man himself. There was an odd undercurrent to his words that only came about when Bucky sensed Steve liked the fella he was talking to.

The man’s eyes widened a fraction, and there was a sudden quirk to his lips that seemed bemused. Steve felt his knees go a little weak.

Tilting his head, the man’s eyes darted to Steve’s for a moment before returning to Bucky. “You don’t know?” he asked.

Steve shook his head, and Bucky let out an unimpressed grunt. “Sorry,” he told the man, shooting Bucky a glare. “Are we- um, should we? Know you, that is? Should we know you? It’s- I, uh, sorry. It’s our first day here.” He wanted to smack himself in the face. Stupid! he thought to himself.

The man turned back towards him, eyes searching his. Steve thought he could make out something soft in the look.

His skin heated up even more, and Steve knew the blush was definitely covering the back of his neck, now. Steve reached up, rubbing at it self-consciously. He’d always hated how obvious he was.

Clearing his throat, he looked up at the man even though Steve had almost a foot on him. “Sorry,” he said, voice quiet in the cool air around them.

The young man shifted from foot to foot as he stared up at Steve with wide eyes. He mimicked Steve’s posture by resting a hand on the back of his own neck, and Steve wondered if he’d realized he’d done that. A moment later, he seemed to, pulling it away and letting it land at his side with a gentle smack.

“No no,” he murmured, and glanced away only to glance back a second later. “It was a-a stupid, silly question to ask anyway. Should’t’ve…” He shook his head.

Steve opened his mouth to reply when Bucky cut in. “You some bigshot?” he questioned, barely avoiding Steve’s well-aimed elbow-shot towards his torso.

The man’s gaze left Steve’s in favor of Bucky, and Steve felt the instant loss. It was like the elevator had gotten colder somehow.

He seemed to eye Bucky with curiosity as well. “I suppose that would be up to who you ask. Are you some bigshot?” he retorted smoothly.

“Went to Columbia University and graduated top of our class,” Bucky said, a hint of pride there that was innocent enough. “Joined the army, did a couple tours. How ‘bout you? Where’d you go to school? Are you still in school? You look a little young to be working for Stark Industries.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Steve for a second. The look was similar to all the one’s he’d received whenever he mentioned he was a veteran. A mixture of pride and respect and honor Steve never felt he deserved. But this look was also vastly different. This look didn’t make Steve squirm in discomfort, and he felt a sense of pride wash over him. He liked the look in those eyes, and it made him proud that he’d been the one to put that there.

“I went to a private school out of state,” the man said, looking back to Bucky. “I doubt you’ve heard of it.” And a thrill shot through Steve when he watched the man’s long, lean fingers twist into a cross, black fingernails gleaming in the fluorescent lighting shining against titanium floors. A smile came to Steve’s lips, one of the most genuine ones he’d felt since coming back to the States. It was like he was in on some private joke, and he was suddenly aware that this man has no problem playing the game Bucky had set up for them.

“And you’re right. I don’t, well, I honestly don’t exactly work for S.I.” he said, phrasing it as an admittance.

Steve let the tenseness leave his shoulders. Whoever this man was, Steve could tell he had what it took to deal with Bucky. He even suspected the man might just come out on top.

It’d be nice, he thought wistfully. Bucky always had this tendency to get them into trouble with the combination of his mouth and his boredom. He never meant anything by it, and by the end of most of his escapades, Bucky had won himself two black eyes and three new friends.

Steve flashed back to the crouched posture and inability to walk after Bucky had first met and spoke to Natasha. Now the two were inseparable – Bucky was even starting to look at rings. But Bucky had this way about him, and a part of Steve thought it was a little unfair. Bucky could make friends with anyone at any time. He was the life of the party, and he knew how to play his cards exactly right to keep them out of any real trouble.

There was visible amusement in the man’s posture as he folded his arms and squinted up at Bucky. Steve worked harder to fight his smile. The upward bend of the man’s spine as he placed his hands firmly on his hips, a narrowed, challenging look on his face; Steve thought Natasha would adore this man. He looked like he was about to chastise a child.

Maybe he’s just as bored as Bucky, Steve thought.

“So what are you doing here, kid?” Bucky asked, smirking as his eyes went wide as if he was genuinely curious.

Around him, Steve heard the whirring of the elevator come to a stall. It slowed and came to a halt, the light above the doors stopping and blinking once, twice above the black letters of 23. The doors opened and both Bucky and the man looked towards them. Sounds of amused chatter reached Steve’s ears, and Bucky began to step out. Steve followed, glancing at the man as he passed. Those impossibly large and round brown eyes beamed up at him. Steve wondered if he was beaming back just as goofily.

When they stepped off, Bucky looked back towards the man with a raised brow. Steve twitched as the noise came to a quick stop. Everyone’s heads raised and pointing towards them.

Steve glanced back as well, watching the guy strut out, raising his head like a pleased cat who’d just killed its prey. He trotted past them, giving Bucky a smirk.

“Good morning, everyone!” he greeted cheerfully. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what I’m doing down here in the design team’s department, but Miss Potts has decided I need to work on my ‘human resource skills,’” he said, fingers coming up to add air quotes to his statement. “Thus, today's introduction of our two newest members of the Stark Industry’s Graphic Design Department.”

Intrigue buzzed through Steve’s mind the more the guy talked, shock beginning to course through him as he started putting pieces of the puzzle together.

Whirling around on his heal, the man held out his hand towards Bucky. “This is…” he paused, waiting.

“Uh,” Bucky grunted, shooting Steve a confused look.

But Steve got it, and the man did look vaguely familiar now that he thought about it. He could see the headlines that described the deaths of Maria and Howard Stark, and the picture of a very young boy trying to grieve his parents in peace. Hear the other soldiers rage and rant when they were told that the now young man had put a stop to his company’s weapons manufacturing after being kidnapped for three months. Could feel the pride and admiration for that decision when an S.I. bomb came barreling towards the Howling Commandos.

Because this was Tony Stark. The kid who’d grown up in the spotlight. The one Steve used to judge when he was younger until his mom had chastised him on the rudeness that came with his unwillingness to find understanding and empathy for someone he knew absolutely nothing about. The one who Steve had started to admire for his bravery and generosity and genius as he grew up. The one who Steve used to pray would end up okay because he’d thought he understood, then. Just a little.

“James Barnes,” Bucky eventually finished, turning back towards the man in the elevator. The man who’d asked, “You don’t know?”

“Barnes,” Tony Stark purred, turning back to face the room. “Mr. Barnes, here, is going to be our newest errand boy!” He clapped his hands excitedly, and there was a murmur of amused chuckles. Steve thought he saw a fist pump lowly in the air from a man sitting in the back of the room. A worry filled him as Steve thought of Bucky’s arm, but before he could say anything, Mr. Stark said, “Sorry, Gerry. You’re gonna have to stay on the team and help with some of the heavy lifting. Most of it, actually; don’t think I’ve forgotten what you said to me on your first day. Mr. Barnes!” he snapped. “I know you could probably bench press Gerry, here, but I need you to make him do most of the work, capisce? So, even though it’s your first day, I’m promoting you to Senior errand boy. But, you are still an errand boy, Mr. Columbia.”

And then there was that swelling in Steve’s chest, warm and dizzying and constricting his every breath. Mr. Stark turned to him, and Steve saw a minuscule, barely-there shift in the man’s eyes as he looked at Steve and asked a name.

Those eyes seemed to pin him in place, and Steve wondered, hoped, prayed, that the man with the beautiful brown eyes and breath-taking smile was just as struck as he was. A name. A name shouldn’t seem like such a monumental thing to give.

Somehow it was.

“Steve,” he said on an exhale, and he hoped his voice didn’t come out as breathless as it sounded to his own ears. “Steve Rogers.” And suddenly he could see their entire lives flashing before his eyes. He wanted to laugh; ever the hopeful romantic, Bucky and his ma would always say, but there was a realness to this strong pull tugging him towards the man a few small feet in front of him. Could see the flashes of a life he hadn’t had, yet, but as Steve watched scenes in his head the way a child looks at a stick figure flipbook, he wondered, How can it not be real? Each scene, each drawing, singular and captivating all combined to create this entire story of them. Two people who knew nothing about each other but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that one day they’d know more than anyone else ever would.

Steve could see it. Could see waking up with an armful of long, thin limbs and slipping out from underneath a warm body and a couple covers to start the coffee machine and possibly get a run in before the day started and he’d be forced to part ways. Holding a trembling body as news reels spread something horrid and heartbreaking across millions of people’s screens. Being held in a tight embrace after a particularly difficult day where past and present blurred and left him practically incoherent. Watching television on the couch and ignoring all that extra room to the right. Making a mess of the kitchen, but coming out with an edible feast to announce to friends plans of moving in together. Looking for rings and hearing a yes to a question Steve couldn’t even finish because there was too much excitement. Standing in a tux and saying, “I do.” Playdates at Natasha’s and Bucky’s house because they had the pool. Looking at colleges and attending weddings as Fathers of the Groom and Bride. Two rickety old rocking chairs that Steve remembered from browned and torn photographs with now-softened edges holding a familiar couple sitting in each one, reaching across the distance to hold hands in the front of his childhood home. Chairs he would dig out from the storage unit he’d always refuse to give up because he could never bring himself to throw away his parent’s things. Sitting those chairs on a deck up in the mountains because it was time to escape the city and pass on legacies, and taking a similar picture to pass down to his kids.

In a manner of seconds, in flashes where Steve could practically taste the kisses, feel the skin beneath his hands, hear the laughter, see the crow’s feet… smell the cherries. Like a light, guiding him, calling him back home, and Steve was incapable of not following – he doubted there had even been much of a choice – because he hadn’t been home. Not in years, really. Not since his mom passed away.

“Steve,” Mr. Stark repeated, and Steve knew there was no way to mistake the odd softness to the tone. Said low in a way that made him wonder if anyone else heard it. Heard the way his name seemed to hitch over Mr. Stark’s tongue, and roll off ever so slowly. Steve wondered how his name tasted. If it was good. If Tony Stark liked saying it as much as Steve liked hearing it. Mr. Stark cleared his throat, turning haltingly to face the room again. “And if you’ll all be so kind as to show Mr. Rogers the ropes. I…” he cleared his throat again, peaking at Steve as he continued. “I hear he’s got more talent and dedication than most.”

Mr. Stark moved away, then, and Steve had to physically push down the urge to follow. He stared after the man nonetheless, ignoring the people walking up to greet and welcome them with kind smiles and heartfelt hellos.

Tony Stark turned back exactly once, locking his gaze on Steve’s on last time. Steve let the soothing warmth of rightness utterly inflate throughout his entire body, making his skin tingle. He could barely breathe past it. Then the eyes were gone, going downcast towards the floor as Mr. Stark reached the door. Steve caught the smile, though, curving over those rosy lips, the faint blush on olive cheeks.

The feeling continued to swell as the door swung closed.

A hand clapped Steve’s shoulder, and he startled at the reminder that there were other people in the room. Bucky was looking at him, eyes darting around Steve’s face for a sign of something.

Steve couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh, tossing his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “You have to admit, he won that one. And you kind of deserved it,” Steve pointed out, feeling fond and exasperated and completely, utterly, insanely overjoyed all at once.

@->-- Alex Rogers-Stark --<-@

Blake Secret Santa Fic: I’ll be Home for Christmas

I can feel @blakesecretsanta2019 sweating in her latest post, but posting with plenty of time. (two whole hours) 

For @thetucc:  prompt is 'Jean/Lucien or Matthew/Alice (your choice) with settled Christmas traditions (so not first Christmas together)'

Thank you to thetucc and all the fans that are keeping this fandom strong, and here’s to 2020 giving us even more to enjoy.  And thank you so much to @aussiegirl41 for Ausifying.  

Lucien and Jean build a new tradition, while Matthew and Alice enact their own annual celebration 

***

"You put the angel on top, and it's finished."

The woman directs your tentative actions...the woman is Jean.  Jean is your wife.  Your wife is explaining this process, where in the colourful and shiny objects in the box are transferred to the conifer. This is done for every Christmas...it is Christmas, a holiday to celebrate friends, family, and faith. Nod and smile.  Show your appreciation.  Try not to react to the distress in her expression.

"Missed a spot," from behind them.

The man...the man is your friend...the man is Matthew.  Not Matt, not Matty.  Move the string of lights to the left, and he nods in satisfaction.  Release a breath of relief. 

"Lucien?"  All her fear in that name.

Lucien...yes, your name is Lucien.  Not Louie, not Lucky, not these names other people have been calling you since the darkness lifted. You didn't question the darkness; didn't everyone's life start in the dark?  

"Yes, darling?"  You find it easier than saying a name that means nothing, and there's always a glimmer of hope in her eyes when you say it.

"Why don't you help me start dinner?" she says, forcing cheerfulness. 

An instinct tells you to hold out your hand to help Jean stand, which she takes and her slim finger slips along your bare ring finger.  She'd asked if you'd lost your wedding ring, but she's really asking another question. You lie, and say you don't remember where you lost it.  

The gold band had been the first thing you sold for food, an easy act in the moment of gnawing hunger. It had meant nothing, and the act gave you no pause to question 'where's this wife?' The only force more powerful than the hunger and pain in your skull was this need to hide, to stay in the shadows, a sense that a pursuer wanted to take your life. Surely no woman waited at home as this Jean said she had. No hearth was warm, no supper ready, no bed soft. Only the dark cold cobblestones of the back alleys felt comfortable.

The first night in this house, Jean took you to a large bed under a flickering golden ceiling.  Her pale arms wrapped around you, her breasts heaved against your chest from her rapid breathing. "You're home now, my love.  I never lost faith." 

It would have been easy to complete this act. You were urgent and hot between your bodies, her scent was intoxicating. Her touch seemed as familiar as that of a longtime lover, but she was a stranger.  For all these months you'd been another man, not her Lucien, women had reached for you, offered you this but something had stopped you. Had it been her holding your urges in check?  

You'd left the bed, her embrace, and slept on the floor wedged between a dresser and a corner. This felt right and familiar. Later you moved to a bedroom by the front door; easier to leave when this all becomes too much. It is nearly too much;  you vibrate like a plucked violin string all the time.  

The other woman breaks your paralysis as she rises from the lounge chair where she's been reading a psychology book. "I shall help with the preparation as well." She is Alice, and she tells you that she worked with you in your role as police surgeon. An odd thing for a lady to do, but her steady, competent gaze shows she could dissect a corpse with ease.

You see dead bodies when you close your eyes, and you didn't know why.  Or why you were a doctor if these thoughts fill you with dread.  Shaking your head, you trail the others to the kitchen.  

"Lucien, why don't you peel the potatoes for us?"  The one called Alice remains cool and controlled, even as your wife bunches her shoulders at the sink and scrubs the carrots much too hard. 

"Ever since I came to work at the hospital, you've made me welcome in your home at Christmas time," Alice explains as she takes down the china from the cupboards.  "I'm an awful cook, so I try to help by setting the table, and bringing the wine."

You smile encouragingly.  She cocks an eyebrow.  No, you don't remember. 

Matthew limps to the table where a bowl of potatoes waits.  "I'm a much better help."  Waving the paring knife at Alice, he notes, "You should be able to slice and dice a spud if you can butcher a man like a suckling pig."

"That's simply a matter of anatomy," she counters, "from years of study. I've not had the time to apply myself to cookery."

"Leave her be," Jean says sharply.  "She doesn't need to cook."

You don't like to see her upset.  "What's going to be on for dinner beside potatoes?"  What do people eat at Christmas Eve?  "Goose?"  Once, there was a goose...but not here. Not in this bright light. Dim evenings, lamplight casting into dark rooms from the streets outside.  A roaring fire, not these warm Australian summer nights.

Although she's not happy that you don't know, she's relieved that you're trying.  "Goodness no. Too greasy.  We do a nice pork roast, with roasted potatoes, pumpkin, honeyed carrots, buttered brussel sprouts and my Nanna's plum pudding for afterwards."  

You can smell the pork even though you know it's still sitting raw on a plate in the fridge.  "It's delicious," and she gives a genuine smile.  

"Yes, yes it is, if I may say so myself."  

Matthew clears his throat and you look down at the unpeeled potatoes.  Picking up the knife with one hand and a spud with the other, you are uncertain what's next.  Matthew still watches, and slows his motion so you can observe.  Carefully, mustn't cut a finger, the curl of peeling gives satisfaction.  You're surprised to find your forehead moist with sweat when you finish.  

The meal is equally torturous, with many more prompts: as host, you pour the wine, slice the meat, pass the dishes.  

Finally Alice lifts her glass and offers a toast that makes no one feel better: "To old friends, together again."

All through the meal, there is a tension beyond your missing past.  It has form and shape.  You've watched the lurking figure in the shadow out of the corner of your eye. Jean doesn't see it, Matthew seems to ignore it, Alice keeps her back to it.  But you see it.  You want to trust these people, but can't from the way Matthew and Alice meet gazes, then their eyes dart away.  They whisper near those shadows, then part, watching Jean to assure she hasn't seen.  They watch you too, checking if your attention is caught.  Months on the streets of Melbourne have taught you how to keep your attention one place, while the hunter's heart watches another.  

"I suppose I should be getting home," Alice says, beginning the process of giving her farwells, gathering her handbag, and moving to the door.  You stay back at the table, observing the scene, alert for that deception that weighs heavily on your shoulders.

"Lucien, aren't you going to thank our guest for coming?"  Jean is losing patience with you, but it doesn't matter.  You will bring light to the shadows. 

Matthew is equally nonchalant, tossing a "Seeya then," to Alice, then wandering back to the lounge and his newspaper.  

You face Alice and don't like how her level gaze probes. Give a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and she pulls back, containing a shudder.  Sometimes moving closer will push someone away.  

The door shuts. "It's been a long evening. I think I'd better go to bed," you announce.  Jean steps into your kiss, holding her close until you can feel her fingers' grip through your shirt. Retreating through the bedroom doorway, the heavy walnut door closes off her pained expression.

When the darkness covers the entire house, and the only sound is the low buzz of frogs, you leave the house and wait in the deep shadows by the garage. Patience is rewarded. The front door cracks open and a figure stumbles through. In the time it takes Matthew to lock the door, you dart to the auto, slide into the backseat, holding the door closed but not latched. Matthew comes to the driver's door and gets behind the wheel. As he slams his door, you can secure yours.  

The auto moves slowly down the drive then picks up speed after turning onto the street.  Minutes pass until Matthew stops and turns off the engine.  You press down on the floorboards, holding your breath so he won't notice you.

His dragging steps fade away. Sliding from the auto, you crouch in the carpark, spotting Matthew as he goes through a side door of a large building.  It's the hospital, quiet and still this late on Christmas Eve.

You follow, silent on light feet. The hunt feels good after weeks confined in that house.  Matthew's distinct footfall is easy to track through the tiled corridors.  You seem to know where you're going, and it's not necessary to trail him closely. Downstairs, as he travels from spot to spot of light, you remain in the shadows.  At the end of a corridor, he pauses, glancing behind him and you melt back into an alcove.  He goes through a swinging door.  You wait, but he doesn't come out, minute after minute passing.  Finally, you move forward.  At the door, you listen.  Low voices, speak, long pauses, speak again with urgency but you cannot make out the words.  

You dare to push open the door the slightest of cracks.  Easing closer, you peer through.

There's a small Christmas tree on a stainless steel topped gurney.  Two glasses of champagne sit beside it, untouched.  Your gaze refocuses at the sound of movement....and Matthew Lawson and Alice Harvey are engaged in an act of intimacy across the room.

Stepping back, you carefully ease the door shut and reflect. You dare to murmur, "Bloody hell." If they are involved in any conspiracy, it is none of your business.  Retracing your steps, you find your way outside and look up and down the street. On Christmas Eve, there are no cars or taxis.  It's a warm summer night, the sky full of stars. A walk will do no harm.  You know you were once a larger man because your clothes now hang on your frame.  Jean tries to fatten you up, but if you had an interest in extra pudding, it's fled. Sturdier limbs would be welcome.  

A mile along a dark street, headlights catch you.  The urge to flee is strong, and when the vehicle is revealed to be a blue police car, it's nearly overwhelming.  It stops beside you.

A blockish face peers out.  "What's up, Doc," says the policeman, a sneer on his lips. 

You are a doctor.  You are Doctor Lucien Blake. "I'm out for a stroll."

"Pretty far from home."

"The time escaped me."

"Get in and I'll give you a ride."  It was not a suggestion, but an order.  

You take the passenger seat after pausing at the back door, wondering if you should sit in the criminal's place.  

"Out drinking."  Again, not a question.  The policeman drives swiftly but not recklessly.

"No."  You realise that you haven't had a drink in days, weeks, when was the last time you drank?  But you tasted whisky on your tongue the moment he said drink.  

"Jean will wonder where you got to." 

You don't like the way this man says your wife's name.  You have no reply. 

He's turned down your street--how do you know your street?--but as relief washes over you, he speaks again. "It would have been better for everyone if you'd stayed dead."  He pulls into the drive.

You don't reply until you're out of the car.  "But I am back and I'm not going anywhere."  Every day you want to leave, but saying it aloud means it's true.  

You don't thank him for the ride.  

Inside the front door that you open as quietly as you can, Jean is standing, her sheer dressing gown flowing around her slender legs, her face white, her knuckles tight on her clenched fists.  "Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk."

"You've been gone for hours."

She's the watcher, not Matthew and Alice. 

"I lost track of time."  It's a foolish thing to say.  

Her fingers lace with yours.  "You're freezing."

"It's a warm night."

"You're freezing," she repeats, and tugs you past the first bedroom door and down the hall to the magnificent room that she calls your bedroom.  It's made you ache to enter it.  It speaks to a special sort of marriage, where there's the intimacy of two people spending time alone before a fire, one reading aloud from the many volumes lining the room while another listens; her knitting while you warm your socked feet; of time spent in the large bed set at the middle of the room like a throne.  

She pulls you down to the bed, and slips her dressing gown from her shoulders before holding you close. "We don't--please just let me hold you. Warm you up."  Her skin is heated and smells welcoming. Your head drops to her shoulder as you're suddenly exhausted. 

"Tired, my love?"

"Always."

The two of you stretch out atop the bedspread, and stare at the dead fire, suddenly muted.  Finally she asks again, "Where did you go?"

After considering lying, you keep it short. "I followed Matthew.  I wanted to know where he was going so late."

She goes bolt upright.  "Oh, Lucien!"

"What?"

She flops back down.  "Did you see anything?"

You don't want to shock Jean--

"You did.  I hope you didn't embarrass them."

"I'm sure they didn't see me."  You clear your throat.  "They were occupied."

Her arms around you, her legs twining with yours.  "Just don't tell anyone.  It's their secret."

"But you know."

 "Silly," she calls you. 

"Do you want me to go?"

"Please don't."  Her arms tighten.  

Forcing yourself to relax, you listen for your memory in her soft limbs and steady breathing.  She remains a stranger but you still close your eyes, and allow sleep to come.  

Christmas day dawn filters around the heavy curtains, waking you before Jean.  In the night, she's rolled over, her back to you.  Sunbeams illuminate her spine--you see pearls down her back, she's turning to hand her bouquet to a young woman--

Your fingertips trace this sharply focused picture along her vertebrae, causing her to murmur and roll to face you.  Sleepily, her eyes open then widen at your intense gaze.  "Do you remember something?"

You need to respond to her pain-filled hope.  "I've never forgotten I love you.  Never."  

Even as she collapses against your chest, you know that's not enough.  If you loved her, why didn't you come back?  Why did you stay away all these long months?

She kisses you anyway, tentative at first, then soft and warm, her chilled fingers plucking at your shirt buttons.  Her spine arches and presses her writhing body to yours, and memories don't matter.  Just this feeling of belonging to someone--this someone who seems to fit with your limbs like puzzle pieces.  

A ringing from across the room; the phone is ringing.  

"Jean--"

She wriggles free.  "It's probably Christopher calling to wish us Happy Christmas.  I don't want to miss the call."  She does lean over for a quick kiss, and promises, "I'll keep it short though." 

But when she picks up the receiver, her expression becomes worried.  "Danny?"  She half-turns away.

Danny...sandy-haired lad in a blue uniform.  You in court again, more charges for petty larceny.  None of it matters.  A night in jail is a night with a bed and supper assured.  But this time, one of the coppers in the seats waiting for his case called out: "Doc!"  He was calling to you, recalling another life that you could not remember.   

"Are there more charges?" Jean murmurs, winding the phone cord around her nervous fingers.

His fines had been paid, the shop owner repaid handsomely for his troubles.  He'd been carried away from Melbourne in a large auto, this woman, this wife, his Jean beside him, her hand clinging to his arm tightly enough to hurt.  

"Yes, yes, you can come by--"  She glances to you, and you rise, straightening your clothes.  "Charlie's with you too?  What's wrong?"  Frustrated, she says, "Alright, we'll be ready for you."  She rings off.

"They'll be here in about twenty minutes."  She moves to the wardrobe.  "You've met Danny, but Charlie is an old friend as well."  She's become used to introducing everyone to you before we met again. 

She hands you a set of fresh clothing, and you take them slowly.  It feels as though you're dressing for a tribunal.   

Two young men arrive, the one called Danny in a uniform, and a stranger in a dark suit with a portfolio under his arm.  They are not dressed for a Christmas Day visit, and their faces are grave.

Jean, her hands shaking as she grips the tray with teapot and cups, leads them to the lounge.  After she pours, she sinks down beside you on the settee to face them.

"This is Charlie Davis," says Danny, "he's a detective with the Melbourne police."

"A detective," you repeat. 

The two men lock eyes, as though gathering their courage.

Charlie removes a photograph from his portfolio and puts it on the table before you.  "Do you know this man?"

It's an older man, about your age, with blank sullen eyes and a scar along his jaw.  You touch your beard that covers your scars.  You know they're there even if you can't see them.  

"Who is he?" Jean asks. 

You keep staring at the picture.  "He's dead."  You know this because his very image crushes your chest, makes your eyes burn, causes blood to rush in your ears.  

Jean grips your hand tightly but you don't acknowledge her.

"His badly decomposed body was found three weeks ago, downstream from the bridge where you were last seen."

"You don't believe--" Jean gasps.

"A suicide note was found inside his pocket," Charlie quickly explains, meeting gazes with Danny again.

"At the same time that you disappeared, Doc," says Danny, "A woman named Vera Griffith was found murdered in her home.  Her husband was missing."  He nods to Charlie, as though they were passing a football back and forth.  

"When I did my initial investigation of the murder scene," Charlie says, "Lucien's fingerprints were found on the doorknob."

This time, Jean can't even protest.  She sags against you, but your body is frozen with terror.  

Danny doesn't look at his aunt when he admits,  "We kept this from you, Auntie Jean. We weren't sure what had happened--"

She spits out, "That's why you shut down any inquiries I made--"

"We were protecting you, Jean," Charlie offers but she only huffs louder.

Your question stops the argument: "Did I kill this poor woman?" 

Shaking his head, Charlie taps the photo.  "This is Michael Griffith, her husband.  The suicide note was saturated with water, but our forensic scientists were recently able to decipher it.  He confessed to the crime and that he was killing himself as well."

Jean sputters angrily, but your heartbeat thumping erratically between relief and anxiety.  

"With the discovery of Griffith's body," Charlie says, "I searched their house again; tore it apart."  He removes a thick folder from the portfolio.  "I found a number of letters from Doctor Blake."

Jean turns to you.  "Did you know him well?"

A flash of irritation. Of course you did. The blood in your ears has become pounding waves, and bury your head in your hands. It was cold and dark on the bridge. Shouting voices--you wanted him to come to you, to stop talking madness, why was he covered in blood?  Why so much blood?

Jean takes the letters.  "What's in them?" 

"We need you to give us that answer," Charlie says to you, not Jean.  "They're one side of the correspondence and don't tell us much. We're hoping his letters are here."  Now he asks Jean, "Did you find any letters from Griffith?"

She shifts away on the settee, blushing. You're confused at her embarrassment.  Of course she would go through your things when you disappeared, trying to find an answer.  

"Just a bit," she admits, "But I know one place I didn't look."   She hops from the settee and hurries from the room.  You remain staring at the picture until she returns with a large metal box.

"Let me get that for you, Auntie Jean," Danny says, but she holds it away, giving it to you instead.  

"It's Lucien's."  

The box is heavy. You open the lid slowly and are confronted by a charcoal drawing of an unspeakable act being done by a Japanese soldier to a child.  Jean watches you turn the drawings, one after the other.  These are horrible images, but you cannot look away.  Each one must be carefully examined.  When the final one is seen, there's a bundle of letters underneath. You say, "Mike did the drawings.  He didn't want to keep them after the war, but I couldn't see them destroyed.  He thought if he burned them, those memories would go away.  They never go away."

Jean stands. "Why don't you boys go down to the station. Matthew's on shift for the holidays."  She's ordering them out of the house, and they know it. After looking yearningly at the letters, they leave.

When she returns from shutting the door behind them, she says, "Drink your tea."

"I've got to go through these letters."

"Drink your tea," she orders more forcibly.   "I'll organise them."

As you down your tea thirstily, she puts the letters together, yours and Michael's, by postal mark date. 

"Do you want to read them, or shall I?" she asks.

You touch the stack carefully, as one would lift a hot kettle.  "I'll read the ones I wrote. Can you read Michael's?"

She hesitates, then nods.  The first letter is from Michael.  He had reached out to Lucien Blake after years of silence, reminding him that they had been in the same prisoner of war camp but had gone separate ways after returning to Australia. Now he wrote in distress.  

"Sorry to be a bother, mate, but I saw your wedding announcement in the paper and thought I'd drop a line.  How are you getting on?  ...I can't stop the nightmares, haven't slept in days. "  Jean puts down the page and looks expectantly at you.

"I am so very sorry to hear things are getting you low, Mike, and that I hadn't replied sooner. I've been on my honeymoon. If you need to talk, I'm up in Melbourne now and then."

The letters went on in the same tone, Lucien trying to help Mike, until the week before your disappearance. 

Griffith had written: "No matter what I do, I can't keep the dark thoughts away.  I'm just so bloody angry.  Vera does nothing to help, always yapping at me to try harder. I do try, and find myself right back in this hell. How do you keep the wife off your back?"

You look down at the page before you.  "Vera only wants what's best for you. Just as Jean knows the man I can be, so I work every day to be that man. You were a great artist at the darkest time and you can be great again.  I'm coming to Melbourne to follow up on a case next week.  Let's get together, and see if we can get you through this."

Jean taps the empty table.  "That's the last of them. Why didn't you tell me about meeting up with Mike?"  She's the most hurt that you've seen her.

"Our life was going so well.  My troubles were behind us.  If you saw this...afraid that you'd come to fear me as Vera rightly feared Mike."  These are less certain memories of Lucien Blake, more words that just appear on your tongue.  

She starts to protest, but then stops.  Carefully, she says, "I can never know what you feel, but I do want to help."

 Lifting her hand to your lips, you press a kiss to it. 

She turns her hand to cradle your cheek.  She whispers, "Do you remember what happened?  Were you there when he did it?"

You cling to her hand as the room goes dark.  You whimper, "I don't want to go back."

"If you go back to that day, perhaps you can go back to the day before and the day before that, and find yourself," she says urgently.  "And I'll be there.  I'll always be there to catch you when you fall."

You're shaking.  "It's cold. I'm cold."

Her mouth is close to your ear. "Is Mike there?"

"Yes."

"What's happening?"  She pulls you into her arms and holds you with fierce strength.

"I went to their house.  Vera was already dead.  I told Mike we had to go to the police.  He laughed.  Said I would do the same some day. I'd snap."  You're babbling.  "I tried to force him to his car and he knocked me down.  When I got up, he'd run...run to the river....the bridge."

"You tried to stop him."

"Yes."

"But he'd already planned to jump."

"S'pose."  You're so very tired.  Can barely speak. 

"He wanted to take you with him," she breathes, clinging to your heaving back. 

"Did he?"

"You never would have jumped."

"No. But I had to try to stop him.  I had to," you sob.

"Yes, you always need to try."

"Then he was falling...I was falling....we were falling."   

"You survived again.  He fell, but you lived."

You can't even hold your head up.  You accept her embrace, your face in the shelter of the crook of her neck.  "But your Lucien is gone."

"For now."  Her hand makes soothing circles on your back. Minutes pass.  Her hand presses your chest over your heart.  "But this Lucien, perhaps he's come home to stay."

"Perhaps," you choke out.  The photos have been everywhere, people talk about Lucien Blake--his humour, his compassion, his passion--as though he's not the man whose body you live in.  Surely you're not enough for her?  

Gently she disentangles herself and goes to the tree.  She plucks a small gold box from one of the branches.  Sitting beside you again, she cradles the box, seeming nervous. 

"You remembered our wedding?"

"I think so.  Parts."  I feel as dizzy as if dancing. Music playing--

"The Christmas before our wedding, I set the date.  Perhaps we should make that our new tradition."  She turns my hand over and places the box in it.  "Will you marry me again?"   

Opening the box, I see a wedding band inside.  After staring at it for a long moment, I ask, "Jean...you'd marry this man?"

"You have come back to me, don't you see that?"  

I barely nod. The stone as been cleaved, and memories are seeping through. 

Her chin goes up.  "So, then, will you marry me?  On our anniversary?"

March, our anniversary is in March.  "Let's do the ceremony in the sunroom.  I'll get my kiss this time."

She's breathing as though running.  "You haven't answered my question."

I face her, tracing the tears on her cheeks with my thumbs.  "I will, Jean.  I will marry you."

~ End

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXV.B

***

Vergil landed on the wrecked balcony of Fleminger’s mansion, clearly noticing its quite undisturbed state despite the Dreadnought’s massive ambuscade. The sprawling mansion, itself, still stood in one piece. The once majestic ballroom may be reduced to a complete ruin due to the Electric Furies’ attack last Saturday and Nico’s reckless driving last Tuesday but, the rest of the huge building’s parts were still intact.

With the Yamato on his hand, he cautiously entered the dark and silent premises, hoping for Fleminger to show up,…

“My Lord?” A familiar voice uttered from a distance. He squinted his eyes, trying to see through the darkness, when he noticed the Master of the house standing at a safe distance away from the entrance.

“Fleminger?” He called as he went closer, and the moment he did, he was unnerved to see the man looking really pale, like he just lost a lot of blood.

“My Lord!” He exclaimed triumphantly, his hands clasped as if in a prayer. “How wonderful to see you finally succeed!”

“Tell me,” Vergil cut him off. “… the Dreadnought. Why is it still alive? I drove the Yamato through her sister’s body and obtained her power. She should be weakened. I demand an explanation.”

“My Lord,” Fleminger began. “… I’m afraid to say that,… you have not gained everything.”

“And what do you mean by those words?”

“Inside the girl lies,… another. You may have her unmatched strength and her ability to look into the future but, you have yet to gain the most powerful ally.”

At the mere prospect of gaining more power, Vergil’s eyes clearly widened with interest. “And that is?”

Tired eyes red and pale hands rubbing against long, black, satin bishop sleeves, Fleminger spoke to him, “Immortality, my Lord. You have yet to gain her immortality. Acquire this and you shall be able put an end to the Dreadnought, once and for all. Obtain this,…” the man licked his dry lips and smiled at him. “… and you will be the most powerful being in existence. Even greater than Mundus, or Sparda, himself.”

Vergil glanced at the man with scrutinizing eyes, searching for something in Fleminger that could betray him of any kind of deceit. And when he found none, he nodded, then turned away from him.

“Then, I shall obtain it. And put an end to that Demon.”

“Even with obstacles before you?” Fleminger innocently asked just when another visitor arrived at the mansion. Vergil found out that it was none other than his son, Nero, himself.

“He is never an obstacle.” The father stated, regarding his own son with complete apathy. “Just a child who lost his way.”

“YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Nero fumed as blue light radiated from his body, engulfing him and slowly changing him to his Devil form. “V, VERGIL, WHATEVER YOU CALL YOURSELF: FUCK YOU!”

The young Devil Hunter summoned Dante’s sword and charged forward with every intention of beating his father.

But, Vergil had other plans.

With one swift movement, he pulled out what’s left of the black contract markings from his neck, the thick, mysterious ink sticking to his fingers like glue, forcibly summoning both Shadow and Nightmare in the process.

While the golem started mindlessly destroying the place, the demonic feline only looked at Vergil in confusion, asking ‘why?’ without actual words. And this made Nero stop.

“I don’t have time for this.” Vergil told his son. “Play with these nightmares. Kill them, if you must.

"I’m done with them.”

“What are you - ?!”

With those empty words, the cold man simply walked out, changing into the light being once more as he arrived at the balcony, and soared into the skies in pursuit of his final goal. Nero was about to go after him when the abandoned familiars started attacking him.

For a brief moment, Vergil’s eyes scanned the ground below him like an eagle in search of his prey, swiftly descending when he finally spotted the remains of the Dreadnought. He morphed back to his mortal form once his feet touched the ground and made his way towards two distinct figures along the fleshy debris of Shinano Musashi.

That’s when he saw something else,…

… the girl, or what looked like her spirit,…

… who was sitting on the ground just beside her and Dante’s body.

Her head bowed down low, her tears spilling on her lap, her hands on the girl’s limp and bloody hands, she wept for her, her mournful sobs filling the silent place.

And then, Vergil realized,…

“You,…”

The girl looked up, her eyes wide with fear. He knew she wasn’t (Y/N), and yet,…

… the resemblance,…

… was uncanny.

“Vergil,” she uttered, her voice sounding awfully familiar. Like he heard it somewhere before. “… she’s dying. Please, help her. Please!”

And he thought she was already done for! One look at her told him that she’s hopeless with those fatal wounds. No other mortal could survive those.

But, of course, the being was still healing her despite her incorrigible state.

“Why are you still helping her?” He questioned, not caring about (Y/N)’s condition. “She’s dying. There’s nothing you could do to help her.”

The being glanced back at the girl, grasping her hands as tightly as she could as she still tried to heal her. “I,… never lost my faith in her,…” she explained, then looked up once more at him. “… and neither in you, Vergil.”

Her voice,…

The way she uttered his name plucked something in his heart. He knew he had seen her before, heard her voice even. He just couldn’t remember when or how exactly.

“Listen, what you are doing right now is,… futile.” Vergil urged on. “There is no power in this cruel world that could save that weak mortal. Accept her fate and face your one true Master.”

The being closed her eyes, her tears endlessly streaming down, and shook her head in denial.

Vergil sighed. He didn’t want to use the Yamato against her. The being was small and looked weak and fragile, like its resemblance. He knew he could obtain her and her power of immortality. He just needed one last push, or else,…

He pointed at the sky and spoke, “Her sister is wreaking havoc as I speak. If you do not come with me now, the whole world, and humanity, itself, will truly be annihilated, and you would no longer serve any kind of Master.” He prodded on, his patience slowly reaching its limit. “You do not want to make this any more difficult for the both of us.” He exclaimed, then extended a hand towards the being, wanting it to take it. “Come with me. Now.”

The being only looked at him, her facial expression quite difficult to read. “You must understand that, by acquiring my power, not only will you gain immortality, you will also gain the absolute knowledge of my current vessel.”

Absolute knowledge? “I understand.”

“By my sister Andromeda, you became the Protector of The Present. By my sister Cassandra, you gained the Aspect of The Future. By me, the last of the Sisters of Fate, you shall carry the burden of the past. Do you understand?”

Vergil sighed. “Yes.”

The being inhaled, looking like it was actually contemplating its decisions like a normal human being.

Her emotions, her gestures,…

… those eyes,…

In fact, she really was like a normal human girl,…

“Do you, Vergil Sparda, accept all of these conditions?”

“I do.” He gave his unwavering answer.

“Then,” she answered, finally taking Vergil’s hand. “… reunite, we shall, Master Vergil. I pray you do not regret,… your decision.”

The moment their hands made contact, the last of the Sisters of Fate vanished, her body turning into little orbs. These orbs then went directly to Vergil’s skin, merging with him, becoming one with him,…

“V,…”

When he finally succeeded in absorbing the last being, he heard a familiar female voice. His sight was abruptly stolen from him, making him drop the Yamato on the ground. His consciousness was swiftly brought to a place he didn’t know existed. He felt he was floating, hovering for a long time, and when he finally gained his sight back, he saw,…

… her memories.

(Y/N)’s memories.

All of it.

And they came crashing down in huge flashes before him,…

“I love you, Mama! I love you, Papa!”

“STOP HURTING PAPA!”

“NO! DON’T TAKE THEM AWAY! DON’T LEAVE US!”

“I’m here, (S/N). I will never leave you,…”

“What did you do to my sister?!”

“I’m sorry,…”

“Who are you?!”

“ALL OF YOU, DIE!”

“Where am I?!”

“I was not perfect. And I failed to protect her because of it.”

“There is,… someone,… in my visions. A man - with white hair. He plays the violin,…”

“I must fulfill the wish!”

“Nico, make this for me!”

“I was looking for someone,…”

“I said,… STAY!”

“Nico, it’s him! The man in my visions! The one with the markings on his skin!”

“I will protect you, V.”

“Do you know Titanic, V?”

“I think you should go see the world for yourself,…”

“I want to know what’s bothering you,…”

“V!”

“V?”

“V, please,…”

“I love you, V,…”

Vergil closed his eyes and covered his ears to shut the flood of memories away. He screamed, begging for the visions to stop plaguing him.

Then, everything went silent, as simple as that. He could no longer hear her voice, nor see her memories. It was as if the voices and the memories got sucked into oblivion, never to be seen again. The whole world was plunged into total darkness.

And then, he heard it. Another voice but, it sounded different. It did not feel chaotic. It was calm.

“I’ve waited a hundred years. I’d wait,… a million more for you,…”

A male voice sang gently just when a little orb of light appeared from a distance. Vergil took a step forward, longing to reach its warmth and protection,…

“Nothing prepared me for,… what the priviledge of being yours would do,…”

Vergil was transported to a big empty studio where a man was sitting in front of a piano, singing those soothing words.

And then, he saw her right on the corner. It was (Y/N). And she looked just the same, long (H/C) hair tied in a ponytail, graceful movements, perfect posture,…

She looked very much alive and vibrant.

“That beautiful song,… what is it about?” She asked the man on the piano, her curiosity endearing, her voice achingly lovely.

“It’s about a man who regrets the loss of a loved one and the woman who loves him the most. The love of his life. Whom he could no longer be with.” He answered, playing some notes, then sang once more. “If I have only felt the warmth,… within your touch,…”

“Could you,…” she began, positioning herself in the middle of the empty room. “… start from the beginning?”

The man smiled as his hands gently glided on the keys once more.

And just as he began playing, Vergil heard a thunderclap. He turned to look at the windows and realized it was raining outside. He, then, glanced back at the middle of the room, and saw,…

… his former fragile self sitting on the floor with his first demonic familiar, Griffon, just behind him, watching (Y/N) as she began dancing to the man’s song.

He could still remember this exact moment on that abandoned studio that one rainy day. All he could hear by then was the sound of the rain, the thunder, and her light steps.

But, now, it was as if the two memories, his and hers, overlapped and merged into one sad vision, finally enabling him to hear the song she danced to and see once more how graceful and delicate she was.

With the sweet music, the sound of the rain and the thunder vanished. He listened as the man began playing and watched as the girl began dancing.

“I’ve waited a hundred years.

I’d wait a million more,… for you.

Nothing prepared me for,

What the priviledge of being yours,… would do.

If I had only felt,… the warmth within your touch.

If I had only seen,… how you smile,… when you blush.

Or how you curl your lip,… when you concentrate enough,

Oh, I would’ve known,… what I’ve been living for,… all along.

What I’ve been living,… for.”

The music gradually went louder as the girl began twirling, her raw movements in time with the music.

“Your love is my turning page,

Where only the sweetest words,... remain.

Every kiss is a cursive line,

Every touch is a redefining phrase.

I surrender who I've been,... for who you are.

For nothing makes me stronger than,

... your fragile heart.

If I had only felt how it feels,... to be yours,

Oh, I would've known,... what I've been living for,...

... all along,..."

He felt his tears fall down just as the former him began weeping with her movements alone.

He never actually felt,... how it feels to be hers,...

And now, he not only left her, he hurt her, as well,...

... for such a stupid thing as absolute power.

He chose power,... over her.

Over the woman,...

... he now knew he truly loved.

And not because she had the ability to lure Demons like what Fleminger told him, no.

It was because of who and everything she was.

"What I've been living for."

“Ah! I’m so sorry! I would never do this again! I - ”

Vergil snapped from his reverie as he saw his former self hugging her tightly, not wanting to let her go.

"Hey, it's okay." She reassured him. "I'll never leave you. I promise,... "

All of a sudden, the sweet memory abruptly changed to that of the times when he neglected her, rejected her, and that moment when he,...

"I love you, V."

"I choose,... POWER!"

But, still, the song remained,...

"Though we're tethered,

To the story we would tell.

When I saw you,

Oh, I knew we'd tell it well,...

With a whisper,... we will tame the vicious seas.

Like a feather,

Bringing kingdoms to,... their knees,..."

“What matters is that you still have precious people around you, my Lady. You must focus on not losing them, as well.”

"THE PAST WILL WEEP, THE PRESENT WILL KNEEL, AND THE FUTURE WILL DIE!"

Vergil opened his eyes, feeling his tears on his face as he stared at her lifeless body on the ground. And when the thoughts of those painful visions went back to him,...

... he fell on his knees,...

... right before the woman he loved above all else.

And on that heart - wrenching moment, he suddenly felt his own sword drive through him, its tip sticking out of his stomach, dripping with his own blood.

And with that swift, decisive moment, the Sisters of Fate left his body and went directly to whoever stabbed him.

Just like that, they were stolen away from him.

He changed back to his former fragile self, crumbling, wheezing,...

... dying,...

Vergil,... was no more.

He felt the Yamato being pulled away from him as he coughed blood. He fell on the ground just beside (Y/N) and glanced up to find Fleminger with the Yamato.

"There was,... one vital part you didn't know about the story of the Dreadnought, my Lord." The Master, the true enemy and traitor, began, theatrically swinging the Yamato like a cane.

"F - flemin - g - ger,..." V wheezed, his blood staining the ground beneath him, his rage for the man, who was the cause of all this madness, overtaking his whole being.

"There has never been a Dreadnought, or a Shinano Musashi, to begin with. They were only made up. But,... there was a girl named (S/N) (L/N). She was the most perfect girl in all of existence, and my ancestors chose her to be the vessel of Pandemonium, a Demon whose powers rival that of Mundus'. Even greater.

"And Pandemonium did choose her eventually. My ancestors were about to achieve immortality through her when her sister, by the name of (Y/N) (L/N), happened to massacre almost all of them in rage, including the orphans they were raising. Apparently, she was chosen by three equally powerful beings - the Sisters Of Fate, Cassandra, Andromeda, and Galatea - to fulfill another mission. And that mission is to locate you, protect you, and reunite the Sisters back to Sparda's family."

Flemiger walked around V, who was squirming in pain and cowering with fear.

"It seems she succeeded on that mission of hers. You obtained power through her, and I took it from you. I fulfilled my revenge on (Y/N) for murdering my ancestors, thanks to you, my Lord. And for that, I will forever be grateful." The fiend expressed his sincere gratitude towards V. "Oh, and letting Pandemonium, who will only answer to me, destroy everything she wanted was only a collateral."

Fleminger sheathed the Yamato and went to the opposite direction. But, before he left, he turned back to V and smiled at him. He even threw a piece of a familiar leather fabric at him. And in complete horror, he realized whose it was.

It belonged to him,...

Nero,... V thought, his hopes shattering. My,... son,...

"Oh, and have I told you that Galatea, who was the Bearer of The Past, kept (Y/N)'s body safe and in stasis for a hundred years just for you? After all, she was the one who searched through different timelines for the perfect vessel. I did say that the tragedy of Fortuna happened a hundred years ago, am I right, my Lord?" He raised the Yamato at him like a salute of some sort then bowed. "Farewell, son of Sparda."

And with those final words, Fleminger left him.

V felt the whole world around him fall apart as the Dreadnought - (S/N) - started firing her destructive lasers once more.

And who could blame her? After seeing her beloved sister suffer at the hands of the man she loved, could she still think of anyone worthy of redemption?

***

~ I dedicate this chapter to @la-vita for helping me with this fic through XXV.A's German dialogue and her helpful tips for making V IC. Thank you so much. 🖤

~@vergils-daughter , @heaven-on-a-landslide , @micaelagua , @yepps , @sofia-micaela , @lessy86 , @beyond-the-mirror , @gxthghoulfriend , @ehrzeth , @ceruleanworld , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , @diabeticsugarush , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

His hand went to the fatal wound on his stomach. The pain was actually going away as he slowly felt numbness taking over his whole body. Well, he was truly dying now.

And he will die just like that - alone, weak,...

... pathetic,...

And he knew he deserved it.

He crawled towards (Y/N) and reached for her cold hands. He, then, made an effort to pull her towards him for one last embrace.

It was then that he remembered their conversation inside the abandoned studio just after her dance.

"Can you quote something from Shakespeare?" He fondly remembered her asking him with a shy and awkward smile. "After all, Griffon always calls you Shakespeare,..."

"Oh, here will I set up,... my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of,... inauspicious stars from this,... world - wearied,... flesh!"

V quoted, then coughed blood once more. He wrapped (Y/N) in his embrace, not wanting to let her go in this final moment.

"... eyes look,... your last. Arms, take your last embrace. And lips,... oh you the doors of,... breath,... seal with a righteous kiss,... a dateless,... bargain,... to engrossing death,..."

He gently kissed her forehead and took a deep breath, feeling the whole world around him vanish with complete darkness as his eyesight became blurry.

"... if only,... I could go back,... and change,... everything,..."

He whispered, regrets drowning him as his eyelids closed,...

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"Master, open your eyes!"

"G - gala - t - tea?"

***

🖤🖤🖤

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~ 12 ~

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❤ I See My Future Before Me ❤

***

XXV.B

***

Vergil landed on the wrecked balcony of Fleminger’s mansion, clearly noticing its quite undisturbed state despite the Dreadnought’s massive ambuscade. The sprawling mansion, itself, still stood in one piece. The once majestic ballroom may be reduced to a complete ruin due to the Electric Furies’ attack last Saturday and Nico’s reckless driving last Tuesday but, the rest of the huge building’s parts were still intact.

With the Yamato on his hand, he cautiously entered the dark and silent premises, hoping for Fleminger to show up,…

“My Lord?” A familiar voice uttered from a distance. He squinted his eyes, trying to see through the darkness, when he noticed the Master of the house standing at a safe distance away from the entrance.

“Fleminger?” He called as he went closer, and the moment he did, he was unnerved to see the man looking really pale, like he just lost a lot of blood.

“My Lord!” He exclaimed triumphantly, his hands clasped as if in a prayer. “How wonderful to see you finally succeed!”

“Tell me,” Vergil cut him off. “… the Dreadnought. Why is it still alive? I drove the Yamato through her sister’s body and obtained her power. She should be weakened. I demand an explanation.”

“My Lord,” Fleminger began. “… I’m afraid to say that,… you have not gained everything.”

“And what do you mean by those words?”

“Inside the girl lies,… another. You may have her unmatched strength and her ability to look into the future but, you have yet to gain the most powerful ally.”

At the mere prospect of gaining more power, Vergil’s eyes clearly widened with interest. “And that is?”

Tired eyes red and pale hands rubbing against long, black, satin bishop sleeves, Fleminger spoke to him, “Immortality, my Lord. You have yet to gain her immortality. Acquire this and you shall be able put an end to the Dreadnought, once and for all. Obtain this,…” the man licked his dry lips and smiled at him. “… and you will be the most powerful being in existence. Even greater than Mundus, or Sparda, himself.”

Vergil glanced at the man with scrutinizing eyes, searching for something in Fleminger that could betray him of any kind of deceit. And when he found none, he nodded, then turned away from him.

“Then, I shall obtain it. And put an end to that Demon.”

“Even with obstacles before you?” Fleminger innocently asked just when another visitor arrived at the mansion. Vergil found out that it was none other than his son, Nero, himself.

“He is never an obstacle.” The father stated, regarding his own son with complete apathy. “Just a child who lost his way.”

“YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Nero fumed as blue light radiated from his body, engulfing him and slowly changing him to his Devil form. “V, VERGIL, WHATEVER YOU CALL YOURSELF: FUCK YOU!”

The young Devil Hunter summoned Dante’s sword and charged forward with every intention of beating his father.

But, Vergil had other plans.

With one swift movement, he pulled out what’s left of the black contract markings from his neck, the thick, mysterious ink sticking to his fingers like glue, forcibly summoning both Shadow and Nightmare in the process.

While the golem started mindlessly destroying the place, the demonic feline only looked at Vergil in confusion, asking ‘why?’ without actual words. And this made Nero stop.

“I don’t have time for this.” Vergil told his son. “Play with these nightmares. Kill them, if you must.

“I’m done with them.”

“What are you - ?!”

With those empty words, the cold man simply walked out, changing into the light being once more as he arrived at the balcony, and soared into the skies in pursuit of his final goal. Nero was about to go after him when the abandoned familiars started attacking him.

For a brief moment, Vergil’s eyes scanned the ground below him like an eagle in search of his prey, swiftly descending when he finally spotted the remains of the Dreadnought. He morphed back to his mortal form once his feet touched the ground and made his way towards two distinct figures along the fleshy debris of Shinano Musashi.

That’s when he saw something else,…

… the girl, or what looked like her spirit,…

… who was sitting on the ground just beside her and Dante’s body.

Her head bowed down low, her tears spilling on her lap, her hands on the girl’s limp and bloody hands, she wept for her, her mournful sobs filling the silent place.

And then, Vergil realized,…

“You,…”

The girl looked up, her eyes wide with fear. He knew she wasn’t (Y/N), and yet,…

… the resemblance,…

… was uncanny.

“Vergil,” she uttered, her voice sounding awfully familiar. Like he heard it somewhere before. “… she’s dying. Please, help her. Please!”

And he thought she was already done for! One look at her told him that she’s hopeless with those fatal wounds. No other mortal could survive those.

But, of course, the being was still healing her despite her incorrigible state.

“Why are you still helping her?” He questioned, not caring about (Y/N)’s condition. “She’s dying. There’s nothing you could do to help her.”

The being glanced back at the girl, grasping her hands as tightly as she could as she still tried to heal her. “I,… never lost my faith in her,…” she explained, then looked up once more at him. “… and neither in you, Vergil.”

Her voice,…

The way she uttered his name plucked something in his heart. He knew he had seen her before, heard her voice even. He just couldn’t remember when or how exactly.

“Listen, what you are doing right now is,… futile.” Vergil urged on. “There is no power in this cruel world that could save that weak mortal. Accept her fate and face your one true Master.”

The being closed her eyes, her tears endlessly streaming down, and shook her head in denial.

Vergil sighed. He didn’t want to use the Yamato against her. The being was small and looked weak and fragile, like its resemblance. He knew he could obtain her and her power of immortality. He just needed one last push, or else,…

He pointed at the sky and spoke, “Her sister is wreaking havoc as I speak. If you do not come with me now, the whole world, and humanity, itself, will truly be annihilated, and you would no longer serve any kind of Master.” He prodded on, his patience slowly reaching its limit. “You do not want to make this any more difficult for the both of us.” He exclaimed, then extended a hand towards the being, wanting it to take it. “Come with me. Now.”

The being only looked at him, her facial expression quite difficult to read. “You must understand that, by acquiring my power, not only will you gain immortality, you will also gain the absolute knowledge of my current vessel.”

Absolute knowledge? “I understand.”

“By my sister Andromeda, you became the Protector of The Present. By my sister Cassandra, you gained the Aspect of The Future. By me, the last of the Sisters of Fate, you shall carry the burden of the past. Do you understand?”

Vergil sighed. “Yes.”

The being inhaled, looking like it was actually contemplating its decisions like a normal human being.

Her emotions, her gestures,…

… those eyes,…

In fact, she really was like a normal human girl,…

“Do you, Vergil Sparda, accept all of these conditions?”

“I do.” He gave his unwavering answer.

“Then,” she answered, finally taking Vergil’s hand. “… reunite, we shall, Master Vergil. I pray you do not regret,… your decision.”

The moment their hands made contact, the last of the Sisters of Fate vanished, her body turning into little orbs. These orbs then went directly to Vergil’s skin, merging with him, becoming one with him,…

“V,…”

When he finally succeeded in absorbing the last being, he heard a familiar female voice. His sight was abruptly stolen from him, making him drop the Yamato on the ground. His consciousness was swiftly brought to a place he didn’t know existed. He felt he was floating, hovering for a long time, and when he finally gained his sight back, he saw,…

… her memories.

(Y/N)’s memories.

All of it.

And they came crashing down in huge flashes before him,…

“I love you, Mama! I love you, Papa!”

“STOP HURTING PAPA!”

“NO! DON’T TAKE THEM AWAY! DON’T LEAVE US!”

“I’m here, (S/N). I will never leave you,…”

“What did you do to my sister?!”

“I’m sorry,…”

“Who are you?!”

“ALL OF YOU, DIE!”

“Where am I?!”

“I was not perfect. And I failed to protect her because of it.”

“There is,… someone,… in my visions. A man - with white hair. He plays the violin,…”

“I must fulfill the wish!”

“Nico, make this for me!”

“I was looking for someone,…”

“I said,… STAY!”

“Nico, it’s him! The man in my visions! The one with the markings on his skin!”

“I will protect you, V.”

“Do you know Titanic, V?”

“I think you should go see the world for yourself,…”

“I want to know what’s bothering you,…”

“V!”

“V?”

“V, please,…”

“I love you, V,…”

Vergil closed his eyes and covered his ears to shut the flood of memories away. He screamed, begging for the visions to stop plaguing him.

Then, everything went silent, as simple as that. He could no longer hear her voice, nor see her memories. It was as if the voices and the memories got sucked into oblivion, never to be seen again. The whole world was plunged into total darkness.

And then, he heard it. Another voice but, it sounded different. It did not feel chaotic. It was calm.

“I’ve waited a hundred years. I’d wait,… a million more for you,…”

A male voice sang gently just when a little orb of light appeared from a distance. Vergil took a step forward, longing to reach its warmth and protection,…

“Nothing prepared me for,… what the privilege of being yours would do,…”

Vergil was transported to a big empty studio where a man was sitting in front of a piano, singing those soothing words.

And then, he saw her right on the corner. It was (Y/N). And she looked just the same, long (H/C) hair tied in a ponytail, graceful movements, perfect posture,…

She looked very much alive and vibrant.

“That beautiful song,… what is it about?” She asked the man on the piano, her curiosity endearing, her voice achingly lovely.

“It’s about a man who regrets the loss of a loved one and the woman who loves him the most. The love of his life. Whom he could no longer be with.” He answered, playing some notes, then sang once more. “If I have only felt the warmth,… within your touch,…”

“Could you,…” she began, positioning herself in the middle of the empty room. “… start from the beginning?”

The man smiled as his hands gently glided on the keys once more.

And just as he began playing, Vergil heard a thunderclap. He turned to look at the windows and realized it was raining outside. He, then, glanced back at the middle of the room, and saw,…

… his former fragile self sitting on the floor with his first demonic familiar, Griffon, just behind him, watching (Y/N) as she began dancing to the man’s song.

He could still remember this exact moment on that abandoned studio that one rainy day. All he could hear by then was the sound of the rain, the thunder, and her light steps.

But, now, it was as if the two memories, his and hers, overlapped and merged into one sad vision, finally enabling him to hear the song she danced to and see once more how graceful and delicate she was.

With the sweet music, the sound of the rain and the thunder vanished. He listened as the man began playing and watched as the girl began dancing.

“I’ve waited a hundred years.

I’d wait a million more,… for you.

Nothing prepared me for,

What the privilege of being yours,… would do.

If I had only felt,… the warmth within your touch.

If I had only seen,… how you smile,… when you blush.

Or how you curl your lip,… when you concentrate enough,

Oh, I would’ve known,… what I’ve been living for,… all along.

What I’ve been living,… for.”

The music gradually went louder as the girl began twirling, her raw movements in time with the music.

“Your love is my turning page,

Where only the sweetest words,… remain.

Every kiss is a cursive line,

Every touch is a redefining phrase.

I surrender who I’ve been,… for who you are.

For nothing makes me stronger than,

… your fragile heart.

If I had only felt how it feels,… to be yours,

Oh, I would’ve known,… what I’ve been living for,…

… all along,…”

He felt his tears fall down just as the former him began weeping with her movements alone.

He never actually felt,… how it feels to be hers,…

And now, he not only left her, he hurt her, as well,…

… for such a stupid thing as absolute power.

He chose power,… over her.

Over the woman,…

… he now knew he truly loved.

And not because she had the ability to lure Demons like what Fleminger told him, no.

It was because of who and everything she was.

“What I’ve been living for.”

“Ah! I’m so sorry! I would never do this again! I - ”

Vergil snapped from his reverie as he saw his former self hugging her tightly, not wanting to let her go.

“Hey, it’s okay.” She reassured him. “I’ll never leave you. I promise,… ”

All of a sudden, the sweet memory abruptly changed to that of the times when he neglected her, rejected her, and that moment when he,…

“I love you, V.”

“I choose,… POWER!”

But, still, the song remained,…

“Though we’re tethered,

To the story we would tell.

When I saw you,

Oh, I knew we’d tell it well,…

With a whisper,… we will tame the vicious seas.

Like a feather,

Bringing kingdoms to,… their knees,…”

“What matters is that you still have precious people around you, my Lady. You must focus on not losing them, as well.”

“THE PAST WILL WEEP, THE PRESENT WILL KNEEL, AND THE FUTURE WILL DIE!”

Vergil opened his eyes, feeling his tears on his face as he stared at her lifeless body on the ground. And when the thoughts of those painful visions went back to him,…

… he fell on his knees,…

… right before the woman he loved above all else.

And on that heart - wrenching moment, he suddenly felt his own sword drive through him, its tip sticking out of his stomach, dripping with his own blood.

And with that swift, decisive moment, the Sisters of Fate left his body and went directly to whoever stabbed him.

Just like that, they were stolen away from him.

He changed back to his former fragile self, crumbling, wheezing,…

… dying,…

Vergil,… was no more.

He felt the Yamato being pulled away from him as he coughed blood. He fell on the ground just beside (Y/N) and glanced up to find Fleminger with the Yamato.

“There was,… one vital part you didn’t know about the story of the Dreadnought, my Lord.” The Master, the true enemy and traitor, began, theatrically swinging the Yamato like a cane.

“F - flemin - g - ger,…” V wheezed, his blood staining the ground beneath him, his rage for the man, who was the cause of all this madness, overtaking his whole being.

“There has never been a Dreadnought, or a Shinano Musashi, to begin with. They were only made up. But,… there was a girl named (S/N) (L/N). She was the most perfect girl in all of existence, and my ancestors chose her to be the vessel of Pandemonium, a Demon whose powers rival that of Mundus’. Even greater.

"And Pandemonium did choose her eventually. My ancestors were about to achieve immortality through her when her sister, by the name of (Y/N) (L/N), happened to massacre almost all of them in rage, including the orphans they were raising. Apparently, she was chosen by three equally powerful beings - the Sisters Of Fate, Cassandra, Andromeda, and Galatea - to fulfill another mission. And that mission is to locate you, protect you, and reunite the Sisters back to Sparda’s family.”

Flemiger walked around V, who was squirming in pain and cowering with fear.

“It seems she succeeded on that mission of hers. You obtained power through her, and I took it from you. I fulfilled my revenge on (Y/N) for murdering my ancestors, thanks to you, my Lord. And for that, I will forever be grateful.” The fiend expressed his sincere gratitude towards V. “Oh, and letting Pandemonium, who will only answer to me, destroy everything she wanted was only a collateral.”

Fleminger sheathed the Yamato and went to the opposite direction. But, before he left, he turned back to V and smiled at him. He even threw a piece of a familiar leather fabric at him. And in complete horror, he realized whose it was.

It belonged to him,…

Nero,… V thought, his hopes shattering. My,… son,…

“Oh, and have I told you that Galatea, who was the Bearer of The Past, kept (Y/N)’s body safe and in stasis for a hundred years just for you? After all, she was the one who searched through different timelines for the perfect vessel. I did say that the tragedy of Fortuna happened a hundred years ago, am I right, my Lord?” He raised the Yamato at him like a salute of some sort then bowed. “Farewell, son of Sparda.”

And with those final words, Fleminger left him.

V felt the whole world around him fall apart as the Dreadnought - (S/N) - started firing her destructive lasers once more.

And who could blame her? After seeing her beloved sister suffer at the hands of the man she loved, could she still think of anyone worthy of redemption?

***

His hand went to the fatal wound on his stomach. The pain was actually going away as he slowly felt numbness taking over his whole body. Well, he was truly dying now.

And he will die just like that - alone, weak,…

… pathetic,…

And he knew he deserved it.

He crawled towards (Y/N) and reached for her cold hands. He, then, made an effort to pull her towards him for one last embrace.

It was then that he remembered their conversation inside the abandoned studio just after her dance.

“Can you quote something from Shakespeare?” He fondly remembered her asking him with a shy and awkward smile. “After all, Griffon always calls you Shakespeare,…”

“Oh, here will I set up,… my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of,… inauspicious stars from this,… world - wearied,… flesh!”

V quoted, then coughed blood once more. He wrapped (Y/N) in his embrace, not wanting to let her go in this final moment.

“… eyes look,… your last. Arms, take your last embrace. And lips,… oh you the doors of,… breath,… seal with a righteous kiss,… a dateless,… bargain,… to engrossing death,…”

He gently kissed her forehead and took a deep breath, feeling the whole world around him vanish with complete darkness as his eyesight became blurry.

“… if only,… I could go back,… and change,… everything,…”

He whispered, regrets drowning him as his eyelids closed,…

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“Master, open your eyes!”

“G - gala - t - tea?”

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❤❤❤

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Mashrou’ Leila Concert

By Annika Schafer

On one of the first crisp fall mornings of my time at Wellesley, I escaped from the chill into my 8:30 introductory Arabic class.  My professor handed me a sheet bursting with Arabic text—what looks like a poem. But it’s not a poem, it turns out to be a song.

The music video opens on a man in a car wearing a black graphic tee with an outline of a tuxedo on it.  The vocals begin immediately, a rousing, lilting rhythm punctuated by a clear, charged quality to lead singer, Hamed Sinno’s voice. As the camera view zooms out, Mashrou’ Leila’s distinctive violinist, Haig Papazian begins to play and we see that the car isn’t actually moving at all but is on the bed of a tow truck. The drums kick in, and the truck drives away, the car riding off screen along with it.

There are almost boundless layers of symbolism to the video—the façade of masculinity on the ‘tuxedo’ tee, the semblance of control when he’s driving the car,  and so many other things past the first shot in the video.

And when I saw it in that Arabic class, that was the extent of  the nuance and meaning that I could access. However, their sound and their socially revolutionary message transcends language barriers and drew me to them. In just the few months from October to the end of the calendar year, Mashrou’ Leila had become my #1 played artist on Spotify.

I was a fast fan, and as I picked up more Arabic, I was able to appreciate bits and pieces of the content of the songs’ lyrics more and more; I watched their Tiny Desk performance (link), watched and read interviews, and gained some context.

The band was born in 2008 in Beirut, Lebanon, formed by five young Beiruti college students dissatisfied by the status quo and uninterested in indulging societal expectations. Mashrou’ Leila is a name of dual meanings; one possible translation--Project of the Night--reflects the time at which music is often created and enjoyed. Another possible translation--Leila’s Project--plays on the very popular Arabic name, Leila. Their lyrics speak to everything from police brutality, corrupt politics, and gay night club shootings to the innate gendering of the Arabic language, gender constructions, and sexual freedom to getting really drunk at a club. The band orients themselves towards speaking truth to power, and this—as well as lead singer Sinno being openly gay—has made them the target of attacks, condemnation, bans, and threats. Their concerts often leave protests in their wake, and after a concert of theirs in Jordan was cancelled by the Jordanian government, they were informed that they were not going to be allowed to play in the country again due to their “political and religious beliefs and endorsement of gender equality and sexual freedom” (link). In 2010, several audience members attending Mashrou’ Leila’s concert in Cairo, Egypt were arrested for flying rainbow flags (link). The band has been unflinching in the face of such attacks, stating in the wake of being banned in Jordan that:

We denounce the systemic prosecution of voices of political dissent.

We denounce the systemic prosecution of advocates of sexual and religious freedom.

We denounce the censorship of artists anywhere in the world. (link)

Mashrou’ Leila is the voice of a generation’s revolution—a catalyst of change. Their September 30 concert in Boston was exactly as poignant, rousing, and stunning as you would envisage.

The music of Mashrou’ Leila departs from classical Arab motifs in many ways--I can’t identify any maqams or microtones--but Sinno’s vocalic style assumes the precision and style and artistry of some of the foundational Arab lyricists and vocalists that came before him.

The strength in his voice, the way he extends the pronunciation of certain words, and the way he deftly undulates his pitch are unparalleled in Western music.

I’ve listened to the recorded versions so many times that the sum of musical choices that make up the songs no longer feel ephemeral and human and subjective, but infinite and immutable. However, hearing the songs live, five feet from the humans creating them, gave me the space from the versions I know so well to enjoy the fundamental humanity in this music. 

The filler music in the venue dies down, and Hamed Sinno’s charged, powerful voice fills up the room. The lights go red, and violinist Haig Papazian widens his stance and raises his bow—ready to accentuate the melody as the drums drop in. The crowd is in it. We are in it. It is an Arab space. A queer space. Filled with love, filled with light, and filling everyone in that space with light and love as well. They open with a song that they haven’t released yet. Without an introduction, and without a translation, I don’t have a real sense of what the content of the song is, but you don’t have to know a word of Arabic to fall into Sinno’s enigmatically textured vocals, Firas Abou Fakher’s richly-layered instrumentals, the imploring sound of Papazaian’s violin, and the meditative beat of Carl Gerges’ drums. 

Sinno introduces each song in between pouring himself more hot tea from the kettle that is set up on stage in front of the microphone. 

The first song of the set that was off of a released album was Roman, and everything slowed down. Nothing but a light synth backed up Sinno’s strong and emphatic vocals as they filled up the room. Sinno took his time here, enunciating every syllable, lingering on each note, using the space that this stripped-down version affords him to play with the notes, riffing and drawing them out. Sinno’s voice carries the song as the drums build, and right when the build peaks, Haig’s violin drives the chorus. The next song they played was Kalaam (S/he) off of their 2017 album Ibn El Leil (trans. Child of the Night), which comments on the way that the Arabic language necessarily genders all nouns. Some of the lyrics go: “They wrote the country's borders upon my body, upon your body / In flesh-ligatured word / My word upon your word, as my body upon your body / Flesh-conjugated words.” The treatment of this song was authentic and anthemic, opening space for all to participate.

They continued playing songs off of Ibn El Leil and their 2019 album The Beirut School: Asnam (Idols), Radio Romance, Aeode, and Bint Elkhandaq. Then, they played Djin. This was my first favorite song of theirs. It is a veritable bop. Inspired by Joseph Campbell’s work on analyzing archetypes across mythologies, the song takes from the Arabic mythical Djinn as well as elements of Christian mythology, but it’s also “just about getting really messed up at a bar” (link), playing off of the alcoholic “gin”. This is the song that the entire audience knows the words to. We all sing together. Sinno tells us at the beginning to sing the refrain when the lyrics show up on the screen; “if you can’t read Arabic, learn Arabic. Or just look around, find an Arab, and copy them.” Most people already know the song though. We yell out the lyrics and Sinno draws energy from the crowd, breaking from our pace to play with the melody with flair and mastery.

After one last song, Cavalry, they exit the stage. We cheer and a chant breaks out that I can’t identify. For the encore, Sinno sits down on elevated part of the stage. We hear the opening bars of Fasateen, and the crowd is silenced. It is fitting for me, I think, that this concert ends with the first Mashrou’ Leila song that I ever heard. 

I have since listened to the album enough that I know all the lyrics even if I don’t understand them all, and we are all singing along with Sinno as we dance.

Weekly Spotlight #3

Alrighty!! Onto week 3 of the Weekly Spotlight!

In honor school starting up for many individuals all around the U.S. in the next week or two, I’m going to be discussing the TV show--- Drum roll, please!

*a very vibrant drum roll*

Class of 3000!

When I first decided to do a Weekly Spotlight on this show, the only thing I could really remember about this show was part of its theme song. Not the intro itself, but its theme song. To be completely honest, I often find myself humming it or playing it over in my head when I’m doing tasks that don’t require a whole lot of thinking. I also remember an old flash game that Cartoon Network used to have on their website but... that’s not really conducive to this Spotlight.

I have the distinct feeling that when you hear the theme song, a lot of you will start to remember it too. Warning! This theme song is will get stuck in your head if you’re not careful. You have been warned: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSpEd7XI1Fg

To give a little bit of background into this series, this show was produced in a joint venture between the Tom Lynch Company, Andre 3000, and Cartoon Network. Some of you may know Andre 3000 (a.k.a. André Benjamin) as a famous rapper, part of a duo known as Outkast. For those of you who don’t know who this individual is (like me,) Andre 3000 is the musical genius behind the famous hit, “Hey ya!” and worked with other famous individuals in the hip hop genre such as Drake, Jay-Z, B.o.B., Lil’ Wayne, Wiz Khalifa, and many others. To say that Andre 3000 is talented would be an understatement. Of course, going into this, I was a bit skeptical since a lot of series based on famous personalities not only tend to age extremely poorly, but also because the entire foundation for the series itself ends up being built on very shaky ground in the first place.

That being said, rewatching a couple episodes of this series, I ended being shocked at how charming and unique this series was. I actually could believe how much of this show I had ended up forgetting and instantly started to wonder whether or not I realized how good it was when it was still airing.

So! The premise: Sunny Bridges is a famous musician that has many individuals that look up to him as an idol, including a local Atlanta, Georgia boy named Lil’ D. However, having spent so long in the music industry with its main goal to make more money, Sunny has lost his love of music and decides to quit the music business. Lil’ D, having lost both his idol and his school music teacher in the same day, is completely heartbroken along with the rest of his other musical classmates. Desperate to find a new music teacher, the class band together to help raise money for a new hire. After a series of quirky events and shenanigans, Sunny becomes aware of their plight and decides to become their new music teacher. And that’s the basic situation that sets up for the rest of series. The show then follows the wacky situations and crazy solutions that Sunny and the rest of the music class come up with in order to solve their outlandish problems.

And honestly? This show was fantastic. For a show that premiered over ten years ago, I’m completely shocked by not only how relevant the show continues to be, but also how well all of it has aged!

I think one of the things that works in its favor is the strangely unique character designs. Sure, they have the iconic noodley arms, lack of ten fingers, and very exaggerated defining features. But all of it is done in such a way that leaves an imprint on your mind that these characters are their own thing. It’s their own style and their own personalities that even simple “archetypes” fail to do justice to their own individuality. And I absolutely loved it.

One of the things about this series is that it prioritizes fun over everything else. And when I say that, I absolutely mean it. Everything about this series absolutely screams experimentation: from the hand-painted, messy, watercolored backgrounds, to the bizarre, psychedelic, music sequences, you can tell that the creators of this tv show just when hog-wild with it and simply had fun. The jokes are corny, yet surprisingly real. The situations are over-the-top and ridiculous. The dialogue is quick-witted and snappy. I even caught some insane subtle 80′s pop-culture references, such as references to Jumpman (the original Super Mario game) and Flashdance, complete with their own water scene and references to Michael Sembello’s hit song “Maniac.” And the craziest part about all of this? I had fun too.

Did all of it age great? Certainly not. The music sequences constantly made me question: Am I high? Did someone slip something into my drink? 

(Yes. This all came from the same exact show. No, I am not joking.)

Some of the music absolutely screamed early 2000′s. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZhXkq9kTNk&index=5&list=PLBB2FE6AE00856C63

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kn_EGLtOVGU&index=6&list=PLBB2FE6AE00856C63

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XBRMpvW_mQ&list=PLBB2FE6AE00856C63&index=11

At times, some of the jokes and the writing felt predicable. But honestly, when you put “fun” first and foremost in this series, those flaws don’t seem as completely egregious as your first impression lets you believe.

The music, overall, was extremely catchy. The comedic timing was spot on. Even the situations, although blown completely out of proportion, felt so realistic that I was reminded of my own headaches and frustrations living through music class in high school. Honestly, this series was just fun, interesting, and a great breath of fresh air after watching so many cartoons that use the same episodic formula with no love in what they do. 

So from a musical standpoint, how does it fair? Is it actually, you know, accurate?

The thing about this series is that it didn’t focus on musical lessons per say. Yes, they did have lessons that hearken back to my high school days in the band room with my director standing at the podium, waving his baton like there was no tomorrow. But really, these lessons were more life lessons wrapped up in musical clothing. The pilot opens up with the idea that you shouldn’t forget where you came from; you may want to leave this place behind and throw away all the things that you considered “boring” and “uneventful” but when you get out into the real world, you start to appreciate all the things that made you who you are now. And that lesson? In a kids’ tv show?!  That’s crazy. I could feel myself reflecting on each moral with every passing episode, and I just was surprised on how real it was. I never felt like I was being talked down to, or that the production team was cutting corners, just for the sake of putting out another episode; really, I just felt this outpouring of love and passion into a crazy project that felt like the creators never thought it’d see the light of day. 

As a musician, however, I’m able to notice a few inconsistencies here and there that make the magic less ever so slightly. I was a little disappointed to find that a lot of times whenever the character Madison, a derpy, blonde violinist with a heart of gold, it wasn’t played by a true violin; in all reality, a lot of the music that was supposedly played by Madison was actually just a synthesizer. (In English, that means that they had a violinist play each individual note from lowest to highest; record it; and then use those recording on an electronic keyboard, so that they can play it as if you play a piano. It’s very hard to spot the difference, but as a violinist myself, the difference is rather stark for my ears.) I can understand why they did this--- hiring a violinist for every small violin sound that your character makes just doesn’t make sense on a cartoon budget. Still, it saddens me how little there was of actual violin audio. Speaking of violins and “faking” sounds, I also found that the music that was playing and the music that the kids were supposedly “making” had a surprising disconnect. Often, I see scenes where Tamika, a sassy harpist, Madison, and even Eddie, the rich clarinet player, were all playing and yet... those instruments were clearly absent from the song. Again, the rule of fun first, but still... it always urks me as a musician to see instruments playing when they are obviously not playing in the song. It just looks so stupid. 

There were also a lesson or two that I felt were very important life lessons but were a little... lacking in the musical department. Take “Peanuts! Get Yer Peanuts!” for example. Sunny opens up with a question on what he should start teaching as a music teacher, as he has never done it before. Kam suggests that they do finger exercises, as that’s what their old music teacher used to do. Sunny, instead, decides that he’s going to have the kids be “artistically free” and just... play what calls to them. Have fun with it! Play what it feels like to be in a cave, or on a busy street, or to knock the walls down! What Sunny fails to realize in this situation is that, although having fun with your instrument and feeling what the music is trying to tell you is important, “finger exercises” are the foundation of good playing. Are they boring? Absolutely. Are they tedious? Oh, sweet Macy, yes! But are they important? You better bet your bottom dollar they are! If you can’t play at all, how are you supposed to play challenging music? How are you supposed to play what you feel when you can’t even play with good form? Having fun with your playing is important; you aren’t going to even pick up your instrument if you aren’t having fun. But if you don’t have a certain level of discipline, there’s no way in hell that you’ll ever succeed on a professional level as a musician. That’s just how it works. Of course, the lesson in this episode is focused on working together and how important communication is when working as a group, but I still felt that this... inaccuracy gave a false representation on how being a musician actually works.

But at the end of the day, this is a show about having fun with your art as well as learning some life lessons on the side.

Overall, this show is extremely charming. The jokes were extremely clever and enjoyable. (Tamika: Are you sure you saw Sunny Bridges go this way? Lil’ D: Unless I mistook him for a bear driving a Jaguar. *Bear speeds off in a sports car* Lil’ D: That was a Lamborghini!) And the art was something interesting and stunning to look at. I was surprised over and over by the limits that they tried to take with this show (how many new and interesting was can you draw caricatures of your own cartoon drawings?!) and honestly, this show was just some good wholesome fun. 

Rating this show, I’d have to give it an 8 out of 10. 

It was great. A little weird at times, sure! But that’s the cool thing about experimentation--- you get some weird stuff sometimes. This series is going to the top of my rewatch list because, really, I remember so little about it and the show was so enjoyable that I absolutely want to sit down to relive all the silly adventures that the Class of 3000 will bring me. 

I highly recommend you give this show a chance and see what it’ll give you. You never know--- you might just have a little fun while you’re at it.

[Edit (8/23/2018): I forgot the read more tab... *deep sigh*]

[Edit (9/22/2018): How the fuck did I miss tagging this as the Weekly Spotlight?!? I am so sorry!]

[Edit (11/21/2018): Fixed a broken tagging system.]

If there are any corrections you’d like to make in regards to this post, please feel free to send me a message with your corrections and I’ll get back to it as soon as I can!

Do you remember a cartoon your friends have never heard of? Got a scene from an animated film that you’re dying to know the name to? Send your questions to The Cartoon Archivist and I’ll see what I’ve got in the vault!

Tales of Torbin, Excerpt 3

Torbin has a drunk hallucination on the streets of Amberoak, and meets the Spirit of Music, along with a familiar face. 

Trill and Torbin stumbled out of the Wiggly Worm and into the crisp night air of Amberoak. It was if the two had crashed right through the wall separating good and bad ideas. Not one of them could claim the following events as an accident. This type of idiocy took commitment. Their drinking game was so exciting that it almost surpassed the main objective of providing them with liquid courage, and become in itself an entertaining evening. But there was an important mission that needed to be completed before heading back to the Zaellon house. The drunk dwarf tried hard to remember where they were heading. This was a destination that he had been avoiding for years but it was calling him back. Their uneven steps reverberated off of the trees. Lights from lanterns and nearby houses danced to Torbin’s squinted eyes, forming holograms of that day in his intoxicated mind.

There were the elf children, running through the market. Nobles, still dressed  from the morning’s march, were taking in the sun. Carts and horses were making their daily trek in and out of the city, deepening grooves of familiarity in the Amberoak ground. And somewhere close, a young elf named Quinceran was leaving his home and telling his father goodbye for the last time.

Torbin tripped on an exposed tree root and began laughing, catapulting his mind back to the present. “Surely, dancing lights could light a lantern,” Torbin thought to himself. Futily, he watched the mystical sparks form illusory embers, and die while having no effect on the lamp. It wasn’t a very useful spell, and he wasn’t in the best shape to be wielding magic on anything. Torbin had hesitated to use the lantern before. What good might it do for something he did not want to see? And if the lantern had revealed something to another person, what damage might that cause? These questions ran through Torbin’s mind, slowly evolving into excuses over the past few days. The more he thought, the more attractive the excuses became, as though he were polishing them with his denial. Try as he might, this problem could not be ignored now that Peren and Trill both knew about it. He had to do something, even if it was just so he could say he tried.

Trill lit the lantern.

Torbin stared deep into the flame, not realizing that he was no longer in his hometown. The trees, the ancient empty street, the houses, and even trill had faded into the darkness forming hardened walls and floors. Torbin looked around in a daze. Had he fallen asleep? As he squinted at the black and white shapes that were now forming, he began stepping further into the darkness. He suddenly saw outlines of familiar doors and classrooms. The smell of the furniture, hallways, and ink on paper filled his nostrils. He knew where he could be. But only one thing could convince Torbin that this was Sylia Seminary; Music. As soon as he thought it, he heard it. Softly at first, echoing across the ceiling like an ocean wave, an old familiar song coaxed him towards its source in the levels above. A single violin and a tranquil melody brought some semblance of life to this place and perhaps, answers. Torbin took a cautious step, followed by a clumsy one. He looked around for Trill again but did not see him. “Well, hopefully when Trill sees this place it won’t be this dark and creepy” he muttered aloud. He committed to following the music and ventured off into a dark hallway. As he got closer and closer to the sound, Torbin remembered hearing about Trill’s confusing hallucinations. If this was a hallucination, then he was glad that the imaginary stairs he was climbing had handrails. The music grew clearer and somewhat faster. Torbin wondered if he would consider the song sad or ominous. It seemed to teeter on the fence of both, enticing him and telling him to be on his guard at the same time. In any case, the young bard appreciated good music of any theme. The echo of the strings faded away and Torbin realized that he was very close, if not in the same room as the person playing. He saw a circle, formed by moonlight on the floor. A wall of shadows formed behind desks and chairs, clouding the exact size of the room in darkness. This must be one of the rehearsal halls. It was in a room much like this that Torbin first learned about music, performing, and magic. The violin seemed to emanate sound from all directions, not reserving a quiet corner for itself. As Torbin crossed into the circle of light, however, the music stopped. It wasn’t abrupt, or unexpected. It was as if the song had ended perfectly at that exact moment.

Torbin stood, illuminated in silence for a few moments. Particles of dust, misted slowly from the old ceilings, glowing in the light. At first, there was nothing, as if the music was all imagined. Then followed the percussive sounds of a bow and violin placed gently in an old case. A single pair of soft footsteps marched in perfect time around Torbin to the front of the room. A chair slid out from behind a desk and became burdened with an unknown presence. “I am very glad that you are here” a monotoned voice called from the dark. It was weak, slow and spoke barely above a whisper.

“I get that a lot,” Torbin said, not missing an opportunity to try and ruin a theatrical performance. The voice seemed so familiar to him that he didn’t bother asking who it was. If this was a hallucination, it didn't really seem to matter.

The voice proceeded unaffected, “I didn’t expect that you would come back. Why would you? You seem perfectly capable of learning things on your own…..and you have….newer teachers now.” Hidden hands began fumbling with something small and mechanical.

“What, Tami?…..Is this a jealousy thing? I mean, I feel like I can be an effective ranger as well as a bard. I didn’t know the motto of Sylia was ‘be the one thing you can be’.” Torbin responded coolly.

“Of course not,” Said the voice, “If that were the case then you’d still be carrying on your Amberoak one-man-show of ‘Beating up whoever gets in your way’”

“Used to be a two-man show” Torbin muttered to himself as he looked around the room, trying to find where he came in. The voice remained silent for what seemed to be an eternity, as it continued to fidget with small gears and wooden parts. “You’re not going to tell me what I’m doing here are you then?” Inquired the still drunk Dwarf.

“It is funny that you mention Peren...You know, you should not have involved her in your problems. She’d relish a chance to help you.” Said the voice, even quieter than before. The voice ceased to speak once more. Every so often, a distinct chiming sound, like a single spinning coin would be heard and then snuffed out, as if being swallowed by silence. “I remember when you first came here.”  It continued, “You would tell people that you were running away from trouble back home. But, you didn’t have trouble at home did you Zaellon?”. The voice began to laugh a little. “I guess you were the trouble, and you still bring that with you, regardless of who you drag down with it.”

The sound of tools stopped.

Torbin heard the solid clunk of a heavy object being turned over on the desk, followed by the hauntingly familiar ticking sound that plagued every music lesson. It was a metronome beating slowly and loudly, striking the room with rhythm.

“Ok, what do you want?” Torbin shouted above the growing volume of the metronome.

“You know of me Zaellon. You see me every single day.” Boomed a loud voice from all around the room. “I didn’t ask you to come here. You did that on your own, burdening me with the darkest parts of yourself, and using me to inflict pain on others.”

The noise of the metronome began ringing in Torbin’s ears, causing him to crumple to the ground while he held his head in his hands. He did not hear the chair slide again, or the footsteps but he knew that the presence was close. He fought to stand up, swinging wildly with his fists as he did, positive that the spirit meant to end him. He was hitting nothing.

Torbin looked up, and there was Trill. A smile appeared on his face, and for a moment, the ticking stopped. Torbin looked at him, ready to enlist his help to end this nightmare, until the voice spoke through the Kenku. “Who am I?” Trill dissolved into a shadow that quickly formed into the shape of Tami, “Who are you?” Tami’s form gave way to Scaldris, “I am the one who gives your music the power to inspire…..” Scaldris suddenly became Verity, “I am the one who makes tormenting visions in the minds of your enemies”, Verity turned into Eilerris, “I am the one who allows you to be invisible when you don’t want to be seen”. Eilerris faded into Kallista, “I allow your petty insults to become more than just words”.

A flame exploded where Kallista stood and the form of Peren replaced her. “I am everything that you are now. I am the refuge you sought in music, and I am all the power you possess. And you use me to destroy the minds of other people”.

“NO!” Torbin screamed, falling back on his hands as he hit the ground. “You’re not real!”.

“I’m not real!?” The voice yelled through Peren’s form, “You’re not real!, LaFang isn’t real, any other identity you come up with isn’t real. You will always be Torbin the murderer. And he will always follow you”. The form of Peren grabbed Torbin’s head with its right hand, gripping his eyelids from behind his skull, forcing them to open wider. A left hand followed and held the dwarf’s jaw, swinging it to face a black corner of the room. And then more footsteps. The false Peren’s face was right in Torbin’s ear now, “Listen….he’s here….he’s always been here, waiting”. Out of the dark, into the light of the circle stepped Quincy, smiling.

Torbin tried hard to look down, the way he always did, to ignore the specter. “Oh no no no…”. The voice said, “Don’t look away, I can’t look away….why should you?”

“What do you want!” Screamed Torbin, trying to fight against the form of Peren. Quincy was close now, kneeling down to the ground to look his killer in the face.

“I want what he wants.” The voice said…. ”I want him to leave.” Imposter Peren finally released Torbin, violently shoving his face towards the floor. It walked toward Quincy, and as it did, both forms seemed to liquify, swirling around each other in grey inky clouds. They finally coalesced into a perfect copy of Torbin, grinning menacingly. “As long as he’s a part of you he’s a part of me….you’d better get going”. The voice said as it began to sink down into a charge, running full speed at the recovering bard.

Without hesitation, Torbin cast dissonant whispers and the other Torbin shattered like glass, as did the room, and Sylia. Torbin was back in Amberoak writhing in pain from the spell he had cast on himself.

I went dark, rip

FYI - This was inspired by Vee is Calling and Don’t Talk With Strangers. Because I absolutely love those types of games.

-

    Another sneeze jolted you up from your previously drowsy, practically unconscious state. You could feel a worried gaze and heard ethereal footsteps from your right, yet instead you chose to stand up, stretching before trodding quietly over to the desk. Your laptop was open, for reasons unknown, and Discord flashing with a notification. You took a drink of the slightly stale energy drink next to you and opened it, finding it to be a stranger named Dave_002; the profile picture seemed to be a legitimate picture of him, something of a rarity on the gamer-oriented site. He’s messaged you a simple “yo, what’s up?”

    “Just can’t sleep, haha” was your reply, although at the expense of your SQUIP’s approval. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, you know.” You rolled your eyes. “Psh. Not like he’ll haunt me or some shit. Besides, it’s true.”

    “same, haha” came the other end’s reply as your SQUIP toyed with a nonexistent yo-yo he’d created from seemingly pointless data in his banks.

    “want to play Duelyst?” You’d been somewhat into the game recently, although you were admittedly not the greatest at it. You’d gotten to Silver tier one month, when you really put your heart and soul into it, yet it always seemed there was a range set ready to strike their wrath. “Sure, sounds like fun”

    Opening the app took seconds; he messaged his account, and you quickly invited him. After a bit of waiting and almost texting him to check whether he was still there, the match connected; Vetruvian versus Vanar; a matchup you found both fair in some respects and highly unbalanced in others.

    Time seemed to tick slower during the match. Every move had to be carefully planned out; still, the other general managed a few good hits before soon you defeated them with a few Provoke minions.

    “that was fun! we should play again some time later” Discord once again gave its signal, prompting you to close the game and open the app once more. “Same, that was p good on both sides”

    “you sound really cool! want to voice chat?” A wave of anxiety washed over you, yet still you decided that Discord’s safe-as-can-be protection would prevent any mishaps; worst came to worst, you ended up the witness in some hostage or murder. It wasn’t much of a big deal, you thought, seeing as the SQUIP would be able to tell you what to say whether you wanted out or wanted to help.

    “cool! call up then” You hit the button, and for a while it rang, the happy tone playing in your ears. When you put on the headphones you couldn’t quite recollect; most likely, it was when you started up Duelyst. Yet, just as you were about to message him, a distinct crash came from the kitchen.

    Practically throwing your headphones behind your neck, you turned to your SQUIP, who was still playing with a yo-yo, bored in the corner. He shook his head, indicating this was simply something you’d somehow made up. Thinking your mental health was at this point in question and you’d need to find a psychologist soon, you turned back to the computer and put your headphones on.

    “Help…Me…Help…M…e…NO!” As the call went on, you quickly realized something important; this was a real call for help. Normally a call laden with static with ominous warnings and pleas for help screamed troll or comedian; here, however, something in your mind clicked, and determined this as real.

    Perhaps it was that strange feeling, the one of a boy trying to drive something into your chest. You could still faintly hear the yo=yo, however, meaning it was not your SQUIP.

    An explanation came a few moments too late. “whoops, mic isn’t working haha”

    You texted back, quickly ending the call. “rip”

    “oh yeah! you let me see your duelyst skills, want to witness me playing?”

    Giving a nervous chuckle at the use of “witness,” you texted back. “Sure”

    A violin could be heard, although faint. You took off your headphones, quickly realizing just how crisp and realistic this violin sounded.

    “If this is a joke, SQUIP, it isn’t funny. Cut it out.” Your SQUIP had stopped playing with the yo=yo and now was looking around, just as panicked as you. “I…Don’t know where that’s coming from either, Y/N.”

    You went over to him and grabbed a fabricated hand. The two of you carefully crept into the kitchen, where lay-

    “Y/N!” The SQUIP pulled you back, and just in time for you to realize-there was a dead body right there, and you were just about to step on it.

    “S…Sq..Squi….” He quickly enveloped you in a hug, no words necessary in this exchange of comfort. You let yourself fall into this abyss of warmth, created via simulation or not. It was better, you found, than the sleep you’d wanted so badly, yet was this- a dead body, soon to be investigated- truly worth it?

    No. Nothing was worth death, lest it be death that saves lives, and this death certainly did not save anyone.

    “Wh…Why..”

    The violin continued, practically coming from the body itself. Calmly, the SQUIP attempted to calm you down.

    “Shh…it’s okay…you’ll be fine…come on, Y/N. If you want to go past this, you have to get rid of the body…”

    Breathing a heavy sigh, you picked up the body practically involuntarily. The SQUIP understood; it was to use your body like a puppet, since you couldn’t do it yourself. With precision, yet at the same time a certain clumsiness your native actions would never have, you left the small apartment; back in an alleyway, your puppet of a body dug him a makeshift grave in the admittedly soft ground. Thankfully, not a single car or person passed by; it was though the boy had caused this simply so he could be put to rest.

    He was dumped into the hole; the shovel filled it back up, not you. It patted down the dirt so it looked the same, it put itself down; your eyes guided not you but a limp group of muscles back to your apartment.

    You stumbled onto the kitchen floor, feeling everything crash down onto you.

–

    You bolted awake, slightly sicked body now wracked with the emotions of a clear nightmare. The SQUIP was there in less than a moment; a hug that lasted a cry and then perhaps an hour. You would’ve preferred eternity, although you suppose the quiet kiss on the forehead and the quiet lead to the bathroom in acknowledgement was the best you could’ve hoped for.

-

guess who’s back again and once again is broke so commissions are appreciated

that’s all bye

Original Short Story: Bastard Strangers

A historical fiction story; follows the same "Lady Jane" as in my first story (to find, search Original Writing tag) *** "You sure about this, Vivi?" Jane whispered to her friend, as their carriage pulled up to the estate. It was decorated in fresh roses and beautiful white linens. The stairs were peppered with local families and aristocrats, all dressed in their best clothes as to blurr the class lines. "Jane," Vivi giggled, grabbing Jane's hands with a childish squeeze, "you are absolutely going to have a wonderful time, and I will be by your side whenever you need me." "You're not ashamed to be bringing me?" "I have no shame for being your friend," Vivi stated, plain and blunt, "you are the kindest soul I know, and nothing matters to me more than a kind heart." "Well, I can see why we're both still unmarried." "Why's that?" "Lack of goo and available hearts to steal." Jane laughed, causing Vivi to erupt in a joyous fit, only stopping as they reached the staircase. Without missing a beat, Vivi stepped out of the carriage, her bright pink dress flapping in the night air. Jane followed behind her, light green lace hugging her figure modestly. The two friends strolled in, attempting to ignore the fierce gazes being thrown at them. Jane held her head high, and Vivi tightened her grip on her friend's arm. Inside, the people created a sea of cloth and color, overwhelming and invigorating at the same time. Still, Jane was not ignored. "Who is that?" "I believe that's Ms. Florence Heire's daughter, the one she adopted?" "She's much darker than I imagined." "What peculiar hair; not quite as...curly as Lucy's, don't you think darling?" Jane held her head high, her attention turning to the music roaring from the ballroom. "Ah, Miss Thae! Miss Heire!" The two friends turned to see a young regiment member, bright-eyed and proudly dressed in uniform, descending the stairs. "How nice to finally meet you in person." "Mr. Melrose," Vivi curtsied, Jane in synch, "thank you so much for inviting us." "Anything for your fathers," Melrose bowed, "I don't know where my father would be without their friendship. Plus, now you two can adorn the halls with your beauty." Both girls giggled, Melrose bending to kiss both of their hands. "I must bid you farewell for now, but if you need anything, don't hesitate; my home is yours." "Thank you, Mr. Melrose," Jane smiled. He dashed off, waving to a pair of gentlemen who had just walked in the door. "He's quite charming, don't you think?" Vivid whispered to her friend. "I haven't seen Peter in ages. He's quite grown up, if I do say so myself, wouldn't you agree?" "Are you trying to establish a courtship for me?" Jane laughed, the two of them entering the dining room. "You know Peter's much too vivacious for my taste." "But a regiment member?" "Just because they wear the uniform does not mean they are all drunken buffoons," Jane reached for a small glass of wine, "I'm sure he's a great dancer." "You think so?" "I'm sure of it," she let go of her friend's arm, "go find him, I'm sure he'd love to dance when he's done with his friends." "But Jane-" "I can take care of myself," she squeezed Vivi's wrist, "now go, before I decide to steal him for myself." "You wouldn't dare!" Vivid gasped dramatically, hiding the laughter bubbling up from her chest. Jane shook her head, watching Vivi disappear into the crowd. She turned to see the dining room, everyone almost appeared to busy to notice her. Satisfied with being alone, she walked the long pearly walls, surprised to see a small spread of food set out hours before the dining was to take place. Siping her wine, she browsed the small selections of fruit, cheese, and biscuits set on the small tables beside the grand dining room table. "You know, I heard the strawberries are excellent this year." Jane turned, a young woman clad in fine jewelry stood beside her, her dress draped in layers of gold fabric. Her eyes snapped to Jane for a mere moment, giving her the indication of a sudden conversation. Without any further hesitation, Jane cleared her throat. "I've never cared for strawberries, personally," she reached for a small apricot biscuit, "though I suppose I do enjoy strawberry jam." The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You mean strawberry jellies?" "Isn't it the same thing?" Jane asked, turning to face her newfound acquaintance. "Perhaps," the woman turned as well, "my name is Sophia Bergone." "Jane Heire," Jane bowed, "I'm a personal guest of Mr. Melrose." "Is that right?" She raised an eyebrow, plucking a few berries from their glass tray. "Well, I must admit, he provides the best for his guests. Your dress is exquisite." "Thank you, I made it myself," Jane smiled, "my mother offered to take me to London to purchase one at full price, but I wanted to give it my own personal touch." "Lord knows why," she smiled, strangely forced and discomforted, "I hope we sit by each other during dinner, I'm sure you have an...interesting background." Jane nodded, excusing herself and ducking out of the dining room. With a deep breath and her head held high, she traced through the hallways and crowds, her mind once again swallowed by the music that filled the air, until she found herself tucked against a crowd of drunken strangers, watching her best friend dance with Peter Melrose himself. She smiled to herself, nursing her wine and letting herself sink into the atmosphere. *** "Cameron!" Peter cried, embracing his old childhood friend. "I'm so glad you're finally home." "It's good to see you to, Peter," he smiled, breaking away from his friend to look him in the eyes, "you got taller." "You cut your hair." "Just a few days ago; after trying to manage it while in Italy, I can never quite go back to long hair again." "Oh poor Sophia will be so disappointed" Peter mumbled, cackling as Cameron rolled his eyes. "She's still trying to win my affections?" "Unfortunately." "Well," Cameron gave his coat to the attendant, "maybe she'll leave me be if I tell her I eloped in Italy." "And never returned to Italy? Sophia's not stupid." "It would work for a while," Cameron laughed, "still, I'd rather talk about your year-" "Um, Pat-" a young blonde woman appeared before them, her cheeks lightly flushed and eyes pinned downwards, "sorry, Mr. Melrose?" "Yes, Miss Thea?" "I'm, um, sorry, to interrupt but-" "Nonsense," Peter grinned, "oh, this is my childhood friend, Mr. Cameron Meldanvi. Cameron, this is Miss Virginia Thea; she's a close family friend." "It's a pleasure, Miss Thea," Cameron grinned, gently raising her hand. "As is mine," Vivi bowed, quickly turning her attention to Peter, "however, Peter, if I may be so forward to ask-" "To dance?" He beamed, taking her hand before bowing and planting a light kiss on the top of her wrist, "I would love to. I apologize Cameron." "No need," he bowed once more, "I'll find you for dinner." Peter grinned, practically running with Virginia to the dance floor. Cameron laughed to himself, pacing the hallways and greeting old friends. Perhaps Italy had left a severe impact on him, though he could hardly It was stuffy, everyone stiff and uncomfortable. Still, he was glad to be home; even if it meant being approached by every single woman and their mother. The laugh was distinct, light as air and radiant. Startled, he turned to see its owner. Who he found was not as he expected. She was dark-skinned, beautifully dressed in pale green, and improperly leaning in the doorway to the ballroom. Without a beat of hesitation, he walked up to her. "Excuse me," he asked, "do you mind if I stand next to you? I feel my friend is making a fool of himself dancing." She jumped, slightly startled but gracious enough to step forward to allow him into the room. He watched for a moment, smiling as Peter and Virginia laughed in the middle of the room. Then, with a slight flush rising to his face, he stole another glance at the woman beside him. Looking back to the dance, he smiled softly to himself. *** She never liked strangers very much; often they had too much to say, keen on judgement and assumptions and spreading their thoughts when they disappeared from sight. Still, she was keen to notice his silence, and couldn't help but look over her shoulder out of curiosity. His gaze was far ahead, not on her. But lord, he was perhaps the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on. Suddenly, he looked over at her, and smiled. "Are you new to the area?" Jane froze, but swallowing her own anxiety, she responded. "On a visit, actually," she gestured towards Peter, "my best friend and I, our fathers knew the host's family. He was nice enough to invite us for a visit." "School friends?" "They were all business partners in trade, actually," Jane smiled with hesitation, warry about the conversation, "I don't know Mr. Melrose as personally as my friend, however. He seems nice though." "Yes, Peter's one of the kindest people I know, though he's not quite the sharpest," the stranger laughed, slightly bowing to her. "I'm Cameron Meldanvi; I'm Peter's childhood friend." "Jane Hiere," she curtsied, "I'm Ms. Florence Hiere's adopted daughter." "I see, well," he gently lifted her hand, planting a kiss on her wrist, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hiere." "Likewise," Jane blushed, "so, um, Meldanvi?" "The product of a wealthy Russian eloping with an Italian violin maker," he laughed, "they moved and lived here for years; my parents actually decided to move back to Italy, I just returned from visiting them." "That's quite a life you have." "It beats London society for sure," he mumbled, winking at her without any shame, "though I did miss home; and these parties. It's nice to be around close friends." "I can imagine," Jane mumbled, raising her glass to her lips. She watched as he smiled down at her, trembling slightly under his gaze. "Is there something else you want?" "Nothing," he blinked, eyebrow raised in confusion, "was there something you thought I wanted from you?" "...I don't know," Jane flushed a dark plum, "I'm sorry, that was rude." "I guess I can't blame you," he spoke, loud enough only for her ears, "upper class society has never been very...friendly towards anyone who was different, class or race." She turned around sharply, eyes glued to his. "You," she forced a laugh, "sound like you've had experience." "I'm sure not quite like yours, but yes, similar," he smiled, "I'm glad to be in the company of a fellow societal misfit." "Well," Jane raised her glass, relaxing in his presence, "I appreciate your genuine conversation." "I appreciate your time." Jane smiled, polishing off her wine before setting down on an empty tray, the song drawing to its conclusion. Once again, he turned towards her. "Would you care to accompany me on a walk through the garden, Miss Jane?" She met his gaze, brown eyes locking on her grey orbs. Heart beginning to flutter, she curtsied, smiling. "I would love to." He took her arm in his, and turned her towards the back balcony, leading her down to the estate garden, the stars shimmering above them. *** "So what happened?" Vivi gasped, holding Jane's hands at the end of the dining table. "Why are you eating with me? He didn't suddenly run off to eat with someone else, did he?" "He had to leave by eleven," Jane whispered, attempting to avoid further gossip, "something he had to get home for." "What a shame; he talked to you the whole hour?" "It appears so," Jane blushed, releasing her friend's grip to slice another piece of turkey, "it was...oddly comfortable." "How so?" "Well, he just...talked to me as a stranger. Not someone from a different culture or anything like that, but a stranger." "Is that a good thing?" "I think so." Jane smiled, biting into her dinner. Vivi sighed, her sleeve mere inches from being stained by her own, barely touched leg of lamb. "He sounds like a romantic gentleman." "That's the other thing that was weird, though," Jane mumbled between bites, "he had mentioned something about being a bastard child or something along those lines. Even when we talked, the longer the conversation went on, the more and more...relaxed his tone became." "You think he's an imposter?" "No," Jane sighed, forehead scrunched in thought, "I just, there was something different about him." "Maybe he just speaks funny." "It's possible," Jane shrugged, "anyways, I doubt I'll ever see him again." "Jane!" Vivi scolded, only barely retaining her frustration, "why would you suggest such a thing?" "I don't know," Jane set her silverware down, half-laughing, "I spent nineteen years completely convinced I will never marry because of what I look like." "Well," she tore off a slice of bread, "whether or not you like him, it sounds like he doesn't care a great deal about what you look like. Jane flushed, but smiled, quietly ending the subject and happily watched as Peter sat across from them, eyes bright and locked onto Virginia. She didn't mind, and was content with thinking as the meal and the evening winded to a close. Jane remained quiet the entire ride home, letting ViVi slumber across from her as the carriage brought them back to the hotel they were to stay at. She didn't dare sleep, her mind occupied with rushing thoughts about a handsome face and dark eyes. *** A/N: Not my best writing, but I put enough time into working on it that I thought I would post it. For historical reference, this takes place during the 1830s.

Sharon/Andy photo inspiration by Knuscheldiese-In my mind this picture was taken right after Tyler and Scott caught them kissing on the bench(this will make sense when you’ve read the chapter)

Well, it’s been a little tough to keep the Christmas spirit as we’ve moved into March--I originally intended this to be about 3 chapters. But, having the day off and sitting here writing during this howling blizzard today has put me back in the spirit.

Christmas in Connecticut-Part 7

“You want to tell me again how we ended up climbing a mountain to look for a Christmas tree?’ Andy huffed. He was trudging through snow over a foot deep at a tree farm set on the side of a mountain with a saw in one hand.

Sharon took his free hand and squeezed it. “Because, Clark Griswold, you wanted us to have a fun family vacation.”

“I’m not sure what part of this is fun. My toes are numb.”

“I told you to use the toe warmers we bought to put in the kids boots but what did you say? Andy? What was it?”

Andy narrowed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I said I‘d be fine.”

“Yes you did.”

“Where are the kids anyway?” Andy scanned the side of the mountain but all he saw were pine trees as far as the eye could see.

“Emily, Nicole, Dean and the boys went that way to look at the Balsams and Ricky and Rusty went down there to check out the Fraser’s and we’re looking at the Blue Spruce.”

“Isn’t a Christmas tree just a Christmas tree?”

“Oh no, no, no. Each type of pine has very distinct characteristics. Balsam firs smell the best, Fraser firs are the strongest and Blue Spruce are the prettiest, at least in my opinion. In southern California the most popular is the Douglas fir, that‘s usually what we get.  Didn’t you ever go to any tree farms?”

“I grew up in Brooklyn, sweetheart, not too many Christmas tree farms around there. We got our tree from a seller on a corner lot. It was the same guy every year. He used to come down from Nova Scotia to sell his trees. Once I was in California, well, the closest cut your own Christmas tree farm is like two hours from LA.”

“An hour and half.”

“And you know that because?”

“Because that’s where I brought my kids to get our tree when they were growing up. I mean it’s Christmas, you have to have a sense of occasion.”

Andy grinned. “I have one now. When Nicole was little we used to go this place in Valencia that had pre-cut trees. After the divorce I kept getting a tree and putting it up in my house for Nic. I never got visitation with her on Christmas Day, but I usually had her the day after and sometimes even during the day on Christmas Eve so I did my best to celebrate the holiday when I had her. Then one Christmas she called and said her mother wanted her to spend the whole holiday with her family. That‘s how she put it, her family. As if I wasn‘t her family anymore.” Anger and pain radiated from Andy.

“You didn’t fight it?” Sharon stopped walking and looked up at him, her eyes filled with sympathy. It had begun to snow again and little flakes caught on her eyelashes.  

“Course I did. I called Carmen and told her she couldn’t keep me from my daughter. But she said it was what Nicole wanted. They were going to visit her husband Stanley’s family in Mexico and Nicole really wanted to go. She said I’d be ruining her Christmas if I “forced” her to stay behind just so I could have my visitation days. So, I let her go. And then they started going every year and there wasn’t much reason to put up a tree anymore. Christmas is a time for family and I didn’t have one anymore.”

“Oh, Andy.” Sharon swallowed hard past the lump in her throat.

“Aw, don’t cry Sharon. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” He wiped away the tear that trailed down her cheek with his gloved thumb. “I was sad for a lot of years. Sad and angry. And I made some pretty bad choices because of it. But I’m not that person anymore and I’m not sad or angry anymore. Now I have you and your kids and Nicole is back in my life. I have a family again and I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, so don’t cry, okay?

She nodded but her heart still hurt for him. For all the years he’d been shut out of Nicole’s life and for how lonely he’d been. There were two sides to every story and she knew he’d brought some of his pain on himself, but there were times she would love to give Andy’s ex-wife a big piece of her mind. Carmen had no idea how lucky she was her child’s father wanted so desperately to be a part of her life. She could only wish her own ex-husband had even a smidgen of the desire to spend time with Emily and Ricky that Andy had with Nicole.

“Mom,” Ricky called out from somewhere to the right. “Rusty and I found one.”

“Okay, we’ll be right over. How tall is it? You know your grandmother said 10 feet is the max for the living room.”

“This one will be fine.”

Ricky and Rusty continued to call out so Sharon and Andy could find them and when they did Sharon shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“That tree has to be close to 15 feet tall.” Then she chuckled.

“What?” Ricky asked.

“I just told Andy he was like Clark Griswold and then you show me this tree. You want to put out Gran and Grandpa O’ Dwyer’s windows out like they did in Christmas Vacation?”

“Oh Mom, it isn’t THAT big.”

“Russell Thomas Beck, look at this.” She showed him the long grooved wooden stick they’d given her at the barn where they’d gotten the saw. “This stick is 10 feet tall.”

“You got a RULER. On my God Mom. Could you be anymore anal?”

Andy chuckled watching Sharon handle her boys.

“Yes, I got a ruler. We cannot have a tree higher than 10 feet or the angel won’t fit on top.” Sharon set the stick in the snow. The tree rose several feet higher than the stick. She smirked at the boys.

“Let’s keep looking.”

After another hour trudging through the snow they finally all agreed on a 9 foot Balsam fir.

“Okay, now we’ve got a tree we have to figure out how cut this sucker down,” Andy said. He wasn‘t relishing the idea of lying in the snow to saw down the tree. Using a shovel Ricky had gotten at the barn--the kid was an old pro at this kind of stuff--they shoveled out enough snow that two people could lie on either side of the tree and use the two- handed saw.

They took turns, Andy and Dean and Ricky and Rusty so they didn’t have to lie for too long in the snow and get their jeans soaked.  At least that’s the excuse Sharon gave when the men went all cavemen and said THEY would cut the tree down. The women were smart enough not to argue and thus they stayed dry and warm. But the truth was Sharon didn’t want Andy exerting himself too much and aggravating the pinched nerve in his neck again. However, she needed to convey that in a way that she wouldn‘t be accused of babying him. Her tendency to be overprotective once he’d left the hospital had been a sore spot between them for a couple months and she really was trying to let go of her fears. But it wasn’t easy. There were nights when she closed her eyes and she could see Andy crumpling to the floor, his hand over his chest. Even worse, the look of sheer terror in his eyes when she’d touched his cheek and called his name. He thought he was going to die, and so had she, and he might be over it, but she wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Laying on the ground working at the saw, Andy‘s wool vest and sweater rose baring the skin of his lower back and snow began working its way into the back of his pants. Why the hell had he offered to help cut this damn tree down? Oh yeah, to show Sharon he was still the same guy he’d been before he’d been stupid enough to jump on a moving vehicle and ended up with a blood clot that was still creating health issues for him.

Finally Dean agreed they had enough cut and he shoved at the tree calling “Timberrrr….” as it fell.  When he sat up, his face and hair were covered in wet pine needles. Sharon couldn’t contain the giggle that rose in her chest. And once she started laughing, everyone joined in.

“Well, I’m glad you all find this amusing,” Andy grumbled. “Next year we go to a tree lot.” But then his eyes caught Sharon’s and she saw the twinkle of amusement as he turned to Tyler and Scott.

“So you boys think this is funny?”

They nodded.

“Really funny?”

“Really funny,” they agreed.

Andy looked at Dean and then the two men each grabbed a boy and pulled them down to wrestle in the snow much to their shrieking delight.

Proving that they were no shrinking violets, and against the objecting males in the family, Emily and Nicole took control of pulling the heavy tree along through the snow to the main trail where they were met by a man and two Bernese Mountain Dogs. The dogs were hooked to the tree and easily pulled it back to the side of one of the barns where men were netting the trees and piling them up.

“If you’re staying a while we can just put a tag on your tree with your name and you can pick it up when you leave.”

“That would be great,” Sharon said. “We wanted to look around the barn.”

“And we want some s’mores and kettle corn,” the boys told him.

“All right, tag it it is.”

Once the tree had been tagged they went inside the first barn. Sipping hot chocolate they meandered around the different stalls filled with a variety of crafts, most of them Christmas oriented. A young woman sat in the corner of the barn next to a big pot bellied woodstove playing Christmas carols on a violin. At the moment it was “What Child is This“, one of Sharon‘s favorites. Though as her kids were fond of saying, they were all her favorites, she just loved Christmas music.

“What are you buying?” Andy asked upon finding her at the cash register.

“Just a new ornament for the tree.”

He looked down and grinned. “Another angel? Don‘t you think you have enough of those?”

Ricky, Emily and Rusty looked up from their own purchases with raised brows. “You can never have too many angels,” they responded in unison, then burst into laughter at their combined response.

“Ahh…my children, I’ve trained you well,” Sharon beamed at the three of them.

Andy shook his head in amusement. “Did you want to check out the other barn?” he asked.

“Might as well, we’re here.”

The second barn was filled with the scent of Balsam fir from the many hanging Christmas wreaths, kissing balls, sachets and door draft stoppers.

“Do you think we should get my parents a wreath?” Sharon asked Andy while critically assessing a large wreath with a big red and green plaid bow. Though they were still in New Hampshire they were on their way to Connecticut. Sharon had told her parents they would bring the Christmas tree with them. Her parents were still healthy and active but now that they were reaching their mid eighties they were quite pleased with not to have to go out and get their own tree.

“Why don’t you call them and see if they have one yet?”

“If I know my mother, I’m sure they do. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to ask.” Sharon pulled out her phone. “Besides, they’ll be happy to know we’re on our way.” She hit the number for her parents and gave Andy a funny look. “What are you up to?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Me?” He shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “What could I be up to?”

“I don’t know, but you have that look on your face.”

“What look? I don’t have a look.”

“Andy, trust me. You have a look.” She reached out to pick a few more pine needles from his hair when her mother answered her call and she became absorbed in the conversation. After a few minutes on the phone she slipped it back into her coat pocket.

“They have a wreath,” she said and had just turned to place the one she’d picked back on its hook when Andy twisted her back around in his arms.

“What are you doing?” She asked on a little gasp. He gave her a mischievous look and she followed his raised eyes to the sprig of greenery he held over her head.

“Mistletoe,” he said. “You have to kiss me.”

Her lips gave a sexy little quirk. “You don’t need mistletoe to make me kiss you,” she said just as Andy’s lips covered hers.

“Are you guys kissing AGAIN?” Tyler complained as he and Scott came around the corner. The boys had already caught their step-grandfather and his girlfriend smooching on a bench outside while waiting for their hot chocolate.

“Kissing is yucky,” Scott wrinkled his nose. Andy chuckled and tweaked that nose.

“One day you won’t think kissing is so yucky. Especially if you find a girl as pretty as Sharon.”

“Girls are yucky.”

Sharon gave them a little pout of mock sadness. “You think I’m yucky?”

“Not you,” Tyler assured her. “We LIKE you.”

“Oh thank God, you boys had me worried for a minute.”

The boys grinned at her and then Tyler took her hand and began tugging at her.  “Mom and Dad said we had to wait for you and Papa Andy to make s’mores. Can you come now?”

Sharon gave Andy a little shrug as Scott grabbed his hand and began tugging him along too. “Looks like it’s time to go Papa Andy,” she said.

To the left of the barns small firepits dotted the landscape. Around them people stood warming their hands and toasting marshmallows to make their s’mores. Not far from the edge of the parking lot a woman was stirring a giant black kettle popping the kettle corn they were selling in a small shack next to where she made it.  

While making their s’mores they watched big draft horses pulling wagonloads of people over the trails that wound their way through the tree farm. Tyler and Scott wanted to go for a ride but because they’d already had a horse drawn sleigh ride and Andy and Sharon really wanted to reach Connecticut before suppertime they didn’t stand in line for a ride. They did however purchase big bags of maple flavored kettle corn before picking up their tree and hitting road south to Connecticut.

The stop at the tree farm had not only broken up the 5 hour drive, it had tired the boys out enough that they had both fell asleep by the time they reached the Massachusetts border.

TBC (Next chapter we’ll finally be in Connecticut and meet Sharon’s parents)

Prime Wreck

Disclaimer: Transformers, Transformers Prime, and related properties belong to Hasbro Warnings: Canon-typical language and violence Rating: T Prompt: ( @the-heroic-changeling ) In a great battle Optimus has been horrible injured, his head torn clean off. To save his spark Ratchet/Fixit come up with a plan to link Optimus to a human, to strengthen his spark and systems, and to try to replicate the hybrid of Cylas. Unfortunately, the only human who could survive the treatment is the now-Wrecker barely-an-adult Miko Nakadai, due to her long term exposure to Energon. And so Optimus becomes a Powermaster/Headmaster with Miko “Apex” Nakadai as his partner. Shenanigans ensue.…Look I’ve read through some of the original Headmasters, a lot of them were terrible matches. Mindwipe for instance. And I mean the Leader Class Optimus comes with a partner named “"Apex,” it works. And this would be really hilarious. :)

A/N: This was actually a lot of fun to play with and I really like the idea! I hope you don’t mind me using RiD timeline for this, it just seemed to fit more naturally with it. 

One time they had looked at Ratchet and told him his hands were capable of miracles. 

He didn’t care much for that, what he did took ingenuity and work and an ability to react with the sort of quick wit that could only come from years of warborn instincts. It undermined the profession, and nothing could put his circuits in a twist quite like undermining the work of a doctor.

Still, in his aging state, Ratchet found himself thinking a lot about the time they almost lost little Raf. How useless he had been with a creature so precious and feeble. 

He would almost thank the AllSpark for June Darby.

Humans in many ways were so much more delicate than Cybertronians. Ratchet had performed “miracles”, but that seemed so much less impressive when he had reconstructed Ultra Magnus’ hand with spare parts, when he had saved Bumblebee from having his voicebox ripped from his throat. 

There was so much they could endure as Cybertronians. 

He knew that. But he also knew that living on Earth for all those years had taught him that in some ways, they could only live in these days in thanks to humankind...

Miko had missed home. 

She wasn’t sure when Japan stopped being home, but she knew well enough that it had everything to do with the feeling of belonging that came with friendships that lasted a lifetime, helping to save the world, and the complete awesomeness that was being a Wrecker and fighting alongside kick butt transforming robot aliens. 

The very thought of it made her ache all over. Especially for Bulkhead. Especially Bulkhead. 

When she wasn’t selfish, she understood why she had not seen from the gang in years. When she wasn’t selfish she knew that Bulkhead especially had a huge role on the new Cybertron -- being in charge of the very reconstruction of their world and culture. 

In those rare, unselfish moments, she could not be prouder of her partner. Of her fellow Wrecker.

But those times seemed few and far between. 

After returning to Japan, she finished secondary school, and then university. She was a perfect student again, cut the died tips from her hair, played the violin. Was the pride and joy of the Nakadai household. 

And she was empty.

Until she was sent a link in an email from Raf and saw a news report. 

It was from a tabloid, laughable at best, but it mentioned real Monster Cars destroying a Monster Truck arena in some midwestern American city called Crown City. 

They feverishly messaged back and forth about the possibilities of it, what it could mean, did it mean anything at all, how much Miko missed American concerts and frivolous destructiveness like Monster Truck rallies.

She tried very hard to ignore that cc on each message was Jack, who hadn’t responded a single time. 

It was all jokes and hypotheticals when, seemingly from nowhere, Miko sent her last response by phone as she prepared to board the next flight from Tokyo International Airport on her way to Crown City.

I’m drawn to it, was the only explanation she gave Raf before boarding. 

Optimus watched the team from a distance. Being within sight, but away from the team was the closest to personal time that he got those days. 

Since his return, it had seemed as though he could not escape Bumblebee or Windblade trailing him. There seemed to be either overt concern for him or an overt need to seek approval. 

The latter had been afforded to him far less since Bumblebee came to seemingly resent Optimus’ ability to take charge of his team. 

Logically, Optimus knew he was right. But, Optimus still found that to be a hard pill to swallow. 

“You’re doing it again. You really should let me tune up your processor,” Ratchet offered, walking up from the Alchemor’s main deck. He had extended his visit upon realizing that Optimus was with Bumblebee’s team.

The Prime could not help but sense that at least in part his stay had to do with the disruptiveness of Bumblebee and Optimus’ relationship that had been on display as of late. 

“What is it that I am doing so egregiously, old friend?” Optimus asked Ratchet tiredly. 

“Looking at the others like you’re a peg that doesn’t fit,” Ratchet explained, crossing his arms across his chest. “You always act like that, but it never bothered you so much before.”

Humming, Optimus allowed his gaze to drift back from Ratchet to Bumblebee’s team. “I suppose there is truth... Since I took up the responsibility of the Primes and the Matrix of Leadership, I have accepted that socially I have few peers. That as a leader, I must be apart from the followers at times. But I always knew, even without belonging, where my place ultimately lied.”

Ratchet frowned before letting out a long vent. “Well, the AllSpark knows I’m not exactly a bot to answer on social matters, but I like to think of myself as a decent friend to at least one other bot.”

Optimus looked to him and allowed a soft smile. “And you are.”

“Our team still exists on Cybertron,” Ratchet continued. “Team Prime. Our family. Bee’s here, sure. And he’s got a duty here. But the rest of us still have places. Still have a place for our Prime.” He looked worriedly toward Optimus. “If you could just tell me why you can’t go back to Cybertron...”

“I cannot explain it, Ratchet,” Optimus sighed. “I simply know it is not the time. There is something else on Earth I must do before I can--”

No sooner had the words left his vocalizer than the junkyard’s alarm system went off loudly around them and the intercom from he Alchemor turned on to Fixit’s distinctively shrill voice. 

“Team Bee! There’s an emergency in the pretty! -- bitty! --” A loud clank echoed followed by a familiar FZZZT. “CITY! Multiple Decepticons are moving in what looks like an uncoordinated effort! You’ll need to get moving immediately!” 

“Alright, everyone!” Bumblebee called. “Rev up and roll out!”

There was no hesitation from Bumblebee’s team as they did just that. Even the might Grimlock loading himself onto a trailer obediently after hitching it to Strongarm. 

“Maybe you and I should continue this conversation,” Ratchet said over Optimus’ shoulder. “Give Bee some space, this sounds like the sort of threat his team’s been handling without us for a while anyway.”

Optimus looked back to Ratchet before transforming. “While I know my time on Earth has its reason, I do not know the time nor the place. I must be prepared to be anywhere, and at any time, Ratchet. It’s my duty as--”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” Ratchet sighed and transformed himself. Let me run the sirens so none of us have to deal with po--”

Strongarm’s own sirens lit up as she led the team behind Bumblebee.

“Ugh. Sparklings, so enthusiastic,” Ratchet grumbled as he and Optimus rolled out together.

Miko was many things, but patient was not one of them.

Upon entering Crown City, she anticipated immediately being faced with giant robots, a thunderous clamor of battle -- and maybe, just maybe, some familiar faces among them all. 

What she got was a lot of traffic and a lot of people moving in lines far more disorganized than those in Tokyo.

“Agh, this is ridic!” the Wrecker groaned before pulling out her phone to look for any messages. 

It wasn’t her new phone, the one she had been gifted with in her second year of university. It wasn’t the one she used day to day -- it was the old, pink flip phone, ornaments and all, from her time living in Jasper, Nevada. 

She wasn’t sure why she was so intent on bringing the old thing -- it hadn’t had service paid for it in at least four years. But there was a part of her -- the part remembering how useful it had been so many times to her friends -- her fellow Autobots -- that somehow just knew that it could have some use to her yet. 

Perhaps some signal from it was still on their range. Maybe it was something Bulkhead, if he were on Earth, would try to reach her through. 

Possibly. Maybe. She hoped. 

But as she got it out, swarmed by the human traffic of Crown City, Miko found that it was getting her nothing. 

“Guh,” she huffed before holding the phone open. “If only I were techy. Like Raf. Maybe I can call Raf and he can tell me something techy! Or tell me if he’s heard from Jack and Fowler. They’d have to know what was going on if the Autobots were here.”

She stopped talking to herself as she heard a low rumble and felt the Earth shake. She had felt earthquakes enough times before that she instantly could distinguish the difference in the feeling. 

Despite being surrounded by clueless people, Miko dropped down to her haunches and felt over the sidewalk with her hand and hummed to herself. “My alien-looking instincts think something big is going on!” she said excitedly before popping back up to her feet and looking back and forth. Her eyes locked on a subway station entrance and she smirked. “Bingo!”

Without any hesitation, the young woman took off for the entrance, ignoring all the people she pushed past and the attendant who yelled at her when she leaped over the toll station. 

In her hand, her pink cell clattered with each movement of its charms, and Miko couldn’t help but look at it as she leaped past the subway lines and toward the stairs into the tunnels. 

To her disappointment, it still didn’t light up or ring or give any indication that her friends were trying to contact her. 

“It’s okay. They’re busy,” Miko assured herself before pocketing the cell phone and looking ahead. There were more, stronger rumbles up ahead. “Very busy. Need a Wrecker busy!”

Without slowing down, Miko reached around her shoulder and pulled her bookbag over to her front and immediately began rummaging through it, grabbing the artifact she needed. But when she looked up, her eyes widened and she nearly skidded to a halt as she saw two people -- one man with an outrageously furry beard and a little boy -- both in bright vests and hardhats. 

“Whoa whoa there, missy! Sorry, but there’s some construction going on in this tunnel!” the man exclaimed.

The boy squinted and tilted his head. “Wait. You don’t look like a subway worker. Why’re you down in here--”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she warned, trying to rush past them only to be blocked again. “There’s more to me than meets the eye!”

Surprised, both of the people in vests looked at each other and then back to Miko.

Another rumble shook them and concern came over the people’s faces. 

Miko saw her chance and dove between them before continuing her run.

“Hey!” the older man called out.

“It’s okay! I’m good for construction! I’m a Wrecker!” she called over her shoulder. “Also, I love your beard!” 

Bumblebee knew that he had a long, long way to go to become half the leader that his mentor was. He knew that he had underutilized his past experience to focus on forging ahead with his current team, his current family. 

And he knew that the second guessing and the asserting of himself in nearly every situation was Optimus’ way of showing he wanted the best for Bee and his team. 

But it didn’t make things easier. Really, it all but did the opposite. 

And as they took on no less than four escaped Decepticons in the crowded subway tunnels of Crown City, the lack of cohesion between them had never been more apparent.

“Optimus, take Drift, Windblade, and Ratchet and fall back while we flank them!” Bumblebee ordered. 

“We should stand the wall,” Optimus argued. “The tunneling into the cement and the attacks are weakening the infrastructure of the streets above us. Allowing them to further separate will only intensify the problem and cause untold destruction to the humans living above.”

“Not if we act quickly!” Bee all but begged. “Optimus, my team’s fast -- everyone on this team other than you, Ratchet, and Grimlock have speed on their side. If you and Ratchet fall back, Grimlock keeps on the offensive to distract them, and the rest of us flank, we’ll be able to stop them before there’s any further damage--”

“Hey, if you two don’t stop arguing there won’t be time enough to stop damage and this tunnel will come down on all of our heads!” Ratchet snapped, always willing to speak up against either leader whereas the rest of the team wouldn’t dare. 

“Optimus, just listen to me!” Bmblebee begged. 

His optics were trained on Bumblebee, but with his faceplate up, there was no way for Bumblebee to really tell whether or not the Prime also had his audials trained on him. 

The frustration was about to reach its peak when there was a whistle from behind them that couldn’t help but catch their attention. 

Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Optimus all turned to look at the woman standing on the tracks behind them, her hands on her hips and a confident smirk on her face. “Looks like you all could use someone to break your tie! Someone who knows how to Wreck ‘n Roll!” Her brows waggled. “Good thing I took the initiative to come check things out on my own even though you were meanies and didn’t call me up.”

Utterly shocked, Bumblebee straightened up and looked at the girl. “Miko!?” he asked. 

"By the AllSpark!” Ratchet gasped alongside them. “Miko! Get out of here? Can’t you see there’s danger?”

“I see there’s a need to get a Wrecker in here, and since I also don’t see Bulkhead and Wheeljack around, there’s really only one answer for that!” she called out before pulling out a familiar artifact.

Bumblebee’s optics widened. “You still have the Apex Armor?” he asked just before there was a final tremor of the tunnel that drew all their attention to the Decepticons. 

“Sir!” Strongarm yelled. “Our window is closed! The tunnels are unstable--”

But if things couldn’t have been worse in Bumblebee’s mind, he saw a flash and the biggest of the Cons came lunging for his head. 

Someone else took the hit, though.

Miko had been ready, she had been waiting for years, to put the Apex Armor back on and fight alongside her Cybertronian friends. She had studied engineering, dreamed up every possible battle to the tune of every Slash Monkey playlist in her repertoire. 

She had been waiting so long for the day that she was alongside her friends once more. And within minutes it was destroyed right in front of her. 

The Decepticon who had been responsible for the tremors and concern from the Autobots had attempted to go for Bumblebee’s head. But before it had the chance to, the badger-like creature was caught by Optimus Prime’s own lunge. 

They tumbled to the tunnel floor together, crashing and rolling when the tremors began to start up again. 

Without further hesitation, Miko turned on the Apex Armor and rushed alongside Ratchet and Bumblebee to come to Optimus’ aide when Miko realized something horrible.

The pulsing and vibrating that was causing the tremors and destruction of the tunnels was caused by sonics on the Decepticon’s claw like forearms. And while those were enough to disrupt the earth itself, those claws were also going to work on Optimus’ head simultaneously with the disruptive noise. 

“Optimus!” Miko screamed before running faster. She passed Ratchet and then threw herself between the Decepticon and Optimus by sliding onto the large bot’s chest. 

Confused, the Decepticon let out a curious noise before roaring and attempting to dig through Miko and the Apex Armor in the same way it had been attacking Optimus. 

Of course, the artifact’s main purpose was to be invulnerable to any kind of attack. 

“You mess with the Big Guy,” Miko warned before uppercutting him. “You’re gonna be wrecked!”

While Miko was far smaller than the average Cybertronian even in the Apex Armor, Wheeljack had been sure to teach her moves that used that height and relative speed to her advantage.

When the attacks rolled off of her, she let out a yell and threw herself into a forceful punch that united with the jaw of the Decepticon and sent it unsteadily back to its feet. It swung again wildly with its arm, sonics still going, but rather than absorb the shock as she had last time, Miko ducked under the swipe and slammed her shoulder into the exposed undercarriage of the combatant.

After a howl, the creature went tumbling toward the Autobots that had been with Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet. 

“Yes,” she said excitedly, watching as the Autobots wasted no time in apprehending the Decepticon. But the joy was only temporary.

Gasping, Miko turned back and saw that Bumblebee, Ratchet, and a jet-like Cybertronian that Miko hadn’t met before were surrounding Optimus.

He still wasn’t up. 

“Optimus!” she cried out, hitting the Apex Armor’s button on her chest and barely waiting for the retraction of the suit before she was racing to their sides. “Optimus! H-how bad is he!?”

“We have to get him to the junkyard. I’ll need all the medical supplies Fixit has ready for me by the time we get there. It’s going to be emergency surgery without even a CR chamber to aid us,” Ratchet announced with a firm shake of his head.

“We’ll use Grimlock’s trailer and tarp,” Bumblebee said. “I’ll hitch it, I’m faster than Strongarm. 

“I’ll fly ahead and let Fixit know the situation,” the jet-bot said before getting to her feet and taking only a few steps before transforming and blasting off through the tunnels. 

“Why aren’t you using a ground bridge!? Get him home immediately!” Miko cried out, confused and upset. This was not how her reunion was supposed to be going.

"The one Bee has is too unreliable, this is the safest--” Ratchet began before smacking his faceplate and then looking back to Miko. “What are you doing here, Miko!?”

“It’s my planet, Ratchet! What are you doing here without telling me first?” she cried out. 

“We don’t have time for this!” Ratchet snapped as a giant dinosaur robot, of all things, brought over a trailer and hitched it up to Bumblebee’s carmode. “Get Optimus on the trailer and secure him! We’re going to be going fast!” Ratchet ordered to the other remaining Autobots. 

“Sir, yessir!” a blue and white one said with a salute.

“Miko!” Ratchet grouched as he transformed into the ambulance Miko knew and loved. His passenger door flung open. “Get in!”

“I’m old enough to drive now, you know,” she said, racing over to his open door. 

“Miko!” Ratchet warned.

“Just letting you know, it’s been a while since we saw each, at least for me it has been,” she said as she slid into the seat. She didn’t have an option about the seatbelt -- it was across her before she could even blink, and they were off, sirens blaring. “Ratchet... Is... is everything going to be okay? When did Optimus come back from being dead? When did you all get here?” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Did I track you all down just to lose you again?”

“Miko,” Ratchet said more quietly, tiredly, through the radio. “I don’t have all the answers for you. But I have missed you three. And Ms. Darby.”

Miko gave a broken smile. “And Agent Fowler?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Ratchet replied. 

That was enough to get a sad laugh out of Miko. She was happy for it, even if deep down it didn’t sit quite right in her chest. Ratchet wasn’t the joking type, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was meant more to hide something from her... something even a human would know, like fear.

Ratchet kept himself in the field medic mindset as much as he possibly could. 

It brought back memories of war, of failures, of limitations, but it didn’t matter. Because he had treated these situations like it was Optimus on the surgeon’s slab before in situations like the Cybonic Plague before and it led to him nearly betraying ever medical sense he had. 

And Ratchet was afraid, especially after having just gotten Optimus back in his life, that he was about to lose his dearest friend again. That he wouldn’t be able to do his very job with that fear shaking him from helm to servo. 

The moment they reached the junkyard, Ratchet transformed, mindful of Miko and making sure to hold her in his hands as he did so. 

Still, the girl swayed and grabbed onto his thumb to keep from falling completly over. “Yup, been a while since that,” she mumbled to herself before stepping down from Ratchet’s hands onto the ground. 

“Stay here, Miko,” Ratchet said despite knowing the girl better. 

He walked toward the wreckage of the Alchemor as Fixit came rushing out.

“Woah!” Miko called out, sure enough following Ratchet despite orders. “That’s a mini-mini-Cybertronian.”

“Just one mini,” Ratchet corrected her, more out of habit than fully being “there” for the conversation. He looked seriously toward Fixit. “Do you have everything prepared? Bumblebee will arrive with Optimus in just a minute.”

“Everything’s Freddy -- Steady -- FFZZT -- Ready! Sir,” Fixit said, his own servos turning into surgical tools. 

Windblade leaped down from the bow of the Alchemor -- the zealous protector of Primus was looking nearly sick, her arms hugging herself as she walked toward Ratchet. “I should have stopped him -- I was so dizzy from the sonics blasting I didn’t even think of using my wind turbines--”

“Which would’ve been a disaster with all of us in close quarters,” Ratchet snapped. When he saw the way Windblade dropped her head he sighed and reached over to grab her shoulder. “Windblade, I have known Optimus since before he was a Prime, and let me assure you that there is close to nothing that can stop him from doing something he’s set his mind to once he’s set his mind to it. I’ve been the one that’s tried before, it never works out well.”

She looked up at him gratefully. 

The moment did not last long, however, as Bumblebee soared into the junkyard, nearly spinning in a complete circle to line up the trailer with the available surgeon’s slab that Fixit had prepared. 

Without wasting another moment, Bumblebee transformed and reached Ratchet’s side. “We need to get started! Tell me what to do!”

"Get that trailer back to your team so that they can get Grimlock here safely,” Ratchet said as he and Windblade moved to pick up Optimus and shift him from the trailer to the slab.

“No way!” Bee spat back. “Optimus is only like this because he was trying to save me! I refuse to leave him now--”

“And do what, Bumblebee? You are not a medical doctor or an engineer,” Ratchet pointed out. “You are a leader and right now your team needs you to put them first.”

“Optimus is first!” Bee snapped. 

“If he was able to right now, he’d smack you upside the helm for that,” Ratchet snapped.

“He wouldn’t,” Bee argued.

“You’re right, but I would and I’m fine,” Ratchet argued, smacking Bumblebee over the back of his head. “Get yourself together -- be the leader that your team needs, that Optimus knows you are. And leave me to do my best work. You know I won’t fail Optimus of all bots.”

Bee was still torn but he transformed and took off immediately. 

Taking a breath, Ratchet turned back to the surgeon’s slab, to the horrific damage that had been done to Prime’s head. 

“Scrap,” Ratchet said, transforming his servos into tools. “Let’s get to work.”

Miko had climbed onto one of the scaffolding in the maze of a junkyard in order to sit atop it and watch from a viewable distance as Ratchet and the orange minibot worked at a rampant pace to try and save Optimus. 

It also kept her far enough away that no one could see the tears welling up in her eyes due to the multitude of emotions she was feeling throughout all of the mess. 

Bee hovered nearby Optimus and the operation, but the other Autobots that Miko couldn’t place and, more importantly, simply didn’t now, remained a far distance from Miko. Each looked to her cautiously and worriedly, as if they didn’t know what to make of the Wrecker. 

Like she had never been brought up before. 

Despite all logic, she was honestly taken by surprise when the human boy from the subway tunnels climbed his way up the scaffolding and made his way to her. 

“Hi,” he said, raising a cautious brow at her. 

Sniffing, Miko rubbed roughly at her wet cheek. “Hello.”

“My name’s Russell, Russell Clay,” he explained awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “This is my dad’s junkyard and... um. I guess it’s nice to know we’re not the only humans who know about the Autobots anymore?”

“That’s ‘cuz you never were the only ones,” Miko said, hugging her knees tighter as she looked out toward Optimus. “They were here before. They were... friends with us before. And now they just...” 

When she looked back, she could see the little boy was a bit intimidated by her sourness, and had shifted uncomfortably away. Which was far from fair to him. 

Sucking it up a bit, Miko rubbed her face and smacked her cheeks a few times to wake up in a way. Then she turned more toward Russell and offered her hand. “Hello, Russell, my name is Miko Nakadai. I used to be friends with Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee and... I don’t see them here -- but Arcee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack, and Smokescreen, too. Especially Bulkhead and Wheeljack. I’m one of the Wreckers.”

She took so much pride in the statement, in the facts, that she had hardly taken stock of Russell’s reaction until a cool moment of silence had lapsed between them. 

It was then that Miko looked and saw that Russell’s expression was blank and meaningless. And when he saw her aghast, he offered a little smile and a thumbs up. 

“Yeah! Sounds... great!” he offered.

Narrowing her eyes, Miko hugged her knees again. “You haven’t heard anything about us, have you?” she asked in a near pout. 

“Um, no,” Russell admitted, rubbing at his neck. “But I really did mean it! It sounds very cool--”

“Ugh! Save it!” she snapped, throwing up her arms. “Obviously no one cared enough to let their new friends in on it... no one cared enough to even get in contact with us.” Miko chewed on her lip, eyes blurring. “Raf hadn’t talked to me in forever before hearing things in the news. I still haven’t heard from Jack. Why would the Autobots still be my friends when I can’t even keep the ones I have in the same species.”

The little boy’s mouth opened, obviously searching for some sort of answer he could offer, but when it didn’t come he shut his mouth and rubbed awkwardly at his shoulder instead. 

“Miko.”

Both Miko and Russell looked to see Bumblebee standing just below the scaffolding. Miko had been so wrapped up in the conversation, she hadn’t even noticed Bumblebee leaving his trail of pacing. 

“What?” she asked back, rubbing roughly at her teary eyes. By the time she sniffed and looked, she saw Bee had a hand held out toward her to help her down. 

“Things are scary right now,” he said softly. “I could use an old friend.” 

"Let me know when you find one,” Miko sniffed, still rubbing at her eyes as she got to her feet and reached out. Bumblebee’s smile was soft and it forced Miko to give one watery version of her own as she held onto his thumb and stepped into his hands. 

Bumblebee carried Miko to somewhere far enough away from the others that they could sit and talk, but still just elevated enough that they could keep their lookout over the operation, and on Optimus. 

For a moment, a comfortable silence fell between them, sitting there side by side. 

It was far from like old times but it was familiar.

“Raf would probably give anything to switch places with me right now,” Miko finally broke the silence. “He misses you a lot.”

“He was my first friend on Earth,” Bumblebee said lowly. “He understood me... I don’t know how. But we were basically meant to run into each other. Meant to help each other.” He tilted his head. “I keep trying to imagine how much he’s grown, how big he is now -- I mean, look at you, Miko! You’re a woman now.”

“People keep reminding me,” she replied. “And you’d probably get to see how big Raf is now if you ever got in contact with him -- with any of us! How long have you all been here? Why... why wouldn’t you tell us you’re back? And don’t say it was for safety. Look how much butt I kicked down in the subway.”

“I can’t risk getting as involved as we did last time,” Bee explained. “When we were on Earth, when we were in Jasper, we built a relationship with the military because we believed that Cybertron was dead and that our residence on Earth was near permanent. That working together was the only hope we had both of surviving and of protecting humankind from the Decepticons.” He looked toward the group of Autobots that Miko had never met before. “That’s all different now. My team... Our team here is a small, volunteer group trying to capture escaped Decepticon fugitives. And we’re trying to do so without interfering with the politics of the world again. No favors owed to Agent Fowler or any other handler that’d be sent our way. Even if it’s an old, familiar face.”

Miko looked up to Bumblebee warily. “Even if that old face was Raf’s?”

To her surprise, the Autobot physically flinched at the pointed question. His head ducked slightly and he let out a sigh before looking back at Miko sorrowfully. “Look, we were friends with Agent Fowler, of course, but not everyone in the government trusted us, remember? Do you really think there’s any way that I could have contacted you guys -- any of you -- without it being traced? That you guys aren’t watched?”

Surprised, especially since it was a conspiracy that she’d never thought of herself before, Miko shifted. “Oh.”

“Not to mention, Jack is a career military person now, Raf works in intelligence -- and you’re not exactly short of celebrity in the robotics world in Japan these days,” Bumblebee continued. “You guys attract a lot of attention with all your acclaim.”

Doing a double take, Miko stared at Bumblebee in surprise before covering her mouth. “You... You keep track of us?”

“Of course I do,” Bee said. “I watch out for all of my friends. I’m proud of them. And it hurts me to not be able to reach out to them anymore.”

“Aw, Bee,” Miko said, watery eyes again acting up. She ignored them in favor of throwing herself against his waist and hugging him the best she could. “You’ve grown up a lot, too, Bumblebee.”

She felt him gently stroke her back with one of his fingers, but it stopped as the heavy steps of another bot came their way. 

Miko looked over her shoulder from her hug with Bumblebee to see Ratchet standing before them. His expression was grave but calculated. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “Ratchet... Please don’t say anything’s wrong! Please don’t have bad news--”

“Optimus!?” Bumblebee asked in alarm, taking his hand away from Miko. 

Ratchet’s face was a calculated neutral. “The damage is bad, and our access to Cybertronian resources is, as you know, severely limited at the moment. But... Denny Clay and Fixit think they have an idea that could make all the difference.”

"Then let’s do it!” Miko said, jumping to her feet. “What’re you waiting for? What can I do to help -- I work with robotics in Japan. My brain’s ripe for picking, Ratchet!”

“Good,” Ratchet said firmly. “Because it’s not just your brain we need, Miko. It’s the Apex armor.”

Catching herself surprised yet again, Miko glanced first to a stunned Bumblebee then back to Ratchet. Taking a deep breath, she nodded firmly. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

When he awoke, Optimus was half expecting a new lesson from Micronus Prime.  

What he was not expecting was to hear a voice he had not heard in years. 

“Please tell me you’re going to be okay, Optimus. We did a lot of things to make sure you would be okay. Lot of work. Lots of work that was no fun because of Ratchet.”

“Miko,” he said, faintly unsure of what time he had woken up in, or where her voice was coming from. But it seemed to be within him.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t say my name too much while we’re out kicking butt and taking names. I need, like, a codename! Something great and cool and--”

Optimus cycled on his optics at last and saw Ratchet and Bumblebee staring down at him in concern. “My friends,” he greeted them.

“Optimus!” Bumblebee cried out in relief, grabbing his hand. “I can’t believe it worked. It’s absolutely crazy but you got it to work, Ratchet you’re a genius!”

“I had help,” Ratchet said reluctantly, grabbing Optimus’ other hand and gently helping him to sit up. “How does it feel, Optimus?”

Optimus glanced around. He could see Bee’s team, Ratchet, the Clay family who had opened their home to them, and he could see Windblade. All excited and relieved. 

“I do not see Miko,” he replied. 

“I’m here with you, big guy,” she said, once more hearing him inside himself. “W needed the Apex Armor to save your processor. It was damaged, a lot of physical actions weren’t connecting. So you need a conduit. And the conduit? Is me.”

“This is a strange turn of events,” Optimus announced. “But I can see my purpose -- laying the groundwork for a true unification between Earth and Cybertronian. My purpose.”

“If you think so, Optimus,” Ratchet replied. 

“So about codenames,” Miko continued. “I’m thinking... Headmaster.”

Heartstrings (Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader)

A/N: So this one is based off a request that I unfortunately can’t find (sorry omg). That being said, it ended up changing a lot from what the request actually was. I’m not sure if I’m completely satisfied with it, but hey, here it is!

Summary: You’re asked to be a part of the Hamilton orchestra, and then some. Of course, that means spending a bit of quality time with one Lin-Manuel Miranda

Word Count: 2,918

Masterlist 

You made your way downtown, your violin in hand. You hummed to yourself to calm your nerves. It wouldn’t do well to look as anxious as you felt on your first day of work.

You were to be in the orchestra for a show called Hamilton. You were still in shock as to how you got asked to be a part of a show whose intentions were to go off-Broadway just freshly out of university. Sure, you had been playing several instruments since the age of 5, and had attended Juilliard, but you thought there would be a lot more of the clichéd “starving artist” period before you would make anything remotely big. Not that you were complaining, of course.

You just had to work harder not to fuck this up.

A friend of yours had been recently in touch with a man named Alex Lacamoire, who was working on Hamilton. Upon being asked if there were any openings for the orchestra, Alex had said that there was still a lot of work to be done before an orchestra could even be incorporated, but if they had anyone in mind he would definitely give them a shot. Not even a week later you had had a one-on-one audition with the great man of music himself.

…

“It’s nice too meet you, Y/N,” Alex said upon greeting you.

“You too,” you smiled brightly and shook his hand.

“So for this audition, you’re gonna play some things, and then we’ll jam out. However, before we begin, I’m just curious, and please answer honestly, tell me what music is to you.”

The question had caught you off-guard. You were expecting to play for the man, maybe talk about your previous experience at most. You took a moment to think it through.

“Music to me is… is the soul of the world. It bends to what we will it to bend to. Its different genres give us endless potential to create and can be used for different purposes. It’s this… this unique force that can lend itself to creation, to healing, to love, to destruction, and so many other things. Without music, we couldn’t convey so much of what we do. It forces us to listen and to understand and to empathize. Without it, expression would be so stifled and limited. Music makes us as humans better. It enhances and enriches our lives.”

Alex looked at you for a solid few moments and you held your breath. You had gotten a bit carried away with yourself, but upon seeing a smile grow on Alex’s face, you figured your honest answer hadn’t been half bad.

Alex then led you through a few simple songs that you had to cold read, to which you played on your violin. Then he challenged you to play by ear and match him as he played on piano. After a few melodies of those, he told you that you could continue playing the same notes he was, or you could get creative. Deciding on the latter, you two began what could have resembled a casual jam session had this not been an audition. After playing a few different melodies, he gave you a curious look.

“That was an interesting choice for the last one.”

“Well I chose to compliment and not overpower. I felt that I only really needed to come in at the end of each section, therefore highlighting the beginning and giving the piano more importance. Music is about give, take and balance, and knowing when to highlight certain sections and instruments in order to create the most impact.”

Alex couldn’t hold back his grin, which gave you hope.

“Well spoken… Y/N, out of curiosity, how many instruments do you play?”

“Um, well violin, viola, piano, cello, guitar, flute, and clarinet. So seven. Oh! But I’ve learned a little bit on the trumpet too, so I can manage fairly well if I practise a song enough.”

“Y/N, how would you like to be a part of Hamilton?”

…

You were stunned at the offer, but accepted readily. What was even better, Alex had not only offered you a part in the orchestra, but also a part on the creative team. He told you that you looked at music differently than most people that he knew. You could listen to something and see what it needed to be the best version of itself, depending on what the intent was. It was exactly what Hamilton needed, and he would love to have you on the team.

Alex, or Lac, as he told you to call him, explained to you what his role as the Music Director was. He then went on to tell you that after getting permission from their Production Manager to do so, he was searching for an Assistant Musical Director to shadow him and assist him so that he could spend more time with his wife and newborn child, while still being able to work on Hamilton. In other words, he wanted you to be the right-hand to the right-hand man.

This was why you were on your way to what he had called a “Cabinet Meeting” with himself, director Tommy Kail, and the mind behind its conception, Lin-Manuel Miranda. You had heard of In the Heights, and in fact loved it. You loved the infusion of both salsa, hip-hop and rap being incorporated into a musical. Lin and Lac were geniuses, in your opinion. Now you had the incredible opportunity to work alongside them. You really didn’t want to fuck this up.

You took a breath before you entered the building and looked for the right room. You heard voices close by, and peering in, you found Lac standing with two other men by a piano, so you walked in quietly. Noticing your arrival, Lac waved you over.

“Hey! Y/N, this is Tommy and Lin,” he said as you shook their hands respectively.

“Guys, this is Y/N, and she is incredible,” he grinned at you.

You let out a small laugh, the tension you had been holding slowly releasing.

“Wow now that is the best introduction I’ve ever gotten.”

“Well you deserve it,” Lac said, grinning.

“So you’re the illustrious Y/N we’ve heard so much about,” Lin said with a smile. “I must say, the only thing Lac didn’t tell us about you was how beautiful you are.”

He then took your hand and kissed it. You felt your face burn with a blush and you remained speechless. Tommy hit Lin upside the head, breaking the moment as Lac laughed.

“You know that’s not what I meant by, ‘you need to practice being more of a flirt so you can characterize Alexander better,” Tommy said with a playful roll of his eyes.

“In all fairness, Tommy, you didn’t give me parameters on who I was allowed and not allowed to flirt with,” he joked.

You then realized that he hadn’t let go of your hand and you blushed a little bit. Lin seemed to notice the same thing you had, and gave your hand an extra squeeze before letting it go.

The rest of the meeting went by in a blur. Everyone caught you up to speed on where the script was at, giving you a copy, including sheet music for the existing songs. More than once your eyes held Lin’s gaze for just a fraction of a second more than what was considered appropriate, resulting in your fumbling responses, to which Lin only smiled fondly at you.

The meeting ended with the promise of attending the next day’s rehearsal to sign your contract, meet the cast and get a feel for what the process was like. Lac and Tommy left fairly quickly soon afterward, leaving you and Lin to pack up your things.

“You know I’m really glad you’re joining our team, Y/N,” Lin said enthusiastically, to which you smiled brightly at him.

“I am too. I mean I was glad to get any job, but knowing that I get to work with the genius behind In the Heights still has me pinching myself to make sure it isn’t a dream.”

“You’re a ‘Heights’ fan?” Lin looked at you with a curious expression.

“Are you kidding me? You incorporated so many different genres that are thought to be unconventional for musical theatre into a musical, and not only that, don’t even get me started on how well it all blended. Like it just flows, you know? There was so much attention to detail, like creating a melody with things like Usnavi’s celebratory rap in “It Won’t Be Long Now”. At a glance, it can seem very separate but it’s all just distinct beats that are repeated in sequence but emphasized, and the flow was created due to the stress on the rhymes, which are accented by the Spanish words most notably. But yeah - yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away…” you trailed off, feeling a faint blush creep up on your cheeks as you realized Lin had been staring at you dumbfounded.

“Hey don’t apologize! Never say you’re sorry for getting passionate about things,” Lin said earnestly, grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. “And if I’m being honest,” he continued. “I could listen to you talk about music all day.”

“Well, we’re gonna be spending the next few months, if not more, together, so be careful what you wish for, because that’s exactly what you’re gonna be getting.”

“I can’t wait,” he grinned genuinely at you.

…

When you joined the next day’s rehearsal and signed the contract you couldn’t get the smile off your face. Lin had caught you off guard by greeting you with a hug the moment you set down your violin. You giggled as he literally picked you up off your feet. When he placed you back on the ground again, you had immediately been bombarded by the cast introducing themselves to you. Throughout the greetings and occasional hugs (some of them were very affectionate, you could tell), Lin had stayed by your side, watching you with a tender expression on his face, unknown to you of course. You were struck by the fact that everyone had been so kind to you, and it made you even more excited to be working at Hamilton.

Throughout the rehearsal you stayed quiet, wanting to observe the dynamic that the company had already created in order so that you wouldn’t disrupt it. Counteracting that, of course was Lin, who would jump at any chance to include you in discussions or conversations. By the time the lunch break had rolled around, you felt like you were part of the team.

“Y/N, you have to play us something!” Jasmine grinned at you when she saw that you had perched yourself on the piano bench, as though you were in your natural habitat.

You blushed at her words.

“Oh I don’t know…”

“Awe come on Y/N!” Oak pleaded.

“You know they won’t let up until you actually do it,” Lin added with a hopeful grin.

“I don’t know…”

“What if I sing along?” Lin suggested

“What is this, Glee?” you retorted, causing him to laugh.

You couldn’t help but think to yourself how you would love to hear that sound more often.

“Okay then, smartass, we’ll play a duet on the piano instead,” Lin said as he sat beside you.

Since it was clear that you weren’t getting out of this, you rolled your eyes playfully at him.

“Fine, but remember, you asked for it.”

You could feel Lin smiling widely as you began to play. After a few seconds, he joined in with his melody. You didn’t know how long you played for since you always had a tendency to get lost in music when you played. You tried not to focus on how well you two had been playing together, as though you had always been improvising piano duets with him. Letting your instincts take over, you allowed your eyes to close as you continued to play along with Lin.

After what you assumed to be another minute, perhaps two or three, you realized that Lin was no longer playing with you. You opened your eyes and stopped playing abruptly, only to be startled when everyone began clapping, causing you to blush under all the attention.

“Y/N that was so good!” Jasmine exclaimed cheerfully.

“Oh, you know, it was nothing. Besides, I had a great duet partner,” you smiled at Lin, hoping to take some of the attention off of yourself.

“No way. The last two minutes were all you, and they were two minutes of pure beauty,” he said, reaching up to brush a stray hair away from your face and tuck it behind your ear.

“Although,” he continued in a quieter tone than before, “I believe that with you, every moment is beautiful.”

The cast’s “ooooohs” and subsequent commentary fell on your deaf ears as you took in Lin’s adoring gaze.

…

“No.”

Lac played another melody on the piano, and you sighed.

“No,” you both said in unison.

You had been working on Hamilton for just over two months, and were currently in one of the rehearsal rooms with Lac trying to perfect one of the songs that Lin had sent you.

“There’s just something missing,” Lac said.

“I know, and I’m determined to get it right before Lin gets here.”

“You know it’s not like you need to prove yourself,” Lac said, a knowing look on his face.

“I know… I just - I want to-”

“Make him proud?”

You could practically hear Lac’s smile in his voice and you blushed.

“Well I mean… Yeah…”

“If you ask me, he feels more than pride when he thinks of you,” Lac winked at you and you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Before Lac could respond, you heard Lin’s voice as he approached.

“Hello, hello, hello! Now what are we cooking today? I mean, besides you, Y/N, because you look smoking,” he winked and you let out a laugh.

Lin had taken to flirting with you consistently since the day you met, claiming that he still needed to master Hamilton’s flirtatiousness.

“You know I think I’ve heard better pick up lines than that,” you retorted.

“I’ve definitely heard better ones,” Lac said with a roll of his eyes as he discreetly hid the music you were just working on in favour of the ones for the song you had finished an hour ago.

You and Lin smiled at each other for a few moments before you looked away, clearing your throat as you realized you had been staring for just a moment too long.

“So, this is what Y/N and I came up with for The Story of Tonight,” Lac spoke up when neither of you said anything else.

Lac began to play the sequence, and you joined in on your violin. The only real thing you did was to add some more violin to the melody, but otherwise you had left it untouched. However, Lin looked at you with such caring and happy eyes that you couldn’t help but blush under his gaze, forcing yourself to focus harder on the task at hand. When you and Lac finished, Lin was grinning at you.

“That was incredible!”

“Thanks. I mean, we didn’t even do much to it-”

“But you added what it needed for it to be the best it could be,” Lin assured you.

You smiled at him and found yourself lost in his eyes. The moment was lost when Lac cleared his throat, startling you both.

“Right. Yeah. Okay. So um, anyway, Lac wrote up the new sheet music for this song,” you managed to say, even though your mind was clouded by thoughts of Lin and his gorgeous eyes.

“Of course he did. You know, I’d be so lost without him,” Lin grinned.

“You’re not wrong,” Lac replied. “Though now you do have Y/N as a contingency plan should anything ever happen to me,” he smirked.

“Nah, she’s more than a contingency plan,” he said softly.

You blushed and smiled at him.

“You know a bit more practise, and you may just have this flirting thing down,” you teased.

As Lin let out a laugh that was more melodic than any music you had ever heard, you realized that you were really getting in too deep.

“Yeah well the day that happens is the day I finally manage to sweep you off your feet,” he said with a wink, causing you to giggle.

“You’re ridiculous,” you replied.

Of course he wasn’t being serious. This is just how your friendship was with Lin. He would flirt, you would get flustered, and you would both laugh about how silly it all was. After all, it’s not like he would ever feel the same way toward you as you felt about him.

“Ridiculously smooth, you mean.”

“In your dreams,” you teased.

“Duh. But in my dreams you’re the one who’s telling me that.”

You couldn’t help but relish in the way that Lin reached for your hand and kissed it. You thought to yourself that you really didn’t mind being in so deep. After all, it’s not like you could dig your way out at this point.

If you were being honest, you really didn’t want to.

Besides, when had a little celebrity crush ever hurt anyone?

Providing Children The Nourishment They Need.

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A history of politicians getting sports

White House Chief of Staff Reince Priebus reportedly emerged from the GOP’s House health care victory last week with the aid of telling a reporter, “The president stepped up and helped punt the ball into the stop area,” a statement that assumes:

You can score touchdowns even as punting.

Punters have helpers, and . . .

Trump wanted to… thoroughly return the ball to the opposing group?

Whatever. We take Priebus’s which means, and it’s entirely feasible he mixed up metaphors within the giddy thrill of having an invoice a third of the manner too of the entirety. But he’s the brand new instance of why politicians sought to prevent with the bringing up of sports:

John Kerry: There are two belongings you don’t do in Michigan: Be in the Insane Clown Posse, and claim to be an Ohio State fan. Kerry did the second, and truly we’ve yet to peer evidence he hasn’t achieved the previous. Kerry also as soon as referred to as Lambeau Field “Lambert,” to be cool. Also once called Michael Jordan “Aunt Sally.” OK, that closing one didn’t manifest, but it’s not too a long way off.

Ted Cruz: Thick inside the midst of the GOP primary

Trump’s scow liest frenemy stepped to the stage in Indiana and — ignoring the silent pleas of all of Indiana who saw this about to unfold in terrible gradual movement — crucified Gene Hackman’s speech before the championship recreation at the stop of “Hoosiers:” “The first-rate factor is, that basketball ring here in Indiana is the equal height as it’s far in New York City and every different place in this use,” he stated, pointing to what is usually called a “rim” or a “hoop.” Somewhere Dennis Hopper changed into feverishly leaping up and down on a mattress, and by Dennis Hopper I simply me.

Acoustic Guitars Through History

You can play it along with your finger or a select. You can strum it quietly or you can extend it for maximum sound. What is it? It’s the acoustic guitar, something that, in one form or every other has been around for centuries. The major source of sound comes from the strings which vibrate at exceptional frequencies depending on their period, tension and mass. You sincerely pick the strings to create distinctive notes and tones and, when you placed it all collectively, you’re gambling music.

In the Middle Ages, those instruments have been called gitterns

And they gave the look of and had been played just like the late, they even had the rounded lower back like a lute. As we got into the Renaissance technology the dimensions of those units got large and the form changed into something we might don’t forget more current guitar like. They originated in Spain and had been referred to as vihuelas. This call was an extensive term given to many string contraptions so within the sixteenth century they have been divided into two categories: vihuela de arco which became like a present day violin and vihuela de Penola that changed into played both by way of hand or with a plectrum. If the tool became played by means of hand, the term vihuela de mano became used and this is what became the present day guitar because it used hand movements on the strings and had a valid hole to be able to create the music.

While Spain is the birthplace and hometown of the guitar, the actual production of them genuinely ramped up in France.

They were so popular that human beings commenced producing copies of the well-known fashions. Some even went to jail for stealing famous maker’s paintings. It turned into a father-son duo named Robert and Claude Denis even though who surely elevated the recognition of the instrument, as they produced masses of them during the period.

By the past due 1700’s simplest a six-course vihuela guitar turned into being made and offered in Spain. This has become the standard guitar and had seventeen frets and six guides with the primary two strings tuned in unison in order that the G turned into actual strings. This is while we subsequently see the shape and similarities to trendy gadgets. Of path now we have single strings in place of pairs, and by the nineteenth century, the instrument had completely advanced, except for size, to be the six single stringed guitars that we know today.

The Six-Year-Old Politicians

What is taking place with politics in the States and on a worldwide scale?

Imagine you’re a six-year-old in a schoolyard. Fenced in, contained, underneath the guideline of bullies and the authorities. Mull over the concept that the old patriarchal paradigm becomes put in location and is administered by means of six-year-olds. The truth is the government have grown-up bodies, however, their brains are nonetheless functioning as a six-yr-old. Let me give an explanation for.

Your Brain and the Old Paradigm

Neural programs are installed location by the time you are six-years-old and decide 95% of your movements. According to molecular biologist Dr. Bruce Lipton, you have got an aware mind and unconscious thoughts. The unconscious thoughts is a million instances extra effective in processing facts than the aware thoughts. In addition, the subconscious mind controls your behavior approximately ninety-five% of the time.

Your unconscious generates 40 million nerve impulses according to 2nd and operates during ninety-five% of the day, whilst your aware mind fires forty nerve impulses in keeping with 2nd and runs for only 5% of the day. Do the mathematics; your subconscious programming controls your life except you exchange it.

Everything you research within the first six years is absorbed and becomes your essential fact.

That method, whatever your circle of relatives, lifestyle, race and faith believed and practiced is neurologically stressed in your body.

When you understand that nearly each person is functioning from programs that have been set down by means of the age of six, you may begin to see the arena with a brand new perspective. As you comprehend that authorities, maximum agencies, and agencies are run via six-12 months-olds who’re basing their actions on worry, you have a first rate advantage. The implications this information is amazing.

Remember while you had been six, playing on the faculty playground? The six-12 months-vintage bullies within the schoolyard are going for walks the authorities and the economic system. Everyone is scared of them. The authorities businesses adjust their regulations to keep the bullies happy. The bullies are the large businesses, Wall Street, politicians, and the old patriarchal paradigm.

At the instant six-year-vintage, bullies are constantly stirring up the problem to overrun humanity. The overestimated bullies belittle others in order that they experience higher about themselves. Instead of facing internal disgrace and disrespect they take it out on all and sundry else. The huge bullies are honestly the cowards who do not have the courage to see what is lurking internal their frame and thoughts. It is much less complicated to spew rage, hatred, and anger than it’s miles to grow up.

Do you want a six-year-old walking your lifestyles?

Humanity is at a turning point. We can go away the six-yr-old bullies at the back of and pass onto a new playing discipline. The oppressors are currently getting more violent, abusive and controlling. Escape the cracked warm cement playground surrounded by chain hyperlink fences with a barbed cord on top. Leave the guards on the gate. What will show up when a critical mass of human beings graduate, and the best ones left on the old playground are the bullies?

Learning English Impacts Sports – Importance of Learning English For Athletes

You are watching tv. You see your preferred overseas boxer, Manny Pacquiao, who once more simply knocked out a title contender. With a bloodied face and a dislocated nostril, the opponent continues to be uncoordinated from the dizzying blows he obtained. You upward push out of your seat and shout in victory together with your idolized athlete. And then, after the initial victory cries and congratulations, it’s miles now time for the interview.

The interviewer asks, “So Manny, what can you tell us about your combat?”

Manny answers, “I umm.. Ahh.. Am glad about combat.”

Your favored champion stutters and speaks in an English you can not apprehend. You are disillusioned and your self-assurance and awe for him are faded. Indeed, in information, information, interviews, and write-ups – the English language dominates the sector of Sports.

Here are the reasons why studying English is crucial for the sports athlete:

As an athlete grows in achievements and reputation, he’s more exposed globally with fanatics that come from one of a kind international location and with unique nationalities as properly. With English as the most spoken language within the international, being able to express one’s self with an easy to apprehend English enables the athlete to talk extra efficaciously to lovers. Moreover, he can reach more people, explicit his passion, and even educate listeners through his reviews.

Having an amazing draw close of English we could an athlete talk higher with his group of workers and instruct.

It isn’t always unusual for athletes who are non-native English audio system to have coaches and managerial or promotional body of workers who have English as their native language. Learning English lets athletes have extra opportunities to make money thru classified ads. Most international groups like Nike use English as their medium for commercials. It is commonplace that they soak up international sports athletes for their commercials – once in a while requiring those non-local English speakers to utter some lines to promote their merchandise. Having a terrific draw close of English or at the least an acceptable accessory makes the athlete and the product he endorses greater saleable. It can be tough for human beings to buy sports drink from a sports activities parent who can’t even pronounce the product effectively.