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artificialqueens · 4 years

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I Want to Believe (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary: A believer and a skeptic shouldn’t work. Everything about them clashes. But somehow Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo and Brooke Lynn Hytes manage just fine. (an X-Files au one shot)

A/N: So this is…something. I honestly don’t know what to call it. It’s not inspired by any specific episode of the X-Files, and you don’t need to be familiar with the show to read this. Thank you Writ for betaing and supporting this, you’re the best. I’d really appreciate any feedback you have!

(Now)

Everything about them clashes, but the most obvious is their desks.

Vanessa’s is messy and haphazard. Week—and maybe even month, by the smell of one—old coffee cups are scattered along the surface and obscuring the lone photo on her desk, drops of coffee sticking to her computer keyboard and staining her stacks of newspaper articles, with quotes circled in frantic red pen. Not an inch is clean, even the drawers covered with taped-up newspaper articles and blurry photos, the insides crammed with handwritten accounts and old books of mythical creatures and her chip stash. Everything is urgent—Vanessa works with a breathless passion that moves into her desk, everything she cares about laid bare on the surface for all to see, with the sense that she was working as fast as she could, wanting to find things (find the truth) before it was too late.

Brooke’s is just like her: neat, sparse, and secretive. She wipes the top down each week with Lysol, getting rid of her own coffee remnants. She keeps all her notes in a fancy leather notebook in handwriting so neat it looks typewritten, all her files in alphabetical order in a folder. There’s nothing personal on the top, save one picture. The bottom drawer is where Brooke really is, hidden behind metal like the real Brooke. That’s where she keeps the Snickers bars she sneaks on the sly, where she keeps the plush kitten keychain she likes to smooth her hands over, even the trashy magazines she pretends not to read. Her dedication is there in the notes and files and endless searching, not stopping until she has answers—answers that usually contradict Vanessa’s. Brooke’s own form of truth, but one no less hard-fought for.

A believer and a skeptic. Everything about them clashes. They shouldn’t work. But considering the lone photo on both their desks is the same photo, of them locked in an embrace, they somehow do work.

—-

Two Years Ago (Then)

Spooky Mateo.

They’re transferring Brooke, and gone are her days of a private office with her own secretary, solving high-profile murder cases late into the night.

No, she’s being led down, down, down, deep into the bowels of the FBI building, through freezing halls and over floors that haven’t seen a mop since the Reagan administration, all to receive her new moldy basement office with a woman who’s the butt of nearly every FBI joke.

Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo, so named because of her fascination with the paranormal, supernatural, and general what-the-fuckeries.

Kids missing with no explanation? Mateo was there, insisting some blurry photo contained a UFO. Weird murders with lots of blood loss? There’s Mateo reading vampire lore from an old book. People acting weird? Alien cult, Mateo would claim, citing some obscure news clipping.

“Here you are,” Ariel says, stopping at a door. “Have fun.” She’s gone with a smirk, and Brooke can just imagine the laughing she’ll do upstairs.

Brooke takes a breath and steps inside. It’s just a temporary reassignment. New policy says Mateo has to have a partner, and Brooke got the shaft. A few months down here, tops, and she’ll be back in her clean office with her personal coffee machine and real cases, not aliens, actually using her former doctor knowledge.

The office smells like wet dog and coffee. There’s an empty desk crammed against the wall that must be Brooke’s, and the other desk—at least Brooke thinks it’s a desk and not an abstract art piece of newspapers and coffee cups—is Mateo’s. She’s currently hovering over a newspaper, pen behind her ear, poking into her wavy brown hair, and another in her hand, scribbling notes in the margins. She’s so focused that Brooke has to clear her throat three times before she snaps up like she got shocked.

“You must be Brooke!” Vanessa jumps out of her chair and runs to Brooke, pumping her hand up and down and forcing Brooke to balance her box of desk stuff single-handedly. She’s kind of cute, now that Brooke sees her up close and not walking the opposite way. Her soft brown eyes are wide and passionate, her teeth dazzling in the dim lights, an oversized wool cardigan pulled over her button-down, no doubt to ward off the chill down here.

“That’s me. And you’re Vanessa.”

“Yep! Here’s your desk.” Vanessa nudges her into the corner. “It’s small down here, but not so bad. It does get cold, though. I have an extra jacket if you need it.”

Brooke nods, loosening her white-knuckle grip on her box and brushing layers of dust off the desk. With a little dusting and polishing, it might not be so bad. Oh, who is she kidding. The computer probably hasn’t been turned on in 20 years and her teeth are practically chattering and her chair is held together with duct tape.

She takes another breath and sits. The chair is actually comfortable, a small beacon of hope in this dungeon. Brooke has a better view of Vanessa’s side of the room, and the papers taped to the wall make her head explode, eyes pulled in fifty directions. Pictures of supposed UFO’s. Articles on disappearances, people sharing their alien abduction stories. Blown-up crop circle designs. Pins in a map signifying something Brooke doesn’t know. And right in the center, a poster proclaiming I Want to Believe.

“Look.” Vanessa’s in front of her desk, hands on her hips, looking like a little kid playing tough. “I know they sent you here to babysit me. I know no one believes me. And I know you can’t wait to get outta here. But give me one case before you judge anything. Just one, okay?”

Brooke thinks. She could refuse, march upstairs and demand her old office back. But something in Vanessa’s voice, or her eyes, fiery with determination, makes Brooke pause, something burning in her stomach. Snap judgments are unwise, she knows that. Working here, she has to think critically, look at all the pieces before she assembles them. And Vanessa did offer her a jacket, a kindness Brooke hasn’t seen from anyone else in this building. Brooke doesn’t want to run upstairs complaining like a little kid, either. Knowing her co-workers, they probably have an office pool going on how long she’ll last, and Brooke wants to prove them wrong, cost them some money.

“All right,” Brooke says. “What have you got?”

—-

(Now)

Their clothes are the same, standard uniform, yet still brimming with their differences.

Vanessa wears her suit exactly as she should, with slight modifications. The jacket comes off at her desk, replaced with a worn cardigan that’s soft and cozy like a blanket. Her top two shirt buttons are usually undone, because she didn’t like the collar squeezing her. You’d never doubt she’s FBI from the proud, brash voice she announces herself with, the way she appears much larger than she is, but Vanessa still keeps her badge in her right waist pocket, easy to whip out and proclaim FBI, like people do on TV. Brooke insists on ironing the suit for her, and Vanessa watches, mesmerized, and Brooke brings out sharp lines in the fabric. Vanessa will usually try it on after she’s done, relishing in the warmth, letting Brooke adjust her sleeves and collar and kiss her hands and neck. She’s happy every time that suit wrinkles because it means ironing day, means Brooke’s kisses.

Brooke wears her suit exactly as she should: perfectly pressed, shirt buttons done all the way up, her shoes shiny enough to see your reflection. Her badge is kept in her left breast pocket for easy access, to show people even though her attitude makes it clear she is who she says she is. After years in loose scrubs, she likes the stiffness of the suit, the crisp lines and how it seals her up inside it, feeling safe and important with that suit on. It’s a point of pride for her when she puts it on in the morning. Vanessa’s hands often slip around her chest before she puts her shirt on, clothing Brooke’s bare skin with her warm hands. Vanessa will always say how she loves a woman in a suit, peppering kisses up Brooke’s chest and neck as she buttons the shirt for her. Vanessa’s kisses are another reason she loves the uniform.

—-

(Then)

Vanessa snickers as Brooke grips the door handle.

“Is the big bad agent afraid of my driving?” She teases.

“Not you. Just the road’s so bumpy,” Brooke explains.

It’s true the road is bumpy, flanked by dark woods and endless fields where they’d never find you. They’re past the point of radio signals, to where even Google maps can’t help you if you get lost. There’s a stillness and silence out here she likes, that reminds her of dry, dusty summers as a child, reading about aliens by flashlight.

“You’re not taking me out here to murder me, are you?” Brooke asks feebly.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was, would I?” Vanessa smiles and to her surprise, Brooke returns it, her face looking like it’s about to crack from the gesture.

Brooke isn’t exactly what Vanessa suspected. Vanessa knows all about her, knows she has a medical degree and was top of her FBI class a year before Vanessa was top of hers. Brooke is good, a rule-follower, but very dedicated. She stays as late as Vanessa to finish a case, genuinely checking on people in the hospital after their case was solved. She’s annoyed with her reassignment, Vanessa can tell, but Brooke is giving her a chance, which is more than she can say of anyone else.

Brooke’s got her nose buried in Vanessa’s notes, biting her lip as she reads. There’s been strange disappearances and reappearances for weeks, with no pattern: a toddler one day, a senior citizen the next, college kids and preteens following. All were gone for a few hours and woke up in their rooms with no memory beyond flashing lights and strange faces—hallmarks of extraterrestrial abductions, things Vanessa’s studied for years. Vanessa hasn’t found any leads, but a woman contacted her, believing she knows where the next disappearance will happen.

Even Vanessa treads lightly with psychics—it’s an easy thing to fake, if you do research or have excellent deduction skills—but the woman’s phone call had been desperate, begging Vanessa to visit before another disappearance happened.

Brooke looks up from the notes. “So,” she begins skeptically, “this woman thinks she knows where the next event will happen?”

“Yes. Says she’s been having visions and realized they matched the disappearances on the news.”

Brooke scoffs.

“Guessing you never had your palm read or anything?” Vanessa asks.

“It’s all fake. They look through your bag or something, or pick something so generic it can’t be wrong.”

Vanessa sighs. Brooke’s not entirely wrong, but with a stubbornness Vanessa might struggle with. She’s not trying to turn Brooke into a full believer like her, but some acknowledgement that weird shit just happens, no explanation, would be nice.

“A lot of them are fake, yeah,” Vanessa admits. “But sometimes they’re not. One time a psychic told me something my mom always says, word for word. There’s no way she could have known. Another told me my notebook was in the fridge, and it was, I dropped it without knowing. And another time—“

“But those are the exceptions,” Brooke insists. “The majority are fake, or just lucky guessers. There’s always a scientific explanation.”

“I’m not saying science is fake and don’t vaccinate your kids, Mary!” Vanessa exclaims to a sheepish chuckle from Brooke. “All I’m saying is that some stuff can’t be explained. It can’t.”

“Yeah, but I can’t write ‘unexplained’ in someone’s report. There has to be something real to write.”

Brooke’s clinging to her orderly worldview, not that Vanessa can blame her for that. Who would question everything that’s so solid and real to them? Brooke’s a hard nut to crack, but Vanessa has a feeling that what’s inside will be worth the effort.

“But you have to admit that unexplained fits sometimes. Weird markings on people’s bodies with no other injuries. Disappearances with no other explanations. Photos of creatures—“

“Those can be faked.”

“But sometimes, Brooke, just sometimes, weird things happen and you can’t explain them.” If she can convince Brooke of this, she’ll consider it a win. Someone to at least try to understand her, to acknowledge that her years of research have merit. This has been her life for years, trying to find proof of what others wouldn’t consider.

“Maybe.”

Vanessa turns into the woman’s driveway so hard Brooke slams against the door.

“Sorry.”

“I’m good,” Brooke says.

Vanessa’s not one for stereotypes, but the cottage before them…well, it could definitely be used as a set for a witch house in some horror movie. Rows of plants curl toward them along the path, ready to pull them into the soil. The circular windows watch them like eyes, following every move. Jagged wooden steps like broken teeth lead up to a crooked, scratched purple door that Vanessa knocks, vowing to show no fear in front of Brooke.

The woman who answers is younger and prettier than Vanessa expected, not a wart or frog or crooked finger in sight.

“Vanessa Mateo, FBI—“

“—Brooke Lynn Hytes, FBI.”

She and Brooke turn to each other, wondering why they didn’t sort out who would speak first.

“First day working together, I see,” the woman says. “I’m Scarlet. Come on in.”

Vanessa sticks her tongue out at Brooke and they step inside.

“Tea?” Scarlet offers. “The water should be ready. I’ve got green tea and berry tea aside, I knew you were coming.”

Brooke stiffens beside her. Vanessa’s favorite is berry tea, and she’s guessing from Brooke’s pale yet composed face that green tea is hers.

She elbows Brooke playfully as they sit.

“Lucky guess,” Brooke whispers.

Scarlet puts the mugs in front of them and fidgets in her seat.

“Is this gonna be like an interrogation?” she asks fearfully.

“No,” Vanessa soothes. “Don’t you worry, you’re not in trouble at all. We just wanna hear about your visions, okay?”

Scarlet nods, and Brooke pulls out her notes.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brooke says. Her tone is calm and even, not stressing Scarlet, and it’s a point of approval for Brooke in Vanessa’s book. So many people would have demanded answers or spooked Scarlet, but Brooke is surprisingly gentle even if skeptical.

“I’ve always seen stuff,” Scarlet begins. “Knew when my grandma was coming over, knew my birthday present before I opened it. But the last few months I’ve been having these dreams. There’s flashing lights and numbers and these big dark smudges in the sky. I didn’t think anything of it till Yvie–she’s my girlfriend–had the news on, and the house number where one of the disappearances happened matched a number in my dream. And they’ve all matched since then. Except one. The most recent one. I think it’s where the next disappearance is gonna be, and it’s tonight. I can feel it.”

The only sound is the scratching of Brooke’s pen. Vanessa is riveted in her seat. Flashing lights and dark smudges are very promising signs, a hint that this is beyond the natural world, like she thought.

“What’s the number?” Vanessa asks.

“256. It’s a green house with white shutters. Morning-something Lane is the street name. That’s all I saw.” She pauses, looks at them in concern. “Will that help?”

“It helps a lot,” Vanessa assures her, and it does. They have the day to find this house, and with Scarlet’s tip, it shouldn’t be so hard. They can stop another person from disappearing, and there’s a new spring in Vanessa’s step as they thank Scarlet and head outside.

“So,” Brooke prompts.

“So.” Vanessa’s not going to gloat about Scarlet, but she’s not giving an inch either.

Brooke sighs. “Well, we need to find the house and get the people out. Tell them there’s a gas leak or something so they’ll listen. Problem solved.”

Vanessa nods, because that was her plan too. Except for one thing. “Well…”

“Well what?” Brooke demands, and the tiny crease in her forehead is almost cute, proves that her perfect face is very human.

“Get the people out, yes. But I want to watch the house tonight. I want to see if anything happens. And I want you to come with me.”

—-

(Now)

Bedtime is Vanessa’s favorite thing with Brooke. It was something they used to do differently, something Brooke changed to help Vanessa sleep better. Vanessa used to hate sleeping, would bury herself in work until she passed out at the kitchen table. She’s always afraid of the dreams. Dreams of all the things that happened when she was little, crying into her blankets because no one believed her. She burrows into the mattress when she sleeps, blankets snug around her like it will keep the dreams from exploding out. With Brooke, she doesn’t have to be scared. She snuggles against Brooke, Brooke’s arm secure around her, holding her down. When she does have the dreams, when she mumbles into her pillow and cries out in her sleep, Brooke is there, gently kissing the back of her neck and telling her it’s all okay, she’s there and won’t let anything hurt her. She’s never slept as well as she does with Brooke.

Brooke was never one for sharing a bed. She liked to sprawl out on her mattress, tug all the blankets over her, roll over and not have to worry about hitting anyone. She could sleep with files and notes littering the sheets and no one would care. But with Vanessa, bedtime has become something special. Brooke sprays their pillows with a calming lavender spray she thought might help Vanessa sleep. She usually tucks Vanessa in and then slips behind her, holding her close. Brooke never craved another person against her chest while she sleeps, but she can’t imagine sleeping without Vanessa there now. And when Vanessa thrashes against her, whimpering in her sleep, Brooke does all she can to keep Vanessa together and calm her down. She’s never slept as well as she does with Vanessa.

—

(Then)

256 Morning Bird Lane is in the middle of nowhere, because of course it is.

“Can’t these aliens ever land in a city?” Brooke complains. “At least near a freaking grocery store or some sign of civilization.”

The emptiness is making her uneasy. She and Vanessa are parked in some lot across the street from the house, and there is literally nothing for miles. Brooke’s a city girl. She likes trying new restaurants every week and having hundreds of grocery stores to choose from and never being far from a hospital should disaster strike. She likes knowing there are people around, even if she appreciates the anonymity from those people that a large city grants her. Sure, people suck when they smash into her on the subway during her commute or hold up the line arguing over coupons, but at least they were there. There’s nothing like that here, no glow of city lights or hum of cars, no knowledge that people are nearby, living lives as complicated as yours. There’s nothing but trees and darkness and silence, and the hair on Brooke’s neck is standing up at the thought. She’s grateful Vanessa is here with her, to save her from the abyss of silent solitude.

“So you do think it’s aliens,” Vanessa challenges.

“Absolutely not. I don’t care if Jabba the fucking Hutt himself drops out of the sky. I just can’t wait to get out of here.”

Vanessa shrugs. “We lived out in the country when I was little before we moved. It’s not so bad. And I brought snacks if you’re hungry, y’know.”

“I’m fin–are those Snickers?”

“Yeah.”

Brooke reaches in Vanessa’s bag and pulls one out, letting chocolate and peanuts fill her mouth. At least she has candy, a reminder of the city vending machines and check-out counters that await her.

“Scarlet told me they’re your favorite.”

Brooke’s heart stops. “You’re shitting me.”

Vanessa tries to keep a straight face, but she caves with a mighty laugh. “Yeah, I’m kidding. I just grabbed ‘em because they’re my favorite too.”

“Oh.” Snickers are Vanessa’s favorite candy. It’s a pointless fact, no value in knowing it. But it feels important to Brooke somehow, like it’s a part of Vanessa uncovered. What is a person, really, other than a collection of things they love? Christ, this middle-of-nowhere shit is making her philosophical. Soon she’ll notice how gorgeous Vanessa looks in the moonlight.

They eat their candy and lapse into silence.

“What made you join the bureau?” Vanessa asks.

“I started doing medical consulting with them a few years ago. Then the bureau offered me a full position, working cases and helping with the medical stuff. Said they’d pay off my med school loans and my bureau training fees, and I was in so much debt after med school it seemed like a good idea.”

She’s always wanted to help people. Brooke had gone into medicine for that reason, to help people and give them better lives. An old mentor of hers from med school recommended Brooke as an FBI consultant, and she answered questions about murders and injuries for stony-faced, black-suited agents. She couldn’t help but hope they’d show up every day, bring her a big case to help with, bring a killer to justice and prevent more people from being hurt. Bring her excitement she didn’t know she was missing. Her life as a doctor wasn’t boring, but when she heard the FBI was coming it gave her a thrill like nothing else. When they offered her the job, she realized all she wanted was to be part of that world, to be one of them instead of their consultant.

She doesn’t tell any of this to Vanessa, though. What’s the point? This should just be a few months of partnership. No need to bare her soul to Spooky Mateo.

She’s not quite as spooky as Brooke thought, though. She’s almost sweet, soothing Scarlet and packing stakeout snacks. There’s a bravery in her, the way she marched up to Scarlet’s house without an ounce of fear. Vanessa’s a fighter, Brooke can see all the traits she herself carries present in Vanessa, in her determination to keep going and boldness to just go after what she wants because there’s no other way she’ll get it.

“Well, I’m glad you joined,” Vanessa says. “It’s kinda nice to have you here.”

“Just kinda nice?” Brooke teases.

“Yeah.”

Brooke snorts against her will. “How did you join the FBI?”

Vanessa smirks. “You wondering how Spooky Mateo ended up here, aren’t ya?”

“Maybe a little.” Brooke’s grateful the darkness hides her burning cheeks.

“I don’t blame you.” Vanessa shrugs. “I just wanted to help people, really. People who don’t get listened to.” She takes a breath. “When I was little, weird shit always happened. Flashing lights and dark things in the sky. Weird shadows in my room. Sometimes my toys would move around on the shelves. One night I swear I saw some sort of creature. Something not natural. Everyone said it was my imagination, but it was real. My parents dragged me to all these doctors, and eventually they decided moving to the city might help. The things stopped happening after that, but I never forgot them. And that’s what I wanted to investigate. Stuff you couldn’t explain.”

She really does believe what she’s saying. Brooke’s interviewed enough people to recognize honesty. But can Brooke believe her? Her rational side kicks in. Boredom in the country could have caused Vanessa’s overactive imagination, which calmed down with the city’s stimulation. It makes sense. But Vanessa shaped her entire life and career around those events. She wants to find the truth, and Brooke respects her for it, even if that truth isn’t hers.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Vanessa says. “But that’s why.”

“I–” Brooke freezes when the time on the car dash crosses her vision. It can’t be right, it can’t be. She checks her watch. No no no. “Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I checked the clock, it was 10:51. I know it.” Brooke swallows hard and points to the time now.

10:43.

“Shit,” Vanessa breathes.

Brooke blinks, and the time flickers to 10:51. Maybe it was her imagination–there’s a sudden gust of wind, enough to make the car shake. The dashboard lights blink on and off, the car headlights throwing light all over then fading into darkness.

“Vanessa!” Brooke yells over the howling wind, but no answer. Brooke closes her eyes against the blinding lights, can’t see Vanessa beside her.

The radio switches on despite having no signal, classic rock and then pop and then something unintelligible blasting through the speakers and rattling the windows. The bottles in the cupholder shake in place, liquids bouncing all over the plastic. There’s a loud whirring sound above them, a black shape blocking out the moon and throwing beams of light that bounce off the house across the street before vanishing all at once.

The clock changes to 10:52.

Brooke’s chest burns as she takes her first breath in she doesn’t know how long. Her knees are up against her chest to protect her, and her sweaty, tense hand is currently being squeezed by Vanessa, who is in the middle console of the car, half-in Brooke’s lap. Vanessa’s hand is soft and warm, her body solid and soothing against her, and Brooke is almost sad when she lets go and shifts into the driver’s seat.

“What the fuck was that?” Brooke demands, still trying to get her breathing under control.

“I don’t–” Vanessa’s chest heaves as she draws in air “–I don’t know. But it had to be the cause of the disappearances. Just like Scarlet said. Some kind of space–”

“Don’t say spaceship.” Brooke’s rational brain churns to life, trying to turn what she’s seen into something real, something concrete and logical. Something that makes sense. “It was–it was probably a helicopter.”

“That was no fucking helicopter and you know it! Electrical disturbances, time malfunctioning, they’re all signs of extraterrestrial activity.”

“No, okay? No! There’s some logical explanation, and that was not some alien ship here to abduct someone.”

“I was right! You know I am!”

Vanessa takes a breath, and the silence fills the car to bursting. Brooke can’t do this anymore. Her mind is reeling and the argument is taking more energy than she has.

“Look, can we just go? I don’t want to be here anymore.” Brooke’s voice comes out smaller than she intends, and it softens the anger on Vanessa’s face.

“Yeah,” Vanessa agrees. “Let’s go.”

Vanessa reaches into the cupholder for her drink at the same time as Brooke and their heads smack into each other.

“Ow, shit!”

“What the hell kind of blockhead you got?”

The next thing Brooke knows, they’re laughing. Laughing to stay sane after what happened, to cling to each other, to go back to normal, even if that normal may not fit Brooke’s definition anymore. It’s the perfect thing to break the tension, and when Brooke locks eyes with Vanessa, the brown wide and soft before her, she wonders if this was meant to happen. If there is something beyond this universe, something bringing them together.

“What did you say before? About unexplained stuff?”

“Sometimes things just happen and you can’t explain them.”

“Yeah,” Brooke says.

And then they’re both leaning in, and the kiss defies explanation. Brooke’s lips melt against Vanessa’s, their hearts still racing and speeding up even more at their touches. Brooke rests one hand on Vanessa’s shoulder and the other on her thigh, two points of contact to ground her, prove that they’re both here, doing this. Vanessa is intoxicating, burying her hands in Brooke’s hair and pulling her closer, until their chests are touching and Brooke’s knee is against the gear shift but she doesn’t even feel it. It’s just them here, just them kissing, and when she pulls back Brooke thinks of Vanessa’s poster and knows that if she believes in anything, it’s Vanessa.

—-

(Now)

“Wanna get pizza tonight?” Vanessa asks.

“I kinda want burritos,” Brooke says sheepishly, and Vanessa rolls her eyes.

“Pizza tonight and burritos this weekend?” Brooke suggests.

Vanessa nods. The compromising is something she’s gotten used to, working together on things while accepting they still have their differences.

It’s been two years since Brooke was transferred down here, two years of taking cases no one thinks twice about and helping people the best they can. Two years of being partners at work and almost two years of being partners at home, of trying to cook and cuddling on the couch and sleeping together, making even things like grocery shopping and cleaning fun as long as they’re together.

Even if Brooke fights tooth and nail to scientifically explain everything, and Vanessa pushes for unconventional ideas, to consider paranormal events, they’ve still managed all these years. They work together perfectly, their ideas and methods often meeting in the middle. Vanessa’s odd sources getting them a real lead that Brooke’s formalities couldn’t. Brooke’s medical knowledge saving someone Vanessa would have thought gone. She knows Brooke doesn’t always believe, and that’s okay.

Because Vanessa believes in her, believes in them, and as Brooke takes her hand as they head out of the office, she knows Brooke believes too.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #scarlet envy #branjie #lesbian au #x-files au #paranormal au #athena2 #concrit welcome #submission #s11

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wwwps4 · 4 years

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Mafia III

There is such a sign: if copies of the game are not given to the press in advance, so that journalists can write their review for the start of sales, then wait for trouble. In the case of Mafia III, I wanted to believe in the best. The second part was so amazing that its aftertaste pleased players for six years, until the opening of a new Chapter of this criminal history. And I'll just say that the trouble with Mafia III is not in the black hero (he was entered here just fine), not in the plot, not in the visual component, but in the most important thing — in the gameplay, which only does that self-repeats throughout the hours-long game campaign. I don't know what kind of masochist would like it.

But back to the game itself. In 1968, Lincoln Clay returns to his hometown of new Bordeaux after the Vietnam war. Here his family is waiting for him: friends, brother and father. If it hadn't been for these people, and especially if it hadn't been for Sammy's foster father, Lincoln would have starved to death in the city's slums. Sam raised an unwanted black Tomboy, gave him shelter and his love. From an early age, Lincoln began to help his father in his criminal Affairs and even became friends with the son of the godfather of new Bordeaux. When Lincoln returned home, it seemed to him that the war was over, but he himself had to unleash a new massacre in pursuit of the mistress of vengeance.

It all started with a RAID on a Bank. Lincoln decided on this case to help close all of his father's debts to Mr. Sal Marcano. However, the godfather decides that he will need all the stolen money, and that it is time for Sammy's family to go to another world. Lincoln is kept alive by a great accident. The incident changes his life, he decides to devote himself to revenge. Along the way, he will recruit old acquaintances and make new friends, and find out that Sal Marcano has long had a grudge even subordinates. Lincoln turns out to be the force that can break through the old foundations and build a new and promising Empire on the remnants.

From the first hour of the game in Mafia III is simply impossible to break away. There are many amazing story clips that are intertwined with interesting gameplay and a variety of tasks. I just have to praise the direction of the game, the developers can easily create an emotional closeness between you and the characters of the game. You rejoice with them, worry, and begin to want revenge with the same intensity as Lincoln. And this quality bar is not lowered until the final of the game. That's just gradually you are given less and less story clips, and the long-awaited story mission is not happy at all, since your entire mood is mercilessly shot by the gameplay.

"What's wrong with him?"you are already exhausted. Lincoln decides to destroy the Marcano Empire from the bottom. First, he recruits several lieutenants who were once close to Sal, but now want him dead. They include the head of the Haitian mafia, Cassandra, the out-of-shape Irish alcoholic Burke, and the once-promising and now exiled authority Vito Scaletta in new Bordeaux. Together, you will squeeze areas from Marcano, kill his subordinates, which keeps the criminal business, and get closer to the godfather himself.

The entire gameplay is focused on capturing new areas of the city. We arrive, find an informant who tells you about the kind of activity in the area, destroy everything we find, kill or recruit the head of this branch of business, and then declare a hunt for Lieutenant Marcano, associated with this area. We repeat all this 9 times and get the opportunity to take revenge on the offender.

And now I will describe in detail the entire process that took me the second sentence in the last paragraph. We get in the car and drive to the new district of new Bordeaux. We learn something interesting from the informant and find several points on the map. The goal is to cause damage to the specified amount. It is necessary to kill some people and interrogate others, to Rob caches, destroy property and do other similar things. You can deal a lot of small damage to achieve the goal, or you can destroy one large target and close the rest with short ones. A big goal is usually to infiltrate a well-guarded enemy object and destroy it. I've blown up a crane on a construction site, stolen gay porn for blackmail, destroyed a garbage recycling plant.

The damage we do is to lure out the leader of the business. When he decides to show up, you can stop your activities and go to kill or recruit him. Where do you think the leader is hiding? Right! In a place where you used to accomplish a big goal! You will find exactly the same location, a slightly increased number of enemies that are in the same places as before. In fact, you need to pass the same place twice. "Why not?",- apparently so thought the developers. "New Bordeaux is so small, we'd rather use the same location twice than make a new one next door. Let the city continue to remain lifeless!".

Surprisingly, the game is very pleasant to play. Driving the car is implemented perfectly and is somewhat similar to the recently released Need for Speed, skirmishes are exciting and often tense. Virtual dummies, however, are usually stupid and try to crush the number rather than tactics. In Mafia III, it's nice to play, but to perform the same tasks from place to place-no, and at least some variety in the game, too. The action takes place in an open world, but it is dead initially. Here you can only kill and there is no way to relax. And this is despite the fact that the city is made perfectly, its changes from district to district are very interesting to watch. Here you will find swamps, suburbs, poor areas, working-class neighborhoods, and a contrasting center with skyscrapers. Even side missions from friends can not bring pleasure to the game, because they are built on the familiar scheme: interrogate, kill, steal, come back for a reward.

There is also an economic component in Mafia III. Each captured point, and then the entire area can be given to one of their lieutenants. This will affect the profits that the subordinate will make, as well as the opportunities that Lincoln will get at his disposal. What is surprising is that every Lieutenant is a person who fights for his own importance and tries to grab a bigger piece. If you offend or offend one of them, it will definitely come back to you. So the choice of who to give the next section, you should always approach wisely.

Each Lieutenant immediately after recruitment provides you with special services. Vito allows you to call a consiglieri-a girl who will take your money and take it to a safe place. After his death, Lincoln loses exactly half of the money he had in his pocket, so the services of a Consigliere are always welcome. Cassandra allows you to call a gun shop on wheels anywhere in the city. In it you can buy not only weapons, but also special features: increased accuracy, the number of one-time wearable first aid kits or grenades, and more. Burke specializes in cars. After the call, his subordinate will quickly deliver you one of the six cars. The list includes both Lincoln's personal car and an armored sedan and truck. The list of cars is generated for you, you can't change it. If you destroy one of the cars, it's okay. They won't even charge you money, but just bring you a newly ordered car. Gradually, your friends will give you access to new features: disabling phones in the area (so the villains will not be able to call for help), bribing the police (the cops will instantly forget about your existence, even if they just held you at gunpoint), automatic collection of kickbacks from the leaders.

I have few complaints about the technical part of the game. The game looks good, works at a stable 30 frames per second, and sometimes it seems more. I didn't notice any severe bugs during the game, except for a couple of times when the game was treacherously closed. Local cars are extremely sad. They almost do not fight, but just immediately explode. At the same time, it looks like a faded and rotten special effect. The local police also made fun of him. Even though they watch your every move, it's easy to break away from them. In most cases, you only need to drive a meter away from the search area and the police will no longer have questions for you. The main thing is not to show up in the search area.

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theessaflett · 5 years

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72 Hours (ish) in... MANCHESTER

Your friendly neighbourhood Essa has a look round a city best known for the industrial revolution, bees, and bad weather.

…The start of my trip to Manchester wasn’t the smoothest.

The only thing I could find to eat at Euston station for my tea before my 19:40 train were chips coated in some sort of suspicious chilli dust, so it was a very queasy Essa who arrived at Manchester Piccadilly a few hours later and wandered around trying to find the exit. (I had in fact been to the station before last October as part of a band tour, but as I was VERY sick and feverish at the time I had very little recollection of the place indeed!) I trundled my suitcase out of the station and off into the night - and my, what a night. 9.45pm on a Saturday night in Manchester is quite the experience, and as Google Maps took me down back alley after back alley I found myself humming ”Just keep swimming, just keep swimming” to myself with increasing speed. One particularly memorable back alley held two sad looking figures, one of whom was violently throwing up behind a bin.  “You alright, Tim?” called the other one, who was busy trying to use a wall to stay upright. Tim was almost certainly not alright. I left them to it.

After about 20 minutes of nervous trundling I arrived at Hatters Hostel. It turned out that Hatters was on top of a nightclub, opposite a nightclub, and instead of being part of the Hilton hotel chain as I’d originally surmised it was called “Hilton Hatters Hostel” because it was on Hilton street. I was beginning to regret some of the decisions that had led to this moment.

Looks nice, doesn’t it. LIES.

I tried to get the eye of the receptionist, was told I would have to wait as she was “doing the money”, and sat down on the only couch next to a man in gym clothes who had seemingly waited so long he’d passed out. Many minutes passed. In the end I passively aggressively opened and shut all the leaflets next to the desk - Manchester offers two walking tours and a make your own beer festival, incidentally - and once Sleeping Man had been woken up and his booking put through it was my turn. Sleeping Man had been asked for ID, and I nervously started my explanation that I’d forgotten my passport but had my 16-25 train card when it was cut off by the receptionist. She didn’t really care, it was just a formality. Also, where had I dyed my hair? She’d tried to dye it that colour but it had just gone green and her mum had made her cut it off because green wasn’t an acceptable colour for her sister’s wedding. But now it was purple which was also cool. I murmured positive words about purple, took the key card and headed for the lift, trying to ignore the fact that the floor numbers on the wall were peeling off. I found 104, glad that the door looked less battered than some of the other ones, and after the second time of trying, keyed myself into my home for the next three days.

…The Hatters Hostel website photographer deserves some sort of award for misguiding photography. And possibly to be sued. I was expecting a fancy room, plush and cosy. I admittedly got quite a comfortable bed, but I also was given a TV that had been installed at an angle that meant I would need to be the girl from the Exorcist to watch it in comfort, a broken heater, no main light, no kettle, thin, pathetic towels…and a hell of a lot of noise. Here’s the thing about arriving, at 10.30pm on a Friday night, into a room on the first floor directly on top of a night club and opposite several other nightclubs: it is astonishingly, awe inspiringly, horrifyingly loud. The vibrations shuddered through the floor and up my legs, and my suspicions about the sturdiness of the walls were confirmed when I laid a hand on one of them and felt vibrations shuddering through the brickwork too. Some optimistic soul had put in double glazing on the one, sad looking window, but it was no good: the pounding music was coming up through the bare linoleum floor and in the cracks between said floor and the walls. Friends, I am not so proud as to deny that I had a bit of a disappointed sniffle as I sat on the edge of the bed in the cold, listening to four different nightclub bangers (that all had driving dubstep basses…they sadly didn’t even merge into one pleasing cross-rhythm beat) and trying to reassess my accommodation expectations. The reason for the massive tub of free ear plugs on the reception desk was becoming terribly, horribly clear. After a bolstering call to my parents where I let them know I’d arrived and tried to elicit some sympathy for the damp boombox situation in which I’d found myself (“Well go down to reception and ask if you can get another room then, sitting there moping at me isn’t doing anything” is arguably the Scottish version of “Aw poor diddums” so I consider the sympathy bid a success) I mournfully trailed back to ground level and put on my best pleading puppy face. It was no good: there were no other free rooms for the whole weekend, he was very sorry, my heater should be warming up at any moment. (this was a lie. I am certain that I had no heating for the full three days.) I grimly stocked up on earplugs and, comforted with the paltry commiseration that the nightclubs shut at 1.30am, went back to my unappealing room. This was it, was it? This is what £264 got you for three nights in central Manchester? Bloody hell. Tried out the shower. It was cold. Went to bed and sulked. (To be fair, several Destiny’s Child and Britney Spears medleys later, the noise did mercifully stop at 1.30am. Which was just as well, as by that point I was fantasising about punching night clubbers.)

Day 1

My main reason for being in Manchester over the weekend was to attend a one-day writing course at the LGBT Foundation - 2019 may be a year of me writing lots of things but there’s still not much time for writing “just for fun” so I was looking forward to writing anything I liked for a full day! I blearily made my way out of the hostel - glaring at anyone who looked like they might have been making noise six hours earlier - and headed off to the Foundation, stopping at the “park” (a few trees and a bit of squelchy grass does not a proper park make, Manchester) Cafe Nero on my way. This proved a wise move, as soya milk has not yet made it to the LGBT Foundation so I was sadly under caffeinated for the day…

The LGBT Foundation

The writing day itself was lovely; I enjoyed the chance just to spend time tapping away on my laptop, the other course members were friendly and the heating was on. The only real disaster was lunchtime, when I ordered rice at a nearby Asian to-go place and got noodles instead. I can’t eat noodles. Ended up eating random selections of snacks and showing people my noodles whilst saying sadly, “Look, they gave me noodles!” (Received a satisfactory amount of sympathy from all.) The LGBT Foundation staff were friendly and it’s great that there’s such an extensive support centre in the heart of the Gay Village…my only quibble about the building would be that it was surprising and disappointing to see they only offered Male or Female toilets and there was no mention anywhere of the additional “IAQ+” that I’m used to London folk using most of the time. It would be a real shame if Intersex/Asexual/Non-Binary/Gender Queer young people used the building and didn’t feel like they belonged, when just a few posters and different bathroom signs would make the Foundation welcoming to absolutely everyone. (Alright, snowflake millennial moment over!)

After the course I headed over to HOME - stopping off at Pizza Express on the way, where a chatty waitress asked me if I was an artist…I considered creating a new persona but in the end decided I didn’t have the energy - to see the Old Vic production of Wise Children.

Part of the HOME complex

Although I felt like some elements of the production jarred (why must new plays always include grim scenes of child abuse, incest and/or rape?) and the ending was just bizarre, I thoroughly enjoyed the onstage music and the breath-taking stage design…and the fact that I knew one of the cast members! Paul Hunter from Told By An Idiot didn’t look very different to when I worked with him on Get Happy in 2013 and it was great to see him in action, getting belly laughs from the whole audience as he strutted up and down the stage in full-blown comedic idiot mode.

The brilliant stage design for Wise Children

Getting back to the hostel afterwards proved a little more difficult than anticipated due to a lost Uber driver and there being two Hatters Hostels (naturally I was delivered to the wrong one) but I eventually made it back to Purgatory Room and grimly waited out the Michael Jackson remixes coming through the walls by watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine clips with my head underneath the covers to retain warmth. By 1.20am I was passing the time by fantasising about how I was going to switch on both of my radiators in my London flat when I returned on Monday night and toast myself in front of the two of them until the heat was similar to Barbados in August.

Day 2

I groggily crashed out of the hotel at 11am with only one clear thought: CAFFEINE. Manchester decided to give me a true North of England experience: it was cold, grey, and miserably wet. I tried to find my cafe of choice with some urgency.

Teacup Kitchen Cafe

Teacup Kitchen was recommended as a vegan cafe on Yelp. This, it turned out, was not wholly accurate. Some of their menu was vegan. Very little of their menu indeed was gluten free, but it turned out that that at least was easily rectified as they did have GF bread. As I had clearly stumbled into the Manchester equivalent of Shoreditch the decor was brutally bare, the music was loud and everyone was dressed in black so it was impossible to tell who were the waitstaff and who were just pretentious. (I found this very funny until I realised I was also dressed in all black, at which point I found it slightly less funny and instead wondered when it was exactly that London had turned me into such a hipster stereotype).

Note the bare light bulbs...

I ordered poached eggs and avocado on toast, which, this being Northern Shoreditch, came with chilli flakes and raw onion for some reason. I pleaded for no onion but got it anyway, which led to some sad toilet trips later.

General Public Announcement: Food intolerances aren’t just fads, everyone!!!

Who would ruin a perfectly good avocado by dumping a whole load of onion on top of it anyway?!

Indignant with this most first world of first world problems, I paid an eye-watering £17.10 for what was essentially eggs on toast, a cup of tea and a juice (more expensive that Shoreditch?! Discuss) and trudged out into the rain once more. …Then hopped into Forbidden Planet, because Forbidden Planet!! For the uninitiated, Forbidden Planet is a magical world of deep nerdy joy.

If a non-geek person would react to an object by saying, “Oh that’s from that show you like, isn’t it…that’s nice…?”, they probably have it. That being said, they did not have nearly enough Doctor Who or Tim Burton merchandise for my liking and after wandering around having fun spooking all the nervous looking nerdy teenage boys (A woman!!, I could practically hear them whisper amongst themselves. The last time we had one of them in here was in 2009! Darren still hasn’t recovered!!) I headed off to the John Rylands library.

The (rather wet in this photo) John Rylands Library

Now, my understanding of the John Rylands library was that it was one, quite impressive, hall. This proved to be similar to saying that the Titanic was quite big. It was absolutely massive, with four or five main library spaces and lots of awe-inspiring corridors and staircases in-between, many of which I am certain have been used in Harry Potter films. By pure good luck it was a great time to be visiting, as there were two really interesting exhibitions on about the role of women in literature and society in general. The Women in Manchester exhibition in particular was fascinating and gave a brief but vivid idea of how crucial the women of the city were both in the Suffragette movement itself and in protests before and afterwards. The “Historical Bathroom” is worth a visit too (if you’re as curious as I was about that description, it turned out to be a ladies bathroom that had been preserved exactly as it was when the library opened in the early 20th century. It was fully functioning but very draughty), as is the main Historic Library.

The magic of the building overall was, for me at any rate, slightly dimmed with the knowledge that it wasn’t actually very old at all, just built in the style of earlier buildings by late-era Victorians wistful for an earlier “Utopian” age of social harmony, unnerved as they were by the unrest and turbulence of the Industrial Age in which they found themselves. I’m sure that most infamous of old-school folk song collectors Cecil Sharp, for instance, would have been delighted by the righteous pomp of the marble statues and stuffy regal halls, the library a grand symbol of an age and an Empire already on the way out when the building first opened.

That said, the John Rylands library is still beautiful, impressive and well worth a trip - just allocate more time than I did! I finished off my visit with an organic cola (would not recommend) from the rather chilly open-plan cafe then tried to decide what to do next. My initial plan had been to go to the Museum of Manchester, but a quick check of their website brought up the unwelcome news that due to renovations the only section still open was “Fossils and Meteorites”, which was not a gallery that exactly filled me with unbound excitement. In the end I decided to go to the People’s Museum instead - admittedly because it was only four minutes away and, after inevitably going the wrong way and walking round in circles for a bit scowling at Google Maps, I arrived at the brutalist museum in dire need of the loo and a plug socket for my fast-dying phone battery.

The rather damp looking People’s History Museum

They had both of those things, so we were already off to a good start when I guiltily ignored the “Use The Stairs, Save Our Environment!” sticker next to the lift and saved my aching legs the climb to the third floor. It became fairly clear very quickly that this was a museum where if you accidentally started the exhibition backwards everything was really quite confusing, but sadly that was what I somehow did on every single floor. (There are still some things that I’m puzzling over, and probably will be forever.) I also started off foolishly presuming that as I was on the 3rd floor I would be going chronologically back in time rather than forwards, but it turned out that there was no such clear organisational system in place for the exhibits: rather, photographs from the 1940s and propaganda posters from the 1880s rubbed shoulders in cheerful harmony. This only added to my overall confusion but gave a nice overall air of linear history being an unnecessary construct of our modern-day society. The writers of the Old Testament would have approved wholeheartedly!

The museum was truly fascinating, and quite shocking in how openly socialist-bordering-on-communist it was in its beliefs; lots of Karl Marx quotes on the walls and leftist liberal exhibit blurbs. I enjoyed it thoroughly - particularly the excellent section about the Votes for Women movement - and was delighted to find the cafe offered a proper cuppa and gluten free biscuits. This was the life. The museum sadly shut at 5pm (as do many, many things in Manchester) so I was turfed out to wander the wet streets once more. After an accidental detour into a very posh outdoor dining area complete with more decorative lightbulbs than you could shake an over-priced mojito at, I arrived in China Town. My main aim was to get a good photo of the famous China Town arch, but as I achieved that in the first five minutes I decided to also do something else, whatever that might be.

China Town’s Arch

I’m not sure what I was expecting from China Town, but I was expecting it to be big; instead, unless there were lots of shops hiding from me, China Town was largely just a square - bizarrely, a square built round a car park - with maybe 20 or so shops… and then that was pretty much it. Those shops were wonderful though, and I loved being an unabashed tourist and wandering round a seafood place full of giant tanks of lobsters, supermarkets filled with cans of things you never thought to pickle but apparently are in fact pickle-able… pickled mango was an especially interesting concept… and gazing hungrily at the menus tacked up outside the many Chinese restaurants. (I had no luck. Very not Essa friendly indeed.)

Instead I settled for a bubble tea from Chatime. I made several bad decisions and ended up with an apple tea with little ball things (??? Tapioca??? Whatever it was they were suspiciously savoury and worryingly chewy) and rainbow jelly. I gave up halfway through as I could feel my teeth beginning to rot.

Diabetes in a cup.

Chatime

After risking my life and health on some questionable 50p Asian sweets - they were covered in sugar and salt and my pathetic Western constitution decided it couldn’t quite cope with this final insult - I finished off my day out with a very nice sit watching the coloured fountain display in the “park” and then going off to somewhere I could confidently expect to be fed: Zizzi’s.

The very splooshy water fountains.

...They may have fed me undercooked, over salted gluten free pasta, but it was gluten free pasta never the less, and I trooped back to the hostel fed and happy.

After attempting to write my journal in the communal kitchen next to a group of very noisy Italian twenty-somethings making a very complicated meal that seemed to need lots of loud chopping, banging and semi-regular cheering, I relocated to the communal lounge instead and turned up Royal Blood to eardrum-bursting volumes to drown out the horror film the other two sofa loungers were watching. By 11.30pm even loud rock wasn’t managing to drown out the film and I was beginning to suspect the heating had been switched off as it didn’t seem much warmer than my own little ice box of a room, so I waved the white flag of surrender and beetled off to watch YouTube under the covers once more. Would it be too much to hope that Sunday nights at least were fairly quiet here in nightclub land…? My heading to bed was foiled, however, by the fact that the key card to my room no longer worked. I trailed unhappily back down to the ground floor and explained the situation to an unsympathetic receptionist who said, “Oh it always does that for 104, just try it a few more times” without looking up from his computer. I explained through gritted teeth that I had been trying it for five minutes, thanks very much, and he reluctantly came with me to see what the problem was. I passed the journey by mentioning how my heater didn’t work. “Oh, that heater,” he said without a hint of irony. “Yeah it doesn’t work, it’s just for decoration.” Apparently my room was meant to be heated by a magical vent blowing warm air into the room. I said grumpily that it did not seem to be doing that at all. “Well, it’s 104,” he said with a shrug. “It’s always cold and the door never works. Dunno why, it’s really weird.” As I contemplated the fact that I HAD BEEN STAYING IN THE POLTERGEIST ROOM THIS WHOLE TIME he swiped me through with his master and left me in my Spectre Apartment. I lay in bed in the dark that night pretending very hard that I wasn’t the slightest bit unnerved and listening to the pounding bass coming through the walls (one stubborn nightclub somewhere in the middle distance was subjecting its patrons to Sunday night indie rock) until 1.30am blessedly rolled around and Geoffrey the Ghost and I managed to get some sleep.

Day 3

By this point I was thoroughly sleep deprived and just generally over the whole staying-in-a-hostel thing, so it was with a happy song that I stuffed my belongings back into my suitcase. It was an uneventful exit from Hatters apart from one heart- stopping moment when a bit of the shower fell off at exactly the same second that the bathroom light went out (…It was just the timed light clicking off and me turning the wobbly thermostat wheel too firmly. But, hey - let me tell you: when you’re standing there in the pitch dark, naked and alarmed, “ARGH!” is the defining first thought rather than “I’d better wave my arms and get the light to switch back on.) I strode out into the Manchester streets and decided that as I’d had an improvised breakfast of snack bars I didn’t really need anything else apart from a cup of tea, which I could probably get at Chetham’s Library. Second library of the trip, here I came!

After a significant amount of lost trundling, sometimes round in circles, my suitcase and I finally arrived at Chetham’s, which is situated next to a very nice but sadly throughly fenced-off park and an absolutely enormous museum about football. I sat on a little stone pillar, tried to enjoy the park’s water feature despite the massive fence and munched on fruit I’d bought from the nearby M&S (it had occurred to me that I hadn’t really had much in the way of fruit or vegetables since arriving in Manchester, which is possibly a true representation of the Northern diet but it did seem a shame to get scurvy on my weekend off).

The very picturesque park with a very large fence.

It was all very nice but I needed the loo - an ever present theme in my life - so I decided to get a move on and go see the Library. This is when my day went horribly wrong.

I had not, you see, realised that the Chetham’s Library - unlike the Bodleian Library - didn’t have anywhere for visitors to dump their suitcases. Worse, the grumpy security guard refused full-stop to let me take my suitcase anywhere near the building whatsoever. What was I meant to do, I asked him with quite poor grace. I had the suitcase. I wanted to go and see the library. Couldn’t he look after it in his little security hut? What if it had a bomb in it? I assured him there was no bomb. No. Absolutely not. I had a suspicious unidentified suitcase. Hadn’t I seen the news recently? Maybe I could see if the station across the road had lockers.

It was an unimpressed Essa that stomped into Manchester Victoria on the hunt for a locker. There were no lockers. The Information Centre might have been a useful place to ask for advice about what to do next, if it had been open. I went to the loo (always a good thing to do in a time of crisis, I find), stared suspiciously at a very creepy statue of a bee in a dress and decided that as I seemed to have found the busy hub of tram travel I might as well get on a tram.

TRAM!!! I thought the trams were very exciting.

After trying to buy a tram ticket at a ticket machine for actual trains for an embarrassingly long amount of time I realised that the tram ticket machines were on the tram platforms and navigated the alarming open-track walkway to get to the right bit of the station. (Manchester runs its public transport system from the viewpoint that if you’re stupid enough to cross a walkway without looking left and right first you deserve to get mangled by a massive tram. I only nearly died once, which frankly is quite good for me all things considering.)

I bought my astonishingly cheap £1.40 one-way ticket, tried to tap my paper ticket on the machine for tapping in plastic travel cards and was puzzled for really an unacceptably long amount of time for a 23 year old before I figured out what was going on, and got on my first TRAM!! It tooted to another tram and I felt like I was living my best life. It would have been even nicer if the tram hadn’t smelt of weed and wee, but as most of Manchester seems to smell of weed and wee I accepted my fate. I realised I had previously been unfair on the “park” as we rumbled through it - there were considerably more trees than I had first thought and the grass looked less mushy. I admired the greenery, noted with resignation that the tram was making me travel sick and then realised it was time to get off! In a…deserted dark tunnel…? I really don’t know what I did, but I found out later there was actually a legit way to exit the tram station, with proper doors and a little escalator and everything, and I most definitely did not do that. I ended up wandering around a tunnel, nearly getting run over at one point when a tram unexpectedly came round a corner (told you I’d nearly got mashed) and finally finished my mini underground journey by being spat out next to the taxi rank. After some seriously bemused searching I found the train station, only to decide that it was actually just too draughty a place to wait out out a few hours and marched down the hill towards the Costa…that was about an 8 minute walk from the Hostel I’d left with so much optimism several hours previously. Ha. Ha. Ha. Isn’t life funny. As I was meeting a friend at Manchester Piccadilly I decided to just call it quits, buy several random Costa snacks to create lunch and have a quiet few hours in the warm before having to heave my suitcase back up the hill to the station for 3pm. Who says I don’t know how to live a wild life…?

After a very enjoyable catch-up I was back on the train and headed, feeling slightly battered, back to to noise and grime of Euston station. It had been quite the weekend, and I left still unsure of what I thought about Manchester. At times it had seemed ruggedly attractive, the several red-brick old buildings nestled in amongst all the mid-20th century concrete particularly eye-catching, and at times it had just seemed…wet. And a bit grey.

The whole “bee mascot” thing has, to an outsider, been taken to a slightly unbelievably wild extreme - there were bees everywhere. On walls. On doors. In restaurant and shop logos. On mugs. On bags. On posters. Even on street bins. As someone who doesn’t particularly like bees, this was a bit unnerving.

On the whole, I did like Manchester - and I would certainly visit again, which says something in itself.

Next stop: My mum and I’s trip to Berlin in April! Where should we visit?

What Essa saw:

Manchester LGBT Foundation

https://lgbt.foundation/

HOME Manchester

https://homemcr.org/

Teacup Kitchen

https://teacupandcakes.com/

Forbidden Planet Manchester

https://www.facebook.com/fpmanchester/

The John Rylands Library (free entry)

https://www.library.manchester.ac.uk/rylands/

The People’s History Museum (free entry)

https://phm.org.uk/

Manchester’s China Town

https://www.visitmanchester.com/things-to-see-and-do/chinatown-p275031

Where Essa stayed (but does not recommend):

https://hattershostels.com/manchester-hilton-chambers/

#manchester #weekend #travel #lgbtq

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stylehaulinc-blog1 · 7 years

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