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fleckcmscott · 7 months

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Silver Dollar

Summary: An outage in Gotham provides the perfect opportunity for a special night.

Words: 4,629

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This story was prompted by a request from @iartsometimes! 💜 It's probably a little tamer than intended. 🤭 Thank you for the request! Also, much appreciation to @sweet-nothings04 for low-lighting visibility tips. 😂 🌃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The graffiti plastered bathroom plunged into darkness.

Arthur stiffened where he stood, blinked into the blackness. His vision did not become clearer. Grumbling, he tucked himself into his pants and stepped back from the urinal. The handle took two tugs to flush. He fumbled for the sink, gave his palms a rinse shorter than the Gotham Department of Health recommended. Paper pharmacy bag in hand, he opened the exit's steel door and headed northwest. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring, August sun.

Gotham had gone crazy in record time.

People spilled out of luncheonettes, crowds crammed shop doorways. Traffic lights refused to light and pedestrian signals refused to signal. Horns blared in the building pandemonium. A passenger yelled out of a taxicab and flipped the bird, while the driver pounded the steering wheel. Chaos repeated block after block. The Stutton Cowboy on the center billboard ("Price is good. Flavor is everything.") no longer waved. His cigarette hand hovered over his mouth in shock.

Arthur was prepared. Whether due to bad writing or an unpaid bill, he'd spent his share of evenings smoking in the dark. This was something he was good at, an event he could take the lead in.

Bumping a fleeing college kid who had a bottle of vodka hidden under his arm, Arthur shouldered his way into the nearest grocery. Squeezed by a couple of oh lords, maneuvered through murmurs and gripes, and ran through a mental inventory of the drawers in 4A. The day dimmed as he neared the rear aisles. When he arrived at the Home Needs section, he crouched between an abandoned cart and a baby stroller.

He squinted at the battery rack. AAs for the radio, Ds for the flashlight. Maybe some candles, just in case...

An ever-expanding line of shoppers accelerated the beads of sweat on the young cashier's forehead. Handwritten receipts and totals by calculator took twice as long. Arthur sidled to the next line, overseen by a matronly woman wearing a paisley wrap dress who did all the math in her head.

"I'm gonna need a drink after today," she said as he approached the counter.

It took a moment for him to realize she was looking for a kindred spirit. A rapid blink, a subtle nod. "Yeah. Me, too." He eyed a row of bottles on the shelf behind her. That'd make his reply believable.

She followed his stare, stretched to grab a green bottle with an art nouveau label, and put it on the counter.

Vermouth. He wasn't familiar with that word. It sounded exotic, like a fine imported thing. It was a screw top instead of a cork, which he tended to frown on. Uncorking a bottle together was romantic, whereas this was akin to opening a liter of seltzer. He was about to decline it when the price tag froze him. At $14.99, it was more expensive than any wine he'd ever had.

Maybe it really was a fine, imported thing.

"Is it good?" he asked. He picked it up, studied the back as if a connoisseur.

"One of our best sellers."

He gave the matron a one shoulder shrug, half-commitment about to go full. "I'll take it."

~~~~~

Y/N strode the hallowed halls of Gotham City District Court. On the corner of Badger Boulevard and Olsen, the granite behemoth belied the civil servants who were paid far too little to deal with far too much.

Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she ambled down the checkerboard floor towards the clerk's window. Rita, her favorite, was working today. Rita returned every call, always helped with a combination of sarcasm and cheer.

"And what did you bring me today? she asked when Y/N plopped her canvas bag on the counter. Rita stopped watering her shaggy spider plant and walked to the window.

"A motion to continue the Caruso case and a dozen new filings. You can send the invoice for the filing fees to my office." Y/N split the stack of folders into three slim piles and pushed them through the gap under the glass. "How did your bowling league do last night?"

"We're one game away from regionals! I'm trying to convince my husband to-"

A loud pop echoed down the corridor, bounced along the linoleum, ricocheted off horsehair plaster. The air conditioner's hum devolved to a grinding whir. Bright fluorescents gave way to dingey emergency beams, crisscrossing through dusty, recycled air.

Hand on hip, Y/N looked up. "Did you misplace the electric bill?"

"Great. Judge Harkness is in the middle of a jury trial on the fourth floor. He hates taking the stairs." The clerk covered her face, glanced at Y/N's folders through parted fingers. "I'm not sure when I'll get these processed."

"That's all right. I just wanted them off my desk. I haven't seen the surface in six months." She retrieved a business card from her purse, pushed it to join the files, a gesture repeated every visit to Rita, a reminder to reach out. "Don't forget to update me on your tournament. And don't let His Honor forget who actually runs this place."

When she arrived at Dube & Ellis after a fifty-two-minute walk - all subways stations were cordoned off - she was sweltering. Polyester didn't breathe and it comprised seventy-two percent of her wardrobe. That Terry had done exactly the wrong thing by drawing back the vertical blinds on each and every window was typical. "There's not enough light in here! The whole city's out!"

She unbuttoned her collar and dropped in her chair. Normally her Sanyo desk fan would rattle and grate. Now she'd give her whole paycheck for a hint of its cool breeze.

Power outages had been a feature of many seasons in Missouri. Tornado season and sticky season, window season and squirrel on the transformer season. One night a drunk driver had slammed his Studebaker into a utility pole three houses down. It'd crushed Mr. Walter's front porch and left the road without electricity for two days.

Her mother had instructed them not to open the refrigerator unless they knew what they wanted. Shut the doors to the hottest rooms and placed rolled towels at the bottom to keep air from seeping in. Though she'd loved how the sun filtered through her lace curtains, she'd kept the drapes shut. They'd lit candles at night. She'd done needlepoint in her favorite chair and watched her husband play cards with their daughters until bed. A real family affair.

Daubing beads from his brow with a handkerchief, Phil stood in the center of the room. His expression said keeping them there any longer would be an OSHA violation. He wasn't wrong. The office had become the least relaxing sauna on the east coast.

"You've all put in a lot of work today." He spoke in the voice of a grandfather and daubed again. "I know it wasn't easy. I guess there's no sense in us staying any longer. If the power's not back tomorrow-" A gulp here, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "Enjoy a long weekend. My wife'll be glad to have me home. I think."

Y/N stole a glance at her watch: 4:42 PM. A whole eighteen minutes early. Though it wasn't a lot, she got how hard it was for a workaholic like Phil to give them five. Offering a soft smile, she went to him and stuck out her hand. The corner of his mouth twisted wryly before he accepted.

She gave his arm a collegial pat. "We're as caught up as we can be, so feel free to stop sweating."

~~~~~

The next morning's breakfast: cornflakes and blueberries. Y/N gave the milk a good sniff before pouring. With the microwave, toaster, and stove out of commission, oatmeal, toast, and eggs were off the menu. (Not that Arthur complained about the latter.)

They'd discussed how to use what was left in the fridge and freezer before it all went bad, but salads wouldn't work for every meal, and they were only two people. The Caswells across the hall, the neighbors who'd gotten their mail while they were in Missouri, had a grill. Y/N gave them a package of ground beef and a bag of frozen vegetables.

Arthur let his spoon clatter in the kitchen sink and rinsed his bowl. (It was a good and joyful thing that the water - and therefore the toilet - still worked.) "You know, I should go the children's clinic."

"Do you have a gig?" She sipped her orange juice.

"No. But it's boring hanging around all day without the TV. They hire me a lot. I'll go for free."

She rose, rubbed the small of his back. "That's so sweet, Arthur. And very kind."

"You could come with me." He paused, pressed his lips together. She'd seen him on street corners but hadn't witnessed the entirety of his performance. Even with her unending support, he suspected an all-out clown show would be the one place she'd feel out of place. He dared a glance her way.

And found a wide-eyed expression of approval. She cupped his hips, planted a wet kiss to his cheek. "You couldn't keep me away."

In the cab downtown, excitement bloomed in him, unfurling in a great wave of nervous joy. Knuckles intertwined, he hugged the prop bag on his lap, thighs jiggling. "Do you think they'll mind me just showing up?"

"No." She shook her head, placed a soothing palm on his knee. "They'll be happy to get a break in the monotony. It's a medical facility, they'll have generators, but the staff are going home to no power. They could use a laugh. The kids definitely could, too."

The Philomena Children's Clinic was squat for Gotham. Five stories of alternating beige concrete and polycarbonate windows, shaped into a squared-off U. Moss hung from the side of the porte-cochere, green clumps littered the pavement. Cartoon animals played on the entrance doors, giraffes and bears in happy acrylics.

When he checked in unannounced, Gertel the receptionist had a snotty face, but he'd learned not to take it personally. She liked order, worked eight to eight, even on holidays, and her only hobbies were the anagram puzzles in the newspaper and Harlequin romances. She was a tough egg to crack. The most he'd gotten was a pinched smile, a thin line of conceit.

Once he'd procured visitor badges for Y/N and himself, he went to the staff room to change. White base, blue triangles at the eyes, exaggerated red grin, bald wig with green curls, patched brown pants. He'd skipped his checkered suit jacket for a white lab coat, a long ago find from the secondhand store.

Rather than congregating in the common area, the kids remained in their rooms. The change put a limitation on his usual song and dance. Without those trappings, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He hesitated in the doorway of 201, thumbed a flat balloon in his pocket. When the little girl watching Sesame Street gave a small wave, he wiggled the worry from his shoulders and stepped forward.

Stephanie showed him a picture she'd drawn, all crayon streaks and misshapen house. In turn he crafted a balloon hat, put it on her head and told her to get well soon. A youngster next door, no more than five, told Arthur all about Misty, his golden retriever, and how much he missed her.

When Kevin, swallowed by an oversized robe, IV drip drip dripping, started to cry, Arthur's chest hollowed out. The boy hadn't seen his mom in two days. Being alone in a hospital was hard, a fact Arthur had lived. He plucked a prop handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressed it into the boy's tiny hands, pushed the corner of his mouth up with his thumb. "You'll see her soon," he said, words carrying a conviction he hoped was right.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Y/N chatting with an RN at the nurse's station. He went into the corridor to eavesdrop, knelt beside a girl in a wheelchair smothered with pink and purple stickers, Heather plastered across the side panel.

"It was nice of him to come," Linda said. "A lot of their parents can't afford the cab fare to get out here, with the subway out and all. And if they're not working, they aren't getting paid. He's always excellent with the children - sometimes he's just like them. Do you have any at home?"

Heather leaned in, prodded his shoulder. "Who's that lady?" she asked, pointing at Y/N.

"That lady?" He grinned from ear to ear. "That's Mrs. Carnival."

The girl gaped in astonishment. "She's not a clown?"

~~~~~

Stolen sheets hung from the railing at both ends of the fire escape. A forest green acrylic blanket obscured the front. A floral comforter, retrieved on tiptoe from the bedroom closet, covered the wrought iron platform. Two wine glasses and vermouth stood on the steps. All that was left was to tune the radio to easy listening, which Arthur did, treading lightly to avoid a stubbed toe.

Nodding, he smiled at his handwork. Well, at the blurred shapes he could detect in the dimness. He looked skyward. With the sun below the horizon and the usual light pollution gone, the night was sparkling.

Candlestick in hand, he eased the bedroom door ajar and sidled through. Gold flickered through the dark, a softening glow. Y/N was an unmoving lump on the mattress. Leg dangling out from the sheet, her half-slip a line on her thigh. Though sleep now came easier, her ability to nap stoked an ember of envy. Midday snoozes happened only after a bit of afternoon delight. She'd tired early, around quarter past six. If he let her doze any longer, she'd be locked in a daze brewing coffee at 2:00 AM.

Hot wax stung the web between his thumb and forefinger. He hissed, shook his hand, shoved the candle on the nightstand. The edge of the mattress sunk under his weight. He grasped the cotton sheet. Dragged it from her shoulder. Revealed the lace trim of her ivory chemise. A brief mumble fell from her mouth, a wet sucking sound. Her fingers curled into the pillow. He pulled the sheet down further. It puddled to the floor.

Stretching one arm, she rolled back to wince at the candle, then at him. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty."

That jolted her awake. "I slept too long."

"Mabel called earlier."

"What did she want?"

"She said the blackouts were on the news. I let her know we're all right."

A tender caress to her calf, which felt like silk in his palm. Images of the romantic evening he was about to have with his wife played in his head, a loop that made his stomach all aflutter.

Y/N boosted herself on her elbows. "You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look that means you're up to something," she said, brow arched to her hairline.

Part chuckle, part scoff, he laughed. She read him too well. While it made surprises harder to hide, it pleased more than it annoyed. He stood, offered his hand. "Come here," he said. She accepted, pausing long enough to blow out the flame. He led her to the fire escape and sat on the comforter.

Halfway behind the glass door, she clutched her arms over her chest. "Arthur, I can't go out like this."

"No one'll see you." He gestured at the impromptu walls. Besides, he was six feet away and her form was barely more than a shadow. "And without all the lights, you might be able to see the stars. The way you did back home. Like you told me in the park."

A beam bloomed across her face, what he imagined might be a faint blush. Bent at the waist, she slipped into the half moon's light. One hand on the doorknob, a lifeline in case she reconsidered. Her fingertips relented one by one. First the pinky, last the middle. She settled to his left, knee pulled to her chest, the other leg folded under.

Arthur shuffled closer so they were hip to hip, reached behind her for the wine glasses and bottle with the art nouveau label.

Y/N snagged it from him, squinted at it. "Vermouth?" She held the bottle while he twisted the cap. "My mother used to drink this before bed in the summer. And she rubbed it on Mabel's gums when she was teething. Whiskey, too."

When he brought the goblet of garnet colored liquid to his lips, his nose wrinkled. The liquor smelled like an overgrown garden. He dared a small sip, anyway - and bitterness coated his tongue. He winced, sputtering. "This taste weird. This was supposed to be wine."

"It is, just a different type." She drank long and deep then drank again. "This one's not bad. Strong on the cloves but it'll get the job done."

A news bulletin interrupted the animated notes of Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass. "In what authorities are calling a historic event, Gotham's five boroughs remain dark tonight - including McKean Island. We're assured safety measures are in place and the maximum-security wing remains in lockdown. Though the extent of the damage is unknown, we're happy to report that crews from Pennsylvania and New York are on their way to our fair city to lend a hand. Police Chief Miles O'Hara and Mayor Thomas Wayne are urging calm and-"

"That's enough of that." Y/N flipped the off switch. "You know the best part of all this? Wayne Tower is just as dark as everywhere else."

Unable to stop a chuckle, Arthur shook his head. She wasn't one for holding grudges, but the ones she did carry lived in the lines of her palms, plain enough for any flimflam psychic to read.

But he didn't want her to talk about that, not now. And he knew of a guaranteed method to distract her, to bring her back to where he wanted. He refilled her drink and clinked their glasses.

Second helping swallowed, she inched her bottom forward to lay on her back, arm tucked beneath her head. "It was wonderful to see you work today. Thank you for inviting me. I'm sorry it took so long."

"Well, you come to my standup shows." Only a month ago, she'd recorded his performance and given him tips over Thai. He stretched out next to her, set his still full glass on the steps. "The girl in the wheelchair asked who you were. She was surprised Mrs. Carnival isn't a clown."

"As surprised as everybody was that I married one?"

A hitched laugh. He fiddled with his trousers' belt loops. "I guess."

"There's a magic wand." She pointed at the skies. "By the moon, to the right."

Arthur hummed a contented hum, let his eyelids flutter shut. The street was peaceful, as still as he'd ever heard it. With most shops and restaurants shut down, the list of leisure options fit on a postage stamp. It was a moment to capture, preserve, like swirls in a vase.

A breeze rustled the sheets, blew across them, carried Y/N's natural scent straight to his nostrils. Warm and spicy, like roasted vanilla edged with musk. He breathed deeply, needing to fill his lungs with her anew. Sighing happily, he turned to her.

Silver gleams turned her skin to gossamer, dusk smudged her features. Feathered brown locks merged with the vines on the bedspread's pattern. Her breast threatened to fall out of the armhole of her lingerie.

Christ. They were outside. He hadn't planned on getting aroused. But the longer he looked at her, the harder he got.

Y/N sipped, balanced her stemware on her sternum. "Thank you for tonight, too. You're always so thoughtful." A simple sentiment but exactly what he longed to hear. An affirmation, a pledge to love him further.

But before he could respond in kind, the glass between her breasts began to tip...

He caught it, a splash hitting his wrist, crimson droplets landing on her collarbone. He set it on the step, bent to seize her lips. An unpleasant earthiness covered them. He licked it away, coaxed back her sweetness.

Gigging, she broke away. "Was this your plan? To get me out here and ply me with drink?" The hand on his shoulder dragged to his cheek. The breathy voice she adopted shot straight down his spine. "To take advantage of me?"

It wasn't but he didn't have to tell her that. He nudged closer, his erection grazing her thigh. "Maybe."

A slow smile of pleasure. "I like that plan."

Her palms snuck under his t-shirt, forced it upwards as she explored his body. Nails swirled at his abdomen. It grew taut, stuttered at the sensations, her tickles and temptations. When she reached his pecs she gave a firm pinch. At his displeased grunt, a wicked laugh left her, bawdy and amorous. A clear sign of what they were up to.

His thumb followed her chemise's ribbon strap. His hand fell to her side, skimmed her rounded hip, the delectable curve of her leg. Her half-slip had a daring slit. He slid through, drew lazy circles on her inner thigh.

She shivered. "You're not making it easy to be quiet."

Fingertips traced her panties' elastic leg. Heat emanated from her core, luring him nearer and nearer. Her swallowed whimper rushed him there. Slick and wet, the nylon gusset clung to her vulva.

He'd grown deft at touching her, even in the dark. He trailed a careful stripe along her labia. Inner lips were a prominent line through the fabric, her clitoral hood a plump ridge. Light and rapid he flicked his nail across it. Her pelvis snapped up, held. Millimeter ruts chasing his scrapes, fingers digging his back.

A shudder racked him. His forehead pressed to hers. "If we had more room, I'd taste you." She pressed her lips together, a squeal trapped behind them.

The same breeze that'd carried her scent could very well carry her hungry little whines around the block. So he captured her mouth with his. It started off tender and shallow but was soon all encompassing. She raked through his hair, tugged and tugged again. His tongue sought hers, caressed, collided. Teeth bumped with a muted click.

Sharp gasps. Her neck, her breasts, her entire being arching into him. Desperate push-pulls. He pressed on, strokes licks of fire on her clit. Mewling built in the back of her throat. He heard it in her shallow pants, felt it in how she gripped his bicep. Her thighs trembled, vulva throbbing in his hand.

"Ah!" She squeaked, a strangled, undignified sound.

Snorting, he shoved her sweaty face into the crook of his neck, caught the cries she couldn't stop. (Long ago, she'd offered to visit his apartment on her lunch break - with the explicit promise she could be quiet. He hadn't taken her up on it. Phew!) Her grip on his shirt tightened. One leg went straight, the other knee brushed his cock. Stillness punctuated by tremors. He kissed her temple, slowed his caress to a languid pace.

Legs akimbo, she blinked at him. Signaled silence with a finger to her lips. She balanced on her knees, shed her panties, patted the spot where she'd lain. He scooted over immediately. When he tried to sit, she pushed him to lie on his back. Moving to straddle him, she unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. He made no move to stop her.

Y/N braced herself on his chest, reached between them to press him to her entrance. She began to ease herself onto him, ease him inside her. But he told her to stop.

A strap fell down her upper arm, loosened her camisole to accentuate her cleavage and reveal a breast. Her nipple poked out, its dusky brown a tantalizing contrast to her white skin. Moonlight sculpted the apple of her cheek in whirls of silver. The stars shone about her head, caught in her tresses like sequins on an evening gown.

A pleasant fuzziness swept through him. Nearly three years and he was still drawn to her like a magnet. He'd bet his life that'd be the same case in twenty.

She cocked her head. "What is it?"

He brushed her hair behind her shoulder. Lowered the other strap. "Perfect," he said, smiling as his heart swelled. "You look perfect."

Teeth pressed her lower lip in a shy smile. When she bent to kiss him, her nipples dragged up his chest, prickled his flesh. She shifted the angle of her pelvis forward, the angle that rubbed her clit on his public bone. The one that left his black curls a matted, wet mess.

A sensuous thrust, her hips rolled in a seductive circle. "I want you to come," she whispered, and licked his bottom lip.

One foot braced on the grate beneath him, which bit even through the comforter. He bucked into her, into that heady stretch of her slippery heat. As if testing their connection, she raised up until he nearly flopped out, until only the glans remained. Then her walls encompassed him once more. Clutching, grasping. A steady rhythm. Relentless motion that bewitched and bewildered.

He cleared his throat to keep from crying out, channeled the urge to groan into grabbing the baluster behind his head. Her pinky brushed the strong sinew of his neck, her tongue followed his collarbone. Tightness in his loins spread to his abdomen, crawled through his limbs.

A burst of light, white and pulsing, formed behind his eyelids. Fire rippled through his veins, a scarlet flush of satisfaction. He bit the inside of his cheek, permitted one weak whimper to escape. She held herself in place while he finished, in the way she knew he liked. Stroked the tension from his dimples until they melted into a smile.

Slack and sated, his arm dropped to the ground. He puffed out his chest and cheeks and huffed. On a swift peck, she began to push herself up.

Just then, the Caswells' glass door creaked. Sluggish steps, like a hiker stuck in the mud. Y/N ducked on top of Arthur, held her breath. A hurdy gurdy voice called from inside. "...should have added it to the list last week. Where are you going? Louie L'Amour's about to start on GPR!" The rattle of a far-off rotary phone. "Oh, I bet that's your mother. She's called every hour!"

"I never said you have to answer it!" A resigned sigh, the click of a lighter. Arthur could almost hear the man deflate.

"The heat must be getting to them," Y/N said. "I think he'll be out here awhile."

Arthur murmured into her hair. "If you weren't so sweet, we wouldn't be in this jam." A playful swat to her bottom.

Laughter tickled his neck. She lifted herself a couple inches, pulled up the straps of her camisole. Careful to remain discreet, she grabbed her panties, clambered off him, and duck walked towards the living room. One foot beyond the threshold and she scampered out of sight.

He zipped his trousers, straightened his shirt, stretched as he stood, stuck a hand in his pocket to appear nonchalant. He grabbed the radio and headed inside. The rest he'd retrieve ten minutes later, when the neighbor would be forced to answer to his mother.

As he entered, Y/N emerged from the bathroom. His feet stumbled to a stop, his brain blanked. She'd shed her clothing and now stood nude before him. His stomach again went all aflutter.

"Let's repeat all that as soon as we can.” She curled her fingers around his wrist, not giving him a moment to resist. “By candlelight. In our bed."

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x female reader #watchwhathappens

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iamprchung · 1 month

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The Spider and the FBI: Part 7 "Paradise Syndrome"

Synopsis by guest writer Jose Chung (written prior to his apparent death at the hands of the Nostradamus Nutball):

Now, grab your Stetsons, conspiracy cowboys, 'cause we're moseying on over to Elmo, Wyoming. Here, amidst the questionable barbeque and dazzling fireworks of the 4th of July festivities, we find Agent Scully embroiled in a situation more perplexing than a malfunctioning weather balloon.

In strides Sheriff Lawrence Durokoff, a man carved from the same government-issue granite as Assistant Director Skinner, only with a grin brighter than a chrome bumper on a brand-new pickup truck. Was it a case of cloning gone wrong? Or perhaps long-lost twins separated by, well, let's just say a misplaced birth certificate (we can delve into government conspiracies all day, but identical twins are a stretch even for this jaded scribe).

The truth, as always, is stranger than the wildest fan fiction. The undeniable spark between Scully and Sheriff Durokoff has tongues wagging about a future filled with calico dresses and prairie sunburns instead of chasing shadows in the bureaucratic labyrinth. Is our favorite redhead about to trade her badge for a butter churn? Only time, and perhaps a strategically placed horseshoe (it's a small town, after all) will tell!

Notes: Yes, I sure did title this after a Star Trek episode.

"Paradise Syndrome"

Part VIII of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

Preface/Notes:

Just reading through this, even after all these years, I recognize exactly where one of my very best friends and amazing author assisted with this story. I know her work is still out there somewhere as she was one of the originals in the X-Files fiction fandom, authoring stories that are still amazing. None other than the very talented Paula B. Her ability to turn a phrase cannot be surpassed, and it’s a joy to read passages I know she helped on.

*************************

Elmo, Wyoming July 4th

By the time she hung up the phone from her conversation with Mulder, Scully's hair was nearly dry from her shower. She got up from the bed and went to the window, drawing back the curtains of her hotel room to look out on the street below.

Nothing much had changed except for the layer of increasing smoke drifting up through the trees from the square. How many barbecues were going? She wondered. And what were they cooking? Burgers and hot dogs? Roasting corn snugly rolled in foil? Brisket and ribs, too?

Her stomach gurgled.

Trying to remember the last meal she'd eaten she turned to go check on her blouse. It was hanging to dry in the bathroom after a lame attempt to clean it in the porcelain basin. It was a very nice bathroom, just not very functional.

The entire room was very nice, as was the whole hotel. Small and quaint, just a few rooms sitting atop a gift shop and cafe. Heavy in small town charm and light on the amenities; a bed, chest of drawers, mirror, and nightstand. No television, no radio, and the phone had to be brought up specially for her room, as had the one taken into Skinner's room down the hall.

His would undoubtedly be of heavier use than hers she presumed as she touched the still damp fabric of her blue blouse. He wasn't pleased in the least about either the situation or the location, and he apparently wanted out as fast as humanly possible.

He had been on the phone at the Sheriff's station the entire time it took to get Bernstein squared away in the holding cell. There was nothing but skeleton crews of federal workers manning the phones in Denver and Salt Lake City. Calling Washington hadn't been much help either; apparently all he had gotten was an ear full of instructions to get Bernstein back there for trial- come hell or high water.

Sure, they could get a flight out of Laramie or Cheyenne in the morning or even tonight if they were lucky enough that the agents from the Casper field operation should show up. But things were looking ugly up there, suspicion of terrorism and arrests sparking upset among the jingoistic masses. It was just another unpleasant federal incident in the making.

Aside from becoming another bout of bad press for the bureau, this whole Casper thing had gummed up the works, delaying agents that Mulder had needed, and now, still, those she and Skinner needed.

Mulder could have gone forever, and would have, if she hadn't interrupted his denunciation of every federal employee he had dealt with during the last twenty-four hours. She could tell he hadn't slept by just the shear amount of information he was trying to pack into a single conversation followed by a spate of questions.

She was sure there would be more questions when he finally arrived in a few hours. After muttering something about manic helicopter pilots, he had said was going to drive to Elmo, which concerned her if he hadn't slept, but once Mulder was set on doing something there was generally no swaying him from it.

A sudden resonant sound of a band practicing drew her attention back to the street below her hotel window, where she caught sight of Sheriff Durokoff.

Self-consciously she took a step back from the window not wanting to be discovered in just her bra. At a careful distance from the window, she watched him across the street and stop there in the shade, talking pleasantly with others.

The sound started up again, a guitar... being tested on an amplifier. Curious, she searched through the trees trying to see, hearing the strong chords of a bluesy country-rock song she couldn't name being played by fits and starts.

The trees were just too thick. She couldn't see a thing and gave up and turned back to look at more interesting things— He was gone. The people he'd been talking to were still there, mulling around and talking, but Durokoff was gone.

Crap. She'd see more of him later, but it was unlikely she would get another chance to covertly study him at length, to examine the similarities between him and Skinner.

His cousin, she concerned. How bizarre, she thought and smiled. Of all the towns they should end up in, after all they had gone through, they just happen to hit the one tiny patch of earth containing another Skinner- or rather a Durokoff. Their mothers were sisters undoubtedly, or perhaps a remarriage had caused the difference in names. She analyzed the possible branches of genealogy.

Like an impression of the sun Durokoff's smile was emblazoned on her retinas. He wasn't the consummate small town, no non-sense Sheriff, all bluster, and intimidation when it came to federal involvement.

He didn't like Bernstein, and he had been to the point with the man, swiftly locking him away in the blunt bowels of the Elmo holding cells, but during the entire time at the Sheriff's station he had still managed to be cheerful and lighthearted. She thought she'd even seen him give her a quick wink at one point.

The un-Skinner, she thought and nearly laughed out loud.

Not completely, though, the similarities remained, and were so great in certain respects that she had found herself deferring to Durokoff the same as if he were Skinner. A certain turn of a phrase, a look, a motion, everything about him stirred an almost constant sense of surprise and amusement in her.

Two Skinner's could be a rather daunting concept for some, but it didn't seem like such a bad idea to her.

A solid knocking sounded at the door of her room yanked her out of that thought, audibly startling her.

"Agent Scully?" a muffled voice called through the door, concerns seeping through the woodgrain.

"Just a minute," she called, rushing to grab her top.

Lawrence Durokoff stood in the hall listening to the muffled scurrying sounds beyond the door, arched his brows. Perhaps she wasn't alone in there, he thought and glanced down the hall toward his cousin's room which he'd discovered was empty only a moment before he tried her room.

"Is there a problem?" Durokoff turned at the sound of Skinner's voice. He was coming down the hall from the stairs, his eyes pinched and his jaw set.

"No. No problem here." He answered taking a step back from the door to address Skinner. Well, he wasn't in there. So, what's going on?

The door jerked open suddenly, a flush faced Scully looked back at the two men. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, questions pooling.

"Uh, hi." She greeted the two of them, holding the hem of her blouse out and away from herself, it was still damp and almost transparent when it contacted her body. "Is something wrong?" She finally asked when neither one of them spoke.

“You two sure are shellshocked.” He commented, glancing amusedly between the two of them. “Nothing wrong,” he told her, and glanced at Skinner, “and no problems.”

Durokoff held out a small satchel to Scully. "I had one of the deputies gather some things together for you," he explained as she took.

"Thank you," Scully said glancing inside it to see what appeared at first glance to be a tee shirt still in the plastic packaging, a hairbrush, and a few basic items of make-up.

Skinner averted his gaze from the scene shifting the plastic bag he was carrying from one hand to the other. Durokoff glanced back at his cousin holding out another bag, a half-sized duffel. "I got some clothes for you and some shaving stuff."

Skinner's hand went to his face, feeling the growth of beard stubble. What a pig he must have looked like, he ruefully thought and glanced at Scully. "Thanks."

The sound of music drifted into the hall through Scully's room from outside; a hearty rendition of Bad Moon Rising being played in the square.

"Well, uh," Durokoff muttered planting his hands on his hips, looking between the two of them. "I guess you've figured out there's a little party starting outside. There's plenty of food and music," he made a brief gesture toward the sound of the music past Scully's shoulder. "I've come to extend the official Elmo invitation for you both to join us."

Scully's stomach gurgled urging her to accept the invitation.

* "... I see the bad moon a rising. I see trouble on the way..." *

Skinner spoke before she could. "Food sounds great, but I don't think we should get distracted. We're still on duty here."

"No distractions," Durokoff said and grinned. "Just good food. I've got plenty of people keeping an eye on that Bernstein joker, so you can stop worrying about him. Just come on down to the square when you're ready and make yourselves at home."

* "... I see bad times on their way..."*

"I may just rest some." Skinner said quietly.

Speak for yourself, Scully thought. "I'd be happy to sample the local flavor. I can't remember my last real meal."

* "I know the end is coming soon..." *

"Great," Durokoff blurted, zealously slapping his hands together. "I'll see you down there, Agent Scully." He said and turned to go, saying to his cousin as he went, "I hope you'll come down, too, once you get some rest, Walter."

* "...don't go 'round tonight... It's bound to take your life..." *

"Here," Skinner said, unceremoniously extending a plastic bag to Scully.

She blinked pulling her gaze off his departing cousin. "What's this?" She asked, taking the bag.

"A toothbrush and paste." He answered already halfway to his room down the hall.

"Thank you..." she leaned out the door calling back to him, but his door had already shut, leaving her alone in the hall.

Back inside her room, she picked through the duffel finding a new tee-shirt, boasting a silk screen print that read 'Second Annual 4th of July Celebration, Elmo, Wyoming'. She frowned reading it.

Only their second? She wondered and moved on to inspect the rest of the items. The mascara would work fine and the lipstick too if she only dabbed it on, it was just a little too dark for her taste, but the blush would have to go, it was far too red.

Grateful for necessities, she snatched up the brush and plastic bag, heading to the bathroom. Her hair was frightful. Could she get it to behave even if she did re-wet it and brush it straight out? No beauty contest is going on that I know of right now, she told herself, yanking first paste from the plastic bag, then the toothbrush— and stopped.

She looked at it, confused at first by what she saw. Turning the brush over in she found a small decal stamped on the handle; a little stagecoach in motion with a name drifting behind it like dust from the wheels. The name wasn't Dana, though... It was Kate.

She looked at that a second before she realized and glanced back, her thoughts on the room down the hall. Dana wasn’t a common name emblazoned on any gift shop trinket. She looked down at the toothbrush.

He’d gotten the next closest.

*****************************

The when the music began Skinner opened his eyes, hearing the chords that were undeniably familiar aside from the performers’ ad-libbing. Before finally getting up to go to the window, he laid on the bed listening to the guitar playing down in the square wrenching out Sleepwalk.

It wasn't great, but it was close, he critiqued pulling back the gossamer curtains to look out. Anyway, the slower, more sedate sounds were a nice break from the honky tonkin,’ rambunctious stuff they'd been playing for the last hour.

He would have liked to have blamed his inability to sleep on the music, but he doubted he could have slept if he were in a soundproof room with no windows. There was just too much weighing on his mind to allow sleep to come easily. There was still no call from the special agent in charge up in Casper, no word on when they could expect more agents. At least Mulder was on his way, that fact, in the strangest of ways helped ease his concerns in some.

Once he got there, they could continue on to Laramie, get Bernstein drugged to the hilt and on a plane and back to DC by Monday at the latest. That would still give them a day before the arraignment hearing and get the federal prosecutor and Attorney General out of his hair.

Skinner chuckled to himself. If ever there was a figure of speech...

A glimpse of red drew his attention to the street below. There walked one of his other concerns: Scully was heading across to the town square.

Damn.

From out of the cover of the trees came Lawrence, a huge smile plastered across his face.

And there came the next concern.

Of all the damn places to end up in why the hell did they have to end up here? Eighteen years of peace shattered in a single day. Peace, yes, but not complete disconnection. There had always been word floating through the family about who was doing what and where they were.

He had known when Lawrence finally made Sheriff here, he'd actually been invited to a party to celebrate the event. He knew it hurt Aunt Anne and Bulah when he didn't respond. He had been busy, and just didn't feel like dealing with it again.

Skinner watched as two boys scurried between Scully and Lawrence, almost bumping into her as they went. He watched Scully laugh about it and talk cheerfully as Lawrence guided her into the park, disappearing beyond the thick canopy of tree branches.

His heart sank almost in time with the lamenting cry of the guitar playing. Too much time had passed, he thought, but things hadn't changed much...

*****************************

Norwalk, Ohio December 1st, 1963

There just wasn’t a whole lot to do, and all the adults were still shuffling around, overwhelmed by the news out of Dallas a little over a week before. It felt like the world, at least their part of it had come to stand still after the news of the president’s assassination.

Heavy and silent, the day pressed in around two small figures scuffing through turned leaves. It was Sunday after Thanksgiving, not much to do between the time Church was done and time for supper, except track around in the woods, down by trestle and maybe, if luck were good, a train would pass on its way into Cedar Point.

But come tomorrow, Monday was going to be the start of a whole new experience...

"Will there be a lot of girls there?"

"Sure will. Who do you think we're gonna dance with, Walter, each other?"

Walter pulled the collar of his red plaid coat up closer to his neck, shivering against the sudden cold breeze. "But a lot of them?" he asked, concerned.

"I don't know," Lawrence looked at him closely, "why, are you scared?"

Walter shrugged and stuffed his hands deep in the warmth of his Tuff-Skin pockets. "No. I was just wondering."

"I think you're scared. You're scared of the girls." Lawrence began to laugh. Walter blushed making his cousin laugh even harder. "Cubby's afraid of the girls."

"I'm not. And stop calling me that stupid name."

"Cubby, Cubby, Cubby." He chanted, jogging in a circle around Walter.

"I don't even look like that kid, knock it off!" Walter hauled off and shoved Lawrence knocking him off balance.

"You got the ears."

"So, what if I have mouse ears? You've got that stupid coonskin hat, and I know your cat gave it fleas cause you're always scratching your head when you wear it!"

"I don't scratch my head!" Lawrence proclaimed, his voice cracking hard. "And I wasn't talkin'bout your dumb Mickey Mouse ears. I meant your ears!"

"So! You scratch your head so much you're gonna scratch all your hair off and then see how many girls you dance with."

"You're dumb." Lawrence spat shoving Walter.

"You're stupid." Walter spat back, regaining his balance.

"You're fat."

The comment fell on deaf ears, Walter wasn't listening to his cousin, something else had caught his attention, a rustling sound close by. Lawrence tried shoving him again, but Walter didn't budge, he remained steady and fixed on the sound. "Cut it out... Listen..." he said, adjusting his glasses.

Lawrence listened, hearing the sound he frowned. "What is that?"

Walter shook his head and started forward, following the rustling.

They walked carefully though the brittle layer of leaves covering the ground, listening intently, checking the bare trees around them for some sign of what the sound was.

"There," Lawrence blurted, his arm shooting straight out from his body as he pointed toward the trees ahead of them. "It's a kite!"

"It was a kite," Walter corrected his cousin who had started for the tree the tattered kite was caught in.

"Oh, wow, look," Lawrence excitedly called out when he peered up at the object. "It's not torn or nothing, look, Walter. Look."

Walter stepped up next to him, peering up. "Nope. It's not torn or nothing."

"Wow."

"But it's also up a tree."

Without a word Lawrence reached up and grabbed a low branch in each hand.

"What are you doing?" Walter sounded more accusatory than he did inquiring.

"I'm gonna get it."

"It's just junk, Lawrence." He told him and shook his head when he saw that he wasn't being listened to.

Lawrence struggled up through the bare branches, losing purchase several times as deader ones broke off under his weight, but somehow managing to only go higher rather than fall back down. It wouldn't be long though...

"You're gonna fall. You better not go any higher!" Walter yelled; his neck bent back until it hurt now to see his cousin. How high was he going go before he would see that kite was just junk, all busted up and worthless?

"I got it!" Lawrence shouted triumphantly.

Walter watched as he waved the ragged kite before him like some trophy for endurance and strength.

It was about then a loud crack sounded.

Clear and loud, like bones cracking, the branch Lawrence was resting his butt on breaking cut through the chilly air.

Walter saw the look in Lawrence's eyes when he realized things had gone very bad- black and huge with fear. He shrieked and Walter thought he sounded like a girl in the instant before his cousin plummeted through the branches and crashed to the ground on his side.

He lay there on his side; his back curved like a hula-hoop and his legs turned in crazy angles that didn't look right at all. His mouth was moving but there was no sound, he was sucking air in, and his eyes were squeezed shut so hard Walter couldn't see his eyelashes when he got up close.

"Holy smokes! Are you all right? Are you all right?"

Finally, and with an intensity like Walter had never heard in his life, a horrible noise came out of Lawrence's mouth: a ragged scream that degenerated into a gut-wrenching bawling. "My legs," he screamed, blood and snot trickling from his nose. "It hurts! It hurts! Walter, help me! Oh, God it hurts!"

"I told you!" Walter screamed, his breath beginning to hitch with frightened sobs. "I told you! Why didn't you listen to me?"

"Please- it hurts!"

Freezing air ripping at his lungs Walter tore through the woods, crashing toward Lawrence's house.

Walter Skinner didn't believe he had ever run harder or faster in his life than he had that afternoon.

******************************

Elmo, Wyoming 4th of July 1999

"Here you go," Durokoff declared, sounding a little breathless as he reappeared from the crowd, waving a handful of napkins.

Scully almost laughed at the inordinate amount of napkins he'd brought back to the table.

"I know I wasn't that messy," she said as he sat back down opposite her at the picnic table.

He watched her take a napkin from the pile and begin to wipe the barbecue sauce from her chin, noticing the dab she'd dropped on her tee shirt. "I don't know," he said grinning at her, "maybe I should have brought back a bib, too."

Scully looked down, gasping at the blotch of red sauce on herself. "I can't believe I've turned into such a mess."

"Ribs are messy business," he said handing her another fist full of napkins.

She laughed, feeling embarrassed. She had been half starved but attempted good manners, yet good manners went out the window when it came to barbecued ribs. She knew she should have stuck with the hot dogs.

"Barbecue in general is a messy business," she commented, demurely dabbing at her shirt.

"That's what makes it fun." Scully looked at him, struck by the strong and cheerful sound of his familiar voice. He looked back at her with kind brown eyes she thought she knew and had to remind herself that she didn’t know this man at all. "I think you missed a little..." He told her, gesturing first at her face then his own, brushing at his own upper lip.

Scully wiped at her mouth again, another wave of chagrin passing over her.

"Uh, it's..." he stammered a little again gesturing at her mouth and beginning to sound frustrated. "It's still..." Scully frowned, growing annoyed by her inability to find this stray smear of barbecue sauce he kept pointing at. "Uh, here," he said leaning over the table enough to hesitantly wipe her lip with another napkin. He stopped, pulling his hand back to look at her quizzically before he confusedly said, "it's not coming off?"

"Huh?" Then she realized and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh... Well, it's not going to be coming off, either, not without laser surgery, unfortunately." Durokoff's expression was beginning to take on that cast that Skinner more than often got when he didn't quite get something. "It's a mole," she explained and went back to pick at the ribs on her paper plate.

"Unfortunately?" He questioned her choice of words. "Don't you like it?"

"No," she said emphasizing the word by pursing her lips. "I usually cover it up."

"It's darling," he declared. She raised her eyes to give him a dubious look. He wasn't making it any better and she hoped her expression communicated the fact. "Why would you cover it up?"

Apparently her expression did not phase the man. "I've never liked it," she answered and shrugged. "Since I was a little girl, I hated it."

"Why don't you have it cut off?" he bluntly asked.

She cringed, managing to stop her hands before the ribs touched her mouth. "I don't know," she sighed putting the rib back on the plate and pushing it away. "I guess because it's still a part of me."

"Attached to it, huh?" He was being deliberately idiotic now.

Scully blew her breath out, laughing hard in spite of herself. He laughed along with her appearing to do so with his whole body; he seemed to shudder, his eyes pinched with glee, his mouth a full broad smile.

She liked him. She liked his laugh- full on bass and warm- she liked the way he looked and carried him self- formidable confidence blended with deft grace. She'd even become a little fond of the propensity he had for repeatedly adjusting his hat when he spoke. A nervous quirk, Scully had considered, or merely a motion to ease the press of the cap against his bare scalp. She had seen he was just as balding as Skinner the few times his hat had come far enough away from his head.

Although, his skull appeared smoother than Skinner's that was subtly pitted and pocked with peculiar dings and curious indentations. Occasionally, while seated before her superior's desk with Mulder explaining himself at her side, her mind would drift curiously over that uneven back-lit scalp, indexing the probable causes of those marks and wondering if there something more to phrenology.

When their laughter tapered down to scant chuckling they found themselves looking at one another, a certain level of wariness passing between their gazes. The echo of live music rebounded around them, people mulled about laughing and cheering, but it all seemed suddenly very far away.

After a moment, affected, Durokoff cleared his throat shifting his eyes left and right, anywhere but on her. He got up from the table and motioned for her to follow. "Come on, I think that sauce is getting to you."

"Getting to me?"

He laughed one last breathy laugh, re-adjusting the cap on his head. "That sauce has probably got more booze in it than the bar over there."

She gawked at the plate of ribs she'd torn through. There might have been a good amount of liquor in the sauce but surely not enough to make her tipsy. "I couldn't taste liquor in it."

"Likely story, missy," he teased, "come on along with me."

"Am I under arrest for public intoxication?" She went with it, allowing him to take her by the arm and lead her through the crowd.

"Public intoxication, lewd and disorderly conduct, not to mention bad table manners..."

She didn't know where he was taking her but happily trotted along enjoying the feel of Durokoff's firm grasp.

Why couldn't Skinner be more like this, she mused as they wound their way through the crowded park. There was that one brief instant, she recalled his inciting of the Gilligan's Island theme while they were marooned in the middle of the lake, but she had assumed that was just the champagne.

She'd seen him smile just once, that same night, and the simple gesture had softened his features and lent light to his eyes. It was a long time before she had rid herself of the hope of ever seeing him smile like that again, at least for her. Again, she chalked it up to the alcohol he'd consumed and let it go.

Anything between them was not meant to be despite her moments of weakness, times when she was ready to throw everything away and tell him how she felt. He would probably give her one of those incredulous looks he so effortlessly doled out on a regular basis, saying something like "you've obviously made a mistake." Yeah, a mistake, all right. A big one, too. Don't go falling for your superior unless you're ready to suffer the knicks and scratches of unrequited... The sound of Durokoff's walkie-talkie interrupted her dejected introspective.

He excused himself by stepping away from her. A few moments later she was accepting his request to join him on a call, promising it would be interesting. And interesting it did turn out to be.

A rather typical domestic disagreement but with rather distinctive circumstances; at the far-off fringe of Carbon County where the Elmo Sheriff's department authority just about ran out. Two men of wise age, one would assume at first sight, sitting around all morning with nothing better to do than drink themselves into a stupor, decided the fireworks show was too far off to wait any longer. So, they started their own show a little early by setting off sticks of dynamite in their front yard.

The first blast had taken out a car belonging to one man who promptly set off a second stick that demolished the car belonging to the man who had set off the first explosion.

With their cars burning and the yard and house torn up and looking like a scene from a war, the men continued to argue and fight, each threatening to blow the other up.

Judging by the familiarity that the deputies on the scene as well as Durokoff treated the men, Scully figured that these two had a long history of such behavior.

An hour or more had passed when the county fire trucks were finally showing up on the scene and the two men had been talked down and on their way to Elmo where their view of the fireworks show would be quite good from their cells.

Stating that he was certain nothing he could show her now would top what they'd just seen, Durokoff set off anyway to give Scully a brief tour of the area, introducing her to locals less radical than the last and reciting regional history and lore making her feel quite comfortable with his attentiveness and polite gestures of respect.

She found in his behavior an old-fashioned charm replacing cautious political correctness that punctuated the cities she'd lived in most her life. Still, he showed respect to her, as the fellow agent of law enforcement she was, asking her opinion on issues of concern in the area and wanting to know her feelings about recent negative attitudes directed toward federal agencies.

But in defiance of their almost deliberate trade discussions, there was an underlying tension building between them. She could feel the air becoming charged as they traveled together and quite by themselves in the four-wheeler. Talk was becoming less and less as they drove through the mountainous roads, replaced by the frequent exchange of glances and shared smiles in the increasingly awkward silence.

Scully was beginning to feel as though she were on a first date when the radio gratefully crackled for attention, the dispatcher announcing she had a message from the Albany Country Sheriff's department. Scully was quick to stop any information from going out over the radio, making Durokoff aware of that being one feasible way Gryzwac had been tracing them with the use of a scanner.

Remarking how he hoped everyone was being as alert as she was he instructed the call be put through to them on his cell phone, and moments later Scully was talking to a ragged out sounding Mulder. He was traveling with an Albany Country deputy to get a rental car and didn't believe he'd be arriving until nightfall.

"Why doesn't he just get Boyd to have him flown over here," Durokoff asked Scully who relayed the question to Mulder.

"The helicopter is temporarily out of commission," she relayed back, listening to something else Mulder said, then, "besides, he's not thrilled about the idea if it were working."

Durokoff laughed. "I don't blame him in the least."

By the time they got back to town he'd shared his own tale of his experiences with Ronnie Stewart, the rock’n’rolling hot shot of the Albany County Air Patrol. It seemed the man had never quite put aside his days as a stunt show pilot, still managing to get a little acrobatic flying in every once in a while to show off and sometimes scare what he liked to call his "virgin" passengers.

***********************

Lariat Car Rentals Rock Springs, Wyoming

What was the deal?

Was there no respect left in this country for the urgency of federal business?

Mulder mulled these and a multifarious amount of other questions over as he watched the rental car agency employee languidly collect agreements from various pigeonholes along the wall of the storefront agency. Tired beyond measure he leaned against the chest high counter, believing if he stared hard enough at the back of the man's head, willing him to move faster.

"Please do not lean on the counter," he suddenly announced without turning.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder straightened and checked the time on the wall clock. Jesus, it was nearly four o'clock. Where had the damn day gone? "Could we hurry this up some, I'm really tired and I'm in a hurry to get to where I'm going."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be in such a hurry if you're so tired, sir." The man said, turning back to him with a smug lift to his eyebrow, his bushy mustache twitching like a nervous ferret had nested under his nose.

An abrupt and unsolicited laugh escaped Mulder. "Uh," he forced his eyes closed against the sight of the man. "I'm taking the full insurance on the car." He finally managed to assure the funny little man, who was now frowning at him.

"Of course you are after what happened to your last vehicle." He said planting the paperwork on the counter in front of Mulder. "Never in the history of Lariat Rental has there ever been such an act of complete disregard and..."

"I'm really sorry about the other rental car," Mulder bemoaned both what had become of the car he'd left on the side of the road the previous day and the fact that Lariat Rental seemed to have a monopoly on the rental car business throughout the area. Who would have thought there was a vandalism problem in such an area of the country? "Circumstances beyond my control kept me from calling..."

"Yes, yes. So, you've said. Still, I certainly hope this isn't the normal mode of operation among all representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He remarked pointedly as he handed Mulder a pen.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Mulder, aggravated to a point now, began signing papers with a whimsical flourish of his wrist, dispatching the signed copies toward the man with abandon. "It's a new policy that all federal employees must abide by totally, seek out and destroy as much property as humanly possible within the private sector." He emphasized his final word with such zeal he ripped right though the tissue thin top copy of the rental agreement with the ballpoint of the pen.

"Wonderful," the man declared throwing his hands up, "more destruction. I just never- now, we'll have to start over again."

"What!" Mulder spat as the man snatched up all the papers and started for the pigeonholes again for fresh copies. "Haven't you ever heard of scotch tape?"

************************

Continued in part 8

#the spider and the fbi #walter skinner #skinner scully fanfic #scully #mulder #skinner #xfiles fanfic #the x-files

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mightyflamethrower · 8 days

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Updated 1:26 PM CDT, March 14, 2024Share

WEST POINT, N.Y. (AP) — “Duty, Honor, Country” has been the motto of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point since 1898. That motto isn’t changing, but a decision to take those words out of the school’s lesser-known mission statement is still generating outrage.

Officials at the 222-year-old military academy 60 miles (96 kilometers) north of New York City recently reworked the one-sentence mission statement, which is updated periodically, usually with little fanfare.

The school’s “Duty, Honor, Country,” motto first made its way into that mission statement in 1998.

The new version declares that the academy’s mission is “To build, educate, train, and inspire the Corps of Cadets to be commissioned leaders of character committed to the Army Values and ready for a lifetime of service to the Army and Nation.”

“As we have done nine times in the past century, we have updated our mission statement to now include the Army Values,” academy spokesperson Col. Terence Kelley said Thursday. Those values — spelled out in other documents — are loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity and personal courage, he said.

Still, some people saw the change in wording as nefarious.

“West Point is going woke. We’re watching the slow death of our country,” conservative radio host Jeff Kuhner complained in a post on the social media platform X.

Rachel Campos-Duffy, co-host of the Fox network’s “Fox & Friends Weekend,” wrote on the platform that West Point has gone “full globalist” and is “Purposely tanking recruitment of young Americans patriots to make room for the illegal mercenaries.”

West Point Superintendent Lt. Gen. Steve Gilland said in a statement that “Duty, Honor, Country is foundational to the United States Military Academy’s culture and will always remain our motto.”

“It defines who we are as an institution and as graduates of West Point,” he said. “These three hallowed words are the hallmark of the cadet experience and bind the Long Gray Line together across our great history.”

Kelley said the motto is carved in granite over the entrance to buildings, adorns cadets’ uniforms and is used as a greeting by plebes, as West Point freshmen are called, to upper-class cadets.

The mission statement is less ubiquitous, he said, though plebes are required to memorize it and it appears in the cadet handbook “Bugle Notes.”

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scotianostra · 11 months

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Happy Birthday John Alexander Cruickshank, VC, born on May 20th 1920 in Aberdeen.

Yep, born in 1920, I know I sometimes get the age wrong, but John Cruikshank today celebrates his 103rd birthday!

The former Aberdeen Grammar school pupil, was involved in one of the most audacious acts of the conflict when he flew his Catalina aircraft through a torrential hail of flak. And, although his first pass was unsuccessful, he brought it around for a second sortie, this time straddling a U-boat and sinking the vessel.

However, the German anti-aircraft fire proved fatally accurate in response, killing the navigator and injuring four others, including both Flight Lieutenant Cruickshank and second pilot, Flight Sergeant Jack Garnett.

The Granite City pilot, who was just 24, suffered scores of different injuries while he and his comrades were engaged in sinking the German submarine, and, although their had succeeded in their first objective, there was another huge task in trying to return home safely to Sulom Voe, Shetland.

Cruikshank was educated at The Royal High School (RHS) of Edinburgh, Aberdeen Grammar School and Stewart’s Melville College in Edinburgh, his working life began when he was apprenticed to The Commercial Bank of Scotland on George Street Edinburgh, many of you will know the building nowadays as The Dome.

Looking back over 75 years ago it is amazing that Jock Cruikshank not only survived the mission, but is still alive today, he was hit in 72 places, and suffered serious lung injuries and 10 penetrating wounds to his lower limbs. Yet, despite this panoply of pain, he refused medical attention until he was sure that the appropriate radio signals had been sent and the aircraft was on course for its home base. Even at that stage, he refused morphine, aware that it would cloud his judgement and potentially jeopardise the rest of the men on board.

Flying through the night, it took the damaged craft five-and-a-half hours to get back to Sullom Voe, with Flt Sgt Garnett at the controls and his colleague lapsing in and out of consciousness in the back. Eventually, though, as another major hurdle came into the equation, he returned to the cockpit and took command of the aircraft.

There was nothing straightforward about ensuring the Catalina’s passage homewards; it had been impacted badly along with the crew members.

But, after deciding that the light and the sea conditions for a water landing were too risky for his inexperienced colleague, Flt Lt Cruickshank kept the craft in the air for as long he could, circling for an extra hour, as the prelude to bringing it down successfully on the water and ferrying the plane to an area where it could be safely beached.

It was an astonishing act of bravery, and yet Mr Cruickshank has always shunned the limelight or refused to take any credit for his actions. As one of his RAF colleagues later recalled, he felt he was one of the lucky ones to survive the conflict, unlike so many of his RAF friends who perished.

The brave pilot was later awarded the Victoria Cross at the Palace of Holyrood House by King George VI.

The second pic is our hero last July back on Shetland where he laid a wreath at a memorial in honour of his former navigator on Sunday, Flying Officer J.C. Dickson, who died during the fight

You can view a re-enactment in this docu-drama on Youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mraRXjjIAUc

#scotland #scottish #world war two #war hero #victoria cross #history

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quotes-from-the-bookery · 1 year

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Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

#moloch #allen ginsberg #poetry #quotes

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abellinthecupboard · 1 year

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“Howl, for Carl Solomon” - Part 2:

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open 　　　their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- 　　　nation? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob- 　　　tainable dollars! Children screaming under the 　　　stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men 　　　weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the 　　　loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy 　　　judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the 　　　crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of 　　　sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! 　　　Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- 　　　ned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose 　　　blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers 　　　are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- 　　　bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking 　　　tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! 　　　Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long 　　　streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- 　　　tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose 　　　smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch 　　　whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch 　　　whose poverty is a specter of genius! Moloch 　　　whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! 　　　Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream 　　　Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in 　　　Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom 　　　I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch 　　　who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! 　　　Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! 　　　Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! 　　　skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic 　　　industries! spectral nations! invincible mad 　　　houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- 　　　ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to 　　　Heaven which exists and is everywhere about 　　　us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! 　　　gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole 　　　boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! 　　　gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- 　　　spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! 　　　Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on 　　　the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the 　　　wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! 　　　They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! 　　　carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the 　　　street!

— Allen Ginsberg, Howl and Other Poems (1956)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Footnote to Howl

#Howl #Howl for Carl Solomon #Allen Ginsberg #Howl and Other Poems #poetry #poem #poet

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travelingue · 6 months

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Aberdeen's shades of grey (North Sea Scotland 11)

I was ready to believe that Aberdeen was actually a nice place.

Its image as a battleground between welfare claimants and tax-dodging oilmen, I suspected, was unfair.

But I was not prepared for what I found: one of Europe's most stunning cities.

Admittedly, Aberdeen is very grey. That's because it is made of the local stone - hence its nickname, the "granite city".

The main drag, Union Street (pictured above), was laid out in the early 19th century to allow the city to grow from its medieval centre.

Before then, granite was too hard to be much use for construction. But from the early 1800s, steam-powered machines made it increasingly easier to cut and polish. The granite age had arrived.

Eventually Union Street sprouted buildings like this:

The Town House (i.e. city hall) was designed in the late 1860s. Note the smooth, shiny surfaces, like a hybrid between satin and concrete, which are characteristic of the mature granite age.

Next door is another neo-Gothic gem: an 1892 building that was once hosted the Esslemont & Mackintosh department store:

The Salvation Army Citadel terminates the eastward perspective vista from Union Street in style.

This glorified food bank/church takes 1890s Gothic revival to Disneyesque heights:

Facing the citadel is the Archibald Simpson pub, named after Aberdeen's greatest-ever architect.

Archibald Simpson designed many of Aberdeen's landmarks, including this one in 1840 (as a bank):

The most monumental erection in the area is Marischal College:

Located just off Union Street, the college is the second biggest granite building in the world, after the Escorial in Madrid.

It's actually two buildings in one. The facade (above) was built in the 1890 in the "perpendicular gothic" style.

But step inside and you'll find Archibald's Simpson’s pared-down Elizabethan quadrangle (1837):

Simpson's building is made from rough granite from the nearby Rubislaw quarry. A harder, white stone was used for the later, mock-medieval exterior.

John Betjeman, an architecturally inclined English poet, described Marischal College thus in a 1947 radio talk : "Bigger than any cathedral, tower on tower, forests of pinnacles, a group of palatial buildings rivalled only by the Houses of Parliament at Westminster."

The college is owned by the University of Aberdeen, but is now leased by the Aberdeen city council. Near the entrance stands a statue of King Robert the Bruce.

The sculpture looks older than it is. Unveiled in 2011, it represents the Bruce in equestrian splendour, holding aloft a 1319 charter that helped Aberdeen become a medieval powerhouse.

But in my view the best Aberdonian architecture avoids bombast and hero worship. It lets granite ennoble the mundane.

Further down Union Street are the old offices of the Northern Assurance Company:

It dates from 1885 and – appropriately for a building designed for commercial use – is now a Thai restaurant.

For elegance, simplicity and boldness no one beats Archibald Simpson. He built these homes on Bon-Accord Crescent in the 1820s.

In 1975, Aberdeen decided to honour the man who did more than anyone to shape the city.

It did so in an exquisite way: the Archibald Simpson memorial is not a corny statue, but a block of granite in the middle of a square he designed.

There is more to Aberdeen than granite and I will post about other aspects of this magnificent city.

In the meantime, here are a few more highlights from the council's excellent granite trail leaflet:

In the early 1900s they knew how to build post offices. The one above is now just a block of flats.

Aberdeen's granite has served various styles, from classical to neo-Gothic and modernist.

The 1930s Bon Accord Baths (above) are clearly Art Deco. They closed in 2008 and were turned into a gym.

The elegant homes on Rubislaw Terrace were built in the early 1850s.

Queen's Cross, a villa built in 1865, was the swish home of George Washington Wilson, a pioneering Scottish photographer:

Wilson was a fan of granite. When foundations for a church were laid 50 yards away, he offered to pay for it to be made of that stone. But it was too late: sandstone had been ordered.

Wilson was furious. When he learned that another church was to go up across the street, he bought rights to the spot make sure it was made of granite.

When describing New Cross Church to his radio audiences, Betjeman, for once, was at a loss for words.

"I never saw such a thing," he said. "I cannot describe its style or changing shapes as it descends in lengthening stages of silver-grey granite from the pale blue sky to the solid prosperity of its leafy suburban setting."

Unlike Betjeman, I can let you judge for yourself:

#aberdeen #architecture #scotland

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garybob309 · 1 year

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Coming Soon: The Madness of E.W. and Lydie Marland

Pioneer Woman: 1930

Although he was nearly broke, one piece of unfinished business remained. Four years before, when E.W. Marland was the richest oilman in world, he paid ten thousand dollars each to twelve artists to create twelve Pioneer Woman models, then transport the three-foot statuettes by train to thirteen cities. Seven hundred fifty thousand people voted for Bryant Baker’s creation.

Baker’s seventeen-feet-tall, twelve-thousand-pound finished bronze was to be delivered to Ponca City in April and installed on a twenty-three-feet-tall granite base. However, J.P. Morgan had taken over Marland Oil in 1928, and E.W. had lost his thirty-million-dollar personal fortune when the stock market crashed in 1929. He could not make the final payment. Lew Wentz, initially his friend, then an Oil Patch competitor with whom E.W. had a long-standing dispute, loaned E.W. twenty-five thousand dollars.

The unveiling was scheduled for April 22, the forty-first anniversary of the 1889 Land Run. Gov. William J. Holloway declared a state holiday. Forty thousand people attended, and more listened by radio as Secretary of War Patrick J. Hurley addressed the nation from Washington, D.C.

Hurley also invited Will Rogers as a fellow speaker, and flew him from California. Although E.W. reserved a permanent bedroom for the movie star at the fifty-five-room Marland Mansion, he had not wanted Oklahoma’s favorite son and 101 Ranch cowboy to speak. The comedian was a loose canon. E.W. feared Will’s satire, his rapier accuracy, the way he exposed political frailty.

Will stood before Pioneer Woman as the statue was unveiled. “I came all the way from California to undress a woman.”

The crowd loved Will’s stand-up comedy, but his ribald lack of dignity marred the event for E.W., who demonstrated the seriousness of the occasion by wearing a top hat and cutaway.

When the canvas was pulled, the crowd saw Pioneer Woman look down Monument Road, three blocks southwest of the Marland Mansion.

Baker named his statue Confident. “ . . . the woman was to me the courageous character marching out, carrying all her worldly belongings, her bible, and her son, the man of tomorrow to a new life. She is the abstract, beautiful, ideal woman of the spirit of great faith and hope. . .”

E.W. asked if his friend and alter ego, Frank Phillips, wanted to buy tapestries, rugs, paintings, the original castings of the dozen Pioneer Woman statuettes, or the original model by Bryant Baker that had won the competition. Phillips purchased all the statuary for Woolaroc. There were always bankers and directors ready to swallow up oil companies. Phillips promised to never let anyone take Phillips 66–particularly Morgan or Rockefeller.

#books

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vancityofglass · 1 year

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She was quickly lost in the deafening stillness of the place.

DESOLATION SOUND, Sunshine Coast.

She awoke early, when it was still night, and the sun had not yet risen to burn the fog from the deep valley to the North, across Burrard Inlet. Sleepily getting dressd, she retrieved her camera bag from its hook and crept quietly down the stairs of her apartment building to where she had parked the night before.

Credit: Unsplash https://www.piquenewsmagazine.com/local-news/sea-to-sky-highway-closes-in-both-directions-3634059

On empty roads in the silence of the morning, she drove north, across the Lion's Gate bridge and beyond. The sun rose lazily as she drove, passing under the cliffs and around the bends of the Sea-to-Sky towards Whistler. The noise and light of Vancouver faded quickly, and soon she had no company in the world except for the radio of her Subaru. For several hours she wound her way up the coastal highway, through Sechelt, and Powell River, into the fractured, untouched wilds of Desolation Sound. Here, she left the main roads and crunched though gravel. Eventually the gravel ended as well and there was only dirt. She reached her destination where the dirt road ended in a stand of towering Douglas fir.

Credit: https://www.youtube.com/@NomadicAmbience

She stopped and abandoned her Subaru, continuing on foot through the trees. She advanced down a gentle slope towards the ocean, following the gentle bend of a stream. Across a line of bare white driftwood she found a beach, sheltered in the cove formed by two small islands. It was a quiet cove, and she was quickly lost in the deafening stillness of the place.

On a small outcropping of granite, just breaching the surface, lounged a seal. The creature looked relaxed, slick along its belly but dried and encrusted with sea salt along its back. It held its head and tail aloft as it sunned itself in the morning rays.

Credit: Wikimedia Commons

The seal took no notice of the woman as she stood and watched its morning routine. Enamored, she raised her camera to photograph the animal.

Through the viewfinder of her Nikon she watched as a dark shape materialized underneath the mirror-flat surface of the water. The seal was oblivious to the darkening of its own reflection as the black form moved silently beneath it. The woman lowered the camera from her eye.

The Orca breached the water's surface whisper-quiet, lifting the seal off of its perch in a way that seemed almost gentle. Rivulets of seawater streamed off of its dorsal fin and its jet-black body gleamed in the morning sun like a knife's blade. As the seal was lifted towards the sky, The Orca opened its mouth, revealing its innumerable white teeth. At the apex of its ascent, the seal was unmoving. There was no struggle. It awaited its fate as The Orca ascended to meet it.

The seal was rent in two by the force of The Orca's jaw. It fell in two pieces into the water, disturbing the mirror's surface and turning the cove's clear water a deep red. The Orca had disappeared as silently as it had arrived.

The woman stood silent, and did not move. She had dropped her camera. She felt like she had witnessed something primal, and not for human eyes. An ancient routine between predator and prey that she stumbled upon as some sort of alien observer. The cove was quiet, and she was once again alone. She turned slowly, climbed the slope, and started her journey home, back to the city she understood.

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brookstonalmanac · 1 year

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Events 10.30

637 – Arab–Byzantine wars: Antioch surrenders to the Rashidun Caliphate after the Battle of the Iron Bridge. 758 – Guangzhou is sacked by Arab and Persian pirates. 1137 – Ranulf of Apulia defeats Roger II of Sicily at the Battle of Rignano, securing his position as duke until his death two years later. 1270 – The Eighth Crusade ends by an agreement between Charles I of Anjou (replacing his deceased brother King Louis IX of France) and the Hafsid dynasty of Tunis, Tunisia. 1340 – Reconquista: Portuguese and Castilian forces halt a Muslim invasion at the Battle of Río Salado. 1657 – Anglo-Spanish War: Spanish forces fail to retake Jamaica at the Battle of Ocho Rios. 1806 – War of the Fourth Coalition: Convinced that he is facing a much larger force, Prussian General von Romberg, commanding 5,300 men, surrenders the city of Stettin to 800 French soldiers. 1817 – Simón Bolívar becomes President of the Third Republic of Venezuela. 1831 – Nat Turner is arrested for leading the bloodiest slave rebellion in United States history. 1863 – Danish Prince Vilhelm arrives in Athens to assume his throne as George I, King of the Hellenes. 1864 – The Treaty of Vienna is signed, by which Denmark relinquishes one province each to Prussia and Austria. 1888 – The Rudd Concession is granted by Matabeleland to agents of Cecil Rhodes. 1905 – Czar Nicholas II issues the October Manifesto, granting the Russian peoples basic civil liberties and the right to form a duma. (October 17 in the Julian calendar) 1918 – World War I: The Ottoman Empire signs the Armistice of Mudros with the Allies. 1918 – World War I: Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen, a state union of Kingdom of Hungary and Triune Kingdom of Croatia, Slavonia and Dalmatia is abolished with decisions of Croatian and Hungarian parliaments 1920 – The Communist Party of Australia is founded in Sydney. 1938 – Orson Welles broadcasts a radio adaptation of H. G. Wells's The War of the Worlds, causing a massive panic in some of the audience in the United States. 1941 – President Roosevelt approves $1 billion in Lend-Lease aid to the Allied nations. 1941 – Holocaust: Fifteen hundred Jews from Pidhaytsi are sent by Nazis to Bełżec extermination camp. 1942 – World War II: Lt. Tony Fasson and Able Seaman Colin Grazier drown while taking code books from the sinking German submarine U-559. 1944 – Holocaust: Anne and Margot Frank are deported from Auschwitz to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where they die from disease the following year, shortly before the end of WWII. 1945 – Jackie Robinson of the Kansas City Monarchs signs a contract for the Brooklyn Dodgers, breaking the baseball color line. 1947 – The General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), the foundation of the World Trade Organization (WTO), is founded. 1948 – A luzzu fishing boat overloaded with passengers capsizes and sinks in the Gozo Channel off Qala, Gozo, Malta, killing 23 of the 27 people on board. 1953 – President Eisenhower approves the top-secret document NSC 162/2 concerning the maintenance of a strong nuclear deterrent force against the Soviet Union. 1956 – Hungarian Revolution: The government recognizes the new workers' councils. Army officer Béla Király leads an attack on the Communist Party headquarters. 1959 – Piedmont Airlines Flight 349 crashes on approach to Charlottesville–Albemarle Airport in Albemarle County, Virginia, killing 26 of the 27 on board. 1961 – The Soviet Union detonates the Tsar Bomba, the most powerful explosive device ever detonated. 1961 – Due to "violations of Vladimir Lenin's precepts", it is decreed that Joseph Stalin's body be removed from its place of honour inside Lenin's tomb and buried near the Kremlin Wall with a plain granite marker. 1973 – The Bosphorus Bridge in Turkey is completed, connecting the continents of Europe and Asia over the Bosphorus for the second time. 1975 – Prince Juan Carlos I of Spain becomes acting head of state, taking over for the country's ailing dictator, Gen. Francisco Franco. 1975 – Forty-five people are killed when Inex-Adria Aviopromet Flight 450 crashes into Suchdol, Prague, while on approach to Prague Ruzyně Airport (now Václav Havel Airport Prague) in Czechoslovakia (present-day Czech Republic). 1980 – El Salvador and Honduras agree to put the border dispute fought over in 1969's Football War before the International Court of Justice. 1983 – The first democratic elections in Argentina, after seven years of military rule, are held. 1985 – Space Shuttle Challenger lifts off for mission STS-61-A, its final successful mission. 1991 – The Israeli-Palestinian conflict: The Madrid Conference commences in an effort to revive peace negotiations between Israel and Palestine. 1995 – Quebec citizens narrowly vote (50.58% to 49.42%) in favour of remaining a province of Canada in their second referendum on national sovereignty. 2005 – The rebuilt Dresden Frauenkirche (destroyed in the firebombing of Dresden during World War II) is reconsecrated after a thirteen-year rebuilding project. 2014 – Sweden is the first European Union member state to officially recognize the State of Palestine. 2014 – Four people are killed when a Beechcraft Super King Air crashes at Wichita Dwight D. Eisenhower National Airport in Wichita, Kansas. 2015 – Sixty-four people are killed and more than 147 injuries after a fire in a nightclub in the Romanian capital Bucharest. 2020 – A magnitude 7.0 earthquake strikes the Aegean Sea between Greece and Turkey, triggering a tsunami. At least 119 people die mainly due to collapsed buildings.

#Events

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coghive · 2 years

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Blessing Offor To Make Grand Ole Opry Debut October 25

Fresh off of his first #1 single “The Goodness” with GRAMMY® winner TobyMac, multi-instrumentalist and Top 5 Billboard artist Blessing Offor will be making his debut on the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Tennessee. Knocking off a major item on his bucket list, Blessing will take the iconic stage on October 25th. Offor will be standing in the footsteps of some of the world’s most renowned artists, and will bring his wit, storytelling, and unique sense of musicianship to the Opry stage. Tickets are available now at the link HERE. “This is a moment I’ve dreamed of for a long time,” Blessing says. “To follow some of my biggest inspirations and influences and walk into that circle … I’m still pinching myself. I can’t wait to share my music on the Opry.” Recently, Blessing released the track “My Tribe” – a bouncing, upbeat ode to family & community. Starting off with a breakbeat reminiscent of soul music’s greatest moments, Blessing’s voice quickly comes into focus as his band starts to fill in. A fuzzy sawtooth synth carries the chorus where Blessing hones in on what it means to be surrounded by those who support you and accept you for who you are. Listen to the upbeat “My Tribe” at the link HERE. 2022 has proven to be a breakout year for the Nigerian-born, Nashville-based singer/songwriter. Recently, Blessing garnered a 2022 Dove Award nomination for “New Artist of the Year.” Earlier this year, Blessing released his debut EP Brighter Days to critical acclaim, with the self-titled track peaking at #2 on Billboard’s Christian Airplay chart. Blessing made his national television debut on NBC’s The Kelly Clarkson Show, and subsequently released the Brighter Days (Live Sessions) EP, featuring intimate live versions of tracks from his debut EP. Now, having had a top 5 solo debut track and #1 follow up collaboration with TobyMac, Blessing is poised to release his next single to radio in early October. See Blessing on tour this Fall with Brandon Lake and Lauren Daigle at the dates below: - Sept. 24th – Resorts World Theatre – Las Vegas, NV # - Oct. 7th – Bayside Church Granite Bay – Roseville, CA * - Oct. 8th – Rock Church – San Diego, CA * - Oct. 9th – SeaCoast Grace Church – Cypress, CA * - Oct. 14th – Gateway Community Church – Webster, TX * - Oct. 15th – Oak Hills Church – Crownridge Campus – San Antonio, TX * - Oct. 16th – College Park Center – Arlington, TX * - Oct. 21st – The Orion Amphitheater – Huntsville, AL # - Nov. 2nd – The St. Augustine Amphitheatre – St Augustine, FL # - Nov. 3rd – The St. Augustine Amphitheatre – St Augustine, FL # - Nov. 4th – Reardon Auditorium – Anderson, IN * - Nov. 5th – The Naz Church – Grove City, OH * - Nov. 6th – Calvary Church of Naperville – Naperville, IL * - Nov. 18th – Bell Shoals Church – Brandon, FL * - Nov. 19th – Christ’s Church – Jacksonville, FL * - Nov. 20th – Seacoast Church Mount Pleasant – Mount Pleasant, SC * - Nov. 22nd – Seacoast Church Mount Pleasant – Mount Pleasant, SC * * – w/ Brandon Lake # – w/ Lauren Daigle Read the full article

#BlessingOffor

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near-seattle--wa · 2 years

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Moving to Seattle, WA, is a good decision.

If you think of moving to Seattle, WA, you've made a good decision. There are plenty of reasons why people consider moving to Seattle. It has a world-class market, excellent schools, a hot job market, endless opportunities for work and growth opportunities, and unique culture. If you're also fond of going for outdoor activities, this place has plenty of outdoor adventure. It's also surrounded by amazing green forest. Everything is just in Seattle, WA. Because of these reasons, Seattle has been consistently ranked as among the best ten places to live.

Luxury apartment homes in Belltown Seattle

These luxury apartment homes in Belltown Seattle are available at The Goodwin Condominiums. They bring your home into focus. They have luxury boutique apartment homes in Belltown, Seattle, conveniently located at the heart of the most storied intersections at First and Bell. There are 34 homes in these seven stories apartments with excellent interior and exterior views. There are impressive amenities, a lobby, and a spacious library—the rooftop with a grilling station, garden, lounge area, and firepits. The kitchen also has an excellent design and high-end appliances, and a gas stove. For more information, you can visit the office at 2233 1st Avenue, Seattle, WA 98121; the office is open from 9:00 am to 6:00 pm. For more information, call (855) 331-5923.

High-end Penthouse in Downtown Seattle

You may be looking for a high-end penthouse in downtown Seattle. The Goodwin Seattle Condominiums is the answer, so look no further. It stands seven stories high in the historic Belltown Seattle and brings a modern flair to the storied neighborhood. Some of the great amenities you can enjoy are a spacious library with books, magazines, and local papers. The rooftop has a grilling station, lounge area, nice garden, and firepits. You'll love the iconic views of the city. Then, the kitchen with high-end appliances and a gas stove is awesome. There's a dishwasher, refrigerator, heat, air conditioner, hardwood floors, granite countertops, alarm system, balcony, cable/satellite, washer, and dryer. For inquiries, call (855) 331-5923.

Seattle Center and Space Needle in Seattle, WA

Seattle Center and Space Needle in Seattle, WA, started in the 1962 World's Fair when the entertainment complex and park area was established in Seattle with parks, theaters, restaurants, and sports facilities. I like the modern tourist attractions that proliferate in this area; it's a wonderful place with a very beautiful and iconic monorail. Along with these entertainments locations are the Museum of Pop Culture and the amazing Chihuly Garden and Glass; it's an awe-inspiring glass artwork. The best radio station in Seattle also operates out of the Center, where the music fans often have a reason to gather. I love this beautiful place here, and I'm so excited to see how much more developments will have in the future.

Seattle Chinese Community Drill Team is celebrating its 70th Anniversary

I read from K5 that the Chinese Community Drill Team in Seattle is celebrating its 70th Anniversary. This marks one of the oldest community drill teams empowering girls and women. It was in 1952 when the group was started by a Chinese American restaurateur and politician in Seattle, Ruby Chow. At this time, the girls didn't have a place to go and do some activities, so she created a safe place for the girls to come down and form a community. This is the only group of Chinese women warrior-inspired teams in the country with intricate marching formations. Their team comprises 30 girls aging 11 to 19 years old.

Link to maps

Space Needle 400 Broad St, Seattle, WA 98109, United States Head west on Space Needle Loop 157 ft Turn right to stay on Space Needle Loop 115 ft Turn right onto Broad St 0.2 mi Turn left onto 2nd Ave 0.1 mi Turn right onto Cedar St 322 ft Turn left onto 1st Ave Pass by KeyBank (on the left) Destination will be on the right 0.3 mi

The Goodwin 2233 1st Ave, Seattle, WA 98121, United States

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tweedheadsaustralia · 2 years

Link

Stunning Waterfront Family Entertainer With Boat Ramp Jetty And Pool

#realty realestate property propertyforsale houseforsale

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purkinje-effect · 2 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 88: Kármán Street Starlight

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 19. Go to previous. Go to next. CWs: Disaster site navigation, memory loss, data corruption, data loss, unsanitary/digestive issues, disfigurement of a main character, police standoff, toxic dynamics, physical altercation.

Thus ends the first arc of Third Instar. Starting with the next chapter, we'll have something a little... different.

______________________________________

"Our logic collapses on the subatomic level into ghosts and shadows.” – Dr. Edward Birack, Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness

Ten paces ahead of them both, their See’s escort kept her hand on the hilt of her sheathed machete as she scanned the area. Broken glass littered the Concourse. The chroma of what very few intact Burlington glass signs and armillary bulbs remained improved vision only within their direct vicinity. All over the walkways, pools of brackish spilled fluids fluoresced around shards of glass floating in them. Witnessing the collateral did not jog much recollection of the past day’s events. The damage underwhelmed ‘Choly’s expectations, too, given the excess of caution under which See’s insisted upon operating. He didn’t discount the cost to life and limb these people had paid for it, but the remarkably resilient architecture seemed to defy any more than the superficial alterations its inhabitants had made since moving in. He presumed that restoration would wipe away the Concourse to a blank slate, that they intended to fully restart from scratch, and that they could without much planning. The collapse of entire walls exposed an impervious anodized metal surface enriched with streamline moderne reliefs. Despite the fungal growths, the granite looked uncracked and uncorroded, standing untouched as though it had always stood exactly there. 'Choly hoped he would have no reason to try out the Komár. No, he hoped none of them had reason to draw weapons, concealed or not.

As they stepped into Gate City Drugs, a clumpy sourness greeted them. Nauseous unease overwhelmed ‘Choly, and he distracted himself gathering papers from the front end floor. The base of his neck stung and cracked as he navigated at this angle, brace or not. He shut his eyes to reimagine Sticks’s face in the moment last night which had created this fresh intermittent joint distress, but the thought was muddy and impalpable. When he stopped rolling his eyes against his lids to alleviate the pressure, the sight of the scattered papers only left him begging for some fragment of clarity as to anything they’d experienced the day before, no matter how minute. The See’s cleared her throat eventually. He peered over his glasses up at her from where he had crawled around on his hands and knees. She crossed her arms.

“You done picking up trash, or are we going to get on with you collecting whatever you wanted to subtract from your Hall payment?”

He leveraged himself back up with his cane. Once on his feet again, he smoothed at the fistful of papers he’d managed to locate. He peered at one of the pages he could read at a glance. This was definitely his handwriting, but he couldn't remember penning it.

Sigma wavelength is color devoid of light. Its chroma might exhibit radiation in infrared range, but analytical metrics would need to be implemented to test it. My Pip-Boy indicates presence of electromagnetic frequencies and heavy radio interference, different from ambient range prior to nor'easter. Needs review.

Light, scratched out, and color underlined. He understood, but he didn't know what it meant. Mathematics foreign to him accompanied the note. He squinted. He didn't have a degree in thermodynamics. Sometimes the Berries version of him exasperated even himself.

“Cleaning up before we head out isn’t going to get the cost down,” Sticks said, from where he sat on the bed.

He hemmed irritably and went to the back room. The carpet in the living area still squelched underfoot, and the bathroom ceiling still dripped steadily. He hooked his cane on the storage shelving and stared at Angel’s inert body on the floor. He couldn’t quite swallow the catch in his throat, but opened Angel's storage compartment anyway, to deposit his water damaged notes and sketches.

The dart cases he’d smuggled inside in the false bottom of Angel’s storage had been moved to its main storage compartment. The catch became a lump. He drew a ragged breath and picked up the one that wasn’t snapped shut, to find one dart missing from the set of eight. He looked over his shoulder to make sure the See’s hadn’t followed him, then crammed the cases back into Angel’s hidden storage. He lingered half a second before closing the inner lid to confirm the Tryasovitsy remained. It took little to rearrange the compartment to make it look untouched. He got to collecting the few things he’d told Sticks he couldn’t afford to leave behind, before anyone checked on him to find him doing anything otherwise.

Elliptical scorch marks streaked the polished concrete floor beneath Angel. ‘Choly’s gaze followed the circular futile charring to see the ropes which had tethered down Angel had been undone. The support pipe of the shelf bowed out where it had been tied, and one of the ropes had broken sooner than have come untied.

‘Choly glanced to the fungus-overgrown utility access door, snagged between a frown and scowl. His voice cracked even speaking slowly.

“Sticks, why did you try to power Angel on?”

“What? Why do you think I–”

“You tried to deploy it against the ants. I do remember the ants. There were… so many ants. You went looking through my storage– shelves looking for whatever you could fling at that shit too, didn’t you? How much of my chemistry stock did you waste!”

Sticks gripped either side of the doorway to gawk at him.

“That robot means too much to you for me to let my fat fingers muck up its finer workings. Besides, why do you think I have the first clue how to even do that!”

‘Choly brandished a finger at him.

“You can’t boot up a Mister Handy without a Pip-Boy. Who else could it have been?”

Sticks seethed through his teeth.

“I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.”

“Well it couldn’t have powered itself on!”

‘Choly dropped it sooner than get the See’s involved. He trailed off in scoffs and sputters as he reclaimed what little focus he could muster, pecking furiously at his Pip-Boy with the futility of feeling like using a toddler’s replica of a real device to yield refined results. He could coax the 3000 Mark-IV to flip menu tabs, but few words remained legible.

“Whatever happened yesterday damaged my Pip-Boy. There’s no way I can confidently operate Angel’s boot sequence through it.” He swallowed at his throat lump uselessly, facing Sticks but not looking at him. His sinuses stung. “Show me the screen on yours.”

Sticks complied, only partly dissembling his exasperation with the whole situation. ‘Choly steadied Sticks’s hand in his, and navigated its interface. Lacking familiarity with a 3000 Mark-V, he couldn’t say for certain that it had avoided whatever had befallen his, but he could use all the relevant buttons and dials, and mostly read its screen. He laced his fingers in Sticks’s and pressed his forehead to the sunshade on the Mark-V screen.

“Sticks, if you meant it. If you respect how much Angel means to me, you’ll use your Pip-Boy to power it back on. I can’t use mine, but yours looks like we can.” He lifted his face from the device just enough to look at Angel again. “We are NOT leaving it behind. We can’t.”

Sticks froze in place for some time.

“What! I just said I have no idea how to– And you just said–”

‘Choly clicked a few dials to bring up interfacing protocols, and moved his head aside to show the screen.

“I can walk you through it. You got this thing for a reason. It’s about time you started using it.” He glanced up to Sticks when he didn’t hear a no, then back to the screen. “Don’t remove it, though. Since it’s linked through your hand now, it’s probably got the biometrics wired into you as well. I remember some earlier models biometrically synced to their user, to the point they wouldn’t even turn on unless they were physically attached to the correct user. We can’t afford to learn whether the Mark-V is like that, too. Without knowing what is wrong with either of our Pip-Boys, I don’t think it’s safe to change any of the interfacing setup that we don’t have to.”[1]

“Even if you wanted me to, I wouldn’t remove my entire hand just so you could borrow my Pip-Boy.”

“I know you two came back here to collect your robot,” the See’s interrupted, hesitant, “but I don’t like the sound of this. Nobody’s severing anybody’s… body… body parts.”

“Severed decades ago, officer.” Sticks sighed and eased nearer to Angel as ‘Choly pulled him along. “Can I sit? Sounds like this could take forever.”

‘Choly withdrew and gestured to the kitchen chair at the chemistry bench, and Sticks pulled it over to sit. Sticks eased back a bit and spread his knees, arm outreached to get on with it. ‘Choly glanced at him for permission before sitting across his lap, and Sticks wrapped his free arm around his waist to steady him, resting his palm on his thigh.

‘Choly unfurled the keyprong and plugged it into the port at the back underside of Angel’s spherical chassis. He mirrored his left hand under Sticks’s and held it against his own with his right, in order to manipulate the prosthetic for stenographic input. When he initiated the boot sequence, the system halted on a prompt, with a progress bar.

System was not powered down correctly. Reconstructing data integrity.

He skimmed the repair log expecting the worst. Angel’s data appeared deeply damaged, but the garbling was somehow mostly isolated from its operating system sectors. With a bated relief, he proceeded to boot Angel.

The robot twitched, jerking slowly to life as it lifted itself off the floor by its tendrils to reignite its thruster pilot. Its ocular lens shields drew back to unfurl their apertures, and it looked at them, unsteady on its propulsion. ‘Choly repeatedly glanced between it and the Pip-Boy screen.

“General Atomics International Mister Handy, 2066 model, nickname ‘Angel.’ Custom order serialization 33013021102113.”

Only once it spoke did ‘Choly unclip the keyprong so it could retract and disconnect Angel from Sticks. The ghoul sighed in beleaguered relief, slouching even further down the chair.

“How do you feel, Angel?”

“Oh, I. Oh dear.” It paced from one end of the utility hall and back to them. “My boot sequence seems to have scratched my definitions matrix. Not to lay blame. I'll recover. But, which of you booted me? I do appreciate it.”

‘Choly’s heart sank, but still he smiled and raised a hand to welcome it with wiggling fingers.

“Cheers! Oh my word.” Angel went to the living area, then to the front end. “Thank you for powering me back on. What a terrible mess for me to have slept through. I’ll get on it post haste!”

“Angel–” ‘Choly’s voice broke. He couldn’t muster standing right then. “Angel. Moy Angel. That’s not necessary. We’re not staying in the mall too much longer. If it helps to do something familiar, then clean. But don’t leave the lease without us please.”

“Certainly.”

“Now that we have Angel taken care of,” Sticks asked, “what things are absolutely necessary?”

“The iodine,” he uttered a little too quickly. His eyes scanned the shelves from Sticks’s lap, alight with a fresh mental train. “The iodine, and the silt flour, and the toothpaste and mouthwash. The mineral spirits, too, if that’s all right.” He deflated a shade. “…And any papers Angel picks up.”

“It’s going to be all right, buddy.” Sticks rubbed at his shoulder. “Maybe not today, but look at it. It’s operating again, isn’t it?”

‘Choly smiled, unassured. His stomach curdled.

“Of course.”

"You mentioned earlier that we're leaving. Where might we be headed next?"

“We’re a bit on the seat of our pants at the moment, chap.”

“Quite all right. The circumstances do seem most uncertain. Let me know and I’ll be glad to follow you gentlemen.”

“Now ‘Choly, I know you’re going through a lot.” Sticks patted his back. “I do forgive you for accusing me of messing with Angel. Stress does an awful number on just about anybody.”

‘Choly counted his clenched teeth. He shot up from Sticks’s lap, and narrowly retched in the sink. Within moments, he found himself pawing at his orthotics to unlatch the busks. In order to remove enough of the Surgical Leathers to unzip the Vault Suit beneath, he had to remove everything. With the pieces in the driest patch of tile floor, he slammed the bathroom door shut, stripped the jumpsuit down to his calves, and sat dizzied and cramping. Once his insides had got out of him, he steadied his elbows atop his knees, and wiped limply at his bilious lips. He breathed through his mouth. Cynicism shut his eyes. The ceiling hadn’t stopped drizzling just because he occupied the bathroom. His shoulders slacked, twitching with each drip.

Not like I got a full shower earlier. Cold water, no soap. …Fuck me. Breakfast, or the mason jar? Chem withdrawals, even? With my Luck, all of the above.

He couldn’t tell whether his forehead had clammed up from a cold sweat, or the plumbing leak pouring down on him. He sneered at his garbled Pip-Boy when the reflex struck him to check his vitals.

“Oh, don’t sweat it,” he heard Sticks tell the See’s. “The guy’s soggier than wet cardboard. Plumbing's all wrong. Happens all the time. Yeah, we’re going to be here a while.”

‘Choly hated that Sticks was right.

The GCC sent after 'Choly again once they returned to the Gym for the day, but he was still too unwell to volunteer his services. He spent the remainder of the afternoon recuperating.

That evening in the Gym, Kessler led a meeting for the exitbound. While Kessler underscored the importance of lining the caravan's kitty to the best of everyone's abilities, she also emphasized that this caravan wasn't an economic venture, and that she wasn't about to exclude someone solely for inability to contribute to the communal travel expenses.

They discussed travel plans, which hinged heavily on how the majority of them had never traveled, especially not in deep winter conditions. As a monastic Children of Atom settlement, The Ledge to the Northeast barely felt like an option at all to the secular group. Anything further North was out of the question, with Saint Gaudens being the next nearest population a hundred miles away. They decided to season at Tyngsborough to the Southeast: it may not be as secure as the mall, but it was very close, and enough structures still stood to house the hundred or so people. They briefly touched on possible places to head after the thaw, as well. Kessler shot down the notion of Nuka-World because she'd very recently had several caravans slashed when sent out there to the trade hub. Someone mentioned Diamond City, comparing its architecture to the Lane's. When they warmed readily to the prospect of eventually heading to Boston, fondly comparing Diamond City’s fortress-like architecture to Ant Lane’s, 'Choly couldn't help but object to them passing through Lowell. Kessler dismissed the caveat with the sentiment they could cut wide and travel other routes Southeast if needed. Their focus remained on all things immediate: so the group amassed their initial kitty pool and dispersed for the night.

They headed out at dawn. The only known door above snow level other than rooftop access was the Anchor Inn's Upper Level exit, which connected to the Covered Parking. The group traveled together from the Gym to the exit. Bea led twenty See's who all stood guard at the door, and she had stepped up to fill the position of the Commander they had lost during the Lacuna.

"Lane law dictates that no one should leave unarmed."

Kessler drew a pipe pistol.

"Many of these people don't have a pull or cap to their names, after being forced to square debts just to flee this disaster. We won't let you charge us to leave on top of all that. The Hall promised everyone that people could leave if they no longer owed the Lane anything. No strings attached."

Commander Bea scoffed, only to straighten when the five See's defectors flanked out from the crowd, still armed.

"It's the law. This is obstruction of See's fundamental directive to protect the populace. If you can't afford to arm yourselves, then you can't afford to travel!"

"Enforcing this law protects no one," Lieutenant Harwell said, from the side of the caravan. "You're not just going to let us walk out. You're going to arm everyone you can."

The old woman ignored her previous higher-up and stared at the Lane's rejected heir expectantly.

"So you're going to steal from Big Steve's at gunpoint, then?"

"She's right." Kessler gesticulated with her firearm. "Every one of us has forfeit at least one weapon to See's every time we've returned inside. Some of us, hundreds of times over. Anyplace else in the Wasteland, a weapon has a price. You pay it once, and it's yours. Turning out any evacuees empty handed is a cruel death wish!"

"The Hall made it clear the debtless can leave," Harwell continued. "You going to wish the capless dead out in the Fog unarmed, just because they don't find the Lane safe anymore? It shouldn't matter whether we've been here a week or our whole natural lives: a body's got the right to feel safe."

The caravan swelled up then fell quiet soon after.

"And you can't trust See's doing our part in all this?" the Commander asked the lot of them. "You really want to risk your hides over a little poison ivy and a pest problem? You can't seriously say the Rad-Eaters have got you convinced of their ghost stories."

"The Children have just as much say as the rest of us," Kessler replied, "no matter whether you believe their account. Just step down and let us go. There's more of us than you can afford to argue with right now, guns or not. My biggest priority is keeping these people safe, just like you. The rational thing for a body committed to protecting the Lane is to let us pass without conflict, and spare officers' lives over the arbitrary frivolity of defending your stupid funding sources."

Bea's features tightened. She chewed at her cigar.

"Our resources are already thin. Both in lives and equipment. Let me square with you. Paint a real clear picture. That sinkhole outside the Food Court? Gerald Royce used precision explosives to tunnel under the Concourse to get into Big Steve's from underneath. Weakened the foundation, blasted a couple bad holes like that one, that'll need to get patched up before the Lane can get sealed up right again. Gerry probably stole inventory for some time now. See's noticed stuff going missing for weeks, but it's a wonder nobody noticed the huge hole in the floor of the strong room until ants were pouring out of it. To put it simply: there's not much left for you to steal from us."

Harwell pointed her lever-action rifle at the Commander without skipping a beat.

"You'll give us what you can, then. It's not stealing to take back what everyone’s already more than paid for. We're all respectable folk here and you know it. We understand that the people who are staying behind at the Lane will still need to protect themselves, too. See's needs to be as proactive as we endeavor to be."

"Glad we're on the same page," Bea huffed. She lowered her assault rifle and waved down her guards, and motioned for them to take the caravan to the Armory downstairs to collect protection. "I can't believe you're walking away from Ant Lane, Leigh. At a time when this place is about to be flooded with Children from the Ledge, you won't stand with me to keep everything from going to Hell? With See's?"

"Someone has to protect the caravan. I have faith you're just the person to hold it together. Goodbye, Bea."

'Choly needed to sit after the confrontation, so he looked for an unoccupied chair or couch in the nearby lounge. Before he could sit, Sticks grabbed him by the shoulder to get his attention.

"I'm going down with the caravan to drum up our handouts," he told 'Choly and Angel. "Chap, you've got to make sure he stays put, all right? Shouldn’t be gone long."

"Of course, Sir… Forgive me for asking. I know it's quite gauche of me not to have inquired sooner, but I didn't want to impose… Could I bother you gentlemen for introductions? Reintroductions?"

"River Sticks," he replied with a curt bow. "Thanks."

"--Alan Carey," 'Choly replied, distracted by Sticks leaving just like that.

"Thank you, Mister Carey. Mister Sticks will return shortly, I assure you. In the meantime, do you need assistance finding seating?"

"No, I had a chair right–"

The man with slicked ashen hair and a crocheted afghan ulster had approached him with a distant intent in his eyes. In preparation of the cold, he’d drawn up around his neck and head the many shawls which he draped under his coat. 'Choly stared at the man, put off as he fringed about 'Choly's personal space as though inspecting him. 'Choly turned to Angel, color washing from his face, and opened his mouth to question the dialogue that had just transpired. The man loosed a yell. ‘Choly clutched at his chest and whipped back to face him.

"What is wrong with you?"

Calmed in his confusion, the man’s shaky glance continued to measure the notion of 'Choly.

"I… remember you, from before." He flinched and recoiled from Angel again, still haunted. "What IS that thing!"

"Really, what are you on about? Aren't you the one a few weeks ago that bitched about the Lane letting Angel inside? So many give it grief, that I can't keep them all straight. But you, I remember you. Lousy first impression." He turned to look Angel over with pity. "It's a Mister Handy. My best friend. It's just… got a nonstandard paint job."

"While I do appreciate your words of endearment, Mister Carey, I must ask whom you address."

'Choly flipped to face the man again, but saw him nowhere. He twitched. To his knowledge, the chroma hadn’t shifted.

"Angel, was there a man there or– You know what, forget it. I've changed my mind. I can't get out of this fucking place soon enough."

He eased into the armchair and trailed off bitching about the Burlington shifts. They had to be responsible for the Lacuna somehow. Color, devoid of light… A pair of hands rested on his shoulders, and gripped him with firm familiarity.

"Melancholy, Angel." He looked up at Orqueida and frowned. "Liam told me you did not come to the Clinic to help today either. Now I know the reason is you're leaving us. What's all this about? You weren't even going to come tell us goodbye?"

He put a hand atop hers, and squeezed it.

"I've wanted to tell you both. I hoped you'd come with us, but I know that's not possible. At least, not right now."

"We need you at the Clinic," she pressed, not hiding her disappointment in the least. "There are so many to take care of."

"This was Sticks's decision, not mine. Take it up with him. He returned the lease and sold the car without asking me. Even if we did stay, we don't have a place here anymore."

"The Hall is covering all board at Anchor until further notice. You'd have a nice room here. Do you have to stay with Sticks? Just you and your robot could stay, couldn't you?"

Sticks walked up rubbing together his hands.

"Well that could’ve gone better. Who's ready to bundle up and get going?" He smiled at Orqueida. "Hey, Orqueida. Guessing you're staying with your beau."

"Sometimes, you are a complete jackass. You know that, right? And you, 'Choly. You're not this much of an idiot." Her nostrils and pursed dark lips quavered. As her eyes bleared, she could no longer look at them. "If you want to leave, then leave. If See's can't stop you, not even I can."

'Choly stood pushing off with his cane, and lunged into hugging her. When after only a moment's embrace did Angel and Sticks join in, she immediately withdrew and sniveled at them.

“We’re more worried about you,” Sticks said. “The most foolish thing I can imagine right now is to stay here with things as they are.”

“We can’t abandon all hope just because Hell’s gotten a little too full.[2] Ant Lane can handle itself.” She straightened, still trembling, and forced a smile. "Stay safe and warm out there. And you might be fools, but don't die foolhardy when you could survive as cowards. Live to come back. Live to at least consider coming back."

“We’re going to miss you,” ‘Choly began, anxious for the caravan gathering at the door.

“I do not do goodbyes well. Don’t start. You should go before it’s hard to catch up.”

“You’re a peach,” Sticks beamed.

He patted her shoulder with a robust grip, then shepherded the chemist and robot along with the crowd.

‘Choly adjusted his visor as they exited. He squinted, hoping that easing into natural light would soften the bite of the morning sun’s glare on the snow. The metallic air clicked sleepily at the pair’s Pip-Boys. The blizzard had buried the upper level of the Parking Garage, and everyone had to scale up a fresh-carved path along the outer face of the building to step off the concrete platform. To their East, the Merrimack still pulsed with thick echoes of ice. The only sounds were the caravan and the river.

He could overhear many of the caravan members grunting or complaining outright from experiencing light, and could ascertain, between discomfort and attire, the Laner from the Satellite from the unfortunate traveler. He suspected that some Laners lived all their lives never having stepped foot outside Ant Lane Mall, and that most Satellites or travelers had never spent an extended duration inside it. Most Satellites seemed to have stayed behind, gauging on his initial impression of the caravan demographics, and he guessed they of anyone had the most to lose by leaving, since their homes were unlikely damaged, only buried in more than ten feet of snow.

Once they cleared the corner, ‘Choly wished he’d had the ushanka, not Sticks.

Sticks grabbed his free hand and smiled knowingly at him. They walked together, slower than the rest. Once he saw his window, he pulled ‘Choly opposite the rest of the group.

“It’s below freezing,” Angel said. “It’s ill advised we tarry.”

“Don’t strip your processors, chap. This won’t take long.”

Sticks kept looking over his shoulder to make sure the caravan hadn’t taken enough notice of them to draw attention. He knelt at the mounded ledge of snow. He pulled out the machete he’d got inside and plunged it into the snow to carve out a pit. After a bit of explorational stabs and scrapes, he eventually hit the concrete, and more confidently hacked away at the snow in front of him. He slid down into the Garage, then offered a hand up to ‘Choly.

“You have so many bad ideas.” ‘Choly joined him inside anyway.

“We’re trespassing,” Angel whispered down to them.

“I promise,” Sticks ground with a smile. “It’ll only take a little. We can just rejoin the group. It’s fine.”

They looked around by Pip-Boy light. The vehicles had all been covered up with layers of tarpaulin and wool. The high snow drift had penetrated the northern edge of the Garage, while the Southern edge closest to the mall perimeter had only a foot or two. When ‘Choly sighed at Sticks’s choice of entry point, Sticks chuffed.

“We would get caught way easier, getting in here near the building wall,” he bullshit.

‘Choly knew the answer, but asked anyway:

“What are we even in here for?”

“Pipe down. It’s like a cave in here. I doubt anyone can hear us, and I don’t want to find out if they can.” Sticks slouched at his parking spot, and mumbled out, “Of fucking course.”

He sheathed the machete and climbed up the snow drift which had buried blue, then got to digging with his hands to liberate it.

“How can I help?” Angel asked.

They both jumped.

“If you’re– How did you get down here! Ugh, who’s keeping watch.”

“I must attend you both. Conditions are ill advised. Come, I’ll escort you back inside and make you both hot cocoa.”

“We’re not going back inside, Angel,” ‘Choly fretted.

“You’ll freeze to death!”

“Pipe. Down.” Sticks growled as he yanked at the trunk. He scraped the ice off the keyplate with the machete, but couldn’t insert the key. “Mindy, please keep your Handy quiet.”

“I may not know whether this constitutes trespassing, but this is absolutely breaking and entering and theft. What the fuck is so important out here to freeze our asses off!”

“Hey, you’re the one who complained about his shit getting sold without his say. What’s in here to warrant your hissy fit anyway?” ‘Choly didn’t answer him. “No time to bitch about this. Anything we can’t carry, we forfeit. End of discussion.”

Sticks scoffed and gave up on the trunk, and wrestled the frozen tarpaulin from the glassless windows. He bent inside head-first, and fished out the tank of Handy Fuel from behind the seat.

“Oh, that’s warm and toasty.” Sticks grunted in whimsy. “Don’t join me unless you want a suntan to go with the freezerburn. The terminal popped.”

“Is everything else fine?”

“I can… yeah, I can still get the footlocker open. Here, your precious revolv…”

Sticks raised up on his knees in the snow, holding ‘Choly’s holster belt and ammo harness. He unsnapped the flap and stared at the empty husk of leather. ‘Choly scrambled to catch it when Sticks tossed it at him.

“You are unbelievable.” Sticks’s eyes lolled as he chuckled. “You know that! All this time, I thought your tantrum was over losing that goddamn thing. Where the fuck is it?”

“I’m not about to leave it just anywhere,” ‘Choly hissed. He huffed. “I want my golf club, too.”

Sticks banged his hand on the window trim.

“There’s my accomplice. No crime in taking back what’s ours. You heard the ladies.”

Angel held ‘Choly’s cane and club while he unfastened his ushanka to strap on his harness.

“Can you really not get in the trunk? Angel’s attachments are in there.”

“Lock’s frozen solid.”

“My attachments? Why, I’m right as rain, gentlemen!”

The Mister Handy pinched happily away at the air. ‘Choly slouched, agape. It was like watching a loved one oblivious to a head wound.

“Oh come on. It’s not hurting anybody like this. Sure it sucks, but don’t get bent over it. Angel, my man. If you could carry this tank! Once we’re at our destination, ‘Choly can refuel you.”

“Angel can’t travel unarmed. It’s… it’ll be brass.[3] What if…”

“We’ll just have to look after it like it’s looked after us. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”

“No need for that, chums! Ha-ha! Follow me! We’ll be there in no time!”

Before Sticks could properly replace Blue’s tarp, Angel had sped off the direction from which it had gotten into the Garage. He snatched his hunting rifle off the roof and slung it, grabbing ‘Choly’s cane and club to sprint. ‘Choly couldn’t even push through the bitter cold to form the thought to run. Then, Sticks spilled out on a patch of black ice.

‘Choly walked carefully up to retrieve his things. Sheepishly, he extended a hand to Sticks, which the ghoul turned down.

“I’d pull you over, idiot.” Once upright again, Sticks tried to grab the club and cane again, but ‘Choly wouldn’t relinquish them. “Come on. We’ve got to catch up to your runaway half-ton toddler. It’s our luggage.”

“It’s not a toddler!” ‘Choly called after him, using the two sticks like ski poles or arm crutches to mount the snowbank out toward the riverfront. “And it’s more than just luggage, you cretin!”

They found Angel pacing above the Garage.

“Ah! There you are. I was beginning to worry I’d lost you, Sirs. Where to?”

“Back to the caravan,” Sticks led.

“Oh, do let me carry you, Mister Carey. I recall I can do that.”

“...No, I don’t think you should. Thank you.” ‘Choly eyed its unsteady thrusters before pressing onward in the furrow of steps Sticks had cut. “Maybe… maybe later.”

“Don’t hesitate for a second to call on me!”

Once they got past the side of the building, the wind cut right into the pair. The ultra-fine ice particles in the Fog strafed their cheeks. They flinched against it, and clutched at their face bundling.

“Where… did everyone go?” ‘Choly uttered.

“They just got further ahead of us than I thought they would. It’s fine.”

‘Choly had had enough, but Sticks wouldn’t slow down.

“You keep saying that! It’s not fine! Just look at it! It has no idea where it is. It has no idea who we are. Its calibration is shot. Coming here ruined Angel! I got these orthotics at the cost of my best friend!”

Sticks snarled and kicked at the snow as he walked.

“Funny, you weren’t snagged up over me losing my best friend in Lowell![4]”

“You sure didn’t seem broken up!”

“Ick wasn’t a robot!”

“Angel’s not just some robot!” ‘Choly screamed. “Where the fuck are you even going!?”

“Ick wasn’t just some old man!” Sticks yelled. He whipped around and finally stopped, snarling. ‘Choly froze in place, still fuming, lungs stinging with the cold. Sticks grabbed him by the fur collar, with just enough lift that ‘Choly lacked confidence to have flat footing, and dragged their faces nearer. He snarled again and shook ‘Choly a bit. “What am I to you, then, exactly? Some desperate play to work out your fucked up fantasies?”

“Gentlemen!” Angel cried. “Gentlemen, that’s enough!!”

Sticks let go and looked around. The ice fog filtered light sources into iridescent backscattered parhelia[5], in multiple directions. Their Pip-Boys still clicked lazily away.

“Where… are we?”

‘Choly’s Vault Suit protected him from the cold and moisture, but the snow had begun to soak into his leg braces, and saturate his boots. He clenched his toes and they spasmed.

“You mean you don’t know!?”

“I thought I did,” Sticks murmured. “I really did. Everything’s… buried. Everything.”

“Only rooftops in sight,” Angel agreed. “A bit surreal, I must say.”

The pair mumbled uncertainly.

Sticks looked up at the position of the sun.

“I can’t find the sun in the Fog, to tell what time it is. It’s not early anymore, though, that’s for sure. Obviously we’re not going to catch up to the caravan anytime soon. We need to find shelter before nightfall, or we’ll freeze to death. Bonus, if we can figure out where the fuck we are, but it doesn’t matter where we end up as long as it’s shelter.”

‘Choly looked to his Pip-Boy. Its screen was practically static. He sniveled. He couldn’t be more furious or disappointed with anyone in that moment than he was with himself.

“What do you propose, genius?”

“Oh, fuck you– Forget it. Forget it. We’re just ducky. We’ve gotta find a roof we can break down into, is all.”

“Oh, that’s all.”

“More breaking and entering, Sir?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re far enough out in the ruins that none of these houses belong to anybody.”

“You just had to loot the car you sold to the mall. You had to split up from the group. And now we’re lost in ten feet of snow. Any house we find will have turned into an ice cellar, buried like this.”

“Now just wait a minute. I was just trying to help. It’s not my fault you lied to me about not leaving your stupid gun in the car.”

“I did not!”

“We shouldn’t stay put, gentlemen. Conditions are ill advised. Do let me escort you inside. I’ll make you two hot cocoa!”

They stopped bickering to look between themselves, then to Angel. ‘Choly reached out to wave it along with them, trying not to cry or risk moisture on his face.

“Let’s get you inside, moy dorogoy drug.[6]”

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[0] Kármán street vortex. An undulating ribbon-like pattern of fluid dynamics, most commonly associated with aerodynamics and aurora borealis.

[1] In some games in the Fallout franchise, it’s implied that Pip-Boys are not just biometrically integrated into their user: they’re straight-up grafted into the arm of the user. Due to impracticality and inability to justify the wearer’s capacity to change their clothes wearing something permanent of that size and shape, many in the fandom disregard or tailor this lore. Here, I’ve decided that it stands to reason that at least a few early models tried grafting for the mode of biometric integration, but it was neither popular nor stable.

[2] Dante’s Divine Comedy. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” the inscription above the gates of Hell.

[3] Brass. Designation of Mister Handy model variant. Chrome is standard Mister Handy. Green is military issue Mister Gutsy, heavily armed for front-line combat. White is the domestic and medic focused Miss Nanny. Angel started its life as a blue DIA issue Mister Handy. Bogey, the Handy they escorted from Billerica to Sanctuary Hills, is one example of a brass Mister Handy, which was the economy model and lacked any weapons.

[4] Ick. The Furrier and Sticks were very close for fifty years, prior to the Unfolding during which Ick overdosed on √X-Cell in order to sacrifice himself to the commune. They became friends after the General ordered Ick to absorb Sticks’s left hand during that decade’s Unfolding, as punishment for having tried to break into the Deenwood Compound. Part of Sticks’s plot to lay siege to all of Lowell involved engineering a reason for another Unfolding, where he hoped to finally reclaim his hand, but the chem-laden carousal got too frenzied, and Ick was absorbed fully by the other Furriers before Sticks could get it back.

[5] Backscatter, Parhelia. Often halo-like optical phenomena, created by types of refraction through or against water or ice crystals. Parhelia are often cited as the inspiration for the physical appearance of biblical angels.

[6] Mой дорогой друг, moy dorogoy drug. Russian, my dearest friend.

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