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addictedtooverwatch · 2 years

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Short Story - If a Tree Falls...

Alright, this is the first short story I've written in a while. I wrote this for my English class and I think it's good enough to share here. The main story and epilogue will not be in one big post, but this post and a reblog because this is pretty long for a single post.

Word Count of Main Story + Epilogue = 3,054 words.

Trigger Warnings (I've never done anything like this, so if there are any other warning you want me to add, let me know and I will):

Violence - I don't explain any injuries in much detail, but part of the climax scene could be a little disturbing as the main character is attacked and briefly gagged.

Death - No one explictly dies, but a dead character is discussed.

Aftermath of attack - Again, this isn't too bad, but the main character ends up passing out.

This isn't a trigger warning, but I would like to mention that the epilogue is a bit of a silly riff on Buzzfeed Unsolved Supernatural. I was watching it while I was editing and I decided to write an epilogue based on it... Anways, I had a lot of fun writing this and am really happy with it, but if you have some, constructive critism is always welcome. I hope you enjoy! ~ Nova.

If a Tree Falls…

When I was little, Nana Delilah always told me to never go into the Green Byerl Growth. She said it was infested with things we shouldn’t mess with. She said that the forest could truly come alive, but she would never say exactly what would happen there. I would ask her, “Isn’t the forest already alive?”

“Technically, it is,” she would say, “but you’ve never seen it truly alive. Alive in a way that would make you never want to leave the house again. Alive in a way that would lead to you never getting a wink of sleep again. It’d scare you so much that you’d forever feel like it was watching you.”

“How do you know that, Nana?”

“I had to learn that because of your father.” The conversations would always end like that. I’ve always wondered what he was like, my father that is. Nana never has any photos of him around our cottage, the ash walls barren and the granite countertops empty, but she said I looked a lot like him with the field of freckles across my face and my short cinnamon brown hair that, unwashed, would look like a bird’s nest. That would be all she ever commented on though, she would never mention where I got my emerald eyes or lanky limbs from. I assume it's from my mother, but I think Nana would rather die than talk about her. All she would ever say about my mom is, “Your mother is the reason you’re stuck with me.”

I wish she had told me what that really meant (it would have saved me a lot of confusion).

-------------

It was a sunny day on June 28th, 1961 which was quite normal. The weather was always nice in Rosary Valley, no matter the season. It was our paradise sitting in a little pocket of North Carolina. You could grow pretty much anything you wanted here, but cypress trees happened to especially love the area. They permeated through the entire town and surrounding area mixed in with yew and wych elm trees. Nana and I grew a lot of plants in the area around our house. We mainly grew crops, but I loved our flowers. My favorites were the hyacinths, chrysanthemums, and lilies. Our plants always grew a little faster than normal, always looking brighter and more alive than usual, but they made good money for us so I would never ask about it (I should have). From what I could remember, Nana never got along with people that actually lived in town. That’s why I was the person to set up my white plywood cart in the center of town, selling whatever we harvested from our small fields or garden that day along with whatever photos I had recently taken.

I won a polaroid camera by playing Mama Said by The Shirelles on my guitar at a school talent show. The camera was a light cream color, like the color that coffee turns to with enough milk, with a rainbow stripe right down the middle and a bright red button. I had been using it a lot since the school year had ended, taking photos of things I found in our garden. People had really loved the pictures I had taken of butterflies. I found a Pearl Crescent resting on a Blazing Star, a Black Swallowtail perched on a Bloodroot, an American Lady on a beautiful Eastern Blue Star, and a Mourning Cloak laying on some Foxglove Beardtongue. I had also taken some photos of the three churches in town, each very different looking with walls of gilded blackstone, colored cinder blocks, and stained glass. I got paid a good amount for those photos. The churches also bought me more film to take pictures from the town’s post office once I had finished with their pictures.

On that day, I had 12 photos for sale. Three were of the town’s broken clock tower at dusk the night before, four were images of a melanistic herd of deer in one of our broccoli patches, six were of a late clear night when I saw a myriad of fireflies, one was of a discolored midnight black rose, and one was of a Carolina Swamp Snake that was sunning itself contently on a rock near the Green Byerl Growth. I was able to sell most of them except the pictures of the rose and snake. While I was rearranging the remaining flowers I had, Ashur and a younger boy stolled over to my stand.

“Hey Allie, this is Jacob. I’m watching him for Mrs. Straus. Anyways, what are you going to be submitting to the art show next week?” Ashur asked. Ashur was one of my few friends. We went to school together and shared a love of being outside, but he was alway busy with work or babysitting. So, we never hung out much aside from during school, but people still thought we were siblings with how tall both of us were. Sighing, I replied, “I’m probably just going to bring some of my butterfly pictures. Or maybe I’ll bring these.” I handed them my remaining photos.

“Oh, but that’s boring!” Jacob squawked as he shuffled between the pictures before handing them back to me. Humming, I took the photos, “What do you think I should bring then?”

“You should bring a photo of that rock in Poppy Acres!”

“No!” “What?” Ashur and I simultaneously said. Jacob leaned over one of the handles of my cart and continued, “You know that Poppy Acres is in the center of the Growth.” Ashur and I nodded.

“Well,” continued Jacob, “there’s a big rock in the center of the Poppy Acres that has some type of writing on it that no one has ever been able to read. You should take a picture of that for the art show, you’d win for— ”

“Yeah, but there’s a reason no one has ever read it,” Ashur interrupted harshly. He ran his hands through his wavy caramel hair, “Poppy Acres is in the middle of the Growth and doesn’t your grandma like, never want you to go in there?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “I think something bad happened to her there and she doesn’t want me to get hurt.” Something also happened to Dad there, but I doubt she’d tell me that. Jacob groaned and shook his head, “But it’d be so cool! You're the best photographer in town, so you could make it look really awesome and you’d win like $150!”

“I would?” “She would?” We asked Jacob simultaneously and he nodded his head. $150 would be a lot of money to win by just taking some cool pictures, I could get some really nice equipment with that money.

“Allie, you can’t do it,” Ashur pleads.

“How did you know I was thinking about doing it?”

“Because you get a certain look in your eyes when you are contemplating doing something stupid.”

“It wouldn’t be stupid!” Jacob roared. He spun around to look at the clock tower, “If you left now, you could go there and back before sunset.”

“You think so?” I asked. Jacob nodded enthusiastically, “I’d be awesome! Also, if you go, could you take some photos of bees for me? I heard there’s really friendly bees in the Growth and I want some proof so I can get my Mom to let me go in there.”

“You’re ten Jacob. Your mom isn’t going to let you go anywhere near the Growth until you’re older,” Ashur bluntly stated.

“Well, then I want to go home! Take me home Ashur and let me know if you get the bee photos Allie!” Jacob exclaimed.

“Okay! I’ll let you know when I get them Jacob,” I chuckled while Jacob started pulling Ashur away. Ashur started following Jacob with a frown painted across his face, he yelled back to me, “If you’re going, be careful Allie. I don’t want to lose my best friend to a stupid art contest.” I hollered back, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine!” And with that, I started packing up my cart. They disappeared behind a corner and suddenly, I was alone.

From there, I quickly packed everything up, pulled it along the red brick road home, and placed it back in its spot under a weeping willow that guards the front of Nana’s house. She wasn’t inside, she was probably out picking peaches since they were in season. I left a note saying,

“I sold everything I could at the town center. I’m going to go take some photos outside for the art show since I don’t have anything I want to submit right now. I’ll be back before dark.

Love you,

Allie.”

Once the note was placed on her desk, underneath a green crystal paper weight, I grabbed my polaroid camera and placed it in my sage green backpack. I put my lucky emerald earrings on which were supposedly from my mom and I headed northeast, towards the Green Byerl Growth.

It was just after 2 o’clock when I reached the entrance to the Growth. It was made of two flint colored columns, connected by an overgrown gold arch that had the words, “The light awakens the Ovlumber when the sun reaches the earth” engraved into it, though it took me a few minutes to figure out what it said. As I passed through the gate, I felt a sudden sense of guilt. I was doing the one thing that Nana had told me to never do… But it didn’t matter (at the time), I was going to make a shit ton of money off of these pictures (no, I wasn’t). She’d see that it was worth it when we’d be able to buy more camera equipment and whatever gardening related items she wanted. It’d be worth it. So, I continued on the cobblestone and coarse dirt pathway that never seemed to end, surrounded by the dense (impenetrable, really) forest made of sky-scraping redwoods, yews that held their hands out to you, wych elms with green hair, and oddly well-groomed cypresses.

I walked and walked, moving further (too far) into the thicket when I finally reached the edge of Poppy Acres. It was odd (it was a sign), the unruly flora forming an almost perfect circle around the blanket of poppies which surrounded the aforementioned rock with only the dirt path leading up to the stone acting as a disturbance to the symmetry. It felt daunting to walk on the small path up to the stone (I should have just turned back), so I chose to look around the field first, avoiding the inevitable, and I realized a few things. One, it was much later than it should have been which meant I had been walking for longer than I intended to. It looked like the sun had fallen over, leaving a bloody trail of light on the upcoming night sky. Two, I don’t know if I found the bees that Jacob was talking about, but I did take some pictures of a bee sleeping in a poppy. Three, since it was definitely too late for me to be out alone in the middle of the Green Byerl Growth, I needed to hurry the hell up and take a picture of the rock.

So, I mustered up the courage and started drifting over to the stone, but I realized that it just wasn’t just some engraved stone in the middle of the forest. It was a tombstone. It was a pearly white marble with streaks of gold and light orange covered by vines and weeds that made it look eroded and decayed. It was cold to the touch which was strange considering the past few day’s high temperature. Gently, I moved some of its greenery aside to read what was carved into it and what it said sent a shiver down my spine, “Here forever rests Damien Alexander Lorelai - You made the forest weep.” I repeated the name over and over and over (he had my last name). I finally understood what Nana meant when she talked about Dad. I let out a wet breath, I needed to take the photo and leave. I shakily stepped back, making sure I had a good 50 feet between myself and the tombstone. Kneeling down, I held my camera to my eye, angling the lens to capture the entire gravestone of my late father. With a quick flash of light, the photo was taken, and Nana’s stories all came true.

The surrounding trees burst into action, unrooting themselves and closing in around me, using their branches to drag themselves closer, creating deep gashes in the ground. The poppies at my feet tried to pull me to the ground, winding themselves around my ankles, similar to how tomatoes wrap around their cages. I shot up and swiftly stumbled towards the center of the field (towards the gravestone), ripping up the red flowers as I went, creating a path of crimson red petals. My vision became blurry as I panicked. Unable to control my rapid breathing, I bumped into the tombstone, my back hitting the cold hard marble. Immediately, the previously unanimated flora that encircled the stone, reached around my neck and chest, securing me against the only reminder of where my father had been laid to rest. I began screaming and shouting for Nana, Ashur, Jacob, anybody that could help me (but it wouldn’t have really done anything in the end). I kept yelling and I would have continued until I was hoarse if a vine hadn’t shoved itself into my mouth, effectively stopping my desperate pleas for another person. Once I was muffled, I began crying. As tears dripped down my face, I silently hoped that if the forest killed me it would, at the very least, make it quick. Branches wrapped around my arms and legs, rough bark cutting my skin, and the vines’ flowers wrapped themselves around my face.

As my vision began to fade and I began to sink into absolute nothingness, a voice yelled, “ENOUGH!” With that only word, the trees and flowers returned to their homes of dirt, their roots sinking themselves back into their places, leaving Poppy Acres the way it was before I took that godforsaken picture. All that remained was me and a tall woman, who I assumed to be my savior, quietly staring at each other as I panted loudly. That was until she asked, with a honeyed voice, “Where did you get those earrings from?” I couldn’t remember what I was wearing, after the whole ‘almost being killed by fucking trees’ thing, so I took my earrings out then whispered, “My mom, I think.”

“You think?” the woman tilted her head. I shook my head and slowly stood up, “That’s what my grandma told me. I’ve never met either of my parents. Well, I’ve never met them alive at least.” She stepped closer to me as my legs shook like a fawn’s. My savior held her hands out and let me sink into their gentle embrace (there’s another reason I immediately felt so safe).

“What do you mean by that?” I emitted a shaky sigh and pointed to the gravestone, “I think that’s my father’s grave.” She let out a quiet, “Oh,” and hugged me. So many thoughts were racing through my head, but they all became foggy. I didn’t want her to let go, but I needed to go home.

“What time is it?” I asked, looking right into her glowing emerald eyes.

“Very late.”

“I need to get home.” The woman hummed, “Alright, I’ll take you home, Alastor.” I didn’t remember telling her my name (I didn’t need to), but I trusted her.

“Ok,” I replied, “can I sleep?” The woman picked me up, slipping her arms around my legs while I put my arms around her neck, “Yes, go to sleep, honey.” With that, I let the darkness which now draped itself around me like a soft blanket, take over. I fell asleep.

Epilogue: Does it Make a Sound?

“This week on Behind the Crime we are covering the Disappearance of the Rosary Valley Photographer,” began Bryan. Zayne raised his eyebrows, “That is very specific.”

“I know, now let me explain. On June 28th, 1961, fourteen-year-old Alastor “Allie” Lorelai went missing. Allie’s Grandmother, Delilah Lorelai, had found a note that day from Allie saying that they would be back later that night, but they never came back.”

“Did the note say where they were going?” asked Zayne.

“All it said was that they sold what they could at the market that day and were going out to take photos.”

“Ohh, so that’s where the photographer part came from.”

“Yes, that’s where it’s from.”

“They didn’t say where they were going?” asked Zayne.

“No, I literally just said what the note said,” Bryan responded, exasperated.

“Ok, well why wouldn’t they say where they were going?”

“I don’t know, it was like 1961, people just did shit like that! Anyways, all that has been found in relation to the case was the following: a broken white and rainbow polaroid camera, four pictures of a bee laying on a poppy, one undeveloped picture, and a set of emerald earrings. Two boys, Ashur Lake and Jacob Straus, said that the last time they saw of Allie, they were going to be going to take photos in the nearby Green Byerl Growth for an upcoming art contest.”

“So… Allie disappeared in the forest, right?” questioned Zayne.

“We’re pretty sure, yeah.” answered Bryan.

“And the items found were definitely from Allie, right?”

“Yeah. It was their stuff and they planned to take pictures of some bees for Jacob.”

“One, how did they get the items back? And two, it’s Jacob’s fault then, right?”

“I wouldn’t say it was Jacob’s fault,” Bryan laughed, “but people think that a forest spirit took Allie and returned their items as a way to let people know to not come into the Green Byerl Growth.”

“So, that’s why we’re here,” Zayne groaned.

“Yup,” cheerly replied Bryan, “today we are going to walk around the Green Byerl Growth here in Rosary Valley, North Carolina to investigate our ongoing question of, are ghosts real?” Bryan paused, looked behind him at the overgrown arch, then looked back to Zayne and asked, “Shall we?”

#writing #original story #original work #short story

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tychsen19tychsen · 2 years

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hannahshattuck · 3 years

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Captain Firefighter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, slight graphic description of injury, car accident

Steve Rogers Masterlist Main Masterlist

BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

You groaned as you slapped your hand around the nightstand trying to find your phone with the alarm going off. When you finally found it, you grabbed it and opened one eye to turn it off. You checked the time and realized you should get up to make sure you weren’t late on your first day at your new job. With a groan, you slowly sat up and noticed you were naked and had a pounding headache.

“Great. Hungover on the first day.” You mumbled as you rubbed your temples.

A groan behind you caught your attention. “God. I’m not drinking ever again.”

You looked over your shoulder and saw a blond man laying on his back rubbing his hands over his face. The blankets sat at his hips which put his built torso on display. His chest looked like a good place to rest your head and it seemed like his abs had abs. You quickly found your underwear on the floor and a navy blue tee shirt and put them on. You stood facing him and tried to smile even though it felt like a construction crew was in your skull.

“Um, hi.” You said.

The man brought his hands from his face and laid them on his chest. “Hi.”

The two of you awkwardly stared at each other and you hoped you were smiling more than grimacing. The man sat up, keeping the sheet covering him and stood looking for most likely his underwear. He found black boxer briefs and put them on without moving the sheet which was impressive to say the least.

Once he got them on, he dropped the sheet on the bed and found what seemed to be his jeans. He pulled them on and looked up at you and chuckled.

“I need my shirt.” He smirked.

You looked down. “Oh..” You found one of your sweatshirts in your dresser, along with shorts, and started towards the bathroom connected to your bedroom. “I’m just gonna…” You trailed off pointing to the bathroom.

He smiled, “Alright.”

You ducked into the bathroom and quickly locked the door. “Oh god.” You whispered to yourself. You quickly changed out of his shirt and into your clothes.

You left the bathroom and saw him sitting on the edge in your bed on his phone. You cleared your throat.

“Uh, here you go.” You held his shirt out to him. He stood up and it was then when you realized how tall he was. You were eye level with his chest and had to title your head up to look in his eyes that were a very bright blue.

He took his shirt and put it on without breaking eye contact. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.” You hummed.

“I don’t remember a lot from last night but I do know you said you start a new job today so good luck on that and I hope you don’t feel too bad today.” He bent down and kissed your cheek. You felt your face heat up.

“I-I’ll walk you out.” You walked out your bedroom and led the way to the front door of your apartment. The living wasn’t a mess so that told you the two of you went straight to your room. You unlocked the front door and opened it to let him out. “I, uh, hope you have a good day.”

He smiled before he walked out the door, “You too.”

You closed the door and leaned your forehead against the cool wood. “Fuck me.”

--------------------

You pulled up into an empty parking spot and grabbed your backpack with all your stuff once you parked. Looking towards the fire station, you saw both big garage doors open and saw your soon to be coworkers messing around or cleaning or working out. You swung your backpack over one shoulder and started walking toward the station.

“Hey! It’s the newbie!” You turned your head in the direction of the voice and saw a dark skin man waving at you. “Hi! I’m Sam.”

“Hi.” You waved back.

“Wilson, keep mopping. It’s your fault there’s whip cream everywhere.” A red head woman said as she walked over to you. “Hi, I’m Natasha.” She held out her hand.

“Y/N.” You said, shaking her hand. “Do I want to know why he’s mopping up whip cream?” You chuckled.

Natasha playful rolled her eyes, “In between last night calls the boys were pulling pranks.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Ah. That makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Natasha laughed. “They’re lucky it was our captain’s day off last night. Otherwise he would have laid into them and made them clean every nook and cranny of this place.”

“Is your captain here?” You fiddled with the strap of your backpack.

Natasha shook her head. “Not yet. He texted me earlier saying he was gonna be running late. Apparently had a good night if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows playfully which caused you to chuckle. “Let’s get you settled before he arrives.”

She led you to the lockers, where you filled yours, and gave a quick run down of where everything is before leading you to the ambulance. You found out that Natasha is one of the paramedics they have and you two would be partners.

“Okay, so here’s how everything is organized. We do share the ambulance with other shifts but we all got together and figured out where to put everything. If you figure out that a certain supply would be easier to grab in a different spot just send a quick text in the group chat we have for all the paramedics and EMTs. Oh! Speaking of which, let me get your number so I can add you.” Natasha pulled out her phone from her pocket and you gave her your number. “Most of the time we’re like a high school chat with the amount of memes we send.”

You chuckled knowing exactly what she meant. She continued to show you around the ambulance and then started to introduce you to the other firefighters. You already met Sam when you walked in and he seemed to be done with mopping the whipped cream. Then met James Barnes; who goes by Bucky because there’s two named James but it’s also a childhood nicknamed that stayed, Clint Barton; whose Golden Retriever named Lucky is the station dog and loves pizza apparently, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff; who are twins and moved to the States when they were kids, James Rhodes; who goes by Rhodey and is the other James, and then was told that Carol Danvers, Maria Hill, Peter Parker, Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne you would meet another time due to them being off.

“Sorry I’m late!” A voice boomed throughout the station. You turned in the direction of said voice and your breath got caught in your throat.

“Shit.” You mumbled under your breath.

“I know right.” Natasha smirked. “I’m kidding. One thing you’ll quickly see is how we all tease each other.”

You awkwardly chuckled, “Oh okay.”

He noticed you standing with Natasha and you saw his face pale before he schooled his features and walked over to you. He was now wearing the same uniform everyone else was and it was fitting him perfectly just like the jeans and tee he put on this morning when he left your apartment.

“Hi there. You must be the new EMT we were sent.” He placed his hands in the pockets of his pants and stood there exuding authority.

“Uh, yeah.” You tried to smile hoping it was an actual smile.

“Steve. Or Captain Rogers. Or Rogers. Or Cap like everyone else seems to call me.” He chuckled as he held his hand out for you to shake.

“Y/N.” You said as you shook his hand while your brain so helpfully supplied an image of those hands around your waist.

“Let’s head to my office before we get a call. There’s some housekeeping things I want you to know.”

You hummed an acknowledgement and followed him to his office trying to keep your gaze in the middle of his back or the floor so as to not focus on his behind that was contained by the uniform pants. Steve opened the door and motioned for you to walk through the doorway.

“You can have a seat in one of those chairs if you’d like.”

You quickly walked over to the chairs in front of his desk and sat down. He sat in the rolling chair on the other side and leaned back in the chair studying you. Instead of meeting his gaze, you looked down at your pants picking off pieces of invisible lint.

“Well,” Steve cleared his throat and leaned forward to place his forearms on his desk with his fingers interlocked with each other. “I will say that this is not how I expected this shift to go.”

You chuckled, still staring at your pants. “You and me both.”

“I don’t want to make this uncomfortable for you and I can work it out to where we won’t be on the same shift. But, I do want you to be here because I’ve seen your scores for all the tests and they’re phenomenal.” Steve said.

“Thanks,” You mumbled with a slight heat in your cheeks. “And you don’t have to change anything. I’ll admit it might be weird the first couple days but I’ll be fine.” You gain the courage to look at him and saw his ocean blue eyes watching you.

“Not to make this any more awkward than it kinda is but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I left your place.” Now it was Steve’s turn to blush. “I promise I’m not trying to come onto you but, uh, I just needed to say that.” He looked down at his desk and fiddled with his thumbs.”

“Well if it’s any consolation I haven't stopped thinking about you either.” You smiled.

Steve opened his mouth to say something but then the bell rang signaling that there was a call. “Well, let’s start your first shift.”

You two stood up from your seats and Steve opened the door for you to go first. You gave him a smile as you thanked him.

“Let’s do that.” You chuckled and took off towards the ambulance with Natasha.

--------------------

It’s been a few months since your first day and the team has felt more like a family every day. Natasha has felt like a sister to you, Sam has gotten a run for his money when you’ve played pranks and your relationship with Steve has gotten…...closer. You ended up telling Natasha that you slept with him and she couldn’t help but laugh. When you asked why she was laughing she said, “Well, I don’t blame you. He is a nice snack.” You couldn’t disagree with her on that. Steve and you talked about how you two wouldn’t let that night affect you two working together but neither of you could ignore that there were feelings for the other.

“Hey Y/N!! Can you call Lucky over? He keeps trying to drink the soapy water!” Clint yells across the firehouse where he, Bucky, Sam, and Rhodey were trying to was one of the trucks.

“Yeah. No problem. Lucky! C’mere!” You whistled. The Golden Retriever came bounding over to you and jumped into your arms licking you all over your face. You giggled as you gently pushed him away to go over to his toys and grabbed a tug rope.

As you were playing with Lucky and wearing him out, the alarm that signaled a call sounded. Dispatch said an ambulance was needed for a car accident. It was always difficult to tell how bad car accidents are until you get there. You and Wanda, who you found out was another EMT, were on shift and ran to the ambulance to head to where the accident was. The accident was at an intersection that always had a lot of accidents whether it be minor or major.

When you and Wanda arrived, there were already two ambulances there which told the two of you how bad it was. There were at least six cars involved. One was wrapped around a tree, two looked like they collided head on, and the three rear ended each other. There looked to be people out of some cars but your biggest worry was the one wrapped around the tree. You asked one of the other EMTs if any of them checked on the patient of the car around the tree and they said they got there a few seconds before you and Wanda.

You yelled for Wanda to grab the bags while you ran over to check on whoever it was in the car. Your breath got caught in your throat as you saw it was Steve in the driver’s seat. He was unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel. You gently leaned him back so you could check his front for injuries. Steve had a cut above his eyebrow causing blood to trickle down his face, his left arm was broken which also had the bone poking through the skin, the steering wheel dashboard trapped his legs which caused you to not assess the injuries there.

“Oh my god.” Wanda gasped when she saw who it was.

“Wanda,” You turned to look at her. “I know it’s Steve but we treat him like every other person we’ve treated before. Okay?”

She swallowed and nodded her head. Wanda pulled out a cervical collar and handed it to you so you can place it around Steve’s neck to prevent any hidden injuries from getting worse. You called over your shoulder to have Wanda get the spine board. She nodded and ran to the ambulance. A groan pulled your attention back to the man in the banged up vehicle.

“Steve? Hey big guy. Can you open your eyes for me?” You gently coaxed.

“Wha-? Y/N? What are you doin here?” His speech was slurred but you couldn’t tell if it was because he was regaining consciousness or if the cut on his head was more than just a cut.

“You got in a car accident. Do you know what happened?” You asked as you placed the collar around his neck.

Steve scrunched his face trying to think. “I-I can’t remember.” He started to panic. “Why can’t I remember?”

“Steve, you need to calm down.” You grabbed his wrists so he wouldn’t hurt himself. “Right now I need to check over your injuries.” You heard footsteps behind you and saw the spine board placed next to you. Wanda started getting stuff out of the bag to bandage the cut on Steve’s head.

The two of you started to assess what you could see but you knew the steering wheel dashboard needed to get moved. You stood up and turned to see if there were any firefighters who could help and saw Sam, Bucky, Clint, and Rhodey all running over to you. They looked over your shoulder and saw it was Steve.

“What do you need?” Sam asked.

“His legs are trapped so we need to get those out.”

“Alright. Guys, let’s get the equipment to help.” The men took off back to the fire engine and you turned your attention back to Steve.

“Hey. I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?” You asked Steve. He mumbled a ‘yes’ and you started asking questions which would assess his mental status. You heard many pairs of footsteps running back over to you and saw Sam out the corner of your eye. You, Sam, and the rest of your team who were there, worked together to get Steve out from being trapped in the car. Once his legs were free, you all placed him on the spine board while Clint and Wanda went to get the gurney.

“Everything hurts.” Steve groaned in pain.

“I know, honey.” Unintentionally letting the pet name slip out. “I’m gonna get you some meds for that.” You got everything to get an IV in his arm to distribute pain meds. Wanda and Clint came back with the gurney and everyone loaded him up on the gurney, then into the ambulance, and Wanda jumped in the driver seat and started heading to the hospital.

“Y/N.” Steve whispered. “I’m glad that you were there.”

You smiled and grabbed his hand. “Well I’m glad that you’re alright for the most part.”

“You called me ‘honey’.”

“Eh. Pet names like that slip from me at times. Sorry if it was unprofessional.”

He gently shook his head as best he could with the collar on. “No, I actually liked it.”

You could see a sense of determination in his eyes. “How ‘bout we focus on you getting better before we talk about possibly dating and what that means for our jobs.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”

“Steve. Honey.” You winked at him. “It’s my job to check for even the smallest facial expressions in order to see how much pain someone is in.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

You shook your head chuckling, checking over his injuries you could see to make sure none have gotten worse.

Wanda pulled into the ambulance bay of the hospital where three nurses met you and helped you roll Steve into the hospital. He went to surgery for his arm and to make sure there were know serious internal injuries. You were there by his bedside in recovery when he woke up. The two of you would figure out logistics with the budding relationship at a later date but knew you couldn’t wait too long.

Steve mumbled as he was coming out of the anesthesia. He opened his eyes a bit and saw you sitting there. “Hi.” He closed his eyes with a smile on his face.

You smiled. “Hi. How you feeling?”

Steve mumbled incoherently which caused you to chuckle.

“Alright.” You grabbed his right hand, being careful of the IV line, in both of yours. “You get more rest.” Steve mumbled more as you placed a kiss on his knuckles.

Tags: @patzammit @bobbydearest @katiew1973 @rocketrhap3000 @harrysthiccthighss @justamarvelfan14 @this-kitten-is-smitten

#steve rogers x reader #firefighter!Steve #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers angst #hannahshattuck writings

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writingsbychlo · 3 years

Text

smoke and fire (epilogue I)

word count; 4116

summary; after everything that happened, thomas just really wants to make sure everyone knows its official.

notes; you get a little bit more of thomas’ history here, but not much, just a sweet bonus.

warnings; not a one.

“Are you freaking out?”

“What? No, of course not. Why would I be freaking out? Because I’m meeting your mom?” You spoke too fast, your words slurring together a little, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself, Thomas’ brows raising silently as though so say ‘I told you so’ without actually saying it. “Totally fine. Just nervous, because it’s a big deal. A big deal that I told you we don’t have to take yet, you don’t have to rush me into meeting your mom just because of what happened the other month.”

Thomas picked up one of your hands, lifting it up to press a kiss to your palm before smoothing it over his cheek, undoing his seatbelt and leaning across the central dash towards you. Your fingers slipped up a little further, into his hair, and you tore your sights away from the care home in front of you to look more clearly at him. Pulling you a little closer with a hand on your jaw, his lips met your own.

Soft and slow, he kissed away your fears, his lips working with your own and tempting you into kissing him back as he pulled away your worries. His tongue teased over your lower lip, prompting you to lean a little further, nose bumping as you moved to the side, and your hand tightened in his hair. Parting your lips for him, he let out a breathy little whine against your lips, his tongue dragging across yours softly.

Trying to get a little closer, you pushed up into him, the safety belt locking across your chest, and you huffed out as your breath was forced from your lungs, jolting you away from Thomas as it pulled you back, a fraction of space between you both and he chuckled against your lips.

“Don’t be nervous, angel, she’s gonna’ love you.” He waited for a second, dipping down to press another kiss to your lips when you still hesitated, and his hand reached over, unclipping your seatbelt for you this time, so that you could press up into him. One hand settled behind your back, fingers dancing along your spine until it was sitting on your lower back, and you sighed against his mouth as he soothed you with slow kisses.

“Okay, okay. I’m ready. I think.” You placed a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards after a final kiss, and when his eyes fluttered open, lips a little darker pink than normal, he beamed at you, your confidence only growing with his gaze.

“That’s my girl.” He stepped out from the car, snatching the keys from the ignition and tucking them into his pocket, jogging around the car as you opened your door, and he took it from you, letting you step out of the car. Brushing down the skirt of your sundress, you frowned down at yourself, hoping that you looked presentable, and that the floral material hadn't gained any major wrinkles from the drive over, still wanting to look smart when you met Thomas’ mother. “You look beautiful, and you changed your dress, like, three times, but you were gorgeous in all of them. You look perfect.”

He was holding up your cardigan, letting you turn around to slip your arms into it, sealing the pastel-coloured material over your shoulders, and rubbing lightly at your upper arms when you twisted to face him again. He moved around to the trunk, the back already open as he’d fetched your cardigan while you were adjusting your dress, and you followed him to the back.

Inside was your bag, alongside the picnic basket the two of you had constructed and packed this morning, and a rolled-up blanket on top, surrounded by the various other items Thomas had in his trunk. Taking your bag, you placed it on your shoulder, shuffling through it to check you had everything, and taking out the sunglasses of Thomas’ that you’d put in there, unfolding them and placing them on the bridge of his nose, a soft smile on his lips when you did.

He paused, leaning in to press a delicate kiss to your forehead for the gesture, before pushing them up to sit on the top of his head, for now. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better, but now you seem all nervous and it's making me jittery again.”

Your joke was a little unsteady, and Thomas let out a weak laugh, his hand settling on your hips as he turned to face you, back to the sun, and tall stature blocking your eyes from staring into the rays. “There’s just this one thing, before we go in. It's something for you, I don’t think it can really count as a gift because it was about a dollar from Walmart when I was getting ingredients, so..” His words trailed off, and he reached behind himself, plucking a white-wood frame from inside, and handing it to you.

“A picture frame?” His jaw dropped slightly, working out how to explain whatever was going on inside his mind, and you stepped a little closer. “You want to put me on your picture wall?”

“No.” He huffed, a frown forming on your face. “Well, yes, obviously. But, those are my public pictures. Those are the ones visitors see, and I want one of you up there, with Newt and Brenda and the team, maybe one of you and my mom, but not with this frame.” He lifted one hand from your waist, running a finger along the edge, while staring down at it. “This is a new frame. I’ve never had a picture on my bedside table before, but I was thinking we could take one, and put it there.”

His voice went quiet, turning to a whisper that was barely audible as he went on, before he was eventually, and you took the frame, reaching past him, your body pressing to his as you let it fall back into the trunk of the car. His arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you flush up to him, and you let out a low series of giggles as your arms looped his neck. Pulling him down, you dragged your lips over his, a groan of impatience from Thomas making you close the gap, his lips meeting yours.

Brushing your fingers through his hair, he relaxed, sagging into you slightly as you untangled the locks gently as your mouths meshed together, before you were pulling back for breath, sharing the air between you in shallow pants.

“I love you, Thomas.”

He stiffened again for a second, before he was pecking your lips quickly, stealing another kiss, and another, and another, making you laugh against him as he kissed you quickly, fingers tickling at your sides as he hugged you impossibly close, his own face breaking with a grin and making it impossible for him to continue kissing you. “Do you mean that?”

“Totally. I’ve known it for a couple of weeks now, but I wanted to wait until it meant something more than just telling you at work or after dinner.”

“There’s plenty of nights you could have told me you loved me, when we were making love.” He was overly proud of his joke, smirking widely, and you reached your hand up higher, knocking his sunglasses down into his face and laughing at the protesting noise he made. You stepped back out of his face, detangling yourself from beside him, and he was still busily cracking up over it, his hand crossing over his chest as he laughed loudly, only spurred by your reaction.

You tucked the blanket under your arm, grabbing the basket, and walking away from the man who was losing it laughing by his car still, and walking toward the building. The trunk slammed shut, the car chirping as it locked, and you heard Thomas’ feet scraping against the tarmac as he jogged to catch up with you. His hand closed over yours, cooing in your ear as he took the basket from you.

“Oh, c’mon, baby. That was a good joke, admit it.” You scoffed, his laughter continuing. “Wait, wait, wait. Just hold on, before we go in.” He brought you to a stop, adjusting his glasses on his face, eyes blacked for yours, but you could imagine the look on them as his cheeky expression smoothed out into something more genuine. “I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I love you too. For some stupid reason, because you make dumb jokes about sex right before I meet your mother.” Your smile was finally cracking through, unable to be held back any longer, and he beamed as he saw it, shifting the basket to the other hand and weaving his finger switch your own.

As you walked into the main building, his thumb played with yours, and he greeted the older woman behind the desk like she was an old friend, her eyes lighting up a little as she saw him. He made introductions while he scribbled down his information in the visitor sign-in book before himself, chatting about the woman’s kids with her, his hand never letting go of your own, until you needed to fill in the paper yourself.

As you did, he handed over the picnic basket to the woman, who lifted the lid, sifting through the contents all while keeping the conversation going, the security checks that left Thomas unfazed, and now you realised why he’d insisted on not bringing your own cutlery to go with it all, because it surely would have been taken off of you. You gave her your bag, too, only your phone and wallet inside, before Thomas was giving you the car keys to add to the collection, and you were gathering it all back up, and being pointed through to the main corridors.

He didn’t need a guide, clearly knowing where he was going, and told that his mother was waiting for you both in the common room, last seen winning her third game of chess in a row. You were nervous again, gripping onto Thomas’ hand a little tighter, and he squeezed back, pressing a kiss to your temple in a silent notion of security and faith, encouragement in your task, as he guided you through the halls.

You weren’t so worried that she’d hate you; if the way Thomas had been raised was anything to go on, once you’d moved past that difficult stage, he’d been nothing but loyal and friendly, and so you knew she’d raised him well, indicating she wasn’t someone to fear herself. What you were nervous about was a reputation that preceded you, you were nervous that you wouldn't live up to an image she already had of you, that Thomas had told her excessively good things and you were going to be underwhelming, or worse, that she just wouldn't think you were as good as other’s who’d come before.

You couldn't help it, you wanted to make a good first impression.

As soon as you rounded the corner, you could spot her. She looked just like her son. The same warm caramel eyes and sweet smile, moles dotted along pale skin and hair that was much like Thomas’, except longer, a little duller, and sitting in wavy curls to her shoulders, untamed from her morning’s activities.

“Okay, I lied. I’m freaking out a little bit.” You whispered, coming to a stop slightly in the entrance of the main room, and Thomas came to stand in front of you, his hands landing on your arms to rub lightly, and you let out a weak laugh at the gesture. He used a single finger to tip your face back up to look at him, his eyes wide and honest as you found them, and he gave you a soft smile.

“Stop freaking out. It’s not like you. You normally dive headfirst into situations.”

“You told me to stop doing that.” You mumbled, and he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head when you glanced down, staring at your feet and glaring at a scuff on your shoes you hadn't noticed until now.

“Only when your life is in danger. With this, you just need to get out of your head. C’mon, look at me?” You sighed through your nose, hesitating for a second, before looking up to the man before you, slightly taller and blocking out the main lighting of the room, so you didn’t have to squint at him. “You’re great, okay? You’re amazing, and you're smart and funny. She’s gonna’ love you, because I love you.”

“Okay. You’re right.” He waited, a cheeky look on his face, making the most of those three words now he knew he’d hear them back, and his face split in a toothy grin as he stared expectantly. “And I love you too.”

“I also love you too, so are you gonna’ greet your mom yet?”

You jumped, rather harshly at the sudden voice, Thomas’ face changing into one of more nostalgic joy as he let go and turned around to face his mother, and your face flushed with heat, unsure of when she’d made her way over, or even noticed the two of you. He wrapped her up, holding her tight as he greeted her, and she rubbed his back soothingly in return, her stature much like your own, her son towering over the both of you. When they pulled back, she reached up, patting his cheek with a large smile, before looking over him. The motherly glance told you all you needed to know, she was judging how well he was taking care of himself, and if he was staying healthy, seemingly happy with her judgement as her hand slipped to his shoulder, before turning away as she moved to greet you, instead.

Her sights moved over you, too, her smile never faltering, and you didn’t feel judged by her. Instead, you felt a sense of warmth and love as she treated you the same as she had treated Thomas, looking over you to make sure you were well, and taking in the details of the flowers on your dress.

“Mom, this is my girlfriend. (Y/N).” Thomas’ hand slipped down, finding yours once again and squeezing lightly, an unspoken piece of reassurance, and she glanced to her son, raising a brow at him.

“Well, I should hope so. It’d be awfully awkward if you’d brought anyone else.”

Thomas sighed, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't help the smile breaking on his face, even as he tried to bite it away on the inside of his cheek. “Alright, alright. I’m just trying to make introductions.” He mumbled, his mother swatting at his arm lightly, and he gave in, waving a vague hand between you and her. “(Y/N), this is my very sarcastic mother.”

“Hi, Mrs Stephens.” You greeted, heart thudding in your chest, and you held out your other hand, her palm sliding against yours quickly as she accepted the greeting, shaking firmly and letting it go as she smiled.

“You don’t have to call me that, I haven’t been ‘Mrs Stephens’ since Thomas’ dad was still in the picture, you can just call me Beth.”

Thomas cleared his throat, not wanting the mention of his father to bring anything down when you’d only nodded silently, like he could sense the apology on your tongue that was about to fall. “Alright, well, now that's out of the way, shall we find somewhere to sit? I don’t want all the icepacks to melt and let the food get warm.”

“Does he do this to you at home, too? He’s so picky about his food, like he’s that angry Gary man from the television. Like he’s a star chef.”

“Are you talking about Gordon Ramsey? Oh my God.” He scoffed, eyes narrowing on you when you laughed at him, and he nodded his head roughly to make his sunglasses fall down, until they were sitting on the bring of his nose instead of buried in soft strands of hair. “I’m nothing like Gordon Ramsey, okay? I didn’t even cook all of this food, we cooked together. I’m just hungry, and not a fan of warm pasta salad.”

“Bossy, bossy, bossy. You’re not the lieutenant here, son.”

“He thinks he is, though.” You leaned in to whisper the words to his mother as she fell into step beside you, letting you be tugged along a little by Thomas’ grip on your hand, and you both chuckled a little at the sound of protest he let out.

“Yeah, well, Thomas doesn’t like having that control-freak authority challenged. You’re good for him that way.” Your cheeks flushed a little again, and you were grateful to the sun shining down overhead from the second you’d stepped out onto the patio to disguise it as simply a blush from the heat. “I’ve been rooting for the two of you since the day he came to visit me and spent the whole time complaining about ‘that new girl, she’s so reckless and stupid and brave, it’s irritating that she’s always right’.

“Well, I’m not always right. I was wrong about your son, at first.”

“Well, he wasn’t the most welcoming. Little Newt from across the road spun quite the tale of your first meeting when he called me.” Your heart jumped in your chest a little at her reference of your partner, in her mind still picturing a scrappy little blond boy with skinned knees and a bright smile, no doubt.

“You and Newt are just alike.” You teased, Thomas chuckling slightly as he guided you both quietly towards the steps and down to the grass of the gardens.

“We are? How’s that?” Your hand came up to sit over your eyes as the sun shone brightly in the centre of the sky, and you shrugged, glancing around at the beautiful scenery as you walked, trying to find your words.

“Just that you and he both seemed to be rooting for me and Tommy long before we even realised what we were.” You turned to face Thomas at the questioning noise he made, squinting at him slightly through the sun, and shrugging. “It’s true, he saw ‘us’ in us long before we ever did, and he told me so.”

Thomas lifted down his sunglasses, placing them on your face instead, adjusting them with one finger and switching the basket from one hand to the other, his head ducked while you thanked him.

“One afternoon in the ambulance, months ago. It was that day I set him up with Derek. He told me he was glad I didn’t have a date with Derek, because he had someone else in mind for me.” Thomas’ lips pressed together, smiling after a second, and he let go of your hand to step down over one of the ridges in the grass. Placing the basket down, he helped his mother over the dip, and then you, pausing to pick the food back up.

“You’ve never told me that.”

“I figured Newt did.”

“That boy has always been a little trickster, he used to help Thomas sneak out when they were teens.” Thomas’ mother tutted, and you gasped, turning to her.

“I always thought Thomas would have been a goody-two-shoes when he was younger!”

“Mom, please don’t tell her anything embarrassing.” You shushed him, waving a hand in his direction and focusing on his mother, who was smirking wickedly at her son, but looking at you, clearly trying to choose which story she wanted to tell you first.

“There’s so many to tell. Especially the things the two of them got up to while sneaking out.” She tutted, frowning at her son as she relived them, and he stuck his tongue out childishly. “Once, he was delivered home to my doorstep, drunk as a skunk when he was seventeen because he’d been drinking at a party, and I thought he was upstairs in his room, music playing.”

“Oh, that sounds awful.” You cringed, turning to look at Thomas, who was pointedly staring ahead, mock-anger making a poor attempt at hiding the amusement on his face.

“Also, Thomas once got so nervous about impressing the girl he was taking to junior prom, he sweated through his shirt and had to change before her mom dropped her off.”

“Mom!” Thomas was blushing now, cheeks red and eyes wide, and the older woman burst out with laughter, Thomas’ cheeks burning crimson as you turned to him, and she continued wandering ahead when you and Thomas slowed to a slight halt. “I didn’t sweat right through my shirt, I was just nervous about smelling bad, so I changed.”

He was pouting, and you leaned up, pecking his lips quickly, and his resolve was slowly dying. “I think it’s cute. Though, I am moderately offended that I’ve never made you nervous enough to change a sweaty shirt.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a grown-up now.” His chest puffed out slightly, and he turned to find his mother, who was looking down at the grass, the wind blowing the flowers that were growing in the grass, before his attention was back on you. The breeze allowed loose tendrils of hair to flitter down into your face, and he pushed them back into place to stay behind your ears, a softer expression taking over. “Besides, I’m a fireman. I’m always sweaty, you’d never have noticed.”

You rolled your eyes, his head dipping to let his lips brush against his forehead, before his mother was clearing her throat delicately. “I think this is a good spot. Not too hot, not too cold, not too windy. Not too far from the house that the orderlies get mad.” She scoffed the final part, flipping off the big house you’d all wandered away from, and you hadn't realised just how far you’d come from it, approaching the tree-line near the edges.

Thomas held the basket still had you tugged the blanket free from under the straps, and you wandered over to his mother. She took half of it, helping you to lay it down on the grass, smoothing it out carefully, and finding some rocks to pin it down with. You could only find two, and so Thomas used the basket for one corner, and his jacket bundled up with your cardigan for the other, before he was sitting down.

Crossing his legs and lifting up the lid, his mother sat opposite him, legs stretched out before herself as she started up at the tops of the trees, swaying in the light breeze with birds coming and going. Just as you were kneeling down, Thomas groaned, looking through the basket and beginning to unpack things, before he was looking back at you both.

“We forgot the cutlery, we were supposed to pick it up at the house because you can’t bring it in.” He sighed, shoulders slumping a little. “I’ll go grab some, I’ll be real quick.”

“I’ll go.” Thomas paused, staring up at you from where he’d been halfway to his feet, and you stood back up fully, brushing off your dress a little.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course. You stay, it’ll only take a few minutes.” He still looked a little doubtful, glancing back to the house that looked brother small from this distance, then back to you. Taking your bag from the pile of jackets, you placed it on your shoulder, patting it securely. “If I get lost, I’ll call you to come find me.”

“No smoke and fire, it’ll be a welcome relief to find you when our lives aren’t on the line.” It was a crude joke, and you scoffed, his mother chastising him while ruffling his hair, and he laughed his complaints out to the both of you while swatting her away. You took a few steps away from the pair, beginning your walk back up to the house, leaving the pair to talk as Thomas continued to unpack the basket’s contents.

Turning to look at them when you were only a few feet away, Thomas’ mother was pinching at his cheek, and he was blushing slightly, spreading out three plates on the blanket and avoiding her gaze. “You really like her, Thomas. She makes you happy.”

You didn’t want to eavesdrop, you didn’t intend to, and you doubted either of them knew you could still hear them, and so you tried not to look at them as you continued walking, but Thomas’ gentle chuckle still reached you. “Yeah, mom, she does. I think she might, y’know, be the one.”

#thomas #thomas x reader #thomas/reader #thomas the maze runner #ff!tommy #firefighter!tommy #dylan obrien #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien thomas #dylan obrien the maze runner #smoke and fire #SAF

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so-i-did-this-thing · 3 years

Text

Crozier’s knapsack

I don’t have clear images of this damned bag, despite Crozier wearing it for about half of episode 8. But like his gabardine-esque polar jacket, it seems to be something invented, rather than a specific historic artifact. (Again, please correct me if you find counter-examples.)

Backpacks have certainly been military gear for some time. Linen knapsacks show up often in the American Revolution on both sides of the war. Here's an American version that's evocative of what Crozier wears:

Knapsack of Captain David Uhl, of the Dutchess County Militia

For the original era, this bag would have chest straps connecting the shoulder straps to help distribute the load (you can see one in the second pic above), and an internal divider so clothing could be separated from other gear. It was popular at the time to make the flap pointed like a saddle bag flap, instead of a flat line across, like in the show.

This type of design persisted through the early 19th century, though you'd more commonly see sailors use the stereotypical ditty/sailor’s bag to store their spare clothes and personals:

And you do see bags like this several times in the show, in a variety of sizes:

What's off about Crozier's bag are the damned shoulder straps. Along the shoulders, they are linen or canvas straps, but then convert into... cord/rope? That can't be comfortable. And definitely not durable.

It makes me wonder if the costume designers wanted something that had a "Victorian Explorer" feel and felt that era-accurate full fabric shoulder straps with strap adjusters looked too modern.

Or, maybe the bag was meant to have been repaired/converted from a shoulder bag, with the main strap cut and turned into 2 separate straps? Hmmmm.

Haversacks and some "possibles bags" (hunting bags) worn over the shoulder also had a similar rectangular shape and you see them more commonly in this era than backpacks. Here's a Victorian haversack carried over the shoulder with the straight flap closure.

This feels really close to what Crozier is wearing. The straps are even attached to the outer edges of the bag, instead of closer to the center, as you’d expect on a backpack.

Here’s a good look at the show bag construction - you can see it’s 2 main pieces: back w/flap and then the front. There appears to be no gusset. (Sorry for low-res, still waiting on my blu ray player.) Fairly simple rectangles, no outer pockets.

What's also a bit weird is the flap's strap and buckle closure. You can see Crozier cinch it up in this scene:

Most bags of this era would simply have button closures for the outer flap. Watch in the show how long it takes him to close his damned bag, lol. The camera cuts away and then back and he’s still not done fussing.

But wait, what about actual polar explorers? What did they use?

Well, if you look at the Ross era of expeditions (which seemed to inspire the show’s polar coats), you'll see the men wearing something with shoulder straps. But, they're not backpacks, they are harnesses for hauling sleds -- their gear was kept on sleds and not their own person.

So, my plan?

I’m gonna approach it like a converted shoulder bag. I plan to use linen (I have some natural colored but am now leaning towards bleached), which I may lightly wax. (The "gabardine coat" is going to be waxed canvas, so I don't want to re-use base materials.) I'll match the show's flap closure and add my own interior divider, like the historic backpacks, for convenience.

And then fill it with snacks and juice boxes. XD

#the terror amc #francis crozier #crozier cosplay wip #hi new followers yup this is what I'm like #I love deep diving into details and driving myself nuts #I will always stand by my belief that accuracy is never a required hallmark for a 'good' cosplay #but sometimes my brain hyper-fixates and demands it of me and me alone #join me in this hell only if you wish it XD #on the flip side you then get things like my 'sexy' halloween costume #so I like to think I have range

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hayleyb100 · 4 years

Text

Light My Way, Part 4

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 the end

⚠️ WARNING! ⚠️ -It is a twisted story of Pokemon Sun and Moon, and a crossover of Pokemon SM and SWSH. -It features Hau and Kabu as the main characters. -Extremely angsty. -Everything is headcanon. -It isn’t spoiler-free.

The Professor woke up from a nightmare on his desk again. He probably fell asleep on his desk again, crying over the loss. The last several months have been a complete chaos. The grandson of his mentor, who he considered as a nephew, has gone missing. His mentor passed away, and Hau was discovered from the cold sleep. Kukui's nerve was on the edge as Hau recovered. He thought he might not even wake up, but miraculously, Hau fought back and opened his eyes. The Professor almost smashed the phone on the floor when Hau's dad ignored the calls and didn't give a shit about his son. He nearly went to break the backbones of the hideous foster families who abandoned Hau yet again, but Kahunas and his wife had to stop him.

Kukui was desperate to take care of the boy himself. But he just couldn't. He almost had heart failure when he saw Hau outside the door. His guilt for not protecting him nearly crushed him. He couldn't look at Hau. He despised himself. So much. He acts all strong by being Royal Mask and leading the construction of the League, but what exactly did he achieve? He didn't even know Hau was in such unbearable pain.

After all the chaos, Kukui let go of everything he was doing. The League, research, even taking care of himself. Despite his wife's effort, he wasted away day and night. He thought he did something unforgivable to his mentor and his grandson. The least he could redeem is to take care of Hau, but he couldn't even do that. He felt helpless and useless.

_________________________________

Then, after a while, he heard another person who was hoping to foster Hau appeared. And it was no ordinary person, but a Gym Leader of another region. Kukui went to Nanu instantly, who bridged the two.

"Hey!"

"Hey."

Nanu answered back calmly despite a sudden outrage since he knew Kukui was on his edge.

"What the heck are you thinking sending Hau overseas?!"

"What do you mean? He needs family. He can't stay in the hospital forever, right?"

"NO!"

Kukui shook his head with fury.

"He isn't fully recovered from that wound! All those dirty foster families! And going overseas? Are you kidding me?!"

"Calm down. I had to think hard for that."

"NO, YOU DIDN'T! If you had any senses, you wouldn't have made that decision! He is not going anywhere. Hau will stay with me!"

Nanu sighed and glared at Kukui.

"Then let me ask you one thing too. Is that for the kid? Or is that for you?"

Kukui stared at Nanu, dumbfounded.

"Listen, I get that you bear all that guilt for Hala. But be honest, you are not well yourself either, eh? I might sound cruel, but fostering and adoption isn't about you. It's about the kid. It's about finding the parents who can guide the child and the child can rely on. Especially since the kid is hurt severely. You can't take the fostering as the method to redeem yourself. It's not that simple. To add to that, Alola is a place full of horrid memories of that kid. He should leave and spend some time somewhere else until he can stand back on his feet."

Nanu sighed deeper and continued.

"You gotta drop that horrible habit of trying to do everything on your own. Don't you think you already have too much in your hand? Researching as a professor, being Royal Mask, developing Alola by building the League..."

Nanu's words hurt. It hurt so much because they were all true. He was so caught up with repaying what he did wrong to Hala that he forgot about how Hau was hurt again. Kukui remembers the man who is willing to foster Hau. A Gym Leader he met in Galar. He was a man of passion, kindness, generosity, justice, and wisdom. An iron fist in a velvet glove. A reliable someone. The perfect person for Hau. He knew that. Kukui knew it all too well but didn't want to let him go. He was worried sick.

But at the same time, Hau deserves someone better. It was as plain as day that Kukui wouldn't take good care of him with his worn-out heart. He was like a tree with rotting root, that would fall over when someone lean on.

"He's leaving in two days," Nanu added.

"If you wanna say goodbye, come to Melemele Island Airport by noon."

After Nanu left, Kukui came back home. He skipped the meal and thought about what Nanu said over and over again. In fact, he didn't know why he thought it over, when the answer was crystal clear.

______________________________________

"Didn't you forget anything?"

Two days later, Kabu asked Hau who was holding his small suitcase. Hau stood there and quietly shook his head, as Kabu buttoned up his jacket. Kabu was so sad that such an adorable child is so daunted. He couldn't wait until the boy was lively again, running from place to place with his partner pokemon.

"Take care, okay, Hau?"

Olivia and Nanu were waiting for Hau at the airport. Olivia was ready to cry, and Nanu just looked into the distance.

"Here, it's our contact detail. Call us when you need us."

Olivia handed a little note to Hau with Nanu and her call number. Hau nodded a little and put the note in his pocket.

"Now, the airport is crowded, so you might get lost easily. Don't let go of my hand, alright?" said Kabu.

The little olive haired boy didn't say a thing, but he grabbed onto Kabu's fingers tightly. Kabu held his hand back.

Just then, someone called Hau from a distance.

Nanu was shocked to see Kukui, as he thought he wouldn't come. But there he was.

Kukui took another deep breath and came to Hau. He stroked Hau's cheek, holding back his tears with all his might. He beamed brightly, trying to relieve Hau.

"Hau... Stay happy there. Galar is a wonderful region brimming with discovery, new experiences, and adventure. The man next to you is a great person. He will take good care of you. You had enough sadness in your life. All you need is happiness and delight, just like all the other boys of your age."

Hau stared at him quietly and answered with a short nod.

Kukui then turned to Kabu. He pleaded with a shaky voice.

"Please, take good care of him. He is a pure boy who deserves a happy life."

Kabu smiled with determination and nodded to Kukui. He knew what the boy meant to the professor, so he resolved to keep Hau under his wings safe.

"I will. That I promise."

Kukui grinned and waved goodbye, as Hau and Kabu went further away to the departure lounge. The Alolan Professor still felt his heart shattering thinking he wasn't strong enough to take care of Hau himself, but at least he now knows he is in the safe hand.

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coppicefics · 3 years

Photo

Masked Omens: Week One

New chapter here, or read from the start here!

(Right click picture and select ‘View Image’ or ‘Open Image In New Tab’ for hi-res version.)

[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads 'Masked Omens'.

Image 2 - A newspaper page from the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 26th December, 2020. Full image description and transcription below the cut.]

The Capital Herald, Saturday 26th December 2020 News, page 11

GODLEIGH MANOR RESTORATION SET TO BEGIN YouTube Community Comes To The Rescue Of Historic House In Unprecedented Donation Spree Restoration work on Godleigh Manor, Little Dyvyn, is set to proceed at last after years of stagnation – thanks to an unexpected influx of donations from interested members of the public. A house has stood on the site since at least the early 13th century, but most of the current building was constructed in the 18th century by its then owner, Lord Michael Godleigh. It remained a private residence until 1914, when it was commandeered as a military hospital for officers injured in the First World War. When the war was over, the officers went home, but the Godleigh family had suffered severe losses, and those who had been involved in treating the injured officers had many bad memories associated with the place. What was left of the family moved out, and – barring the operation of a second temporary hospital during the Second World War – this once-busy house has remained empty and silent ever since. Left to its own devices, the house began to crumble. Water found its way through the roof, and weeds forced their way up through the floor. By the time the deed to Godleigh Manor was passed on to its current owner, Lucy Godleigh, in the mid-1990s, barely a few rooms were anything close to habitable. “I set up in a mobile home on the grounds,” Godleigh told The Capital Herald, “and basically just started trying to secure the few rooms that hadn't been completely exposed to the elements. Then I contacted a restoration expert to find out what could be done for the rest of it.” The experts' verdict wasn't what she wanted to hear. “There was no chance I could pay for it myself. The rest of the family opposed me moving back here; I was on my own. And to get the whole place back to the way it was, we were looking at anything from fifty million to three hundred million pounds. I was going to need help raising the funds, so I started campaigning. But it was slow going. Nobody's keen to put their hands in their pockets to restore a stranger's old family pile.” And, for over two decades, it seemed that a pile would soon be all that was left. Godleigh moved into Little Dyvyn, and the property was abandoned once more to the tender mercies of the elements and the frequent trespassers who came to explore. “I'd go up a few times a week, but it hardly seemed worth it. I'd all but given up. But then one of those visitors saved the day.” A YouTube personality known as Sergeant Shadwell, famed for his urban exploration videos and the occasional paranormal investigation, contacted Godleigh to ask to film in the house. “I said yeah, whatever, do what you like, it's a mess,” Godleigh recalled, “and he saved it. He saved my home.” Shadwell uploaded a video of Godleigh Manor in the last week of November. In it, he speaks frankly about the challenges and benefits of preserving such old buildings. “I don't know about there being ghosts here,” he tells viewers, “but there's a lot of wasted potential. Stately homes like this can and should be used, and it'd be a real shame for this one to crumble. I'll add a link to the fundraiser in the video description.” The Wytchfynder Army, as Shadwell's fans call themselves, have so far contributed £80m to the Save Godleigh Manor campaign. The fundraising page is filled with messages of encouragement and support, attached to donations ranging from £5 to £1500. Some donors have even explained that they raised the money through sponsored swims, bake sales, and car washes. “It's enough to get started, to make a really good start,” Godleigh explained, “I can't thank him – all of them – enough. They really came together to help me – a complete stranger – and it means so much, it really does.” So what's next for Godleigh Manor? First, says Godleigh, the surviving rooms will need to be stablised. Then the house's ground floor will be restored to its former glory, and Godleigh hopes to work with local historians to ensure that it is both a functional and educational space. “I won't charge people any more to use it than I need to cover the cost of maintaining it,” Godleigh said. “How can I? It's being restored by this huge community; it belongs to the community, and to Little Dyvyn. It's going to be a great space for everyone to enjoy.” Work is now set to begin on the Godleigh Manor restoration project as early as April this year, depending on local planning committee approval of plans first drawn up in 1998. MARY HODGES. To find out more, or to contribute to the renovation costs, visit www.savegodleighmanor.org.uk.

[Image Description: A sepia photograph of a large, grand house. Inset, a colour photograph of a hole in a wall, through which weeds can be seen growing. End ID.] [Caption] NEGLECTED: Godleigh Manor, pictured above in 1980, was once the heart of a thriving community. Inset, weeds grow in what used to be a service corridor to the rear of the main building. (Photo: Annie Spratt on Unsplash. Inset: E. Diop on Unsplash.)

THE NEWS IN NUMBERS 800 years of a house on the site 300 years in its current form 23 generations in the same family 29 bedrooms 40 acres of land £50m lowest estimated renovation costs £300m highest estimated renovation costs 198k subscribers to Wytchfynder 291 Wytchfynder videos 10 years Sgt Shadwell served in the Army £80m raised by the Wytchfynder Army £91m renovation funds raised so far 15 years estimated to complete renovation

[Image Description: a rectangular ad with a picture of Dr. Raven Sable. His name is signed beneath his photograph. Text reads: Don't settle for a balanced diet when you can have a SABLE DIET. End ID.]

Corner Cuppa with Esther James

[ID: Photo of a young woman's face. She has black hair cut into a bob, and slightly gothic makeup. End ID.]

Why do we know you? I'm the captain of the Red Roses, which is the England Women's Rugby Team. What are you passionate about? Rugby! Also, my girlfriend Jane (Adams, also on the squad), and my charitable causes, of course. I support the NSPCC and the Albert Kennedy Trust, in particular - both fantastic charities helping young people who've been let down, in many cases, by the people they should most be able to rely on. I'm really glad to be involved with them. What's your favourite holiday of the year? Pride! I love getting dressed up and going to the parades – most of the time Jane and I get to march, these days, which is great. Last year we even got to ride on a float at one of them, which was really surreal – we got to cover ourselves in rainbow feather boas and just have a laugh waving at people. What a great time! What's been your proudest moment? So far, it's a tie between coming out as bi in a press conference – which was really scary at the time but which led to such good things and such good conversations – and being made captain of the Red Roses. It's an honour just to be selected for the national side, but to be chosen to lead from such a talented group of women is even better. I was walking on air for a week! If you could do anything in the world once, what would it be? Only once? I'd hate to do something and enjoy it and never get to do it again. But, OK, hypotherically... Something completely different and mad, like getting up on a stage and performing a song like I really mean it, or bungee-jumping. What scares you? Bungee-jumping! Which is exactly why I'd like to do it. I think it's good to get out of your own head and your own comfort zone and just do something that scares you, if you can. What's your ideal day? Taking a day off of training and just lying on the sofa watching films with Jane for the whole day. We love what we do, but we don't get a lot of downtime to just relax and snuggle. But then, when we do get a day off, it's usually at the same time, so that's lovely; we're always together and it hasn't started getting on our nerves yet! If you could go anywhere in the world right now, with no complications or restrictions, where would you go? I've always wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower, but somehow whenever I end up in France I don't find the time. Jane's never been to Disneyland, so I think we'd have to combine the two if we got a no-holds-barred trip somewhere. And, obviously, I wouldn't exactly hate getting to meet Mickey again! What's the best advice you've ever been given? My gran was as tough as old boots, and proud of it. She once sat me down, when I was quite young, and she said, “Essie,” which is what she called me, “Essie, you'll do all right in life if you remember this simple rule. Make sure you keep your nose clean, but don't be afraid to get your boots dirty.” I'm not sure she meant me to take it quite so literally! But I think what she meant was, don't get into trouble unnecessarily, but don't be so scared of getting it wrong that you can't do anything right. That's stuck with me, I've held onto it all these years, and I think it's a good motto to live by. What's one thing you wish someone had told you when you were younger? I wish they'd told me it was OK that I fancied girls, that things were getting better. I think we've still got a long way to go, as a community, but I never could have dreamed that a bisexual woman could captain England when I was a little girl. Let alone that it would be me! Finally, what's one thing you'd like to tell younger people now? Be true to yourself, be true to your friends, and be kind. I think the world will turn out fine if we all just try to be kind to one another, above all. Next week's cuppa: Ligur Mortice, head of the Ligur fashion house.

[End of page.]

#masked omens #very much fake news #mo week one #fanart

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morethanaprincess-a · 4 years

Text

Closed, plotted starter for @the-taboo-king

"Your promptness is appreciated. We'll go to L'Osier, you like French food."

Even for Byakuya Togami, this was a rather curt greeting. Despite being her underclassman, he still spoke to her in same bossy manner he did with everyone else. It made Sonia chuckle, the first smile she wore all day as she finally was free of the demands her phone and laptop required: after an early morning raid on a business that had refused to pay and body count far too difficult for just the capo to cover up, she'd needed to request several favors as the underboss of the Borghese family. And no one refused the daughter of Valentina Borghese, even if she preferred to take her deceased father's surname. Their influence was too vast, infiltrating organized crime in every country in Europe and more recently, Japan, in their vast array of schemes: real estate, construction, gambling, weapons deals, racketeering in nearly anything they could that took advantage of businesses that deserved it, legal sex work...and so forth. Sonia, at eighteen years old and in her final year of high school, was still learning every single bit of dealings her mother orchestrated behind pretty smiles and her collection of bladed weapons. But from high-ranking government officials to the most corrupt of casinos, they all shared the same fear: a beautiful woman with the tattoo of a flower somewhere upon her body there to collect the favor she was owed. It was the largest, most successful business operated by a woman and yet it would never appear in any financial magazine: After all, none of it was legal.

"I'm amused that you're stating this instead of asking my preference," She replied, once her amusement had subsided and her red lips were fixed back into a smug smile. "Considering it's your father, the head of the Togami conglomerate, requesting business with my family, perhaps it might be prudent to at least inquire about it?"

With blue eyes behind large sunglasses, she watched Byakuya sigh with a huff in his immaculately cut suit. They were two of the only students who refused to wear the Hope's Peak uniform, but for good reason. For both of them, business could divert their attention from their studies at any moment and both heirs needed to be properly armored to face it. In her case, her forest green pencil skirt, white blouse, and coordinating green cape blazer would suit anywhere that didn't need black tie or fancier while still somewhat resembling a uniform. Just a luxurious one, with stiletto heels and a leather satchel at her arm, diamonds and emeralds sparkling in her earlobes and around her neck. Even the most talented students at Hope's Peak had people to envy, and more often than not it was one of the privileged three: Byakuya Togami, the Ultimate Heir, Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu, the Ultimate Yakuza, and the only female member worthy of the title: Sonia Nevermind, the Ultimate Mafia Boss. While she made it a point to get along, with possible opportunities to demand favors, from as many students as possible, she did sincerely get on with the two boys the Borghese family had business with. Other students had to attend school to hone their talents, but the privileged three were set for life: school was for making connections in the midst of shaping their careers into something different than what they were destined to inherit.

"Why bother with the pleasantries. Even if your intelligence and, to a degree, dignity, don't make me outright despise you, the reservations have been made and it's a...secure location, for you." He adjusted his glasses as he spoke, Sonia watching his eyes dart about the alley behind the main course building. Being seen speaking to her about actual business and not typical teenage conversations would only cause him problems. Sonia knew such dark, dour locations upset him. Byakuya would never admit it of course, but she knew there was a part of him that relished in the glory of being seen as a person of authority. With her, every meeting about things that mattered were conducted quietly, secretly, with a woman who couldn't be impressed by his billions of yen. Not when the Borghese family was also terribly affluent, the more their various ventures were added together.

But she had to smile, something small but sincere, at his words. Even if he couldn't be seen in the main dining room discussing business with Sonia Nevermind, the privacy was enacted more for her sake than his. Every so often for the past two years she'd tried to nudge him into admitting, even reluctantly, that they were friends but it was the nature of what she was and the businesses she ran, even when they meant to help those in need, that seemed to keep him from showing her any real affection. Truly, it was better that way: friendships that got too close or worse, romantic entanglements, made everything difficult in the Family. Family, not friends, not lovers, not anything, came first. "Thank you, Byakuya. You're right: I would very much enjoy that, and not just for the reasons for the dinner itself." It was honest at least, she did quite like the food. But knowing him the topic of conversation would start and end with the deals and contracts they needed to sign, a young man far more content with silence as he ate his filet than filling it with conversation about anyone else. Unless it was for business, Byakuya was as uninterested in people as Sonia was interested. And for that reason, it was going to be a miserable evening.

"Then we should stop wasting time," He sighed, looking over his shoulder to the black town car parked at the side of the street. "Come on, my car's waiting-"

But before he'd even turned on his heel, something from above pelted the Ultimate Heir square in the chest before exploding. "What the H-" Byakuya sputtered as pieces of rubber fell away from the lapels of his jacket, yellow paint seeping into the wool and dribbling down onto the pockets, his trousers, and finally his leather shoes. A second object joined the first, one that Sonia now recognized to be a balloon, seemingly filled with nothing but yellow paint. It hit Byakuya in the right thigh, splattering over both his trousers and the side of her skirt. Finally, a third balloon joined the other two in its target, hitting him in the shoulder and splashing onto her white blouse and blazer, bits of paint landing on the frames and lenses of both his glasses and her sunglasses. "You complete and utter IMBECILE!" Byakuya shouted, his gaze following where the balloons had come from before she looked for herself. But it was hard for even the Ultimate Heir to appear threatening when he resembled a bumblebee. "Some of us have worthwhile talents and futures to see to! If you intend on being a waste of perfectly good space at this school, do it somewhere else!"

Looking down at her own attire, Sonia's outfit was equally beyond repair as she picked at the paint that now settled into her blouse. Unlike Byakuya, however, the incident only seemed to add to her amusement for the day. "I'm sorry, Sonia, but we'll have to postpone. We cannot turn up at L'Osier in such a soiled state. If you can find your way home, that would be preferable."

"No, no...I can manage on my own, I'll just need to phone a car," She sighed. Sonia wanted to laugh at just how furious he was just by a ruined suit, but she thought better of it as she glanced up at the rooftop: the thorn in Byakuya's side seemed to be gone.

#the-taboo-king #Talentswap!AU Ultimate Mafia Boss verse #(Meet the Underboss of Europe's most successful organized crime family everyone)#(She's very stylish and finds Byakuya worrying about the state of his clothes hilarious)#(She pretty much never wears flat shoes. Stilettos or bust!)

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mxdanni · 5 years

Text

Now You See Me. Ethan x m!MC

Summary: a bunch of one-shots featuring: MC wearing glasses, the start of the competition, a crumpled X-ray for patient X, an embarrassed Ethan and a slyly smirking Dr Banerji.

m!MC : Dr Cheng Lee

“Jackie?” Cheng called out and whirled his head around. “Have you seen my lenses’ box?”

“No,” came out from the bathroom, and Jackie stepped out. “Did you lose it?” She crossed her arms across her chest, a smirk touching the corner of her lips.

“No–“ Cheng fell silent. “Okay, no idea actually. I just thought I left it here before the party– oh never mind.”

“Could be anywhere now,” Jackie shrugged but patted Cheng on the shoulder as she passed by. “It was one wild party. You do have another pair, right?”

Cheng grimaced and pointed at his watch. “Not near enough to get them out and make it to my shift on time. Dr Ramsey’ll chew me out.” He sighed. “Have to be this then.” He adjusted the big round glasses on his nose. It was an old pair from med school, with a loose left earpiece.

“Ne-e-rd,” drawled our Jackie and winked.

— - - -

The competition announcement and the news of Dr Banerji stepping down overtook Edenbrook like a storm. Interns chatted, residents were explaining something, Jackie talked to a very excited Elijah, Bryce came round to see what was it all about, and somewhere in the corner there even was a friendly brawl...

Cheng stared. Just stared at Dr Ramsey standing in front of the crowd, right next to the board where next week there will be rankings.

Dr Ramsey looked worse to wear. It wasn’t that obvious, and Cheng cursed under his breath that, for some reason, he could tell. It was the way Dr Ramsey slightly hunched just one shoulder, or that he kept stuffing his hands into the white coat’s pockets.

Cheng squinted, He was expecting to see dark lines under Dr Ramsey’s eyes, and ... oh. The other caught him looking. Cheng gulped but held the intense gaze. First second a scowl, and then surprise pass Dr Ramsey’s features as if he just realised who was staring at him. He corked his eyebrow, and Cheng flushed and looked away.

“At least that explains the shouting,” Cheng muttered to himself as he eyed his shoes. “I wonder why Dr Banerji would–“

“You’re okay?” Sienna whispered as she touched his arm.

Cheng jumped but muffled the yelp. “Y-yeah. Just, erm, lost in thought?”

“Oh.” She might have followed his glance back at Dr Ramsey. Sienna smiled, and instead, “Are you worried about the competition too?”

Cheng looked to the side of the crowd one final time. It was just in time to notice Dr Ramsey leaving.

“Yeah. Sure.” Cheng shook his head, his glasses slipped so he pushed them up his nose again.

It calmed down from that. They gushed over the competition for some time before hurrying off to their patients.

— - - - -

“Where is it…” Cheng muttered under his breath and went on looking around the nurses' station. It happened to be empty, and Cheng needed his patient file right away so he resorted to searching without the nurses. “Where could it… aha? Oh, no. Ugh.”

His glasses slipped down his nose, and Cheng cursed. With the loose earpiece, those wouldn’t keep in place every time he bent down or looked around the shelves. It wasn’t annoying itself, rather Cheng had no time to look for the missing page. He had no excuse for the delay, Zaid was expecting him by the patient’s side some minutes ago! And it’s not like the whole file went missing, no, the most unnerving part of it all was that it was only the latest page with the tests results. It could have unclipped, or slipped out, or got misplaced for what it was worth!

“Dr Mirani wouldn’t believe I had it clipped, right?” Cheng grumbled but this time in Mandarin. It was the utmost point of his frustration. “Because I did! I did! I had it, I read it and wrote my notes over it, and now it’s just… just gone! Ugh.”

“Dr Lee?”

“Huh?!” Cheng jumped at the voice and knocked his head straight into the table. “Ouch!”

“Sorry– you okay?!” Catherine, a nurse, rushed around the station and squatted by his side. She took his face in her hands and looked over, as Cheng tried to fend her off. Rather weakly, he was seeing stars and not in a good way.

“Have you seen any of Mrs Ronalds pages?” Cheng chocked out.

“Oh, I’ve left the files for you–“

“Yeah, thanks.” Cheng rubbed the back of his head, and Catherine let go with a sigh. "I found the folder. But maybe you’ve seen some loose pages around?”

“Is something missing?” Catherine knit her eyebrows together.

“Ye– no. Never mind.” Cheng scrambled to his feet, then offered Catherine his hand so that she can stand up as well. The last thing he wanted was to get someone else in trouble because of his carelessness. He could have forgotten the page in the waiting room, right? Or it slipped out around the cafeteria…!

Catherine opened her mouth to add something but Cheng cut her off.

“What’s that?” He pointed at the jammed X-ray file in her hand.

“Ah, this? Some of Dr Ramsey’s files, he was testing the machine just this morning–“

Cheng snatched it. “Patient X, huh?”

Catherine shrugged. “Yeah, like I said. The X-ray is pretty old so Dr Ramsey went in to check how’s it working. Guess he needed to call it something. But it does prove his point, the file got all crumpled.” She leaned in closer to Cheng, her eyes darting to see if anyone else could hear, and whispered, “Dr Ramsey must’ve managed to wrestle the other one, I did see him leave with an X-ray. He cursed rather loudly. Might have missed he made two.”

“I’ll take it to him,” Cheng suggested before he had time to think.

“Really?” Catherine beamed and clutched his hand in between hers. “Thank you! But mind it, he was angry. Like, very angry.” She glanced around again. "Furious."

Cheng smiled sheepishly and waved it off. “I kinda… would pass his office anyway? Don’t worry. I think I can handle it.”

Cheng wasn’t sure about it himself but took the files and left before Catherine got a chance to say anything.

“See ya,” he waved some distance away and stepped into the elevator.

- - - -

Cheng sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he made his way to the administrative floor. On second thought, it could have gone way worse with Mrs Ronalds. Dr Mirani wasn’t impressed by Cheng being late, sure, but it saved the day since Cheng could remember the exact diagnosis he wrote. He just no longer had the test results to support it.

“Now, why did I…?” Cheng sighed again and traced off. He glanced at the crumpled X-ray file in his hand, then pushed up his glasses. “To help Catherine, yeah, it’s the only reason. Dr Ramsey’s pretty scary when he’s mad. And scowling.” Cheng looked at his shoes and groaned. “Just what the hell is wrong with me.” He decided he definitely didn’t need an excuse to stop by Dr Ramsey’s office. And he, certainly, didn’t need one to check how was the other doing. Never mind the morning. Forget how lost and tired Dr Ramsey looked.

Cheng breathed in and out sharply and reached out for the door in front of him. His heartbeat drumming in his ears wasn’t helping much. He knocked.

Then again. And once more but louder. “Dr Ramsey?” Cheng tried the handle, yet the office was locked. “Hm. That’s weird.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s usually around here at this time of– wait. How do I remember– why do I even know that?!” Cheng muttered to himself some more and stormed down the corridor.

He was about to check on his patients, the crumpled X-ray still under his arm, when a familiar figure flashed round the corner. Cheng only caught a glimpse, Dr Ramsey hurried off and disappeared into another corridor. Cheng darted after him. He considered calling out but that meant alerting everyone in the waiting room and the hall full of patients. So he decided against it and just dashed forward.

To Cheng’s surprise, Dr Ramsey was rather fast. He never expected the other to nearly run about Edenbrook! A flight of stairs, then a turn, and another– Cheng was panting.

“Wait, isn’t this…?” He stopped and whirled his head around. Surely, Cheng stood by the end where the new wing was starting. It was still under construction: workers, materials, plastic sheeting all around and machines buzzing. “Why is he…?”

“Rookie.” The stern gaze and the usual scowl snapped Cheng out of his thoughts. “Why were you–“

“Oh, Dr Ramsey,” Cheng blurted out, “hey, I–“ in a few steps he reached the man and abruptly stopped right in front of him. Perhaps, a little too late because Cheng ended up close, really close to Dr Ramsey. As in he accidentally chipped his shoe nose against the other.

Cheng jerked his head up, and Dr Ramsey nearly missed it slamming into his chin. But didn’t step back, no, just tilted his head to the side and grasped Cheng’s forearm to steady him. Cheng found his own eyes tracing from those fingers, clasped around his arm, and up to the tense shoulders.

“Sorry,” Cheng muttered. “I–“ The crumpled X-ray slipped from under his arm. “Oh.”

They dived after it together, fingers brushing as both picked the X-ray up.

“There you go.” Dr Ramsey let go first and quickly stood up. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Still standing that close. One of their shoes touching. Cheng shut his eyes and slowly raised up to his feet.

“Erm.”

“Why were you following me?” Dr Ramsey asked sternly.

“…"

“Rookie,” he insisted.

“I–“ Cheng shoved the X-ray back under his arm. It was an impulse, really. “I wanted to see if you are, well, that is how you’re doing?”

Dr Ramsey gave him a look. It wasn’t that scary when you get used to it, just intense and felt like he was trying to see through Cheng and get under his skin. Finally, he asked quietly, “Why?” The sound got almost drowned out by the construction buzz.

Cheng shrugged. “You looked tired.”

Some workers passed around them.

“I am.” And with that, for no apparent reason, Dr Ramsey turned around and strode off.

Cheng blinked. Then again. He watched Dr Ramsey leave but not to the main wing, instead, he went down the corridor still under construction! Cheng glanced down, his eyes lingering on the X-ray, and suddenly remembered.

“Dr Ramsey, wait! You’ve forgotten this!” He shouted and ran after him. They caught up some further distance in – Cheng snatched Dr Ramsey’s hand to stop him. He clutched it, then intertwined their fingers together to be absolutely sure Dr Ramsey wouldn’t just yank it free. “Well, not forgotten, you didn’t notice this jammed up the X-ray so I was looking for you to drop it by.”

Dr Ramsey froze, and Cheng slowly lowered his eyes to see what got the other so worked up. Dr Ramsey didn’t spare the X-ray file a glance, no, his full attention was on their hands, fingers clasped together. Cheng pushed his glasses up.

There was some movement just behind Dr Ramsey’s back. Cheng noted it with the corner of his eye. And gawked.

"Dr Banerji?!”

In a hospital gown. With a walking cane.

Dr Ramsey whirred around as well. “Naveen.”

“Ethan.” Dr Banerji smiled wider, amusement written all over his face. And wider. But most importantly slyer.

Cheng followed to what both doctors were looking at. Dr Ramsey paled, his face fell. Dr Banerji smirked. Cheng glanced from their clasped hands to Dr Banerji, to Dr Ramsey and their hands again. And yet when Cheng shifted his hand a little, Dr Ramsey gripped it firmed.

Cheng looked back at Dr Banerji and over his outfit. It dawned on him that they were, in fact, in the new Edenbrook wing, still under construction, and there was a clearly hospitalised Dr Banerji who retired without a word but that morning. Actually, Dr Banerji didn’t make an appearance at all, and Cheng didn’t see him around last week. It all fitted together nicely, but Cheng couldn’t tie it tougher just yet.

Oh. And Dr Banerji certainly did see him holding Dr Ramsey’s hand. While being admitted to the closed for construction hospital wing? Cheng’s thought darted back and forth and he couldn’t choose which one alarmed him more.

Dr Ramsey stared at Dr Banerji smirking at the fact they were holding hands. While still grasping onto Cheng’s hand as if he couldn’t let go of it.

So Cheng reacted to both – he snapped his head up, stared at Dr Banerji and cried out, “Wait, wha-a-at?!"

- - -

My Open Heart Ethan Ramsey x m!MC series:

When Push Comes To Shove (p. 1 & p. 2)

He Wasn’t Meant to Hear

Confess (+ the crew at Donahue’s)

Likeable (+Dolores)

Thinking Straight (+Dolores)

The Right Kind of Therapy

this one goes here

And Now You Don’t (+Jenner)

Taglist: @flower-child-54 @msjpuddleduck @warning-fangirlapproaching @x-kyne-x @lilyofchoices @rookie-ramsey @lapisreviewsstuff @fuckingelfstolemyliver @lauren-choices @givemeoneethan @potbam @commander-rahrah @furiouscloddonutpeanut @journeesblog @snivellusim @archieandrewsbf @huckitcrab @edgiestwinter @pixieinboots @untealyoutellmewhy @tallulahshh @drstrange46ers @andromedasinclaire @raines-ramsey-hunt @melmcgonagall @yayalovesyou @dr-brianna-casey-valentine @beesbeesfearfear @hervench @inlovewithrebels @marshmallow-drake @melmcgonagall

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darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts · 5 years

Text

Devil’s Temptation pt7

Warnings: Mob Styling Warlords, Strong Language

Masterlist

---

Chapter 7 – What you see

Esshu Industries Main Building

White cotton gloves brushed over the documents in front of him. He had been at the office since late last night, meticulously arranging and rearranging things after he was contacted to say an agreement had been reached. He was in the middle of his ritual of cleaning when a cup from a coffee shop was placed on the desk by him with a paper bag.

“I didn’t realise you’d pull an all-nighter.” The voice behind him was accompanied with a quiet slurp sound as they drank from a similar cup.

“There were too many loose ends and things to ignore, so I had to get it finished.” Tanaka informed his boss barely hiding the shiver he felt creep over him as he watched the other man drink happily from the plastic lid of the paper cup.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, after all, you have always been the same, Shin.” Takahiro smirked, a playful edge to his voice emerged as he continued to speak. “I also won’t deny that your affliction to seek perfection and make sure everything is done a set way has resulted in completely satisfying results.”

“Are you talking professionally?” Shin hid his fluster masterfully. All too aware of how Takahiro liked to play games.

“I always talk professionally in the office.” Takahiro straightened in a slightly defiant stance. “A certain someone gives me a lecture if I don’t.”

“Uhuh… well, I wish you wouldn’t drink out of that.” Shin retrieved a set of china coffee mugs from a small cupboard in his office placing them one by one on the desk after giving them a thorough wipe with a clean cloth.

“It is a paper cup… a new one.” Takahiro all but laughed as he watched the ash blonde man in front of him decant the coffee from their café cup into the mug.

“How new? You are aware that they store those things before use.” Shin gave a small pleading look to Takahiro as he reached for their cup.

“Yeah, and they are clean. If they weren’t the inspectors would shut down the places.” An idea partly formed in Takahiro’s mind to play keep away with the coffee but he knew it would only result in Shin being annoyed. Sometimes it was so annoying to have such a diligent man working for him.

“Not the point.” Grasping the cup firmly Shin poured the second café cup into a mug and handed it back to his boss.

“Oh fine. You worked hard it’s not like I have it in me to argue with you right now.”

“What is this?” Shin peered into his mug after finally looking at the drink for the first time. He never really went for fancy coffee and drinks from cafes. It wasn’t regulated enough for him.

Takahiro had often called him a germophobic hermit crab, but it was habit now. All those years spent in “dispatch” you learnt to watch your back and the easiest way to hurt someone was to spike the drink and food. It was a low move but effective. Couple that with the desire to leave no evidence or trace you were even there and you had Shin Tanaka.

“Spiced latte I thought you’d like it.” Takahiro shrugged before returning to work mode “Well I have to get back to work. Meeting with the board still at three?”

“Yes, and you have some urgent emails that need immediate attention and someone from a holdings company called saying, “it’s done”. I assume that makes sense to you?” Shin looked at the dark-haired man trying to get a read on him. After what he was told last night that meant he had to pull an all-nighter. He was a little worried Takahiro might be feeling a little pressured.

“Yes perfectly. Thanks, see you later.” The response came fast and gave the appearance of someone fleeing. “Oh, I completely forgot.” Takahiro nudged the paper bag closer to Shin. “For you.” He left the office with his coffee mug in hand without looking back. Curiosity got the better of him and Shin peered in at the contents of the bag. A large iced cookie with bright red icing on it glared back at him “I Love you” written on it in a fancy font.

“That man…” Shin muttered in exasperation. Takahiro always found a loophole in a rule of no flirting at work. But contrary to his apparent mood, a smile swept over Shin’s face at the sweet gesture.

---

The room was buzzing and alive with the chatter of countless businessmen and women. A few minor celebrities and some notable figures of industry were also there partly to add to the grandeur in the press coverage and also draw attention to the event in general. When was the last time he had attended one of these god-forsaken things?

It wasn’t so much an issue with the event itself but the volume of people in attendance. On one hand it was good because it was easier to hide in a large crowd as opposed to a small one but on the other hand, it was also dangerous for exactly that reason. Mitsuhide had thought it before and been proved right. If you want to hide something you do it in plain sight.

His mind wandered back to that event with her. How she looked so shocked and yet how strong she was in her refusal to crumble at that moment. She was scared, he could practically smell it on her but she held her ground and that was intriguing.

Raising his hand absentmindedly to brush the hidden pocket to his tux jacket, the concealed weapon giving a reassuring resistance against the fabric confirming its presence. I can’t be thinking about her now. I have to concentrate. I can’t think about that look in her beautiful blue eyes… how they swam with fear and unshed tears jewel-like before mine… Get a grip Mitsuhide! She is gone. And yet even knowing that, he found his mind wanting to wander that path. Temptation lay in his memories calling out like a siren, a promise of doom but also blissful happiness. It was a balancing act on a knife edge and he would have willingly walked it if only things were different.

“You seem distracted.”

“Mm?” Mitsuhide turned to the man next to him. Nobu had a drink in hand eyes reading the room as if it was some interesting novel. Mitsuhide knew that look. It was one that saw more than you thought and gave away nothing of exactly how much of it was relevant. “I was just considering options.”

“Liar.” A single word and yet the weight of it struck him like a freight train.

“Come again?” Mitsuhide smiled in an attempt to mask his own reaction. Are you for real right now? Have I really become so predictable?

“I called you a liar. You think I cannot see what you have tried to hide from the moment you stepped foot in the venue? I am not blind Mitsuhide nor do I take you to be foolish enough to think me otherwise.” Nobu turned to face him. Meeting smile for smile as he allowed his ruby red gaze to drift over Mitsuhide’s face.

“And if I was distracted?” A small challenging tone entering his voice as Mitsuhide lightly pushed back verbally.

“Then I would hope you realise it and continue to carry out your duty without it causing interference.” The veiled threat in that sentence was not lost on Mitsuhide. “Don’t make me regret calling you back.” Nobu took an elegant sip from his champagne casting his eyes around the room once more.

“Why did you call me back exactly? It's not like this is something outside of your ability to fix.” Mitsuhide knew it wasn’t. After all, Nobu had been the one to construct elegant plans and executed them without the help of anyone. Well, without the “knowing” aid of anyone.

“That may be so but sometimes it takes a specialist to catch a specialist.” Nobu commented with a devilish smirk.

“And you think there is a need for this?” Mitsuhide asked a question that had been on his mind now for a while. Does he know more than he is telling again or are we really fumbling in the dark searching for that stray match that can light our way?

“I am not sure. I cannot deny that the “return” of a trusted employee did not alert me to the level of expertise we might be facing from the other side. As far as how talented or gifted they are I could not say, but...” Nobu turned back towards Mitsuhide a different expression forming on his face from before. “You are my best man. You always did have a flare in this field.” For all his faults Nobu was not such a proud man as to ignore the qualities of another. He still respects me and what I do? I should feel something, but … trust. Trust is not something easily reformed once broken.

“You flatter me.” Mitsuhide scoffed as he too took a glass from the tray a passing waiter. Taking a sip of bubbly alcohol. The sensation of it on his tongue felt bitter even if it was beyond his ability to taste it.

“I don’t. There is no point in such hollow meaningless actions.” The intense gaze of Nobu settled on a pair of new arrivals. Mitsuhide did not miss the almost imperceptible shift in his boss. He’s on guard. No, more than that. He looks like he is relishing some form of calming bliss.

“It appears the other players have entered the arena.” Mitsuhide muttered as he too took in the sight.

The two gentlemen were smartly dressed. The one with dark hair Mitsuhide recognised as the CEO from all the press coverage, Takahiro Yasui. So that would make the pale blonde man standing next to him the right-hand man, Shin Tanaka. It was so nice to finally have faces to put with names.

Smirking to himself he took a swig of his drink, his eyes drawn to Tanaka. Those movements the way he looked around the room, he was not all he seemed. Filing that piece of information away for later exploration Mitsuhide placed his now empty glass on a table. I will uncover your secrets in time.

The right-hand man was dutifully following his boss along the buffet table. Producing a cloth from nowhere like a magician, wiping items of cutlery and tableware before handing them to his boss and requesting some fresh platters of food be brought out from the back. He placed selections of small savouries and sweets on the clean plate meticulously. A set of empty glasses arrived from the back with a new bottle of champagne that was opened by Tanaka himself before pouring the drinks. It was amusing to witness. There is something here that is not like all the others, and you Mr Tanaka are very interesting.

“I have no idea how he can put up with someone acting like that. The pandering and constant…” Nobu began talking but suddenly the words he had died and a flash of realisation played behind his eyes. Oh? I wonder…

“Constant?” Mitsuhide nudged his boss a little to see if he could tease a continuation to that train of thought.

“Never mind. Shall we?” Nobu moved without checking to see if Mitsuhide was following. It seems Dad has worked out a similarity to Mum in the men before them. Maybe not in such extremes.

“After you.” Mitsuhide chuckled as he trailed along behind.

---

The swirling mass of bodies parted like the red sea as Nobu cut his path towards them. Shin noticed the movement first, Takahiro paid little attention to it. It was difficult to tell if he was just being arrogant now or plain reckless. Shin resisted the urge to roll his eyes instead he gave a small surreptitious nudge to his boss in order to draw attention.

“What is it?” Takahiro mumbled as he decided which bitesize morsel on his plate he was going to eat next.

“I believe the Devil is coming to pay you a visit.” Shin responded in a voice barely loud enough to be called a whisper. His words only falling on the man beside him.

“Is he now? Good.” Takahiro drew himself up to full height. The sleek cut of his formal wear fell into line with his figure like finely crafted armour.

“Yasui.”

“Oda.” Takahiro met the level tone of Nobu perfectly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I had no idea that that was your preference.” He jested, flashing a disarming smile over Nobunaga’s shoulder towards Mitsuhide. Mitsuhide simply returned the gesture unperturbed.

“It isn’t. Not that that matters in the slightest to anyone. And even if it was, it would be none of your business either way.” Nobu didn’t flinch at the provocative jab. Instead, he smiled pleasantly and introduced the other guest. “This is Mitsuhide Akechi he is one of my trusted advisors.”

“Is he now?” Takahiro raked his eyes over Mitsuhide in such a way you might have thought he was assessing a good meal. Shin tensed slightly at the motion but it was not an action observed by any of those present. “This is Shin Tanaka he is Head of PR.”

“Charmed.” Nobu gave a small nod towards the ash blonde man. The freezer burn he would have suffered from those blue eyes might have affected him had he been the type of man to allow such things. “There is a matter I’d like to discuss with you. In private.”

“Alright.”

The four men left the main hall and the buzzing chatter behind in search of somewhere more private.

---

The small side room they found on the third floor was currently being used as storage for all the items cleared from the main hall for tonight’s festivities. Stacks of chairs and tables not required lined the walls.

“So… shall we cut the crap?” The door had only just closed when Takahiro spun around asking his question. Dropping all the pleasantries and formality he had shown to this point.

“Mr Yasui.” Tanaka attempted to form a reprimand unsuccessfully. Mitsuhide watched the interaction from by Nobu. Something about you is different Mr Tanaka. Something… familiar.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. We all know why we are here it is a waste of time to pretend otherwise.” Takahiro set his jaw in line with his shoulders as he faced Mitsuhide and Nobunaga.

“How very forward of you. I can’t say I dislike an intelligent fast thinker.” Mitsuhide calmly spoke. His yellow eyes dancing with mirth as he observed the complete switch of the person before him. I guess Tanaka is the only one that might be more guarded. His boss is certainly entertaining, a little rough but still…

“Indeed. As you say we shall “cut the crap” and get to the point.” Nobu appeared unmoved by the sudden shift in persona. “I would like to propose…”

“Now who is being forward?” Takahiro snorted. You are nothing but a child in adult form, really aren’t you?

“… Propose a merger.” Nobu finished his rudely interrupted sentence flatly.

“You want Esshu Industries to take over Azuchi Corp?” Takahiro let out a hollow laugh.

“No, I want you to join us and put an end to the frivolous open market war.” Nobu to his credit was doing a fine job at hiding his rising frustration and anger.

“Yeah… erm… Nah, not happening.” Takahiro seemed to have reverted into a teenage brat. Leaning forward in his position to be even more aggravatingly arrogant. “Now you look here, Grandpa. I will never sell out and join you. Do you know why? Because you are a washed up has been and this city needs a breath of fresh air to clear out all your stuffy old ideas.” A challenging smirk played on the young man’s face. He looked almost like a wild animal at that moment. It is probably not a good idea to play games with the veteran hunter in the room, my boy.

“For a breath of fresh air, you seem to be spinning a lot of empty words whilst practically declaring your desire to die a painful death.” Nobu was on the edge. His choice of words was the only indication of exactly how close he was to lamping the guy in front of him.

“Think what you will. I have recently acquired something that will ensure I can not only maintain my hold but strengthen it.” Takahiro belayed the threat. Either unaffected by it or unaware of the monster he was playing with.

“That will only happen if you somehow managed to acquire a miracle.” Nobu laughed a joyless mocking laugh.

“Perhaps I did. I have a nice little announcement lined up.” Takahiro appeared to return to business mode. Straightening his cuffs on his shirt as he stood straight again.

“And what is that?” Nobu was still annoyed. The anger in his blood was almost hot enough that Mitsuhide could practically feel it himself. Interesting. It isn’t every day you see Nobu lose his cool.

“Oda you are not the only one that understands timing.” Takahiro gave one last smile before glancing behind himself. “Tanaka? We’re done here.” The two men left the room behind without a single glance back. Timing huh?

---

The morning papers arrived at the reception desk of Azuchi Corp with a thud. There was a copy of every press release in the city for various research reasons. Mitsuhide collected his as he returned from the parking lot after a night drive, he took to clear his head. Sipping on a canned coffee he had grabbed from a vending machine he nearly choked as his eyes fell on the front-page story.

“Rising Star CEO Engagement. – Who is the mystery girl?”

The photo was the typical press released image, but even with the poor grade printing quality, he would have noticed the girl anywhere. He felt a chill freezing him in his core as he looked at it.

“It’s her.”

---

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asongstress1422 · 5 years

Text

Ripples into Riptides

Zutara Fanfic – Part 8 of Bride from the Water Tribe

Summary: Katara was taken to the Northern Water Tribe by her grandmother; she was to be protected at all cost, for she was the last of the Southern Water. Once they got there, the North refused to teach her trying to strip her of her worth and turn her into what they wanted, a calm biddable healer to birth the next generation. They failed. And so as punishment they sent her to be a political bride to the Fire Nation.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Prince Zuko,” a feminine voice purred, “am I boring you?”

Zuko blinked, snapping back to himself. Lady Zemara, last evening’s absentee dinner partner, sat across from him, her chin rested on her cupped hand as she looked at him expectantly.

“Of course not,” Zuko reassured quickly, picking up his tea and gulping down a hefty swallow. Strong and rich in the morning, his uncle’s personal blend for him. The perfect thing when he spent his allotted time for sleep tossing instead of resting. “Please continue with your story.”

Her lips pouted prettily, sheet of inky black hair pulled back in a high phoenix plume to show off the long line of her neck and to emphasize the cut of her jaw. The day’s hanuf a soft coral that laid perfectly against her skin, embroidered with thousands of olive green dragonflies. A summer cold that was making its way though the palace was the cause of her absence yesterday, the only lasting effects of which seemed to be the always-at-hand handkerchief and a slightly red nose.

Dark eyes remained flat as she slipped back into her tale. She was a swordsmith in the Tamahagane style, a delicate blend of functionality and beauty. It was a topic Zuko could normally listen to for hours but his mind refused to focus on the woman in front of him.

Instead it kept turning to the book that had spent the night on his bedside table. Flora and Fauna of the Fire Nation, the economic cover proclaimed . Meant as a field guide for university students it made for a very dry read with only a few accompanying sketches to break up the monotony of the alphabetical listings. Zuko grinned, remembered how intrigued Katara had with the plants in the garden during their walk. Did she fancy herself a hobbyist after just one walk in the gardens? Whatever had drawn the water nation girl to the volume, it now resided in his pocket waiting for the opportunity to be returned.

“You find it amusing that I injured myself?” Zemara broke in hauntly.

Right. He was supposed to be paying attention to the woman breakfasting with him. “I’m impressed that you were able to hone such a sharp edge at so young an age,” he said pulling out pieces of the partially heard story. Her glare said he was not forgiven so he added a more sincere bit of praise to cut the flattery. “Master’s spend years learning such a craft.”

She preened at the complement as she continued, his slight pardoned for the moment.

With a sigh Zuko shoved all thoughts of the blue eyed woman out of his head. With so many backing the Lady Zemara he needed to focus on getting to know her while he had the chance. A forty-five minute breakfast wasn’t ideal to learn the nuances of a potential spouse but it was what he had so he made the best of it, peppering her with questions but hiding them in polite conversation.

The Lady was up to date with current events, not just in the Fire Nation but globally. Able to ask thoughtful questions and make intelligent replies. She wasn’t rude, wasn’t hot tempered and didn’t complain. Besides some obvious jealousy between her siblings when Zuko tried to bring up more personal matter she marked off several of the boxes on his checklist. All in all, she was nearly perfect.

So it irked Zuko that when a servant came to inform them it was time to meet the other Candidate for their group session he let out a sigh of relief. She was beautiful, cultured, and knowledgeable; all things necessary in a Fire Lady. So why was Zuko so repelled by her presence?

“Why do you frown so, Prince Zuko? Have I displeased you?” she asked, voice like honey and smile just as sweet, as he offered his arm to lead her to the meeting area while he tried to sort out his feelings.

“No,” he smoothed out his features. “Thinking of some business I must take care of before the end of the day.”

“You shouldn’t be thinking of business with a woman on your arm,” she teased, laying her head on his arm and looking up at him with her large doe eyes as they walked.

Insight struct like a rocksnake bite.

She was too perfect.

From her beauty, to the repeated emphasis of the Ohisama family’s backing on his rights to rule the Fire Nation, to her flirting now; it was all a deliberately constructed ruse. Her every action calculated to entice him. Her every word weighed to make him want to hear more.

“You’re right, Lady Zemara,” Zuko said, hiding his groundbreaking revelation behind a charming enough smile. Agni, he hated being manipulated. “Please, excuse my bad manners.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the candidates waited for them in the southern courtyard. They were all making the short trek up to the University District that surrounded the Fire Sage’s Temple of the Mind, the cornerstone of learning in the modern. Scholars from all over the world traveled to study there. It was one of the reasons the palace library was so vast. Students were asked to bring some form of knowledge, be it a book, scroll, or personal research paper, to add to the school. The temple kept the original but the palace got the first distributed copy.

The field guide weighed heavily in his pocket. Zuko clenched his fist, memories tied to why it had been forgotten making his stomach roll. He would return the book and apologize. Except that proved more difficult than anticipated. As they made the journey to the temple when ever he made a move to walk close to the water nation girl another candidates would throw themselves in his path. For her own part Lady Katara kept as much distance between them as wouldn’t be commented on, choosing instead to talk to one of the men in the ring of guards that flanked the party.

As they marched through the main gate, a long figure waited for them on the giant stone steps that led up to the temple proper. Sage Gyatso’s customary long red robe and pointed leather skullcap making him stand in sharp relief against the beige of the monolithic building. There was a quiet grace about that man, who Zuko knew was of a similar age to his deceased grandfather, though the Fire Sage did not look it as the aging Fire Lord had.

Gyayso’s bright eyes looked over the small crowd and they all quieted instantly at his wordless entreaty.

Impressed despite himself, Zuko wondered if the elderly man gave lessons. It would definitely come in handing during council meetings if he could get people to listen to him without having to shout himself horse first.

“My Ladies, Prince Zuko,” the Sage bowed, his voice kind and engaging coming from behind his white mustache. “I am pleased to welcome to the Temple of the Mind. While we go about our tour please keep all sound to a minimum. The temple plays host to students year round and we want to disrupt their concentration as little as possible. If at any time you have a question, please raise your hand and wait until called upon. Also, ask before you touch. Some of the items we store are one of a kind and extremely delicate. When we come to the science wing, this warning because dire. Please head posted safety instruction at all times.” His voice deepened as he eyed everyone seriously before blipping up to his normal cadence with a smile, “now, if you will all follow me inside.”

Skipping up the stairs in the manner of a much younger man, the group quickly surged after him. The way their guide laid out the itinerary, with the possible hint of danger and whimsy, left everyone intrigued to know more.

Before Katara could follow Zuko waylaid her before she could make the steps. The guard she had been talking to early, seeing two of his charges having stopped, paused before going inside. Keeping a respectful distance but a watchful eye.

Zuko pressed the book into her hand. “You forgot this. Yesterday.” With a raised brow she looked down at the item then back up at him. He swallowed. “I wanted to apologize for the way things went last night.” When she just continued to look at him, he fumbled looking for anything to say, not knowing what she was after. “In light of that, I would like to offer you another dinner. With me. Tonight.”

“No.” Tucking the book in her sash she stepped around him making to follow everyone else into the temple.

The guard made to fall into step behind her but seeing the Prince still at the ground level, mouth agape, the man paused to wait for him. He came out of his stupor as soon as the Lady was out of sight, charging up the stairs after her.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Zuko demanded nipping at her heels.

She shot a sour look over her shoulder as she power walked down the halls. “It is a simple enough word, Fire Prince. N-O, no. Noun, a negative answer.”

“What are you reading the dictionary now?” he asked incredulous, one of his steps eating up two of hers.

Katara glared as he fell into line with her. “Some,” she growled putting on a fresh burst of speed to put distance between them when she spied the tail end of their tour group.

Sage Gyatso held the room entranced as he pointed out the towering architecture of the antechamber. “--- blocks were brought all the way from the Great Divide Canyon in the Earth Kingdom back in 17AS. Official complete of the temple was in 93AS but every few decades saw other Fire Lords add their own mark by adding on some small addition or sanctioning repairs that were long overdue.” Seen that the Prince had finally caught up, the guide gestured to him in respect, “Prince Zuko has commissioned an upgrade and expansion to the dormitories that haven't been touched since Fire Lord Kyro’s time.”

There were murmurs of praise that Zuko acknowledged with an awkwardly raised hand and a smile.

Seeing the prince’s shyness the Sage pressed them along coming into an even grander room. “Here we have the Library.”

Zuko had been here countless times but it was still impressive. The central tower rose over a hundred feet in the air. Multi level walkways encircled the area all the way up to the soaring ceiling, hallways branching from each level like spokes from a wagon wheel. Man size windows at roof level let in floods of sunlight at all hours of the day. It had been an architectural achievement when it had been built and even now, four hundred years later, it was awe inspiring.

At the ground level, rows of people sat an angled desks in the middle of the room. The soft scratching of quills and the occasional rustle of paper almost deafening in the hush.

“The Palace boasts a more formal library,” Gyatso nodded deferentially to the prince, his voice soft out of respect for the people busy at work, “but, as this area has the best year round lighting, we also use this area to make copies of books. Students are required to give ten hours a week to community service projects.” His hand wave encompassed the working people, “transcribing is the most popular.

“The books we have here are from all over the world and the first time some of them had ever seen them.” Noticing Katara’s distinct blue eyes in the crowd he nodded at her with a kind smile, “we even have a few water tribe scrolls.” He turned back to the group at large. “If you all want to take a turn about the place, maybe pick out a book or tried your hand at transcribing, please feel free.”

A few of the women broke off in small clusters to go exploring, the rest descended on the prince asking for him for book recommendations or to personal show them around. Out of the corner of his eye, Zuko saw Katara stepped forward to the Sage. One of the students had also seen this as an opportunity to talk to his Master and, with an armful of notes, he intercedes, getting the older man’s input in hushed whispers. As soon as Gyatso noticed her waiting, though, he quieted the young man with a touch on his shoulder and smiled in her direction.

Zuko was too far away to hear what was actually being said but after a few exchanged words he watched as Katara nodded her head in thanks before breaking away, heading for one of the several wrath iron staircases that led to the upper levels. After making his excuses to the several candidates that had congregated around him he slipped away to follow.

There was no way she didn’t know he was behind her. But as she stepped off the landing and into the rows and rows of shelves, the height of which required ten food ladders to reach the top most books, Katara ignored him, keeping her eyes on the little iron markers as they passed. 440, 485, 510.

“Last night, I didn’t mean frightened you,” he finally spoke up when is seemed likely she would continue to pretend he wasn’t there. “That was never my intention.”

“You did not frightened me, Fire Prince,” she said.

“Well, you’re actions state otherwise,” he pointed out, stepping out of her way as she back tracked and slipped into the isle she’d been looking for.

Her long fingered hands skimmed the spines of books and she walked down, eyes racking the titles. He moved to brace her as she stepped upon one of the ladders to get a better vantage on the higher shelves.

He frowned, eyeing his hand on the small of her back. “Was it because I grappled with you?” he asked, thinking back, as she shifting through a tangle of scrolls. “Because I would like to point out that you started it.”

“Like I said,” she half unrolled one of the scrolls, scowled, then rolled it back up before picking out another one, “you did not scare me.”

“Then why don’t you want to have dinner with me?” If he had requested any of the other Candidate to eat with him they would have jumped over themselves to accommodate him, be them fire nation or earth kingdom. Somehow that made it worse that this particular blue eyes woman was rebuffing him at every turn.

“Because once was enough,” she huffed, jumping from the rung in a dexterous manner and gliding down in a swish of blood orange silk, landing with feline grace.

“Lady Katara,” Sage Gyasto said, suddenly looming at the mouth of the isle, interrupting Zuko before he could continue pressing her. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Unfortunately no, Master Gyatso,” she said.

“Then if I may?” The man scurried up the ladder on the opposite side, using the shelves to propel himself half a row down before climbing nearly at the top. Tucking several scrolls under his arm he retracted his route and slid down the wooden rungs to float to the ground. He offered the scrolls to her with a bow. “Here you are, My Lady.”

She accepted in kind. “Thank you.”

Setting them on a partly cleared shelf behind her she unfurled one. “What is this?”

Gyasto peaked over her shoulder. “That would be Foggy Swamp style.”

“Swamp style?” she questioned, fingers tracing the sketch of the bending mannequin.

“Yes, a small hamlet of water benders thrive in the nearly uninhabitable tracked of land in the southwestern range of the Earth Kingdom.

She looked up at the Sage, her blue eyes brilliant. “May I borrow these?”

“Not these ones I’m afraid. They are much too precious to leave the building.” He saw the deep disappointment in the girls eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Zuko had seen it too.

“What if I,” he found himself say, laying a hand on the pile of scrolls, “take possession of them?”

Gyasto wince but bowed to his Prince, “then I would gladly release them into your care. I only asked they be returned in the same condition as they are now.”

Zuko frowned, confused at the strange request. “Of course.”

Katara turned reaching for the scrolls. “Many thanks, Master Gyatso.”

Zuko slid the scrolls away, a beguiling smile on his lips. “You may looked at them after you have dinner with me tonight. Let’s say six?”

She blinked, spine snapping straight, blue eyes going steely. “So you would bribe me with my own people’s knowledge, that you stole from us, to get what you want.” She huffed a disgusted chuckle, shaking her head. “I should have expected it.” Without another word she turned and walked away, leaving him there with a worthless pile of water scrolls.

What was he supposed to do with them now?

“Ah, to be young again.” Zuko turned to the Sage, mouth still half open. Gyasto returned the gaze with a wry smile. “Would you have me return those, Your Highness?”

“I, uh-- No, I’ll still take them. It’s good to learn about the other nations,” he said to save face.

Gyatso nodded sagely. “Then may I suggest ‘The Birth of Tui and La’?”

“I already know that story,” Zuko said.

“You know the Fire Nation version. This,” he pulled a scroll from his sleeve as if by magic, “is the Water Tribe telling.” The old man set it with its brethren. “I think you will find it … enlightening. If you are ready to carry on, your highness?” The Sage asked, gesturing for the Prince to precede him from the shelves.

“Yes, of course,” Zuko said, slipping the scrolls into his front of his robes as they made their way back to the waiting candidates.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that evening, Zuko was in his in-room office tackling the ever present pile of paperwork. He had forgotten about his plans with the water nation girl, having thought she had rather pointedly declined, so it was rather shocking when a servant came to inform him of the Lady Katara’s arrival.

The first thing he noticed was that she hadn't changed her hanfu, the copper fans marching up the blood orange fabric being the same one she had worn to the temple. The second was that she stood just inside the door, arms crossed, looking more hesitant then he’d ever seen her.

All that vanished when she saw him walk in though, shoulders going back and chin up.

He bit his lip against a genuine smile when she made no further move to interact.

“I’m glad you decided to come.” He came up beside her and offered his arm. With an eye roll she sidestepped it, going straight for the ground table and plopping herself in the pillow she had occupied once already. He took his own place.

Digging in the satchel at her side she unearthed a slip of paper and slide it across to him.

“What’s this?” he asked picking it up.

“Your uncle’s note.” There was a snide cadence to her words as she laced her fingers atop the burnished wood. “You demanded to see it yesterday.”

It was written neatly in his Uncle’s hand. Asking the Water Nation Candidate, Lady Katara, to take the recently open dining spot and apologies for any inconvenience that abrupt shift would cause.

“I’m sorry for insinuating I didn't believe you.” Disgusted with himself he flipped the page over so he wouldn’t have his faults staring him in the face any more then the woman across from him would supply. “I hope this second meal doesn’t interfere with your schedule.”

“Does it matter?” she snorted. When he made no reply, she glanced up to see his arrested look. Puffing out a sigh she hung her head as if asking for patients. Sitting up she met his eyes. “No, Fire Prince, you did not mess up my schedule.” Her lips pinched as she continued dryly, “if anything you were the better of the two options for my evening. Now, where are the scrolls you promised me?”

Oh, right. “I’ll get them after dinner.”

Her eyes were as sharp as her fanged smile. “I would like them now.”

Feeling like enough of a heel already, he stood and retrieved them. Sliding them across the table as the servants began ferrying in dishes then quietly departing.

Taking up the duty of host again, he poured both their tea. “I would also like to apologize for how my actions came across last night. I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

“Do not flatter yourself,” she chuckled, the sound cold and dark as she took up her cup and sipped. “I have far worse things to fear than you.” Setting down the drink she turned her attention to the scrolls she’d just been given.

"Those are bending scrolls. What use are they to you? I thought there were no female benders in the water nation."

"It is true that the North does not train their women, but this is still apart of my history. It is a part that I would like to know more about."

“I would take it as a great honor if you would eat with me.”

“I already told you I do not like your spicy food.”

“The more I think back on it, the more I remembers that it was Arnook that claimed you liked it in the first place. Why would he do that?”

She shrugged eyes still on the scroll in her lap. “Because he could.”

"I see." And he did. It was strange how those three little words, said in just that way, could change Zuko's fundamental understanding of the woman that stat across from him. Changed her from the blue-eyed girl from the north to a person he could relate with. He, too, had spent his life up to a year ago under the rule of someone who believed he had the right to control him.

Carefully spooning out a couple chunks of chicken that was swimming in an almost glowing orange sauce into his napkin. He felt her eyes on him as he diligently blotted off the sauce til the remaining chicken was only slightly tinted. “The chicken is precooked,” he explained as he worked, “and added after the sauce has a chance to thicken, so most of the heat is on the outside. The spiciness does need some getting used to, especially if you are to be able to enjoy some of the delicacies of the nation. But there are many dishes that have reduced heat versions or even some with no spice at all. But there is something that can be done with the rest.” He then transferred the bits to her plate. “It won't be as hot, but it still might be a bit spicy for someone not used to it.” He set a shallow dish of something thick and white next to the plate. “If you dip it here it will cut the heat even further.” She just looked at him. “Go ahead,” he encouraged.

Hesitance clear in her movements, she set aside the scroll and picked up a chunk with her fingers and dunked it in the paste, drowning the small bite. Quickly as if to stop herself from reconsidering she screwed her eyes shut and popped it in her mouth, chewing quickly. Once … twice…

“Oh,” her eyes popped open and she just let the flavors sit on her tongue. The spice was just enough to hint at and added perfectly to the chicken. The white stuff was some kind of milk base, whipped thick and chilled. It was fantastic. She quickly ate another piece.

“Do you like it?” Zuko asked, amused simply by watching her enjoy.

She nodded, mouthing her last piece. She looked at her empty place with something painfully close to longing.

Smiling he picked up the bowl of saffron rice.

“I had a sister,” he shared as he scooped some the the rice onto her plate and picked up another dish to serve her. “She was thirteen months younger than me.”

Katara paused in shoveling food into her mouth to look at him as if he grew another head. “Yes, I know.”

“Her name was Azula,” he continued, serving himself as well.

“I know,” she said again. “Why are telling me this?”

“Just talking. Giving you information to get to know me in hopes of getting the same in return.”

She looked suspicious. “Why?”

He was at a loss as what to say to that. “It seems like the thing to do.”

Her head tilted to the side. “What if I do not want to get to know you?”

He barked out a surprised laugh. “Then why are you here?”

She raised a brow and picked up the scroll that was in her lap.

"Oh, right," Zuko snorted with a self deprecating smile. "I bribed you."

An awkwardness descended over the table. Katara fiddled with her fork staring at her plate. “Sokko. My brother. Older.”

“There,” Zuko said cutting into his komodo-rhino steak. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

Something in her tone triggered him and he asked softly, “why?”

“Because the fire nation killed him and I’m sitting here eating with its prince.” Each word was punctuated with a controlled stab of her fork as she speared more and more food on its tines. “Is that enough ‘getting to know you’, Fire Prince?” She shoved the full utensil in her mouth as if to keep herself from saying any more.

She wasn’t angry. There was anger in her voice, yes, but it was deeply banked, leaving only deep barely held together sadness in its place. Zuko set his on utensil down and sat back. Her pain made the air hard to breath. “I’m sor--”

“Don’t.” She cautioned very softly, scooping in another bite. “I do not wish to talk about this any more.”

“Alright,” Zuko said, licking dry lips.

They finished the rest of the meal in near total silence.

#bride from the water tribe #bride of the water tribe #mine #fanfic #zutara fanfiction #zutara #my fanfiction #part 8

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

Text

Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming (4/35)

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.

Rating: Mature. Word Count: 9.4 K of Emma Swan background and flirty text messages. AN: Hey, uh, let’s play some video games, huh? And learn why Emma didn’t really want a year-long feature story about her video game team. It’s time to try and qualify for the League (which is really a tournament, honestly) and I cannot thank you guys enough for the serious kindness you’ve shown in regards to this fic. It’s been incredibly nice. We’re just getting started. || Also on Ao3, FF.net and tagged up on Tumblr || Tag List: @jamif ; @alicerubyfloyd ; @courtneyshortney82 ; @jennjenn615 ; @artistic-writer ; @onceuponaprincessworld ; @kmomof4 ; @nikkiemms ; @resident-of-storybrooke ; @whumped-natascha-remi-ronin ; @coliferoncer ; @strangestarlighttree ; @tiganasummertree ; @game-of-once-upon-an-outlander (Let me know if you want to be tagged or don’t or, like, how your day is going.)

She wasn’t sure what was more annoying.

The very loud alarm she could hear a few inches away from her head, whatever David was shouting on the other side of the door or the horn honking just outside the window of her room. It wasn’t her room.

It wasn’t even really a room, per se.

It was a...corner.

And David wasn’t really on the other side of the door, he was on the other side of a partition that Mary Margaret ordered off Amazon for nineteen bucks a week before Emma had descended on their apartment with one suitcase in her hand and the hope that, maybe, this could work.

This had to work.

They’d find out in a few hours if it could.

A few hours from now, Emma would walk back into the apartment with one of two options in front of her – either she was as much of a complete failure as that tiny, nagging voice in the back corner of her brain promised her she was and even the idea of playing video games professionally was absolutely insane or, and this is where the hope came into play, she was the quasi-captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league and they were well on their way to splitting a four-million-dollar championship check with their names plastered across the internet and a string of feature stories written about them on The Daily Caller and and a national spotlight that would, maybe, lead to more money.

God, those feature stories.

God.

Killian Jones.

She was going to see Killian Jones that afternoon. And that didn’t terrify her. Absolutely not. She was worried about the game. And four million dollars. She couldn’t even imagine four-million-dollars, let alone imagine winning an inaugural tournament that promised just historic. Probably with a comically large check.

It had nothing to do with Killian Jones or how blue his eyes were or how she kept replaying that slightly awkward, slightly strained, undeniably sweet conversation they’d had the week before.

“Shit,” Emma mumbled, slamming her hand on her phone and promptly knocking it onto the floor. She could barely make out David’s laughter a few feet away and what sounded like cabinets slamming shut and she hadn’t actually turned her alarm off.

“You know,” David shouted, throwing what sounded like a pillow full of bricks at the partition. The whole thing shook, nearly falling on Emma and her air mattress and it would almost figure that she’d get taken down by nineteen dollars worth of plastic before she even stood up.

She needed to be more positive.

She needed to find her super cheesy team-branded t-shirt. That cost more than the plastic partition.

“Were you ever going to finish that sentence?” Emma called back, finally pushing herself off the air mattress and half of it had deflated during the night. That wasn’t a sign. God, her phone was still making noise.

David chuckled again, kicking at another cabinet and drawing the mumbled reprimand of Mary Margaret – who was absolutely going to be late for work so she could see Emma off or something equally maternal. “Yeah,” he said, padding across the apartment and leaning around the still-wobbling partition. “You need to learn how to control your electronics. And work on your hand-eye coordination. It sounded like you nearly knocked off your whole little compound over here.”

Emma scowled, but that was as good a word for it as any. She didn’t bring much with her to New York – didn’t have much to bring to New York – but David and Mary Margaret had offered up, at least, three quarters of their living room without question, pulling an ancient air mattress out of the closet and buying an entirely new bed-set, with a questionable amount of flowers on the sheets, and pushing the coffee table against the wall so Emma had somewhere to keep her phone and her laptop.

It was, exactly, what they’d always done.

And Emma would never get used to it.

“Compound Godzilla,” David continued, eyes bright and wide and far too confident. In her. He was confident in her. Even when he was insulting her and comparing her to lizard monsters.

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with the damages,” Emma reasoned. “So you know, in the grand scheme….” “Of? “Of whatever joke you’re trying to make. Very badly I might add.”

“That’s rude, Em,” David said, but there was a laugh just on the edge of his voice and Mary Margaret was already humming under her breath. It was so goddamn domestic Emma couldn’t quite believe it was real.

She shrugged. “You need to work on your jokes. These are getting stale. And you’re the only who nearly knocked over the partition. I just almost cracked my phone.” “Whatever,” he grumbled and Mary Margaret’s humming had turned into open laughter, far too well-acquainted with whatever early-morning war of words Emma and David were staging in the corner. “I’m not going to provide you with any caffeine or the vast array of breakfast pastries I’ve procured from the place down the block.” “Did you just swallow a dictionary?” “Thesaurus,” Mary Margaret corrected, flashing a smile over her shoulder and she’d already taken a shower. Emma hadn’t even heard her wake up.

There was probably a reason for that. That stupid voice in the back corner of her mind did jumping jacks, bouncing off the sides of her brain as it tried to grab Emma’s attention and provide an explanation she didn’t really want to her – because the kids in the foster homes always cried, quiet sniffles and even louder wails, wondering what they’d done wrong and when someone would decide they were enough and they could leave and, maybe, get just a bit warmer.

It always seemed to be freezing in those houses.

And, somewhere in between Hartford and Minnesota and a few weeks on the street in Boston, Emma had developed the ability to sleep through anything – crying or wailing or chattering teeth or, apparently, Mary Margaret taking a shower a few feet away.

“Em,” David said, tugging on the edge of her sleeve and jerking her out of the past. “You went all glossy for a second there. Was it because I totally impressed you with my vast and detailed vocabulary?” She rolled her eyes, taking a step towards the kitchen and accepting the mug Mary Margaret offered her. “I promise,” she said. “It had absolutely nothing to do with that.”

David’s smile wavered for half a moment and he shot Mary Margaret a nervous look, meaning flitting between them and nearly becoming another sentient being right there in their kitchen. Emma sighed. “Ok,” she mumbled, taking a sip of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid and they’d bought her cinnamon. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “That’s not what I meant it like.” “Are you nervous?” Mary Margaret asked softly, a picture of support and belief and something that felt like certainty. Emma clearly hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“About the game?” Mary Margaret nodded. “No, no, I am absolutely not nervous about the game. We’re good and we’ve practiced a shit ton, enough to drive Granny absolutely insane and we don’t even have to win. Technically.” “You’re totally going to win.” Emma bit back her immediate response – a string of practicality and low expectations that absolutely did not belong in the same room as Mary Margaret Nolan.

She’d been part of the package deal that came with arriving in Storybrooke and life with the Nolans and enough love to almost make up for everything else.

Actually, arrived was generous. Emma had kind of stumbled into Storybrooke, nothing more than a few dollar bills stuffed into the back pocket of her ripped jeans and a blanket clutched tightly in her hands and she just needed somewhere to sleep. She didn’t expect to find a barn and a corner that was almost, nearly, sort of warm.

David found her the next morning, legs tucked up underneath her with her blanket under her head and hay stuck in her hair. Honest to God hay.

She’d run away. The house had closed a week before and there just wasn’t enough money to support a run-down building and a dozen orphans that no one wanted. Including the national government. Or maybe just Maine. Emma never could remember who was in charge of that.

It didn’t matter.

The only thing she’d known was they were going to move her again and she was just supposed to agree to Florida and another fresh start and she’d started running before she’d even really considered any other option.

She was going to run again as soon as David found her, hand balled up into a fist and halfway through the air when he held up his hands in surrender and asked what she was doing here and promised a hot meal and maybe a shower if she’d just follow him inside.

Mary Margaret was sitting at the kitchen table with Ruth when the door slammed shut behind Emma. She gave her a new set of clothes and, it seemed, Emma had found a family.

Even when she didn’t want it.

Especially when she didn’t want it.

“I know, I know,” Mary Margaret said, nudging her elbow into Emma’s side with a familiarity that made her stomach clench. “You only have to be in the top eight. Doesn’t mean I totally don’t think you’re going to absolutely wreck.” David nearly dropped his coffee. “Absolutely wreck,” Emma repeated slowly, eyes flashing up towards a determined Mary Margaret.

“Yes. Absolutely. And completely. C’mon. That’s a gaming term!” “You’re just digging yourself into an even deeper hole here, M’s. You are painfully uncool.” Mary Margaret stuck her tongue out, rolling her eyes dramatically and jumping onto the edge of the counter next to Emma. She rested her arm on Emma’s shoulder, elbow pushing into the side of her neck and it probably would have been uncomfortable it weren’t so normal and, not for the first time, Emma was glad she’d stumbled back into this life.

“She looked it up,” David whispered conspiratorially before taking a far-too-large bite of bagel and, somehow, smiling at Emma. Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in disapproval, but it wasn’t a disagreement either and Emma wondered when she’d had the time.

Probably in between attacking major website editors with plans and making sure Killian Jones wasn’t actually trying to kidnap two kids from a summer program with the promise of ice cream on his lips.

Shit.

Killian Jones.

Emma needed to drink more coffee and get some food in her and a slightly more professional mindset. There were rules about that, right? Ethics or something. A reporter wasn’t supposed to date whoever he was writing about.

No, probably not. Definitely not. And she wasn’t thinking about dating Killian Jones or or a sentence that included both Killian Jones and lips or even really talking to Killian Jones – far too focused on the game and winning and keeping her personal life, decidedly, personal.

She could be a good story without the depressing history and vaguely troubled past.

Definitely not.

Primary fire, secondary fire, obliterate every enemy – and that stupid, annoying, asshole voice in the back of her brain. It would be fine. She probably wouldn’t really even notice him. For the entire goddamn day.

“I think she’s playing the game,” David muttered, pouring another cup of coffee and, God, he’d showered too. How had she slept through all of that?

“I’m thinking what the best way would be to take you out,” Emma lied and David didn’t look like he believed a single letter of it.

“I bought you baked goods. A plethora of baked goods.” “That was actually kind of nice,” she conceded. Her drink had gone cold. “God damn. Although there are a questionable number of cinnamon-raisin in there. What time did you have to get up to make that happen?”

David shrugged. Painfully early, then. “It’s an important day, Em,” he reasoned. “And maybe I just wanted cinnamon-raisin for the week.” “Yuh huh.” “How come you don’t have to actually win to win?” “We’ve been over this twenty times already,” she sighed, but she kind of appreciated too. If Emma kept running the plan, the one that decidedly ignored Killian Jones and his far-too-blue eyes and nicknames and on-the-record questions, then she could stay focused on the goal. She could absolutely wreck – as Mary Margaret would say.

“Humor me.” She took a deep breath and Mary Margaret reached over her shoulder, tugging the mug out of her hand to fill it with scalding hot liquid. God, it was like being fifteen again. Emma was a better video game player now.

“It’s a qualifying tournament,” Emma started. “So there are sixteen teams today, from all over the world, who didn’t get the automatic bid. It’s because none of us have fancy, corporate sponsors and we’re some kind of Overwatch plebs in the eyes of the league, so, they put us in a different bracket and make us play each other.

The seeds coming into this were a total joke though. They, literally, just put our team names into a hat and that Zelena lady who’s in charge of everything picked out pieces of paper and that’s where we ended up.”

David snorted over the top of his mug and he’d mixed peanut butter and cream cheese on his cinnamon raisin bagel. Emma tried not to actually gag. “Ruby’s very mad about that,” he said. “She’s brought it up every single time I’ve talked to her in the last forty-eight hours.” “How many times are you talking to her in the last forty-eight hours?” “A couple,” he mumbled and it sounded a bit like an admission. Emma’s pulse accelerated and she was positive she was missing something. David’s nervous glance towards Mary Margaret all but confirmed it and they were talking about her. God.

“Yuh huh,” Emma repeated, eyebrows pulled low and frustration brewing in the pit of her stomach and she was fairly positive they were talking about that phone call she’d made on the other side of the plastic partition on Friday night.

She was going to kill her whole goddamn team.

“And what seed are you guys?” Mary Margaret asked quickly, trying to refocus the conversation and keep Emma from throwing things in the middle of her kitchen.

“We are fifth,” Emma answered and maybe she was as upset as Ruby was about this whole seeding debacle. Maybe Killian Jones, award-winning reporter with a history Emma was positive was also a story, should write about that.

That, however, would require her to talk to him long enough to suggest story ideas.

What a mess.

“And playing?” David prompted. Emma rolled her eyes. They’d really gone over this twenty times already, had discussed it in detail in the back corner of Granny’s on Saturday night, Ruby’s voice rising with every sip of alcohol until she and Anna seemed to be having some kind of joint screaming match over seeding.

“Vivi’s Adventure,” Emma responded, dropping her head against Mary Margaret’s side and sighing softly when she felt fingers working their way through her hair. “It’s the dumbest name in the history of dumb names and that’s coming from someone who might actually have a lawsuit on her hands if we actually make it out of qualifying rounds.” “You can’t change your name,” Mary Margaret said. She was braiding Emma’s hair. And Emma didn’t move her head.

“I’d rather not get sued for four million dollars before I even get the chance to try and win four million dollars. That’s impractical.”

“But you made shirts,” David pointed out.

“Ruby made shirts. Or ordered shirts. No one asked her to do that.” “Are you even remotely surprised that she did that?” “About as surprised as you getting up insanely early to go get me bear claws from a bagel place that makes the best bear claws in the city.” David grinned at her, ducking his head to press a kiss on Emma’s temple and maybe being fifteen again wasn’t the worst thing in the entire world. “It’s only because we live a few blocks away,” he promised. “Any more than five blocks and I totally wouldn’t have done it.”

“No, then he would have called an Uber and woken up even earlier,” Mary Margaret mumbled.

Emma’s pulse sped up again, heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt like emotion and maybe sentiment and she couldn’t just start crying on Mary Margaret’s actual shoulder. That would have been weird.

Probably.

Mary Margaret wouldn’t have blinked.

She was, after all, used to that sort of thing. And David would have woken up at dawn to get Emma bear claws if he had to, if only to prove that she had people behind her and support in her corner and a slew of other athletic-based clichés that made her vision swim just a bit.

David hadn’t just gotten her to come into the house all those years ago. He’d gotten his mom to agree to Emma and everything that she came with – a mess of legal battles and paperwork and enrolling her in Storybrooke High that fall.

And she’d had her own room, across the hall from David, and Mary Margaret had helped her fill out a closet, the very first she’d ever owned, and the three of them spent the entire year together, the memories of those days still hanging in frames on the walls in Ruth’s house.

It had been good. It had been perfect – some kind of storybook lifestyle for a town with an absurd name and Emma could never quite believe her luck.

So, naturally, she’d gone and ruined the whole thing.

She had a tendency to do that. And David graduated, got into the University of Maine and that was hours away and Mary Margaret was gone as well, that perpetual smile and positivity that Emma had allowed herself to depend on in just a few, short months, limited to phone calls and text messages.

They promised they’d come back. They’d drive back down for weekends and Emma could come up and sleep on Mary Margaret’s floor, but Emma was sure – it was all over. So she ran. Again.

She was an idiot.

Only David and Mary Margaret found her. Again. And again. Over and over, every single team she absolutely fucked it all up, there they were, encouraging smiles on their faces and certainty in their stare and, usually, baked goods in their hands.

Shit, she’d totally started crying on Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“Em,” David said slowly, eyes wide and hand falling on her forearm. “Are you crying? God, you’re totally crying. What’s the matter?” Emma shook her head, some of the braid Mary Margaret had already finished falling apart in the process, but the evidence was on her cheeks and her slightly puffy eyes and she could hear her phone buzzing from her compound a few feet away.

“That’d be totally lame,” she mumbled, dragging her knuckles across her face.

“The lamest. Is it because I put peanut butter and cream cheese on my bagel?” “That’s totally it,” Emma agreed and her voice was still shaky and just a bit scratchy, but David didn’t push, just tugged her away from the edge of the counter and wrapped his arms around her tightly. His hand found the back of her head, cupping her hair as he mumbled something that might have been encouragements in her ear, but Emma couldn’t really think when he did that, the actual feel of self confidence enveloping her as soon as she pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck.

“Five seed’s a good underdog story,” David continued, leaving another kiss on the crown of her head. “Tell your reporter guy to lede with that.” “Not my guy,” Emma mumbled. There it was. She was, almost, surprised it had taken them that long to get there. David had absolutely been gossiping with Ruby. “And,” she added. “He’s the one who’s won awards, doesn’t seem like it’s my place to tell him how to write his story.” “Yeah, but it’s about you. He should take that into account.” “Are you trying to protect me from the big world of journalism, Detective?” David pulled back, face turning serious quicker than Emma expected and that shouldn’t have surprised her either. “Yes,” he said simply and Mary Margaret made some kind of noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

“M’s, this was your idea,” Emma said, glancing over her shoulder. Mary Margaret shrugged. “And I still think it’s a good idea. He really did seem excited about it when I saw him on Friday. Even if he was being kicked in the side.” “I’m sorry, what?” “He was holding Roland. Or trying to, at least. I’ll tell you something though, Roland Locksley has never been more excited to have someone pick him up from summer camp than he was when Killian Jones showed up. He’s not nearly that enthusiastic about the assistant.” “You’ve lost me. And how old is this kid?” “Regina Mills’ assistant,” Mary Margaret explained. “She’s usually the one who gets the kids. Although Robin comes sometimes too. He’s nice. Better with the kids than the assistant. She always looks kind of stressed out.” “And did anyone mention why Killian Jones was picking up these kids? Or how he knows them enough to offer them ice cream?” “I don’t think you need to be well acquainted with kids to offer them ice cream,” David reasoned, one arm still slung over Emma’s shoulders as she tried to twist around and stare at Mary Margaret.

“That’s true,” Mary Margaret agreed. “But I don’t think that’s what was happening. He knew those kids. Like in a part of the family kind of way. They had nicknames and everything. It was painfully adorable.” “Jeez, that’s just like a thing for him isn’t it?” Emma asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could even really consider them. Mary Margaret’s eyebrows practically jumped off her face.

“What?” “Nothing.” “Emma Swan.” She growled or groaned or maybe wondered if she could get out of the conversation without having to talk about any of this. No such luck. “He’s just got this nickname thing,” Emma muttered. “When he talk.” “Right,” Mary Margaret said, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth. Emma’s phone was still buzzing. “And you know this because…” “I’ve had two conversations with him.” “No, of course. Two conversations. You talk to him since that second conversation?”

Emma narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together and ducking out from underneath David’s arm. “I’ve got to shower,” she said, already halfway towards the bathroom. “Ruby’s going to murder me if we’re late.”

It didn’t matter – Emma walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later, damp hair still wrapped in a towel, to find Ruby sitting cross-legged on the couch with a controller in her hand and a disgruntled David a few feet away from her.

“Why are you so bad at this?” she laughed, not moving her eyes away from the screen and David made some kind of impossible noise, trying to elbow her in the thigh.

“Why are you so good at this? And how do you keep getting all these bananas? Oh, shit, shit, fuck, God, stop laughing, Lucas.” “I’m sorry, this is just hysterical. It’s like the game got better and suddenly you’re complete shit at MarioKart.” She dropped another banana behind her and David let out another string of curses as he skidded off the course again, throwing his head back towards the ceiling and damning Ruby to several different afterlives, including, what sounded like, the seventh circle of Hell.

“For betrayers and mutineers,” Emma intoned, not quite able to keep the laughter out of her voice when David actually chucked his controller at the ground. Mary Margaret didn’t even look surprised.

“Stop quoting things at me, Em,” he hissed. Ruby lapped him. “God, Lucas, seriously. Stop showing off. It’s just embarrassing.” “For you or me?” Ruby asked, swinging her legs back onto the floor and she’d already won. She took a step towards Emma, eyeing the shirt she’d begrudgingly put on, and grinning, confidence practically rolling off her in waves. “I told you the shirts were worth the money,” she said pointedly, tapping on the emblem they’d gotten Anna to draw nearly a month before. “And it’s absolutely embarrassing for you, Nolan. I know I’m good.” David sighed again, dropping down onto the floor and pulling one leg up until he looked like a Renaissance painting – of MarioKart 8 defeat. “We shouldn’t have bought the new one,” he mumbled. “I was better at the classic version.” “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Hey, did you get Emma bear claws for good luck this morning? I’m starving.” “Stop stealing my baked goods,” Emma said, but Ruby was already in the kitchen and Mary Margaret was already pouring another cup of coffee and they were going to be, at least, twenty minutes late. It was going to take forever to get crosstown.

“Too late,” Ruby said, mumbling through a mouthful of bear claw. “Have we complained about the seeding for this qualifying thing yet this morning because I’d really like to complain about that again.” “Too late,” Emma repeated. Ruby sighed. “How come you’re here? I didn’t think you were coming here. Are the rest of them coming here?” Ruby shook her head, confusion flashing across her expression when she glanced towards Mary Margaret. Emma tried not to groan. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” “There’s a car outside.” “What?” “Automobile. Vehicle. Motor car. A sweet set of wheels.” Mary Margaret laughed loudly, the sound working its way across the entire apartment as Emma practically sprinted towards the window. Ruby was right. There was a car outside and a uniformed man leaning against the passenger’s side door, feet crossed at the ankles and a hat in his hand like he’d wandered straight off a movie set.

“What the hell is that?” Emma asked sharply, not sure why she was, suddenly, terrified by the answer.

“Did you not hear my sweet set of wheels explanation?” Ruby asked. “I can’t really come up with another synonym. You can ask your reporter when we get to the Theater. He’s probably got more. That’s his job, right?” Emma shook her head, mind muddled and thoughts moving slowly and she needed to dry her hair. And look at her phone. Oh fuck, her phone. She moved again, actually running across the several hundred square feet of apartment and nearly knocking over the partition while Ruby mumbled something her breath at Mary Margaret.

She had six text messages and she’d never actually programed his number in her phone, but she recognized the 718 area code and her heart might have actually been in her throat.

Good luck today, Swan.

Not that I think you’ll need it. You’re absolutely going to wreck the competition. God, that’s the lamest way to say that isn’t it?

Definitely lame.

True though. Even if that five-seed seems kind of absurd since your team actually has a pretty impressive win-loss record.

How did you end up a five seed? It doesn’t make any sense. This Vivi’s team hasn’t even won a competitive game yet. And they’re a four. This is just basic math. Even Singularity is garbage. And they’re the No. 1? You’ve got more wins than them. This is absurd.

Emma bit her lip, suddenly aware of the smile on her face and the way her breath had caught in her throat, knees not quite as straight as they’d been a few minutes before. He might be more upset about the five-seed debacle than Ruby and David combined.

And Emma could nearly imagine what his voice sounded like, the way he tried to rush over the words when he started talking about something he cared about and there was a sudden and distinct lack of oxygen in her compound at even the passing idea that he cared about her.

That was insane.

Impossible.

That was impossible. There were ethics involved. And one more text message.

The car’s for you, by the way. Courtesy of Mills Media. And how shitty the MTA is this summer. Just figured it’d be easier.

Was she still standing? She was. She might not have been breathing, but she was definitely still standing and somewhere in the realm of swooning until she suddenly and quickly got very, very frustrated.

She didn’t need a car. She didn’t need text messages from a phone number she, admittedly, probably should have saved on Friday night. She could walk crosstown quicker than the car could drive there.

Ethics.

And a deep-rooted stubborn streak that was probably her undoing. Or something less dramatic.

“Em,” Ruby said, approaching cautiously and that might have been the strangest thing that had happened all day. “M’s wants to know if you want her to braid your hair so we can get out of here. We probably shouldn’t keep that fancy driver guy waiting. Seems like a dick move.” Emma hummed noncommittally in the back of her throat, stuffing her phone in her pocket. “We’re not taking the car,” she said and Ruby’s eyes widened. “That’s...how did he even get Mary Margaret’s address?”

“I have no idea. But, like, that’s a thing, right? Investigative journalism or whatever?” “Are we the investigation?”

“Eh,” Ruby wavered, teeth bared as she tilted her head slightly. “Maybe not we.” Emma sighed, any sense of swooning as deflated as the air mattress at her feet. “That was almost kind of heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

“I almost don’t care. You should have heard David’s must protect Emma speech on Saturday night. You want to talk about heavy-handed, that was, like, the single most awkward conversation I’ve ever had and, once, Anna tried to tell me about how she nearly got engaged to a Tindr date the same night she met him.”

“What? God, I can’t imagine Elsa would be very into that idea.” “She wasn’t. There was, apparently, a fight if you can believe those two actually fought about anything in their lives and, just, trust me, it was weird and David is worried about you and these stories and he hasn’t told Mary Margaret about that and I’m not supposed to tell you either and Killian Jones blushed while holding a painfully adorable kid as soon as someone mentioned your name on Friday night.” “Were you not supposed to tell me that part either?” Emma asked archly, tugging her hair out of the towel.

“No, that’s painfully obvious. Everyone knows that.”

“Jeez. You are on a roll.” Ruby shrugged, but there was a tinge of disappointment in her gaze and Emma licked her lips. “We’re really not going to take the car?” “We’re really not going to take the car,” Emma said, the weight of her phone practically dragging her through the entire apartment building. “C’mon. Let’s go over strategy while M’s fixes my hair.” She did feel kind of bad about blowing off the driver – fancy hat clutched tightly in his right hand when Emma promised they were fine with walking and Ruby grumbled under her breath about it for the entire thirteen block walk to the Playstation Theater.

Emma ate another bear claw.

And tried not to drop the two cups of coffee gripped tightly in her hands.

She heard her name on the other side of the block, Anna’s hair obvious even in a sea of professional video game players and spectators and frantic-looking league reps who, clearly, had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into. Emma waved, hoping that would, somehow, stop the screeching from the other side of 44th Street, but it only seemed to drive Anna forward even more and, suddenly, she was nearly a foot taller, held up by a pair of hands that looked vaguely familiar.

She was clinging to Will Scarlet’s side, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her waist while she balanced herself on his shoulder and waved at Emma like she was trying direct several planes. And Killian Jones was very obviously staring at his feet a few inches away, a pen stuck behind his ear and something that might have been a credential around his neck and two cameras hanging off his left arm.

Emma bit her lip. And tried not to focus on the obscene amount of sugar she’d already ingested that morning.

“We should have taken the car,” Ruby muttered again, dragging Emma with her across the street as soon as the light changed.

“Emma, Emma, Emma,” Anna chanted, pulling herself away from Will and grabbing Emma by both her shoulders. Killian’s eyes darted up, one side of his mouth ticking up when he saw she was holding coffee. “You are missing everything. There has already been trash talking and people screaming into NY1 cameras and Tink totally dated the guy who’s Singularity’s captain and she said…”

Anna paused for half a moment to take a breath and Emma allowed herself one, quick glance towards Killian Jones. God, he was unfairly attractive. That was making this far more difficult than it should have been. Anna was still talking, detailing how Tink knew some guy named Greg and how shitty he was at playing Overwatch and how they were totally going to wreck and Emma barely heard any of it, lips dry again and both of her hands were burning from the somehow-still hot coffee.

Killian smiled at her, soft and maybe just a bit nervous and Emma tried to keep her expression neutral. It probably didn’t work if Anna’s continued exclamations were any indication. “Emma, are you ok?” she asked and Emma’s head darted up at the concern in her voice.

Elsa narrowed her eyes knowingly and Emma was struck with the rather sudden realization that they’d all talked about this. God, there was probably a group text. David had probably started it.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised. “NY1 is really here?” “It’s apparently an event,” Elsa said, a smile on her face as she waved a hand at the scene in front of her.

That was, definitely, one word for it. There were people everywhere, some of them already lined up in front of the doors to the Theatre and even more pushing their way down the block, cups of Starbucks clutched tightly in their hands and they weren’t the only team with matching t-shirts. That didn’t make Emma feel any better about the matching t-shirts.

Killian still hadn’t said anything, but Will was taking pictures and Emma tried not to be completely overwhelmed by everything around her. So, naturally, her eyes darted towards Killian again and that stupid, confident smile on his face. “You didn’t take the car,” he said slowly, muttering the words quietly enough that it was a conversational miracle Emma even heard him.

Emma rocked on her heels, not sure how to respond to a statement and Ruby elbowed her in the side – hard. “Ow,” Emma hissed, but Ruby just glared at her. “What the hell?” “Here,” Ruby said, ignoring Emma completely and pushing something into Killian’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, just glanced down and the smile turned just a bit more genuine.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” he said. Ruby shrugged. Oh, God, it was a matching t-shirt.

“Please. Although seeing as we are an all-female team, this is absolutely not going to fit you and is now a gift for Henry wherever he is.” Emma nearly dropped the coffee again, stammering slightly and growling at Will when he pushed a camera lens in her face. “Wait, what? Henry like the one in Mary Margaret’s class?” Killian nodded. “What is going on right now?” As if on cue, a kid who couldn’t have possibly been more than twelve years old, skidded to a stop in front of them – both Will and Killian reaching out an arm to brace him. “Hook,” he shouted, head snapping up towards Killian. “You’ve got to come inside. There’s this whole table of merch and you can get a credit for download bundles to get new skins for characters and…”

His shoulders heaved when he ran out of oxygen, eyes wide when he realized there were two other people around now, but he smiled when he noticed Ruby. And Emma felt incredibly out of place. “Hey, Rubes,” Henry said brightly, ducking underneath Killian’s arm and only muttering slightly when she pulled him against her side.

“Hey, kid,” Ruby grinned. “You know you don’t need to get credits for that bundle. We’ll get you that in, like, a couple hours tops.” “Really?” Ruby nodded seriously, holding one hand out and Henry wrapped his pinky around her outstretched finger. “Let us wreck this qualifying tournament and then for sure.” “God, will everyone stop using the phrase wreck in regards to this tournament,” Emma groaned, feeling half a dozen curious eyes land on her. Killian grinned.

“Who else is using that?” Ruby asked and Emma tried to brush her off, nodding towards Henry instead. “Oh, right, right, Henry, this is Emma Swan. She’s our team captain and the best goddamn Overwatch player in the country. She could get you your codes in a couple minutes.” Henry’s eyes lit up and Emma bit her lip tightly, hoping the blush she could feel on her cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “It’s really nice to meet you,” Emma said honestly. “You were in Mary Margaret, uh, Mrs. Nolan’s class last year, right?”

“Yeah,” Henry nodded. “She used to ask me about the game all the time last year. She, uh, she knew I played and I told her about my mom.” It was some kind of miracle Emma hadn’t dropped the coffee. She glanced back at Killian – as struck as she was, with wide eyes and a half-open mouth and Will was still taking pictures. “Thanks,” Emma mumbled, not sure what else to say. Henry’s smile got even bigger.

“We should probably go inside,” Elsa said. The line outside the door was starting to move and they were definitely running late already, but there was some semblance of a schedule and Emma really just wanted this first match to be over.

She nodded, more than willing to let Elsa direct them into the main room and a check-in table and, of course, she’d just fallen into step with Killian. She could nearly feel him next to her, something that felt a bit like heat and almost like electricity radiating off him and he took a deep breath before she interrupted him completely.

“This is for you,” Emma said brusquely, holding her hand up expectantly and his lips twitched again. That was distracting. “I...I should have started with that. Buried the lede or whatever.” He laughed softly, taking short, measured steps so he didn’t move in front of her and his fingers were warm when they brushed over Emma’s. “Was that a journalism joke, Swan?” “A pretty good one, I think. Mostly because I don’t know any other journalism terms to make jokes with.” “Nothing?” Killian asked skeptically. He needed to stop looking at her. And talking to her. And asking questions. There was already an Overwatch game happening on the main screen. “Byline? Deadline? Something about quotes?” Emma rolled her eyes, taking a sip of coffee. “Congratulations on proving your ability to just shout out keywords regarding your job. Although I’m not accepting something about quotes.” “Too broad, huh?” “Exactly that.” “Noted,” he grinned and he hummed softly when he gulped his own coffee. “This is good.” “I’m not trying to poison you.” “Noted, again. And appreciated. If I ask you an actual question are you going to try and turn me to stone again?” Emma stopped walking, whoever was behind her nearly colliding with her back and she did drop the coffee. It was about time. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, dropping down and one of her knees landed directly in a puddle of caffeine and two-percent milk.

Maybe this event wasn’t quite as much a disaster as Emma assumed – a person with a League Official t-shirt on appearing beside her quickly and there was a mop and promises that it was fine and Emma found herself being pulled back up before she even realized Killian had moved.

God, his hand was warm.

“Come here, love,” he said softly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and tugging her away from the crowd. She followed him before she could come up with an argument, ducking behind the merch table Henry had been so excited about and it was, almost, quiet there.

“I’m fine,” Emma snapped, pulling her hand away quickly and wincing when it collided painfully with her side. He hadn’t even asked a question yet.

Killian nodded. “I’m not questioning that. Here,” he added, pushing his half-finished cup towards her. “You need the caffeine more than I do.” “Are you trying to tell me I look tired?” “No. I’m telling you that you’re the one who has to win an entire qualifying tournament today and that it only seems fair you to get at least some coffee out of the equation when, I’m assuming, you paid for it.”

Oh. She really was an asshole. And far too certain things were just going to go wrong by default. Mary Margaret would have some kind of hope speech perfectly prepared for this moment. Emma kind of wished she’d come with them.

“Not everything is some kind of calculated attack, Swan,” Killian added, ducking back into her eye line and smiling when she took the cup.

“What was your question?” she asked. His coffee didn’t have cinnamon in it. Damn.

“Why didn’t you take the car?” “Why did you send a car?” Killian shook his head, tongue pressed against the edge of his lip and Emma didn’t think she imagined the way he rocked towards her. “I asked first,” he said. “There are rules.” “I think you’re just making them up as you go along.”

“And I think you’re doing a very bad job of avoiding the question.”

She flashed her eyes up, but he didn’t back down, just lifted his eyebrows and stared straight at her, like he could read her mind or maybe like she was the open book he promised she was. Emma sighed. “I’m perfectly capable of walking a couple of blocks.” “I’m not questioning that.” “You really need to be more specific then.” Killian tilted his head – and Emma tried to keep her shoulders straight and her spine in line and she couldn’t remember having ever been looked at like that, like he was interested and intrigued and like he wanted to know everything, on the record, with absolutely no intention of putting it on the internet.

“I’m not one to just...accept things,” Emma said slowly. Killian didn’t respond, just moved his eyebrows again and kept staring at her. No, she thought, waited. He was waiting for her. “Especially from people I don’t really know. Who should have no idea where to send town cars.”

“Ah,” he laughed, running a hand through his hair and twisting slightly so his left arm was pulled behind his back. “Yeah, that was bordering somewhere on stalking wasn’t it?” “How did you do it?” “The receptionist at Mills is actually some kind of secret coding and internet expert. And she was very willing to do me a favor if I got Gina to get her and her boyfriend a reservation at TAO on Saturday night.” “The receptionist?” Emma repeated and Killian made a significant face. “You got a receptionist to...what, hack into some sort of record and find M’s address?” “She’s not trying to be the receptionist apparently. It’s a very involved story. But she saved the website on Friday and kept Robin from actually pulling his hair out or having some kind of episode in the middle of Broadway. So, you know, Gina owed her.” “You keep saying all these names and I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Emma admitted, appreciating his smile a lot more than she should have. “Gina is Regina Mills, right?” Killian nodded. “And Robin is…” “Her husband.” “Which makes Henry…” “Their kid. One of two. Roland is seven and obsessed with chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream and being Henry.” Emma nodded in understanding, pieces of the puzzle, almost, starting to fit together. “And you know both of these kids well enough to pick them up from school, offer them ice cream in a not-creepy kind of way and then bring one of them with you on an assignment?” “Yes, yes and yes,” Killian answered. “Although Gina wasn’t happy about that last one. It’s apparently not very education-focused.” “It’s summer.” “My argument exactly, Swan.” She’d finished her coffee. Or his coffee. Emma wasn’t sure of the specifics anymore, trying not to linger on the fact that they’d somehow managed to share one cup of coffee that morning.

It felt like something important.

Emma turned her head, staring straight at him and maybe that was a mistake. Shit, his eyes were blue. He still had his arm twisted around behind him. “And you wanted to send me a town car to go thirteen blocks because…”

“It was a gesture of goodwill,” he grinned. “So you could get here easier.” “There wouldn’t be anywhere to park on 44th Street. How did Ruby know about it?”

“I have no idea.” He wasn’t lying – eyebrows pulled low and gaze intent and he wanted her to believe him. She didn’t. Jeez.

“I feel like we’re both missing a pretty big part of this game,” Emma muttered, taking a step towards him and she was close enough that her toes nearly brushed up against his sneakers. She could have moved, could have pulled her hands up and rested them flat against his chest like she wanted to and pressed her lips against his and maybe she’d thought of that a questionable amount since she’d swallowed some of her pride on Friday night and called him.

She didn’t do any of that.

Because Emma Swan never got in the car – metaphorically or otherwise. Not anymore.

“How did this happen, Swan?” Killian asked suddenly and she realized they’d been standing in silence, staring at each other like they were taking inventory for far too long.

Emma licked her lips quickly, tugging them back behind her teeth as she tried to regain her bearings. She could make out the sounds of the game behind her, catchphrases that had been playing on an endless loop in her brain since they’d decided to do this, and she tugged self consciously on her t-shirt.

“What?” she asked a bit breathlessly. Killian’s gaze shifted, dropping away from her eyes and, maybe, down towards her mouth, but then he blinked and it was gone as soon as it came, features stoic and professional and good, she could deal with that.

“On the record,” Killian said, a recorder held loosely in his right hand.

Oh. Well, yeah, no, that was ok. They had to do that, right? He had to ask questions and write stories and that was the deal. That was what Emma had begrudgingly agreed to when Mary Margaret announced the plan and Ruby promised it was good for business like that even made sense in context, but they’d taken a team vote and Emma had been overruled and now she needed to answer questions.

On the record.

“Ask me an actual question,” Emma hissed, frustration back in her voice and there went flirting. If flirting had ever been on the table. Jeez.

“How did Emma Swan become the team captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league?” Killian asked. “Or, rather, how did you start playing video games?” “That’s a long story.” “I’ve got some time. And so do you. Your shitty five-seed matchup isn’t for another hour.” “Why do you know that?” “I can read, Swan. There was a schedule on the league site and something about streaming. You’re still not answering my question.” He shook the recorder slightly and Emma’s stomach flipped. She swallowed back the bundle of nerves in her throat, chewing on her lip as she tried to figure out the best way to answer. Killian nodded once, like he was agreeing to an idea he hadn’t voiced, and leaned towards Emma, half an inch away from her face and what was personal space when she could barely think?

“I’ll tell you what, love,” Killian said, low and intent and Emma could feel it. “We’ll go one-for-one, huh? On the record back and forth. You answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. No matter what.” She hadn’t been expecting that. “Why?” Emma asked sharply. It was an accusation. And Killian knew it. “We both need this to work, Swan. You asked me about Boston and what led me back to New York, well, this is it. A story. A good one. So I need this to work and your team needs the publicity. It’s a win-win for both of us, we might as well be honest with each other.” “You have a very high opinion of this whole situation don’t you?” Killian shrugged. “I think we could make a very good team, Swan. It’s up to you whether or not that works.” Emma considered that for a few moments, scowling when she realized he was absolutely and infuriatingly right. Damn. On the record. “My brother,” she said. “He’s the reason I’m here.” “Give a guy a second to get his recorder out, Swan,” Killian grinned, hitting a button on the square of plastic in his hand. She rolled her eyes. “Ok, brother. I’m going to guess he’s the reason behind the NYPD shirt before?” “Why do you remember that?” “Perceptive. And a journalist. It’s the details, love. So you and your cop brother started playing video games when you were kids?”

“No,” Emma said and Killian did something absurd with his eyebrows. “Ruth bought him a knockoff XBox for Christmas one year and we spent the entire break playing. Turns out I’ve got pretty good hand-eye coordination.” “Did you wreck him, Swan?”

Her eyes were going to get stuck that way if she kept rolling them, but Emma was smiling again and they kept bouncing through moods in this conversation. It felt like playing the game. She’d clearly lost her mind.

“You were right before, you know, that’s totally lame,” Emma said. “But, yeah. Every single time. And even now. Between David and Mary Margaret I was fairly convinced I was the greatest player to ever walk the Earth, but they were just both painfully bad at Halo.”

“And that sparked the interest as a career?” Emma shook her head and that was what she’d been dreading. There wasn’t any way to explain a year in jail and no high school degree and what talent did she have except the innate ability to kill her virtual enemies? Killian seemed to pick up on her concern, hand falling back on her arm and she shuddered at the touch.

When she’d gotten out of jail, she didn’t know where to go – didn’t have much more than a blanket with her name on it and the memories of everything blowing up in her face and Emma was barely making ends meet in Providence when David showed up at her apartment and told her enough was enough.

He found her. Again. And Emma had gone with him. Again.

So he took her to that sleepy little college town and got her a job at the coffee shop on campus and Emma kept playing, nights on the couch with David and Mary Margaret and, eventually, she came up with a plan.

She started making money. She almost forgot about him and a time when she wasn’t certain and confident and ready and the League just seemed like the next logical step.

Only that step had landed her in front of Killian Jones and his recorder and blue eyes and Emma needed a plausible story. “I’ve always wanted to kind of control my own life, I guess,” Emma started, mumbling over the words while she tried to keep her lip in between her teeth. “And I’ve been lucky that my brother and M’s have been super supportive of that. So they helped and played against me so I could get better and there were competitions all over the country that had big prize pools, bigger every year as games got more and more popular and less and less weird and, well, you know the rest. I’m camping out in their living room while I try to find my own place and win this whole, stupid League.” Killian hummed, hitting another button on the recorder and starting at her. Still. He kept doing that. She wished he wouldn’t. “Was that ok?” Emma asked. “On the record?” “Of course, Swan. It’s a good start.” “A start?” “Ah, well, that’s my angle I guess,” he explained. “We’d background everyone on the team, maybe highlight how shitty this whole seeding thing was and talk a little bit about what comes next. Oh and maybe the thing in Philadelphia.” “You know about that too?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, smirk settling onto his face with practiced ease and they definitely had to play soon. It felt like they’d been standing in that corner for several lifetimes. “You’re very surprised by reading comprehension, love,” Killian laughed.

“Just impressed by your dedication to research.” “Maybe not such a bad journalist, after all. I almost understand the game.”

“Color me impressed,” Emma smiled, eyes wide and that smirk was stupid. She wanted to kiss it off. She wanted to absolutely wreck Vivi’s Adventure in the first round. “You know, maybe, we could try and build on that knowledge today? If you’ve got...questions or something.” “Are you offering to explain the video game to me, Swan? Henry’s been trying to do that for two weeks already.” “And how that’s going for you?” “Eh, he’s very frustrated. Far more preoccupied with getting that credit than anything I could offer him today.” “Ah, well, there’s no ice cream involved.” Killian smiled and Emma’s heart dropped into her stomach or maybe into her feet or possibly exploded out of her chest. “Always a disappointment, of course,” he muttered, stuffing his recorder back into his pocket and leaning towards her again.

He didn’t touch her arm.

He did, however, move his left hand and Emma’s eyes caught on a flash of color and a name and the question hung in the minimal amount of air between them as soon as she closed her mouth. “Who’s Milah?” she asked. “On the tattoo.” And just like that, it was over. The whole scene changed and Emma’d been absolutely wrecked by an assailant she didn’t see and wasn’t prepared for, thrown back to the start of some metaphorical level without a single weapon to her name.

The corner suddenly felt very small and Killian couldn't seem to back up quick enough, eyes dark and lips pressed together tightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone from a long time ago,” he bit out, venom in every single letter. “On the record.”

Emma nodded, quick jerks of her neck that sent a shockwave of pain and frustration down her spine. That’s what she got for asking questions.

“Hey, uh, guys,” Elsa said, appearing in the corner with a nervous look on her face. “We’ve got to go play the game. Ruby’s half a second away from shutting down the whole tournament to try and find you, Em.” “Of course she is,” Emma mumbled. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, certain it hadn’t worked as soon as she looked at Elsa. “Ok, we’re coming.”

She turned back to Killian – shoulders tight with the tension he was holding and his thumb pressed into his left forearm. “You, uh, want to watch a game in action?” Emma asked and he hummed softly, gaze still heavy on her face.

“Yeah, Swan,” he said. “Let’s go.”

#cs ff #cs #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #video game fic #if i ever write a fic where david and mary margaret aren't emma's biggest fans #i've probably been kidnapped #just fyi

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luminaryestuary · 6 years

Text

those smoky nights - ch. 1

You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here.

Joyce copes with Bob’s death and begins to acknowledge her feelings for Hopper.

Angst and Fluff. Post-Season 2. Chapter 1 of 5.

Also on ao3.

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read

to the end just to find out who killed the cook.

Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,

in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.

Some people go to support groups for life’s problems; others go to counselors, therapists, pastors and priests.

Joyce builds bridges.

Not real bridges, but imaginary ones.

It’s a strange habit she has, almost a compulsion; a desperate desire to put wide spans of twenty-four hour planks in between her and the gaping chasm of grief and sadness lurking below.

She’s done it for as long as she can remember, only stepping off the completed structure when she feels like enough time has passed for her to move on.

She built a weak, spindly bridge after Lonnie cheated for the first time.

A slightly sturdier bridge sprung up after he slapped her around once when he was drunk, leaving dark bruises under her eye, on her cheek, smattered across her arms and shoulders.

A titanium-reinforced, earthquake-proof behemoth took form after he finally left.

She built a rope bridge, tentative and fraying, after they brought Will back from the Upside Down.

When they freed him from the Mind Flayer, she built a shining steel cable bridge, tall and indestructible.

The week after Bob is interred in the ground at Hawkins Cemetery, she begins to count the days.

Bob’s bridge materializes alongside Will’s bridge, which is oddly fitting. It’s smaller, concrete and steel in combination, modern-looking.

Many days after she steps off Will’s bridge, she’s still constructing Bob’s.

Each morning, like a ritual, she mentally adds another piece. Mentally re-counts each piece that’s already there, firm and resolute.

She feels like she owes him this much, even if they weren’t in love as deeply as she’d hoped to be; even if she was only half serious when she told him that she’d move to Maine with him.

It’s also distracting and oddly comforting. It helps her work through the sporadic grief that surges forth whenever she has to drive past Radio Shack, whenever she rents a scary movie for Will.

Somehow, she gets through Christmas, New Year’s, and the dark, frozen sharpness of winter.

On a gray afternoon in mid-March, she notices a shift.

It’s completely unexpected and probably against her better judgment, but it’s definitely there.

Hopper stops by the store on his lunch break that day - he’s made a habit of visiting her at work when his schedule lines up with hers. At first she’d found it sweet, endearing even — now, she can’t help but feel glum whenever he doesn’t have a chance to come in.

Joyce smiles brightly when he walks through the door — she’s all teeth and maybe gums too, like a teenage girl in the throes of young love.

Have I always done that? she wonders, then bites the inside of her lip. Hard.

Well, she’s not dreaming.

He asks how she’s doing, holds his hat in his hands and rubs the brim between his thumbs and forefingers.

They chat for a few minutes, a bit of small talk. His gaze lingers on hers far longer than usual.

Wait a minute. Has he always looked at me that way?

Her pulse thrums in her throat, suddenly wild. Her cheeks and neck feel hot.

When he turns to leave, she tries to clamp down on this odd feeling in her chest — tries to dissect it, tries to trace the fine, delicate edges in her mind. It moves to and fro like a hummingbird, zipping around her ribs, twisting through her stomach and sparking a small fire that begins to burn almost painfully.

Hopper is out of the store and down the sidewalk by the time that Joyce realizes she has a crush.

A crush! It’s a feeling that seems too ridiculous to entertain at this point in her life.

Women her age didn’t experience these things, especially women with kids and a divorce under their belt. Women her age were mature and sensible, and sought out perfectly reasonable relationships with perfectly reasonable men.

But maturity and sensibility and reason all go sailing right out the window, because she has a goddamn crush on Jim Hopper, Chief of Hawkins Police: adoptive father to a telekinetic teenager, overly charming skirt chaser (though possibly reformed?), and her former high school boyfriend.

She doesn’t immediately try to talk herself out of it, which is mildly surprising.

There are all sorts of reasons why they’d never work together.

Logical reasons. Very logical reasons, thank you very much.

Her heart isn’t interested in hearing about any of them, quite frankly, no matter how many rational, fact-based theories she dreams up.

Throughout all of this silly nonsense, Joyce continues to add to Bob’s bridge, but it’s slow going. The pieces seem to materialize out of order, and they don’t always fit quite right.

On an unseasonably warm April day, a glimpse of Hopper’s Blazer cruising down Main Street is enough to send her pulse off and racing.

He drives by while she’s in the middle of ringing up an order for Mrs. Calloway, and a full body flush curls all the way from her toes to her ears. This causes the elderly widow to ask, “Are you feeling alright, dear? You’re quite pink!”

That’s the exact moment that it hits her, a lightning strike and clap of thunder booming above her head—

This is much more than a crush.

Joyce is falling in love.

Goddamnit.

#jopper #jopperfic #joyce x hopper #hopper x joyce #jim hopper #Joyce Byers #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fandom #stranger things fics #angst angst angst #and some fluff for ya #chapter 1 of 5

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architectnews · 3 years

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Brasília Cerrado-city by Carlos M Teixeira

Brasília Cerrado, cidade e natureza, paisagismo urbano, cerrado, vazios e sólidos, ecologia urbana, Moisei Ginzburg, Architecture

Brasília, Cerrado-city

19 July 2021

Location: Brasília, Brasil, South America

Brasília, Cerrado-city by Carlos M Teixeira architect

Resume

E se Brasília fosse retomada pelo Cerrado que ela destruiu? Esse artigo descreve uma capital imaginária agora integrada neste bioma. Pois Brasília não tomou posse do Planalto Central: este é que está, sub-repticiamente, recuperando um território perdido.

What if Brasília was taken over by the Cerrado that it once destroyed? This article describes an imaginary capital now integrated into this biome. Because Brasilia did not take possession of the Central Plateau: in fact, the biome is trickily recovering an apparently lost territory.

¿Qué pasa si Brasilia fue tomada por el Cerrado que la destruyó? Este artículo describe una capital imaginaria ahora integrada en este bioma. Pues Brasilia no tomó posesión del Planalto Central: él está, subrepticiamente, recuperando un territorio aparentemente perdido.

Brasilia, Cerrado-city

Sinopse

Carlos M Teixeira é arquiteto pela Escola de Arquitetura da UFMG (Belo Horizonte), mestre em urbanismo pela Architectural Association (Londres) e doutorando pela FAUP (Porto). Publicou os livros “Em obras: história do vazio em BH” (Cosac Naify, 1999) e “Ode ao Vazio” (Romano Guerra / Nhamérica, 2017), e é sócio do escritório Vazio S/A.

Carlos M Teixeira is an architect at the School of Architecture / UFMG (Belo Horizonte), a master in urbanism at the Architectural Association (London) and a PhD student at FAUP (Porto). He published the books “Under construction: history of the void in BH” (Cosac Naify, 1999) and “Ode to the void” (Romano Guerra / Nhamérica, 2017), and is a partner at Vazio S/A.

Carlos M Teixeira es arquitecto por la Escuela de Arquitectura de la UFMG (Belo Horizonte), maestro en urbanismo por la Architectural Association (Londres) y estudiante de doctorado de la FAUP (Oporto). Publicó los libros “Em obras: história do vazio em BH” (Cosac Naify, 1999) y “Ode ao vazio” (Romano Guerra / Nhamérica, 2017), y es socio de Vazio S/A.

Brasília, cidade-Cerrado

Author: Carlos M Teixeira

Brasília, Cerrado-city

The natural landscape around Brasília is the Cerrado, the tropical savanna that covers much of the country’s midlands and harbors some typological similarities with the scruffy vacant lots, brakes and thickets of large cities. The Cerrado is the wild grasses of Brasília and its environs, mixed with creeping weeds, sedges and rushes that invade the sidewalks and plague kept lawns (in this strict sense, Cerrado = urban grass). And just like weeds are detested in the urban environment, the Cerrado is considered the runt of Brazil’s biomes, and is the one extended the fewest legal protections.

Range | The second-largest landscape formation in Brazil, the Cerrado is one of its seven biomes, covering an area of approximately 1.5 million km2 (22% of the national territory). Though concentrated on the Central Tableland, especially the states of Minas Gerais, Goiás, Mato Grosso, Mato Grosso do Sul and Tocantins, the Cerrado stretches north to Amapá and as far south as Paraná. The biome is home to a third of Brazil’s biodiversity, 5% of the world’s flora and fauna, and the headwaters that supply the country’s three major catchment basins (Araguaia/Tocantins, São Francisco and Paraná/Paraguai). It’s flora is unique, with well-dispersed trees and shrubs coexisting with dense grass and brush cover, producing a South-American version of the African savannah. As it transitions into all of Brazil’s other ecosystems, geopolitical regions and territories, the Cerrado is an agent of national integration. The balance of this ecosystem, surpassed only by the Amazon in terms of biodiversity, is of fundamental importance to the stability of all other Brazilian biomes.

Why Cerrado? | The appearance of the Cerrado’s characteristic plant formations is explained:[1]

By pedological theories: according to which the vegetation is seen as dependent on edaphic and geological aspects, such as mineral deficiencies, soil saturation by elements like aluminum, differences in drainage and soil depth;

By climate theories: according to which Cerrado vegetation is the result of climate, especially the seasonal water shortages during the dry period; and

By biotic theories: for which Cerrado vegetation is a response to human action, chiefly our frequent use of fire, and the impact of other elements in the biota, such as ants.

Flora | The Cerrado can display different sorts of vegetation depending on the amount of water available, the regime and degree of fire-use, and the prevailing soil type. As such, the biome can present itself under numerous guises: park savanna, wooded savanna, Cerrado proper, “Cerradão”, or wild grasslands, and even gallery forest. Park savanna is dominated by gramineous plants, while the woodier variants escalate into shrubs and bushes. Cerrado proper is sparsely wooded grassland, while Cerradão denotes thick brush. Gallery forest is found along the banks of streams and usually consists of evergreen species, some of which can be quite tall.

The Cerrada is home to a rich flora. The order that predominates on the woody stratum is the Fabaceae (Leguminosae), while the herbaceous stratum is dominated by the Poaceae (Gramineae) and Composites. There are thought to be 10 thousand different species in the Cerrado, many of which are used to produce cork, fibers and oils, as a material in arts and crafts, and in several foods and medicines. The trees have taproots that can burrow as deep as 12 meters underground to reach the water table—affording a constant water supply even during drought. Another characteristic is deciduousness, or leaf-loss, a strategy that enables plants to economize on water being lost through leaf transpiration during dry periods. The most robust specimens tend to be medium sized (3 to 6 meters tall), with gnarled and twisted trunk and branches, pre-historically thick bark and coriaceous leaves.

The twisted aspect of Cerrado tree branches is explained by the “burning of the apical meristem”. All Cerrado plants have an apical meristem (growth zone) and secondary meristems that remain inactive unless the apical meristem is shorn or irremediably damaged. When the apical meristem is burned, as often occurs in the region, secondary meristems are activated and growth resumes in another direction. The fire explanation is further strengthened by the fact that some seeds only germinate after being burned—a sort of vaccination against fire. Another strong indicator is the thickness of the tree bark, which functions as a species of fire-resistant cladding.[2]

Pyrolandscaping | If the Cerrado’s trees are gnarled by fire, then what we have is a flora defined by its capacity to adapt to fire and avoid destruction by it. A “pyrolandscape” formed by two different types of pyrovegetation: the passive pyrophytes, or species that adopt strategies to resist destruction by fire (twisted trees); and active pyrophytes, consisting of species that depend on fire to thrive and regenerate (the graminaceous plants).[3]

Scrubland | As a tropical savanna seen by most as a poor biome and convenient spillover for farmland, the Cerrado receives little legal protection. Unlike the Atlantic Forest, Amazon Rainforest, and Pantanal wetlands, the Cerrado is not listed as Natural Heritage in the Federal Constitution, despite being one of the 25 most biodiverse regions on the planet, and the most biodiverse savanna in existence. Only 1.7% of its total area enjoys strict-use protected area status. And, just as urban weeds and grasses are ignored, the Cerrado is seen as a wasteland ripe for new, territorial-scale undertakings. Back in the Seventies, the Midwest, most of which lies within the Cerrado, produced roughly 6% of Brazil’s soya. Today, it produces around half. Livestock farming in the Midwest has grown exponentially and currently accounts for a third of Brazil’s cattle herds and a fifth of its swine. This livestock expansion is one of the main pressures on the Cerrado today. Recent studies by Embrapa, the Brazilian Agricultural Research Corporation, found that under 5% of the Cerrado remains in viable fragments—swaths of over 2,000 hectares capable of sustaining the biome’s reproductive chains. If we add smaller pockets, the total amount of preserved Cerrado reaches no more than 20%.

Lúcio Costa | Inspired by the parks of England, where he spent his childhood, Lúcio Costa, author of Brasília’s Pilot Plan, considered lawns one of the most important ingredients in the capital’s urbanist concept. Essentially, Brasília is an axis of key public buildings and residential super blocks, joined by a road system capable of functioning without the need for intersections. And all of this is girded by gardens and parks designed according to “landscaping techniques”.

However, for Costa, Brasília was not a Cerrado-city, but a city consisting of an artificial/natural landscape blend: “Normally, urbanization means creating the conditions for a city to happen. But in Brasília it meant taking the place—in the manner of the Conquistadores or Louis XV—and imposing upon it an urban structure capable of receiving, over the short term, the installation of a new Capital. Unlike cities that conform and adjust to the landscape, in the desert Cerrado, spread beneath an immense open sky, as if built upon the high seas, it was the city that created the landscape.”[4]

And yet, what happened was the opposite: the landscape created the city, and that is why I can safely say that Brasília is, first and foremost, a Cerrado-city (or, to create an even more sonorous definition, a Scrubland-city). It is undoubtedly the highest praise a Cerrado-built city could receive—never mind the various differences between the exotic trees of Brasília and the untouched Cerrado of the rest of Federal District.

Cerrado-city? There is very likely a Brasília mythology that remains to be told. The blue sky and red land will someday birth a new prose, a new ecology: those of the unending grasses. No monument, no exuberances. And yet, what is it that makes the Cerrado so fascinating? It must be the power of its sheer territorial expanse. The murmuring of its endangered immensity. The end of the heroic distinction between nature and culture. The unplanned clash between Brazilian architecture and the Central Tableland. The succession of rigid functions of modern urbanism (hotel sector, commercial sector, banking sector, etc.) corrupted by the free succession of thick-barked trees (stryphnodendrons, kielmeyeras, Machaerium villosum, etc.). The organic writhing of twisted trunks muddying the geometric curves of the vaults and the arches. The modern capital as incontrovertible proof that Brazil is not a modern country, but a place where nature still reigns with crushing ease. The negation of the nation’s baroque and colonial heritage and an ode to the primary vitality of the earth, not to mention the perfect expression of our culpability: after all, why isn’t Brasília a Cerrado-city?

Revenge | The artificial predominance of bahiagrass on the Ministerial Esplanade has its days numbered. Contrary to dear Lúcio’s wishes, there are no English lawns in Brasília: molasses-grass seeds hibernate, lying in wait, biding their time to exact revenge for their expulsion. The future belongs to the local species, not the exotic blow-ins the city’s gardening corps struggles to maintain.

Brasília’s defenders will argue that there is still some autochthonous vegetation to be found in the city, but they have been deceived by appearances. For example: the buriti palms that adorn the capital’s palaces did not grow there naturally. They were uprooted and transplanted in bulk, with one particularly impressive specimen being replanted in Buritis Square. It stands 20 meters tall, weighs 25 tons and is around 200 years old (the age was estimated from the rings in the verge trunk). In 1967, 51 buriti palms were dispatched to Itamarati Palace. In 1971, 47 were sent to the Urban Military Sector. In 1977, buritis that once stood in a grove in Goiás were uprooted and packed off to Brasília’s Recreational Park.[5] (One of the reasons for transplanting trees was the slow growth rate of Cerrado plants. A canela-de-ema [Vellozia squamata], for example, reaches reproductive maturity at the ripe old age of 1,000, and a purple threeawn, at 600. It takes a buriti palm half a millennium to reach a height of 30 meters. As the geographer Altair Barbosa said, the veredas [6]—which existed in abundance until recently—were made up of young plants when Pedro Álvares Cabral “discovered” Brazil in 1500. The palm trees that were just sprouting then now stand 25 or 30 meters tall.)

But, getting back to the the revenge of the native grasses: it’s not just a local matter. Consider, for example, the negative effect of grass in the United States, a country where almost every house sits in a well-tended lawn. This tradition began with the castles of the French and British aristocracy in the late middle ages, when it was seen (and still is) as a symbol of power, prestige and wealth. Some time later, with the model of the American suburb followed by the invention of automatic irrigation systems and the lawnmower, lawns became accessible to millions of families, to such an extent that they are now a fundamental element of the suburban paradise cultivated by the petit-bourgeoisie. A NASA study recently revealed that there are 63,000 square miles of garden lawns in the US, an area larger than the state of Georgia. Keeping all those lawns nice and green can take up 50 to 75% of a residence’s annual water consumption. American lawnmowers guzzle 17 million gallons of fuel each year and belch the fumes back into the atmosphere.Then there are the fertilizers and pesticides: garden-owners spend US$ 36 billion on these agrochemicals per annum, a sum 4.5 times the annual budget of the US Environmental Protection Agency.

A lawn of native grasses, on the other hand, provides habitat for birds and insects. Gramineous spreads are a natural carbon sink, extracting carbon dioxide from the air and storing it in their roots deep underground. In dry places, like southern California, there is no reason for there to be conventional lawns: in the light of recent droughts, Californian city halls have started offering homeowners incentives to replace their lawns with native vegetation.[7]

Biological Invasions | It sounds like the title of a disaster movie, but it’s actually an academic journal published since 1999 by the Swiss group Springer International Publishing. Biological Invasions runs countless papers on alien invasive species. Biotic Homogenization of the South American Cerrado, for instance, speaks of the invasion of the Cerrado and discusses how it might be contributing toward biotic homogenization. The Cerrado is slowly being overtaken by non-native species, whether through crops or pasture, while the native species are becoming increasingly endangered through habitat loss and the alkalization of the Cerrado’s acidic soils.

Figure v Background | As many critics of the modern city have noted, in the traditional baroque city, the houses are the background and the streets themselves, the foreground. Façades are a solid constructed mass that serves as background to squares and streets, both essentially public spaces. In Ouro Preto, for example, the voids are not infinite: they are foreground, and they have form, drawn by the surrounding buildings. Tiradentes Square, the city’s main public space, is a rectangle with four clearly delineated sides: at one end stands the Minas School, with the Municipal Assembly and Jailhouse at the other, with terraces of two-story townhouses running between them on either side. It’s a convention of the traditional city that can be schematized as solid=background, void=foreground. The contiguous blocks (solids) hedge an environment (void); the everyday structures define the public spaces.

The modern city inverted this convention in a radical manner: each building was to be a highlight. Rather than compose a continuous, homogeneous background fabric, modern buildings are objectual, made for the importance of a monument. Where before, as in Ouro Preto, façades were continuous and the voids, discontinuous and hemmed, now the voids are continuous backdrop and the buildings themselves the delimited foreground figures. The buildings of today have four sides, each equally important, and are made to be viewed from multiple angles, while the anonymous buildings of Ouro Preto have only one main façade. Every modern building aspires to monumentality, as an island in a sea of greenery; each unit in the superblocks of Brasília, for example, is supposed to be seen against a neutral backdrop.[8]

But the city made of isolated objects in rambling voids, of disperse bodies that, in principle, translate a fair and enlightened, free and rational society is also the city of disorientations caused by repetition, the unbroken continuum without end or limit, the lack of references or urban landmarks that confuses even the longest-standing residents (and, obviously, it is also the city of inequality and injustice). Each block is sculptural, but this accumulation of objects generates what the anthropologist James Holsten called “sculptural anonymity” and “semantic impossibility”. Objects that say they define the space of the superblocks are actually only occupiers of space that delimit nothing at all. Perhaps that’s why the binomial is useless to Brasília, on one side, and to the Cerrado, on the other: we need to adopt a new foreground/background, nature/architecture strategy.

New Ecology | Are we standing before an opportunity to imagine a new urban ecology? A new way of seeing the city in which it and the territory blend indissociably into one-in-the-same landscape? Here, the background predominates and blurs the foreground; the air, the light, the vegetation, and the heat undo the architecture. The background to Brasília is a wild green that does not need to be tended behind fences, like the lawns of a conventional park. What we have is an unnameable middle ground: the vegetation here consists of those pesky grasses that grow unkempt in vacant urban lots, but it’s an urban extension of a natural domain that encompasses the nation’s second largest reserve of fauna and flora. A successful fusion of foreground/background that puts into practice what other modern cities pursue as their ultimate end—an end that is here attainable, because we’re smack in the middle of an inebriating asset: the Cerrado.

The greenery that lifts our spirits amidst all the dispiriting concrete blocks; the sea of space that battles back the arrogance of this urban undertaking; we have to speak of Brasília with innocence, waiting to trigger an as yet embryonic stratagem. A maneuver that calls for the coexistence of order and disorder, permanence and becoming, future and past, background/foreground and foreground/background.

However, discovering the torpor of the Cerrado should always be done with one caveat in mind: it is no longer virgin; its page is not entirely blank, but bears signs of prior use. The operation, the act of discovery, has to be contaminated, in advance, with the conflict between solids and voids, greens and magentas. Analogically, the iconoclastic work “Erased de Kooning Drawing” serves as a sort of parallel to the revelation of these voids. In 1953, the artist Robert Rauschenberg bought a drawing by fellow artist Willem de Kooning and, with the latter’s permission, erased the lines of the original drawing until only faint traces were left on the paper, thus “using the gesture to erase the gesture, the creative device employed anew to undo a set of meanings and replace it with another, devolving the aesthetic unity attained by a completed work to the primordial unity whence it came—the empty canvas or sheet of paper”.[9] Rauchenberg’s procedure erased De Kooning’s drawing, but left its indelible mark, as it were, on the paper.

The critic José Miguel Wisnik has said: “The backlands self-destruct, inviolable — because, for better or worse, something of it always remains, the irreducible and rebellious substrate of all its reboundings—, always growing back, because nothing is capable of scything it away (and its chopped trees are living proof).”[10]

The backlands are inviolable, but not everyone sees them that way. When he drew up the axes of his Pilot Plan, Lúcio Costa made a proclamation worthy of a conquistador: “The gesture of one who is staking claim: two axes crossed at right angles.” But no, Brasília staked no claim over the Central Tableland: it is what it is, where it is, cunningly, reclaiming a territory thought lost. There must lie a red and acidic soil underneath all that tarmac (sous les pavés, la terre!); there must be signs of the Cerrado’s persistence in Brasília and Brasília’s insistence in the Cerrado. Just like Brazil’s conservative modernity consists of two layers—the archaic and the new—always superposed and never peeled apart.

The other, the same : So have the backlands become the nation’s capital? Yes, if we opt for the persuasiveness of absurdity. “This constructive and destructive power, which takes over the space, blind to the biomass it clears away, is still and forever the backlands, the other and the same, its double”.[11] The same backlands of which the sociologist Gilberto Freyre said, back in 1968: “as a new city, Brasília should not be considered a pure architectural problem, nor even a problem of urbanism, but of ecology. Of tropical ecology in all its complexity.” He went further: “(…) I blame Juscelino Kubitschek, who should have invited ecologists and social scientists to provide some check and balance to the flights of fancy of his team of artists from other fields and practices.”[12]

Rio | Seen from inside the buildings of his Contemporary City, what are the gardens designed by Le Corbusier? Part of his plan to “free up the center” and spread the greenery citywide. But also an essential aspect of the modern city: endowing it with vast neutral lawns as the backdrop to an architecture that was always intended as foreground figure. A tamed and homogeneous product of landscaping. “Sun, space, verdure: essential joys. Through the four seasons stand the trees, friends of man. Great blocks of dwellings run through the town. What does that matter? They are behind the screen of trees. Nature is entered into the lease.”[13]

But now they are shaking off that neutrality in favor of a verdant virulence, encroaching on the courts and patios in an irrational shift that rebuffs the modern discourse. How can the city of Rio de Janeiro be conquered by an army of ornamental plants, as arrowheads, Swiss cheese plants, devil’s ivy and lacy trees unleash a sneaky ambush, creeping from their concrete window boxes to seize the sidewalks, clamber up the tree trunks and overrun the flower beds as a raiding plague. That’s the difference between Rio and other cities: here, the plan, like a Benign Tumor[14], is no environmentalist delirium, but just another element in a surreal reality. And even if it’s confined, for now, to the South Zone, it may be just biding its time before expanding into downtown and the North Zone too.

Moisei Ginzburg, or the conflictual clash of magenta and green | It was Moisei Ginzburg, architect and theorist of Soviet constructivism, who proposed an even more radical strategy for Moscow in his Green City project: the capital was to be gradually transformed, naturally and entropically dissolved.

According to the call for entries to an architecture competition organized by the government of the USSR in 1930, the Green City was initially to be a holiday resort with capacity for one hundred thousand vacationers at a time connected to Moscow by an existing railroad. But Ginzburg’s design was more ambitious than that, and went much further, transforming Moscow itself into one big park. To work this transformation, he proposed three strategic measures: relocate institutional buildings, relocate the Moscovite population to areas adjacent to highways out of the capital, and, most radical of all, ban all new constructions inside Moscow.

The idea was to let the buildings be overgrown by the grasses of the Russian steppe, allow the city to be transformed by entropy, erasing all trace of the counterrevolutionary presence. (Moscow would be an urban manifesto of the Second Law of Thermodynamics, after the description by the author Isaac Asimov: “We have to work hard to straighten a room, but left to itself, it becomes a mess again very quickly and very easily. Even if we never enter it, it becomes dusty and musty. How difficult to maintain houses, and machinery, and our own bodies in perfect working order; how easy to let them deteriorate. In fact, all we have to do is nothing, and everything deteriorates, collapses, breaks down, wears out, all by itself—and that is what the Second Law is all about.”[15]

But, getting back to Ginzburg, he proposed disurbanizing the traditional city, letting the capitalist city fall to rot while suburbanizing the entire Soviet Union. The buildings symbolic of Czarism would not be artificially preserved: from the very moment they were considered dispensable, all heritage protection would be lifted. There would be no heritage institute at all, and the state would be unburdened of the obligation to simulate life in dead buildings. These would be left to crumble and be swallowed up by returning nature. With time, Moscow would become a rambling park of overgrown lots, of palaces and old buildings in leafy ruin, with no pipes or pumps or prosthesis to keep them in shape. In other words, Moscow would become a mosaic of tones of green and magenta, where flurries of warm hues would meet islands of repose in verdant tracts. But this greenery would never be dull, thanks to violent eruptions—healthily disturbing infiltrations, if you will— of magenta. In the end, this vision of the “city turned inside out” would generate, not monotonous green, nor edgy magenta, but a blend of both: magenta + green = grey.

Ginsburg was under the influence of disurbanism, a doctrine that preached the end of the concept of the city as we know it. In 1930, the USSR was still a hotbed of extreme experiments, with various groups of artists and architects organizing themselves under competing revolutionary manifestos. The sociologist Mikhail Okhitovich was one of the intellectuals who proposed taking the socialist experiment down dangerously unprecedented roads. His disurbanism envisioned settlements scattered throughout the Soviet Union, with collective mess halls, recreational centers, and employment bureaus just off branches of highway, all vaguely reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Broadacre City. Through a nationwide transport, energy and communications network, disurbanism would spread 42m2 single-family residences all across the country. The state would provide each individual with a light, pre-fabricated unit that could be coupled with other units as the person saw fit, and all interconnected by a mesh of roadways, railways and airports. Urban agglomerations in the form of cities would be eliminated in favor of low-density, self-sufficient settlements with 20, 50 or as few as 3 residents! And Moscow, relieved of its remit as a city, would be converted into a colossal park.[16]

A defender of the opposition of the exiled Leon Trotsky, Mikhail Okhitovich fell out with the Communist Party at the start of Stalin’s rise, and, having attacked the personality cult growing up around him, found himself rebuked by the Politburo for his intellectual and architectural output. His disurbanism was branded economically incapacitating, and he was arrested, sent to the Gulag and finally executed in 1937.[17]

Le Corbusier had once said that the modern city should be one big park, but his Contemporary City was not radical enough. He never cogitated a city-park the size of the world’s largest country or a Paris entirely left to the destructive forces of nature. And, for that, Ginsburg attacked his former idol, now scorned as a conformist and reactionary. Interested in designing projects in the USSR, the rising hope of a new society and new world, Corbusier responded to the threat posed by the disurbanists in a letter addressed to Ginzburg. The Russian replied as follows:

“My dear Le Corbusier,

(…) You, the best of surgeons of the contemporary city, you want to cure it by all means. This is why you elevate the city on poles wishing to solve the unsolvable problem of movement in a metropolis, a movement in the absence of space. You create magnificent gardens on the roofs of multi-story buildings wishing to give people an extra bit of greenery, you create charming villas, giving their inhabitants ideal conveniences, peace and comfort. But you create all that because you wish to cure the city, [you] attempt to essentially preserve it the way it was created by capitalism.

It happens that we, in the USSR, are in a more favorable position—we are not tied to the past. History confronts us with problems that require revolutionary solutions and, however insufficient our resources may be, we will solve them, come what may.

We diagnose the contemporary city. We say: yes, it is ill, mortally ill. But we do not want to cure it. We prefer to destroy it and want to start working on the creation of a new type of human settlement, which would be devoid of internal contradictions and which we could call socialist.”[18]

Identity | But we are not living in times anywhere as futurist as those that begot the modern city or even the Green City. On the contrary: ours is a time in which we are best advised to envision a future based on what we’ve already got and which considers the latent potential of the existing city, whatever that may be.

Since it was declared a UNESCO heritage site in 1987, everything in Brasília has conspired towards maintenance ipsis literis; towards a hands-tied rigidity and bureaucratization. Fossilized by nostalgia, its future is no longer contained in the Pilot Plan, but in the satellite towns founded by the demobbed construction workers who built it. So any chance of reinventing the Pilot Plan lies in its empty spaces: only there—in its greenery, not its concrete—can we imagine a potential landscape as a source of surprises and new identities. Or: the magenta as a sea of sameness formed by six-floor blocks; the green as freedom and future. Today, turning Brasília into a more diverse city means investing in what’s left to us to touch, the remaining pockets of potential for identification and differentiation: on one hand, landscape as expression in the superblocks; on the other, as a better future for the satellite cities. Out of the omnipresent Cerrado surges a new metropolitan region with more variations and fewer inequalities.

This proposal is not entirely contrary to Lúcio Costa’s ideas on urban landscape. In fact, it confirms some of them: the superblocks, for Costa, were to be “framed by a large, thick belt of trees, large trees, with different species dominating in each block, rising out of lawns behind an intermittent curtain of shrubbery and foliage, literally hedging the blocks from view at any angle, shunting them into a background buffered by landscape. There is a dual advantage to this, insofar as it guarantees a certain urbanist uniformity regardless of the density, category, standard or architectural quality of its buildings (…)”[19].

Heritage Protection In the end, what UNESCO listing did was freeze a city that is more scrubland than town and which has such vast voids that they might even be more interesting with a few more constructions in them. Ironically, urban ecologists, potential allies of a Green Pilot Plan, disapprove of it. Being declared a heritage protection site perpetuated Brasília as an economically inviable, socially unjust and ecologically unsustainable city: its mono-functional zones and the large distances between every this and that are the image of a city that is inhospitable to the pedestrian, to street life, to mixed uses, to the act of walking and to any viable public transport (not to mention the gaping inequalities between the Pilot Plan and the satellite towns). For the urban ecologists, the efficient cities are those that are dense and compact and manage to maximize public and private investments through their capacity to generate their own resources, essential to maintaining their ongoing and sustainable development. Brasília, the federal capital and symbol of the nation, is thus a benchmark of Brazilian inefficiency—a characteristic that has a positive side to it, all the same. So Brasília is an anti-modern city: if modernity means function, rationality and therapeutic quality. Brasília is all pomp, excess and waste; all caused by modern zoning and those intermittent sprawls of void.

But the city is not alone in this double-edged fiasco. It is trust in technique—in a technique of poetic dimensions—, created as if out of momentary spasms and convulsions that then relax back into their primitive state. As the art critic Ronaldo Brito said in Contra o Culto da Ignorância, “We desire a ‘natural order’—let thought return to it as fast as it possibly can—(…) To the problems of thought, [we, Brazilians] apply nature. To those of nature, we apply thought. All our trust in technique seems to rest, secretly, on our belief in nature—after all, she is Amazonian, prodigious and inexhaustible. Our symbolism responds to technique in a very simple way—it tries to mythologize it, turn it, one way or another, into magic.”

All we can do now is believe in this other capital, transforming it into a Cerrado-city before farming and livestock ranching can advance upon it and transform it in their image once and for all. As almost all of the Cerrado has been converted into soya plantations and pasture, the time has come for an absurd natural vengeance to strike environmentally and politically where it is least expected: in Brasília.

[1] “Guia do Cerrado”, Empresa das Artes: São Paulo, 2003

[2] “Ecossistemas: Cerrado”, in ONG VivaTerra, www.vivaterra.org.br, accessed on 03/2006

[3] According to a classification used by the landscaper Gilles Clément in “Paysages du feu”, https://www.botanique-jardins-paysages.com/102011-2/, accessed on 04/2019

[4] Lúcio Costa, “Registro de uma Vivência”, Rio de Janeiro, 1995

[5] Marta Adriana Bustos Romero, “A sustentabilidade do ambiente urbano da capital”. In: Brasília, controvérsias ambientais. Brasília: Editora Universidade de Brasília, 2003

[6] Veredas are “oases” of palm trees that grow among shrubs near headwaters or watercourses in the Cerrado.

[7] Eric Holthaus, “Get Rid of Your Lawn”, in Slate Magazine 06/05/2019, https://slate.com/technology/2019/05/lawns-are-bad-get-rid-of-them.html, acessado em 05/2019

[8] James Holston, “A Cidade Modernista”, Companhia das Letras: São Paulo, 1993, 126

[9] Paul Wood, “Arte Conceitual”, Cosac & Naify: São Paulo, 2002

[10] José Miguel Wisnik, “O famigerado”, Scripta, vol. 5/nº10: Belo Horizonte, 2002

[11] José Miguel Wisnik, “O famigerado”, Scripta, vol. 5/nº10: Belo Horizonte, 2002

[12] Gilberto Freyre, “Brasis, Brasil e Brasília”. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1968

[13] Le Corbusier, “The Home of Man”, London, 1948. Cited in Collin Rowe, Fred Koetter, Collage city, MIT Press: Cambridge, 1984, p 51

[14] “If the history of Belo Horizonte is a film, it can be summarized as a transformation of a young town’s voids into the full spaces of a saturated city. This project is a scene from this film watched in fast-rewind, as on a VCR: it’s a regression through history that, paradoxically, reveals the city’s best futures.

We recapitulate the entire history of BH in a matter of minutes, just to make the absurd occupation of its voids all the clearer. If this city’s “progress” is identified with the gradual occupation of its lots, parks and greenery, the retrocession consists in emptying out the fullness and reinstating the emptiness and removed nature. Uncluttering the center, efficiently filling out and interconnecting the outskirts, imagining projects every bit as a delirious as was the densification of Belo Horizonte in the first place. Returning, that is, to the origins of the city, imagining once more the liberty and power of its voids. We watch the urban zone as it becomes a huge Municipal Park, in an act of ‘urbanist vengeance’.

Like an enormous Central Park—at once the negation and exaltation of the city—, the urban zone will be handed over to the nature that belongs to it: the nature of things that eschew the artificiality of architecture. The revenge: the inverse metastasizing of that which characterized the city’s growth. A benign tumor. A stain of voids contaminated by fullnesses. A regression: a return to the beginning of history as a way of envisioning a healthier future.” In Carlos M Teixeira, “História do vazio em Belo Horizonte. São Paulo: Cosac Naify, 1999.

[15] Isaac Asimov, “In the Game of Energy and Thermodynamics You Can’t Even Break Even”, Smithsonian Institution Journal (June 1970), p.6

[16] Fosco Lucarelli, “Mikhail Okhitovich and Disurbanism”, in http://socks-studio.com/2012/07/14/mikhail-okhitovich-and-the-disurbanism/, accessed on 02/2019

[17] Idem.

[18] Alla Vronskaya, “The utopia of personality: Moisei Ginsburg project for the Moscow’s park of culture and leisure”, in Problema voluminis 4.

[19] Lúcio Costa, “Plano Piloto de Brasília”, Módulo Arquitetura Ltda, s/data. Another reference on the importance of integration with the landscape in Costa’s work is the description of his preliminary design for the Monlevade Workers’ Villa (1934), which was structured along three main principles, the third of which was, “in the interests of the program itself, to cause as little damage as possible to the natural beauty of the place.”

Brasília Cerrado-city by Carlos M Teixeira images / information received 190721

Architect Carlos Teixeira works for Vazio Arquitetura in Brasil

Location: Brasília, DF, Brazil

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