#op join the prayer circle
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First post or maybe second. I think there's a picture of stuffed animals from like a decade ago. But let's see how this goes.
Jason is having his death day, Danny wants to help. (Xey and xeir are used as pronouns for an alien species for whom English can't really cut it)
The day sucked. It fucking sucked every single year. Every inch of his body ached and screamed in pain with each step, turn, and movement. He could hear the incessant, unending beeping wherever he went. Of course… it wasn't unending. It had very abruptly and very importantly ended, once upon a time. Which led him to the next reason this day, every single year, was so unbearably shitty: the sweats. It felt like he was boiling alive on the surface of the sun and no matter what he did, no matter how he distracted himself, he always remembered why. Why he had to feel this way every year and how each torment served as a memento of that day.
Jason continued walking down the street in the vain hope to clear his head when he heard a voice.
"Yeeeeesh!" A boy said, "I think I can taste that."
As Jason turned, he noticed the boy, thin, no older than 16, with stark white hair, was staring directly at him. Staring at him and slowly walking closer.
"Hey there man," he started, "believe me when I say: I know today sucks. I don't know how badly or what exactly you're dealing with, but I know it's bad."
The teen was now standing right in front of him and yet Jason felt glued to the spot, like something was keeping him there and that the very idea of brushing off this boy and continuing on his horrid stroll would be an act of blasphemy. The boy reached out a hand and placed it gently on Jason's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. And to his utter shock, Jason didn't shrug it off. In fact, he liked it? For the briefest of moments the aches subsided, the heat receded long enough to feel the cool spring breeze, and the beeping faded into nothing. He could swear even the pits were calm. No wait, they weren't just calm; they were cooing? Pushing him to lean into the young man's touch.
"Mind if I join you?" The boy asked.
"Please…" Jason spoke, somewhere between a whisper and a prayer.
And they started back along the walkway. Jason couldn't help but feel like the world had stopped as they made their way through Crime Alley.
"You know," the stranger began, "there's nothing wrong with asking, 'GOD, why the fuck is this happening to me?'"
"Sure, you know WHY it's happening. But it seems pretty unfair, no? I mean, we go through this absolutely awful thing once, and then we have to deal with the shadows of it once every three-sixty-five for the rest of eternity? That's just brutal."
Jason knew he had trusted every word spoken to him so far, though he couldn't be sure why. But the small, rational voice in his head now confirmed exactly what the subject of their conversation was.
"Well the truth is," he continued "it's not some command by on high. No one made these rules. It's just how the universe operates. I've actually met quite a few others like us, but they didn't live on a rock rotating around a yellow star. One of them lived their whole life on a space station flying through eternity. And yet even they feel this once every so often."
"See, the thing is, humans operate on an annual time scale. We don't feel greatly connected to something that happened exactly 7 or 28 or 30 days ago. But three hundred and sixty five days… and six-ish hours puts us in basically the exact same spot in the universe. You can feel it, the same air blowing in your face, the same setting sun, even the same clothes you were wear-"
Jason collapsed. He felt the air ripped out of his lungs as he coughed and choked and desperately tried to restart his breathing. Everything hurt, everything was hot, and the GODDAMN BEEPING-
And then it was gone. The only thing he felt was a gentle hand rubbing circles into his back. He turned to look up at the… Spirit? God? "Boy" felt wrong now.
"Ope," he said with a look of concern, "so the clothes were a really important part. Starting to get a picture of what's going on here."
Jason gratefully received a second hand positioned on his chest as he was lifted back into a standing position. Then he turned back to his companion and urged him to continue with his eyes.
"Well," he started again, "basically, we live on a yearly timescale. We don't count months or decades nearly the same way. But that's just us, if we were turtles and the only big happening we saw was that every 23 years a squall split the bay we lived in, you and I would have much longer between our episodes. One of the ones I talked to said xey only experienced it once every 91 years when a certain comet makes its pass through the night sky on xeir planet."
"Anyway," he continued, "what I'm trying to say is that the universe is a fucked up place. But it has rules. Action-reaction and all that. So if you want, I can try and help you get through this as someone more familiar with those rules than you are."
"Please," Jason pleaded, "anything that'll help. I just, I just want it to be easier, I don't need it to be gone; I just want it to be bearable."
"Cool," he responded "glad we're operating on more reasonable expectations. But first things first, I'm gonna need to take a closer look at your core and it's not going to be a particularly comfortable experience. Is that okay?"
Jason nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what this being had meant by "core." He just couldn't help but trust it.
That trust felt slightly misplaced when a hand passed directly into his chest and the arm it was attached to shifted to several angles as if searching for something.
"Aha!" Came the exclamation as the hand retracted, now carrying a small red… was that a page? Like from a book?
"Well this looks cool," the being said, "jeez a bad boy with the heart of a poet. Jazz would have a field day. But let me see here… oh! A protection obsession, just like me. Put 'er there bud."
Jason felt a deep reverberation in his chest as he shook hands with the entity. But everything felt wrong, like his very being had been separated from him so quickly and quietly that he hadn't even noticed. It felt as though he might've gone on blissfully unaware if he hadn't seen the page come out of his chest. And then the world returned. The sounds of the city came to life and when Jason looked down, the page was gone and the hand that held it was pressed gently and flatly back against his chest. The spirit reached down to grab Jason's hand before turning to continue down the street.
After a few minutes, they came to a stop at a park.
"Why are we here?" Asked Jason.
"Dunno," came the reply, "but look closely and I'm sure you'll find the reason."
Jason scanned the park. The homeless resting in the bushes, the trees full of green leaves, several families playing, an old man feeding pigeons, and another walking his dog. His eyes suddenly snapped back to the families. One family. The mother. A young woman with a long, thin scar along her cheek.
He remembered those eyes, that hair. The scar was a fresh gushing wound when he had last seen it, but he remembered that too.
"Her," Jason said, knowing the one beside him understood, "I saved her. Or helped. Back when I was- back before I was- Fuck. Was that a decade ago? Jesus she has a ki-oh man kids. Wait, is she my age? Shit, she seemed so little then."
"Someone you protected," came the voice, "someone for whom you risked your life. Someone who looks at those kids and thanks the universe for putting you on her path every single day."
Jason felt a lump forming in his throat.
"See," the boy started, "I think that's what people forget. Not just other people but us too. It's not about carrying someone through the pouring rain to a hospital. It's definitely not about the praise or detractors or even seeing someone pull through in the end. It's about this. It's about-"
"Seeing them get the chance to flourish," Jason finishes, "watching the world step on them over and over and being there to help them back on their feet the one time it would've been too much on their own. And then knowing they thrived in the end."
"It's hard," the spirit said, "to remember where we really sit in the grand scheme. It can feel like we haven't done anything or that no matter what we do, we'll never be more than one single moment. The reason today sucks every year is important. But it doesn't define who you are or what you'll do. Go visit Mr. Friedrichson at 2:03 today. One of his old tenants is gonna visit and I think you'll enjoy the reminder of why your home is a place worth fighting for, even in spite of the name. Talk to Jenny and Liu. They'll be on 5th Street tonight and they'll talk your ear off about all the good you've done and what it really means to bleed Crime Alley. And can I make one actual request, even if you don't do the other stuff?"
"Of course," Jason replied, "anything."
"Enjoy yourself," the voice spoke, fading as if it was getting farther away. "He's gonna come by as per usual, bearing gifts. But I'm begging you, forgive yourself, even if just for today, and try to enjoy some time with your brother."
"Hey Jason!" Came a call from his other side, "I've been looking all over for you. I got your favorite."
Dick lifted a large brown bag, undoubtedly from the greatest Chinese restaurant in the world… if you asked Jason that is. Jason couldn't help but let a soft smile creep across his face, before quickly hiding behind a groan and a hand pressed into his forehead.
"I can't get one day's peace from you can I?" Jason said as he closed the distance and took the bag.
"Uhh," Dick said, stunned by the more playful remark. "I… I thought you might want some company and I had a free-"
"Thank you Dick," Jason cut in, "I know you take this day off every year and I know you spend it mostly with me screaming and throwing things at you."
"It's not-" he began.
"But this year," Jason continued, "let's do something better."
He lifted the bag to his face and deeply inhaled the fragrant smell of nostalgia and stir fried vegetables.
"You even remembered my special instructions," Jason said, "come on. I know a few places we can go to enjoy this."
Oh boy that was long. Uhh, I hope Tumblr does the whole button to expand this automatically. I kinda only got halfway through what I was gonna say and then burnt out so we skipped Mr. Friedrichson's moment. Anyway have a good one y'all. Oh right, Danny says "bud" and "ope" because he's Midwestern just like me. I don't take criticism (on the Midwestern thing).
#dpxdc#dc x dp#dp x dc crossover#dcxdp#batman#jason todd#red hood#danny phantom#danny fenton#dick grayson#jazz fenton#mentioned#ghost core#obsession
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on a completely different note will u join my prayer circle for deaf mute blind cooking stream not having dream be blind bc snf with knives while dream cannot see them sounds like it'd end in disaster skdhsfjkhhg
oh god how did i not think about the knives. lets hope one of them has the foresight to prep ingredients/not make something that requires sharp objects (they won't)
i'm trying to think of the best option here. dream mute, george deaf, sapnap blind? having sap blind sounds bad actually. having him be deaf sounds worse now that i think abt it. i stand by dream mute tho having his communication skills/ability to control snf's bullshit would be too OP
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Noir conjures up ideas of cynicism, fatalism, and moral ambiguity. It resonates with me and audience worldwide because of its American attitude of sharing individual darkness. Each piece below suggest darkness, and an evolving story of that fall.
[Cue]
Playlist:
The pleading in Rachel's Song suggest an Arabic call to prayer, an Adhan, which Vangelis heard as a child in Egypt. The allure of an Asia Minor harmonies begins our Theme. What is a noir story without an eerie atmospheric summons to a crime scene with its pensive pace, electric simmer in andante and a wordless breathy wail.
Rachel's Song Vangelis Electronic
https://youtu.be/YnwKeiJflBw
Killing Me Softly, Roberta Flack
Folk/R&B https://youtu.be/Dx1XtKbEtfE
In Killing Me Softly the story of a woman unfolds who hears about a man who plays a stringed instrument and she decides to see him perform and the music speaks to her soul as each finger seems to strum a note of pain inside her and so she writes to the musician and she imagines him reading her words, but his song teaches her how to betray herself.
Gloomy Sunday Billie Holliday
Jazz https://youtu.be/zBIqLqUenz0
A tale told by a woman in a suicide note that recounts everyday objects which take on significance like simple white flowers which might might adorn her pauper's coffin so that she might join her departed.
The accompanying melody repeats like a circle with piano and high lingering, but hollow notes from a clarinet matching the foregrounded voice of an emotionally sick Billie Holliday.
Violin Concerto No.1 Op. 99 Nocturne Shostakovich , Hahn
Classical https://youtu.be/LqNuKGkY7L8
The mood downshift from a singular person condemned to not wanting themselves to a country not wanting itself in this Russian masterpiece composed under Stalinism. The voice of a woman undergoes apotheosis into the lamentation of a single despondent instrument, the violent. The deeps of which no single human soul stand before and not feel the uncaring abyss absorbed in neglect and wallowing in inflicting the unspeakable upon one's own people.
God's Gonna Cut You Down Johnny Cash
Country https://youtu.be/eJlN9jdQFSc
A response to suicide or the forces which drove the hand to unthread themselves from this world at the level of a single human life like a hushed candle to a forest fire smoldering and sticking to our clothes.
A classical theme of divine retribution from a just god to pay the evildoers their dues. The song has distinct southern Pentecostal gospel undertones with its clapping foot stomping and lone guitar playing out to a graveling voice asking for punishment perhaps driven by guilt.
"Jesu død" Burzum 1990s
Rock: Norwegian Black Metal
https://youtu.be/fiVre5LrKGw
An ideological shift, a Volta, from the idea of a prayer for a Christian retribution, a harvest time where the guilty are punished into a Pagan viewing the death of Christ as the death of something evil .
Brief cold and repeated chord progressions are layered in lo-fi and are rhythmic punctuated by periodic shifts in intensity which fade into a background rumbling and virbrato notes modulate the soundscape which gradually but suddenly shifts into quick hammering percussive drumming building layer by layer into shrill Norwegian lyric not unlike someone hiss screaming beneath a sheer blanket faraway slightly muffled and ominous.
Below is an emotive text andvisualization of how I imagined this fiction suggested by the music.
We might imagine a film playing before us:
See the child let in the wind of a forlorn cityscape paved with rain neon and fog as a rugged but urban Private Eye smokes beneath the eaves of a tenement watching an immaculate but sensual woman slink into a club slipping a snub nosed 38 into a clutch.
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@lululawrence asked, Hiiiii could you write me a friends to lovers a/b/o drabble?? Pairing of your choice! I'd be super happy if you REALLY leaned into the pining and/or resolution of pining :D
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Got My Heart Out (You’re the truth I can’t explain)
“Alright?”
Louis doesn’t turn from the table he’s leaning over, arms spread as he stares at the array of tools—ropes, knives, grappling hooks, other items to help them go unnoticed—neatly laid out before him. “Should I be?”
The harsh light from the bare bulb on the far end illuminates the knot of tension between Louis’ shoulders. Compared to Louis’s countless crossings, Harry’s not nearly as experienced, but if Harry thought the journey perilous before, it’s deadly now.
“Hate that word, should. Nothing good ever comes from it,” Harry mutters.
His nostrils flare at the barrage of emotions coming off of Louis that up until a week ago no alpha could smell. Unease, doubt, and anger seep into the grounding scent of sandalwood and snapdragons. Neither are found in the concrete jungle of a city they live in. Even Louis’ scent is an anomaly, uplifting and invigorating.
Though it’s only Louis’s decision and Harry’s got no right, he still struggles against every alpha instinct wanting to call the whole mission off. Louis’s too special to him. Harry keeps his arms crossed, gripping his biceps to urge his body to stay in place.
He’s not subtle enough. Louis catches his reaction. Harry’s not surprised. Louis was already incredibly perceptive before he presented with all the extra-sensory skills of an omega.
Jaw clenching, Louis hikes his coat up further, popping the collar in an attempt to cover his scent. “Well you shouldn’t be here, Haz.”
Irritation pricks at the back of Harry’s neck. He clamps his alpha down. Most of their small band is asleep in the other room, gathering what little rest they can before the trip across the border tomorrow, but Harry’s right where he needs to be. With Louis.
Harry closes the distance between them until the inebriating scent from the newly-presented omega nearly overwhelms him. Learning to balance both genders with their pheromones yet to settle, those who’ve just presented have the strongest scents.
In this world, Louis’ scent is a death sentence. They both know they’re racing fate, luck, and time now. If all goes well, and that’s a massive if, they’ve got just enough scent blocker to mask Louis for the crossing.
Louis sucks in a breath, eyes closing. He holds it in as Harry steps up beside him.
“Staying away from you isn’t going to help.” It’s never helped Harry at least. Some mornings it feels like his only reason to keep risking it all is for the chance to be near Louis. “You need to get used to our scents or it’ll slow you down too.”
Being this close to Louis is a lesson in strength Harry thought he didn’t need anymore. Everything about Louis was intoxicating to Harry before Louis presented. Now his alpha has joined this grim game. Harry may as well have presented yesterday rather than two years ago at sixteen for all the fighting he’s having to do.
“I’m twenty. This shouldn’t be fucking happening. Who d’you know that presented after eighteen?” Louis’s fingers curl against the tabletop, nails catching in old scars gouged into the wood.
Head down, messy strands shield most of his face from Harry’s view. Harry longs to run his fingers through them, find out if Louis’s hair is as silky as it seems. Harry digs his nails into his palms until twin flashes of pain shoot up his arms, popping the desire before it can lodge in his muscles and become action.
“Been smuggling omegas over the border for four years because at least Southbank treats them as equals.” Louis’ shoulders tense. “If Westminster finds out about me they’ll put a price on my head and send every soldier they’ve got after me. Fuck knows what Southbank will do, but a male omega? Even if I don’t have- they sure as hell won’t let me go free.”
Harry refuses to dwell on what Louis didn’t say. Keeping Louis’ second gender a secret from everyone but the five of them is going to be near impossible enough. Even after a week, the memory of the powerful shock-laced scent pervading their home the morning Louis presented has Harry’s heart beating double-time and his mouth watering. They won’t have much warning before his first heat and right now none of them have any ideas what they’ll do when it happens.
He wishes he had any answers at all.
Louis jerks a hand, motioning at the supplies. “And now I’m stuck trying not to be sick from the thought of picking up a knife. Cards are really stacked right now, Haz.”
And they’ve got no choice. Success hinges on following through with the plan. They don’t have time to change the rendezvous hour. If they’re not over the border in Westminster on time, the group of refugees on the other side risk capture and Louis’s whole system in danger of discovery.
Louis ducks his chin, shaking his head before brushing his fringe aside. The action is ingrained in Louis when he’s agitated, but Harry nearly groans as a fresh wave of sandalwood hits him.
He latches onto Louis’s wrist. “Don’t—!” He needs to back up. It’s not fair to put this on Louis.
Harry forgets what he needed to do when Louis’s head jolts up, facing Harry for the first time since Harry got here. Harry didn’t realize how close they’d gotten. Features a little paler than usual, the dark circles under Louis’s eyes are stark in the unfiltered light as his brows knit in confusion.
Of course Louis wouldn’t understand. He’s been a beta for twenty years.
Harry forces himself to let go, but he only makes it as far as gripping Louis’s coat instead. “Try not to—” his head jerks as he nods. “That makes it stronger.”
Harry’s not sure if Louis heard him.
Noses nearly touching, Louis sways once, reeling forward then away. Pupils blown wide, his gaze flicks from Harry’s eyes to his lips. Louis’s forehead thuds into his own, eyes fluttering shut.
“Shit,” Louis breathes, shaky fingers winding into the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. He inhales, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Smell like fucking treacle, Hazza.”
Fuck. Louis’s been deliberate about staying away from Harry, but how long has he kept himself at arm’s length from everyone?
With all his willpower tangled up in not tipping Louis up to catch those lips against his own, Harry’s arms wrap unbidden around Louis’s waist, crushing their hips together. Harry’s alpha settles with Louis against him, but his heart explodes.
It’s only Louis’s omega talking. An omega that’s just presented in a dangerous land and hasn’t been touched in days.
Latching onto that mantra to keep his mind clear, Harry cradles the back of Louis’s head instead, drawing Louis’s face down to his neck. He doesn’t need to say anything. Louis’s instincts kick in and he breathes deeply, body curving into Harry’s as he scents him. A deep shiver rocks through Louis, his muscles relaxing.
Harry tightens his grip, suppressing a shudder as Louis’s tongue grazes his throat. “Lou—”
Harry’s too busy fighting himself to resist when Louis launches himself backwards. Eyes wide but clear, Louis starts to shove fingers through his hair but stops. He twists back to the table, flattening his palms against the surface like he’s forcing them to not wander.
“Go, Haz.”
Anxiety blossoms in Harry’s chest. “Lou, you—”
“Please just,” Louis cuts off, inhales, the hard edge gone when he says, “I need you to fucking go.”
Louis knows better. Three of his siblings are omegas. Everything they’re doing here revolves around helping omegas. Leaving won’t help Louis.
Harry presses his hand to the small of Louis’s back, hoping he’ll turn. “You need to—”
“I don’t care what my omega needs right now.” Louis throws the growl over his shoulder then stiffens, like he’s struggling to keep the commanding tone in his voice. “I’m still the head of this op and I need you to go.”
If it were any other omega, Harry would be grappling with his alpha all over again. Instead he places the entire room between them, pausing in the doorway. “Don’t sleep alone tonight. It’ll help. You know it will.”
Louis doesn’t respond. With one last look at the tension winding Louis’ shoulders again, Harry bites down every urge to stay with him. He disappears from the room, sending up a silent prayer that tomorrow’s mission won’t unravel at the seams.
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(Oh my! I’m in the middle of working on my first ABO fic for the @1daboficfest so how awesome was this chance to practice the trope?! Hopefully there’s enough pining! \o/ Thank you for the prompt, lovey! There was no way this one wanted to be less than 1k. Heh.)
Have something else you’d like to see me write? Go wild! Pairing, situation, feeling… Send me an ask (anon or not) completing the sentence ‘I wish you’d write a fic where…’
Superpowers Drabble
Invisible Drabble
Only one bed (H-POV)
Only one bed (L-POV)
#tracking home#hljournal#hlcreators#1dsource#yourlarrysource#tracksintheam#omega Louis#alpha harry#larry fanfiction#larry drabble
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What's this? A Monday chapter? (I tried to get it in for y'all last night, but I had to finish up on my lunch break today.) Please join me in some spycraft shenanigans. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. Enjoy!
Chapter Seven
There ain’t much in this world that happens with clear certainty, but some things simply don’t fail—the rooster crows each morning, church bells ring every Sunday, and Rachel Cameron is always right.
Matt feels it before he sees it. There’s a not-right something along his path, and he only spots it because he knows this route backward and forward. It’s not quite déjà vu, but it’s close enough to catch his eye. His world falls into an absent misalignment as he jumps from point to point, trying to find the source. Vendors call out the same prices. Gamblers bet on the same scores. The same kid throws the same ball, up and down, up and down, into the same beaten-up glove.
But the chain is swinging. That much is different.
The thought whispers to him before his attention fully lands on a stairwell, concealed by shadow. It’s the kind of undecorated concrete that’s reserved for staff and it’s got a single, latch-hooked chain strung from end to end. It is, in every way, designed to keep people out, but the movement pulls Matt in. The chain sways in all of the places it was once still, and it calls to him like a crow to its chick.
“Cover me.”
Abby is still a stone’s throw away, but she stays right in step with him. “You got it.”
He’ll always admire the way Abby can stumble into her mission, like it’s easy. Like it’s part of her. Her voice carries over his comms as she trips into a perfect distraction that’s got something to do with hotdogs, some suggestively placed horseradish sauce, and—no doubt—her aforementioned feminine wiles. Between her knack for attention and his knack for avoiding it, Matt’s able to slip past the chain unnoticed. “Slick as a whistle,” he tells them.
He dashes down the steps before he can be spotted, leaving his sunny afternoon behind. He trades in a golden glow for flickering fluorescence. Instead of a breeze off of Lake Michigan, he’s struck by a rocky grey chill. A shiver skitters up his spine as instinct sparks against his old Rosary prayers. By the time he reaches the base of the steps, he knows two things in his gut: first, that he was right about the chain and second, that he wishes he weren’t.
There’s nowhere to hide down here, up against exposed walls and uniformity. Matt prefers the cover of a hundred crowds to what he’s got down here. “I’ve got a hunch, but I don’t see much yet,” he says into his comms. “Except maybe a gnarly case of the heebie-jeebies.”
He doesn’t get any answers, save the static.
“Ace?” he tries again. “Ace, you reading me?”
At the moment, a couple thousand tons of concrete stand between Rachel and himself. The absence of her voice in his ear brings awareness to every last pound hanging overhead.
“Bombshell?” he tries instead. “Is anyone hearing me?”
Static. It buzzes in his ear, scratching at his canal. It’s wordless, and yet it speaks volumes; as of now, Matt is alone.
This ain’t the first time he’s run solo on an op, but it is the first time he’s questioned it. Life as a field agent in the CIA doesn’t much lend itself to situational certainty, and he’s got the cyanide tablet on his person to prove it, but this op is different. This op is empty.
Matt has eavesdropped in Russian embassies and sat in on Polish poker games. He has manipulated Moscow’s train systems and smuggled from East Berlin to West. Even those ops, shrouded behind the Iron Curtain, had a basic structure to them—he knew who he was tailing. He knew why. Even if he had to piece together the rest, he at least knew where to start.
Now, he starts at a baseball game. Or maybe he starts at the base of these stairs. Or maybe this op started long before he ever got involved, and now he’s a partner in a dance he doesn’t know. Something about this moment sticks up in his chest.
But whatever questions Matt has, Joe is the answer, so he presses on.
The concrete soaks up the sound from above, leaving Matt’s footsteps to echo against the walls, the ceiling, and the stretch of stone in front of him. He’s never had much patience for stealth among silence, if only because it creeps up his skin with each step, anxiety shredding at his shoulders until they’re tense, and tight, and raw. Each breath ricochets like a bullet through the space, waiting to be heard.
But it ain’t long at all, before he can hear them, too.
It’s a quiet, barely-there sort of slip-up, but Matt catches it somewhere between his own noise. The scuff of a shoe skips across the ground, once, then freezes. The tension build, build, builds in Matt’s chest until he has to say it. He has to try. The word comes out in whispered hope, a careful plea. “Joe?”
Joe’s name sends far away footsteps running, and Matt takes off in a dash toward the sound. “Just once,” he says to no one in particular, “I’d love it if one of these things didn’t involve running.”
He’s gotten faster since Basic, though not by much. What’s more is that he’s been standing for over seven innings now, and he’s starting to feel it in his heels, his ankles, his knees. With each step, more of his throat turns to dust and his lungs seem to shrink.
The deeper they sprint down the hall, the more labyrinthine it becomes. He passes by storage closets, and laundry rooms, and piles of equipment that belong to decades prior, his path guided by footsteps that aren’t his own. There are busted-up bats, and tattered gloves, and entire bins of discarded baseballs. When he comes to a fork, the echo gets the best of him, and he stops. He’s stuck.
It’s just long enough for someone to get a strike in, right at the back of his head.
There’s no mercy given, no second spared, before they take another swing at Matt’s knees and send him crumbling. He lands with a knock to his elbow, then a fall to his back that steals every breath he has.
Matt has all kinds of combat training. He’s been trained by the US Army, the Central Intelligence Agency and, on one occasion, his buddy from the Marines. There’s no shortage of professionals telling him how to take a punch, or how to send one back, but truthfully, none of them hold a candle to the advice his father gave him, time and time again throughout his school days.
Get up.
It doesn’t matter if they knock him down. If they kick him, hit him, beat him. They could stomp Matt to a pulp and he would still hear his father’s voice in his head, telling him to get up. It’s advice that got Matt through every schoolyard fight. It’s advice that got his pops through Viet Nam. Get up. They can’t beat him, if he can only get up.
Head throbbing, Matt climbs back up to his knees. He doesn’t know if his combatant is in front, or behind, or somewhere else entirely, but Matt gets back up.
Another swing comes in from his back, but it’s betrayed by an effortful grunt. His hours spent training on the mats take over his instincts, and Matt catches the blow between his arm and his hip. His combatant’s hand struggles in his grip, and the faint light of the tunnel shines stale against a glimmering gold ring.
He takes the arm and twists, until he’s turned around and towering above. The first thing he sees is the red hair. The second thing he sees, is the fact that he’s fighting a girl. “Well this is no good,” he says. “Usually I buy a lady dinner before I ask her to dance.”
She slips through his arms with ease. For all of Matt’s training, she sweeps at his legs and sends him down again. It’s like he’s fighting Abby or Rachel, so far above his own skill that it’s almost laughable. She doesn’t spare a word. Doesn’t even spare a look. As soon as he’s down, she takes off once more.
Get up.
He’s got no choice but to make it quick, popping up to his feet and taking off in another sprint. She’s fast. Faster than Matt. She darts through hallways as though she was built to run, constantly, without an end in sight. He’s losing her, which is a fate he can’t afford. Not while Joe is still radio silent.
As he runs, he searches the walls for anything to aid his efforts. The best he digs up is an old ball, peeling at the space where the stitching starts. He doesn’t break stride, fingers finding their way across familiar terrain, as he taps into all those years spent aiming for the pitcher’s mound.
The ball flies down the hall.
It whips past the girl.
And it rings out against metal.
The leg of an old equipment shelf bends in on itself, teetering forward, forward, forward until it topples into the girl’s path. Piles of helmets and decades of dust come rolling out in front of her, and it slows her just enough for Matt to catch up.
He grabs hold of her shoulder—just barely—and is promptly flung over top of it.
By the time his sight comes back to him, he’s on the ground once more, looking up at her. Her hands are still wrapped around his wrist, and he catches sight of that ring again. There’s an emblem, starting with a shield, and completed with details that he can’t make out in the dimness.
She stops. Stares. She doesn’t look like a CIA mole. In fact, she just looks real scared.
It says something about her character that she doesn’t kick Matt when he’s down, although character ain’t his primary concern, given the circumstances. As she takes off for a third time, Matt is tempted to listen to the strain in his back, and stay right where he is. He’s in no rush to take another beating.
Get up.
But if his pops could survive the trenches, then Matt can survive some tunnels under Wrigley Field. He clambers back up to his feet and takes off at a sore pace, only to find that he’s lost track of her. He’s lost track of Joe. He’s lost track of everything.
His comms let off a soft, constant buzz, but everything else stands in silence. The tunnels grow darker the further he goes, lights left unattended and flickering. In the flashes between darkness, he searches for any sign, and he’s alone for long enough that he starts to panic.
Until he sees her.
She’s backed into a dead-end of her own finding, looking up at Matt like a stray cuddled in the corner. She’s just as scared as before, but importantly, she now holds a little black pistol in her hands.
Matt raises his hands to his side. “Ain’t looking for trouble.”
Her stance is impeccable.
“Just looking for a friend.”
She is, undeniably, trained to kill.
Above the pair of them, a slow, steady roar begins to build. Matt’s heard it plenty of times in his life, at nearly every ballgame he’s been to. The sounds of the crowd give way to excitement, bleeding through concrete, celebrating what can only be a home run.
Faded lights flash overhead, her movements stilted and concealed.
And the roar turns to a joyous cheer, at the same time a silenced shot rings out.
A hand falls to Matt’s mouth, reeking of pocket lint and metal aftertaste. It pulls him back into darkness, at the same moment something shreds through his arm. He lands in a tobacco-stenched chest, his adrenaline strained through thin breaths. He blinks through blackness, tempted to scream, until he spots Joe at his back, holding a single finger over his lips.
It’s Joe.
It’s Joe.
Thank God in Heaven, it’s Joe.
The two of them wait in silence, wedged between racks of folding chairs and long abandoned palettes. Matt listens for more signs of life, but his ears are still ringing from the shot, and their mark is already on the run again. They’re losing her. They’re going to lose her.
But he’s got Joe.
Slowly, Joe pulls his hand away from Matt’s mouth, and he’s able to catch his breath again. He takes a careful, quiet shift to Matt’s front, leaving Matt to lean against a dusted crate. “Now we’re even,” Joe whispers, risking a glance around the corner of their dark alcove.
“Even?” says Matt, eyes falling straight to the blaze in his arm.
“You saved my life,” says Joe, pointing at Matt’s new gash, straight past the side of his shoulder. “I saved yours.”
The bullet cut straight through his shirt, grazing his skin. It’ll bleed for a good while, then bruise for a good while longer. It’s a far cry from what Joe had in Italy, but Matt doesn’t see a reason to remind him. “Well alright then,” he says, rolling the bottom hem of his sleeve up to cover the cut, then compressing it with his palm. “But, y’know, I didn’t know you were waiting for it.”
“Waiting to save your life?”
“Waiting to be even.” Matt shakes away the ringing in his head, and finds Joe, front and center. “You’ve always been even in my book, Joe.”
He tries and fails to bite back a wince as the warmth sinks through to his palm. For all the guns he’s had pointed at him throughout his career, this one’s the first to make the shot, and it’s hot. He can’t believe how hot it is.
“You get used to it, eventually,” says Joe, voice a little fuller than before. When Matt looks up at him, he nods again at the cut. “Bullets have their own kind of pain.”
“Did you get a good look?” Matt asks. “Any idea who it was?”
Joe falls back into the shadow, leaning back against the wall. His hands fall into his pockets, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Came down here to check something out. Next thing I know, I hear your voice and a whole lot of running.”
“Your comms went out,” Matt explains. “The girls were worried.”
“I don’t need them to worry about me.” He gives Matt a once-over. “And I don’t need you to, either.”
“You’re my friend.”
“I’m your roommate.”
“So at the very least I need your half of the rent,” says Matt. “To say nothing of the neverending charm that comes with your constant companionship.”
Joe rolls his eyes. “You sure you didn’t hit your head somewhere in the scuffle?”
“Oh yeah,” says Matt. “Plenty of times—right in the noggin.”
“That explains it.”
“I don’t have to be concussed to be nice to you, Joe.”
“No, but I bet it helps.” He steps out from the alcove, finally clear, and looks back to Matt. “The girls are worried?”
“As a pair of warts,” says Matt. “We stay down here much longer, and they’re likely to tear this whole stadium apart, beam by beam.”
“Doesn't sound especially covert.”
“If anyone can do it, they can.”
Joe nods, like maybe that’s a fair enough assessment. “Well let's not give them the chance to prove it,” says Joe. “C’mon. You need a good patch. And I need a smoke.”
And what else can he do? Matt gets up, letting the anxiety fall. Wherever their mystery mole went, she’s gone by now, running as she was meant to. “Careful, Joe,” says Matt. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re worried about me.”
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Who wants to join me in a prayer circle that the fight between RWBY and the Ace Ops will end by Clover and Qrow storming the place? Clover, for the first time ever, actually raises his voice and orders his team to stand down while Qrow rushes to his girls - all four of them - and pulls them into a big group hug
Clover washes the Ace Ops's heads about why they became Huntsmen and Huntresses, Qrow explains that Robyn and the Happy Huntresses are heading over to pick up JNR and they all band together to kick some sense into Ironwood's metal head
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First Christmas - Blake Secret Santa
My Secret Santa giftee is @escapewithstories who asked for Jean and Lucien + fluff. Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy. This is the third fic I’ve ever written, so I’m still trying to find my footing. I enjoyed learning about your Christmas traditions, and I hope you and yours have a lovely holiday season! (Also I’m on mobile so apologies for formatting.)
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It was a year of firsts for Lucien and Jean as Doctor and Mrs. Blake. Their first turn on the dance floor and their first night exploring each other in their marital bed, amongst many other firsts they would experience throughout the year. And with the Yuletide season quickly approaching, Jean and Lucien were preparing for their first Christmas together, officially melding their family traditions while creating new traditions and new memories to cherish.
Jean stood up and smoothed down her apron, grabbing the box of lights from Lucien and placing it on the floor near the tree. “I think there’s four - a box with keepsakes I collected with the boys, two boxes of decorations Thomas had, and a small box with the angel. They should all be next to where you found the lights.”
Lucien leaned in to give Jean a kiss before turning to head back towards the upstairs closet. As Lucien carried the boxes down one by one, Jean unraveled the lights and began wrapping them round the tree. Lucien placed the last box on the floor near the loveseat and came to stand behind Jean, a hand on her lower back. When the lights were at eye-level with Jean, she turned to Lucien holding up the end of the lights.
“Will you?”
“Of course, darling.”
“I’ll start unpacking the ornaments.” Jean handed the lights to Lucien and stepped away from the tree.
With the lights placed, Lucien joined Jean on the loveseat helping her to unwrap a lifetime’s worth of decorations. He reached for the first box marked ‘T. Blake’. A smile formed on his mouth once he uncovered the first ornament. Though Jean had seen all of these ornaments before, she had never seen the flashes of memory cross Lucien’s face or know the stories behind the precious mementos from Christmases past. Thomas rarely helped when Jean decorated, so she was left to wonder what memories or stories each ornament held. She was delighted to have her husband (and oh how she still hadn’t tired of calling him so) sat at her side to reminisce.
“My grand-mére brought this from Toulouse the one year she visited us for Christmas.” Lucien chuckled softly at the memory. “She hated that Christmas in Australia is warm. I think she was expecting a white Christmas. She sulked for the first half of the trip. My mother gave her a good talking to to pull her out of her mood. That seemed to do the trick, but I know she was happy to return to France after the first of the year.”
Jean smiled at Lucien and continued unpacking ornaments from her box. She pulled a delicate homemade ornament out and Lucien noticed a date etched into the corner.
“I made this for little Christopher’s first Christmas. We didn’t have a lot of money, especially in those first years on the farm. But I wanted to mark the occasion. My sister mentioned the idea to me, and I made this little bootie, covered it in tin foil, and tapped out the date and little flourishes. There’s one in there for Jack, too.”
“It’s lovely, Jean.” Lucien lightly took it from her hand and traced his thumb over the etchings. “Do you think,” Lucien hesitated a moment, a glint in his eyes, “well I’d like to commemorate our first Christmas as Mister and Missus. Do you think that we could make one together?”
Jean reached over to squeeze Lucien’s hand. “That’s a lovely idea, Lucien. Let’s get these up on the tree first.” Jean leaned over to kiss her husband on his cheek, swiping with her thumb to remove the trace of lipstick left behind. She stood up, grabbing several ornaments and walking to the tree, distributing them amongst the branches. Lucien smiled in delight before he, too, stood with ornaments in hand to help his wife.
++++++++
Over the next several days, Jean busied herself with baking and taking donations down to the Op-Shop. Lucien often found her either in the kitchen pulling some sweet morsel from the oven or at the dining table knitting a blanket for Amelia, the wireless a constant in the background with Christmas chorales or hymns as the soundtrack to his wife’s busy movements.
A few days before Christmas, Lucien came home from the morgue to join Jean for lunch before holding surgery. He stood in the passway to glance at his wife as she pulled yet another batch of gingerbread from the oven. Always aware of her husband’s presence and his eyes on her, Jean closed the oven door and turned to greet Lucien.
“Good day, darling?”
“Yes. Just running some tests with Alice. Thankfully the criminals of Ballarat seem to be taking a break this holiday season.”
“Let’s be thankful for small favors.”
Lucien walked around and into the kitchen, standing in front of Jean. He placed his hands lightly on Jean’s hips and leaned in to kiss her. “Hmmm somebody has been sampling her wares. Gingerbread today, is it, Mrs. Blake?”
Jean snapped Lucien with the oven mit held in her hand. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Cheeky man.” She kissed him again, and then turned back towards the oven. “Our lunches are in the ice box. Will you place the table while I finish this last batch?”
“Of course, darling. Who is the recipient of today’s baking endeavors?”
“I’ll take them with me to the sewing circle this afternoon. Evelyn has organized a bake sale for the orphanage.”
Jean sat at the table, passing a napkin to Lucien. She loved the bustling of the full house, their friends and lodgers coming and going, but she enjoyed these quiet moments with her husband. An opportunity to talk about their respective days, for Lucien to bounce ideas off of Jean if a case was particularly hard, or for Jean to pass on the latest update from her ventures into town.
When lunch was finished, Lucien joined Jean at the sink, helping to wash up from lunch and Jean’s earlier baking. He often was more of a hindrance, but Jean loved the effort and his insistence to always be in her presence.
Jean handed the last bowl to Lucien and dried her hands. Wrapping her arm around his waist, Jean looked up to Lucien.
“Janet Evans has invited me to attend Christmas Eve services at the Anglican Church down the road, and I’d like to attend with her.”
“St. Paul’s?”
“Mm, yes. I’ll leave well after dinner so it won’t disrupt our Christmas Eve plans.”
Lucien placed the bowl and towel on the counter and turned in Jean’s embrace. “Of course. That’s very kind of Janet.”
The months since Jean left the church had been a whirlwind - the wedding, four months away on honeymoon, and settling into being Mrs. Blake. Jean hadn’t given much thought to the church, but as the advent season hit, Jean began to miss some of the traditions and events that were tied to the church. She loved Lucien, and his love was more than enough to fill the gap the church left in her social life, and she kept the spiritual side up in her own, constantly sending up prayers as she went about her day. But she did miss assisting with the children’s choir and sewing the costumes for the nativity play. She was glad of the invite from Janet.
After dinner was put away and Alice sent home with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to see her the next day for Christmas lunch, Jean and Lucien retreated to the sitting room and sat in front of the Christmas tree, the glow from the tree giving off the only light in the room. Lucien placed an arm around Jeans’s shoulder and she leaned into his embrace.
“I’m sorry for Alice that Matthew was called out tonight.”
Lucien kissed Jean’s brow. “He’ll make it up to her tomorrow.”
After a few more moments of sitting in companionable silence, Jean patted Lucien’s leg. “I best be off. I told Janet we’d walk together.”
“Alright, love. I’ll be here when you return.” Lucien walked Jean to the door and helped her into her coat. “Have a lovely time.”
Jean kissed Lucien on the cheek and headed down the drive. She gave a wave to Matthew as he drove past and made the turn into the drive. Joining Janet further up the road, she walked to St. Paul’s for the Christmas Eve service.
Lucien waited by the door as Matthew made his way into the house. Ushering him into the kitchen, Lucien set the plate down for Matthew that Jean had made up for him earlier.
“Where’s Jean off to at this hour?”
“She’s attending services at St. Paul’s. Janet Evans invited her. She won’t say, but I think she sometimes misses the church.”
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you go with her?”
Lucien was taken aback for a moment. The thought never occurred to him to join his wife tonight. Church was always Jean’s place and he hadn’t stopped to think about what this meant for her. She left the church for him, not hesitating for a moment to put their love above the one place that had supported her and comforted her all her life.
“You make a good point, Matthew. I sure can be a thoughtless bastard sometimes.”
“You said it, Blake.”
“Right! I’m off. Christmas lunch is tomorrow at two. Alice is coming round at noon. Don’t wait up!”
Lucien patted Matthew on the back and headed out the door.
Jean settled towards the back of St. Paul’s, taking in the stained-glass windows all along the nave. She felt a sense of comfort wash over her as the congregation stood to sing a familiar Christmas hymn. Jean joined the others in song, and closed her eyes as that feeling of comfort continued to settle over her. As the congregation started on the third chorus of Joy to the World, Jean felt a hand encase her own. She registered the deep baritone of Lucien’s voice, and she turned to look up into his shimmering eyes. With a question drawn across her brows and a smile upon her lips, Jean leaned into her husband to whisper his name. Lucien looked to Jean and gave a squeeze to her hand. Jean brought Lucien’s hand to her lips for a quick kiss and joined the others in song.
After the service, Lucien and Jean walked with Janet Evans back towards Lydiard street. Jean headed towards their room while Lucien locked up the house. Jean settled under the covers as Lucien finished in the bathroom.
“That was very sweet of you to join me tonight, Lucien. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.”
Before joining his wife in their bed, Lucien grabbed a small, wrapped box from his chest and got into bed. He leaned in and gently kissed Jean on her lips. “I’m just sorry I didn’t think to go with you sooner. It was a lovely service.”
“Lucien, what’s that in your hand? We promised we weren’t doing a big, expensive Christmas this year. Not after the honeymoon.”
“I know, darling. But I can’t be helped.” Lucien handed the gift to Jean, and she hesitantly unwrapped the gift to reveal a delicate rosary.
“I noticed on the honeymoon you were still praying the rosary. But a few weeks later you stopped. I assumed you must have lost yours. While you were giving your confession at the Vatican, I found this one in hopes it would be a suitable replacement.”
Jean ran her hands over the rosary beads in reverence. Her loving, thoughtful husband never ceased to amaze her.
Jean leaned over to caress Lucien’s cheek. “Oh Lucien, it’s beautiful! I lost mine in London. My mother gave it to me on my wedding day to Christopher, and I was devastated when I lost it. Though I left the church, there are just some aspects I couldn’t walk away from. Praying the rosary gives me peace.”
“You must pray it often after having met me.”
Jean smile through watery eyes and chuckled. “You have no idea!”
Jean placed the rosary on her bedside table and turned off the lamp. She rested her head on Lucien’s chest as he wrapped her up in his arms.
“Lucien! Your gift reminds me! Where did we store the ornaments we purchased on our honeymoon? We forgot to put them on the tree!”
“Didn’t you put them in your bureau?”
Jean quickly got out of bed and rummaged through her bureau drawers until she found the small box of ornaments, a decoration from each stop the newlyweds made on their honeymoon. Jean grabbed her dressing gown and headed for the door.
Lucien sat up. “What? You want to put them up now? Jean, it’s almost midnight.”
Lucien followed Jean into the sitting room. She turned the tree lights on and unpacked the ornaments from their trip. As Jean and Lucien took turns placing them on the tree, they shared their favorite memories from their honeymoon. After the last ornament (a lovely stained glass replica from Notre Dame) was placed on the tree next to the tin ornament with Jean and Lucien’s anniversary date, they both sat on the love seat to gaze at the tree. Lucien pulled Jean into his embrace and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Blake.”
“Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake.”
#blakesecretsanta#escapewithstories#tdbm#the doctor blake mysteries#tbm#the blake mysteries#so sorry for the delay! story of my life this season!
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Join in my prayer circle for our beloved Op characters. Say after me 'everyone will make it alive, everyone will make it alive'. Hopefully, One piece is some sort of reviving potion/stone and they bring back Ace. The end ;_;
EVERYONE WILL MAKE IT ALIVE PASS IT ON
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Wynonna Earp Episode 2X04 Thoughts and Faves
Every week so far during Season 2 I finish the episode thinking the show has leveled up, and wooooo doggy, was that the case again this week. There was a lot to unpack and mull over in the hour of television, and here are just a handful of things that stood out to me:
That opening scene, man, it was just gorgeous. From the haunting music to the cinematography, Waverly’s slow-mo walk, the interaction between the Earp sisters (that small, frustrated sob from Waverly, good god), everything was done so well and pulled you right into the feel of the episode. From the start you knew something big was coming, but you didn’t know what, and the payoff was phenomenal.
I liked Jeremy from his introduction, but the BBD scene between him, Wynonna and Waverly really cemented things for me. I love the interplay between him and Wynonna especially. “Close your mouth, Jeremy.” It’s so great. This scene really has me looking forward to the inevitable episode when Jeremy has to make decisions and take actions to ‘prove’ himself to Wynonna, which will result in him becoming a solidified part of the group. He took steps in this episode, but you know it’s coming.
Speaking of that BBD scene, Waverly felt more like our Waverly in that scene than she has in awhile. And I love the way Wynonna relents, despite her reservations, to her sister joining Lucado’s BBD Op, basically because of Waverly’s face. She can tell how much it means to Waverly, so she gives in.
The way Rosita says ‘Thunderation’ when she mocks Doc is a joy. I kind of want it to be my new ringtone. Much like Jeremy, I’ve enjoyed Rosita so far. I look forward to finding out more about her. What is it that has her trying to seduce Jeremy in one moment, then trying to leverage Dolls’ serum for something in the next (which backfires, because messing with a demonic dragon-being while he’s in withdrawal is never a good idea). Why does she need protection? What exactly is she trying to get free from?
The Wynonna and Nicole scene was one of my favorites of the episode. I’m on the record already with my belief that it highlights the respect Wynonna has for Nicole. Wynonna doesn’t do apologies often, and if she does, it’s normally awkward and quip riddled. This wasn’t. It felt like an acknowledgement that Nicole is an important part of her sister’s life, and her opinion on Waverly’s behavior and general well-being can be trusted. Like many people, I’ve loved the idea of a WynHaught brotp since episode 1X07, and this felt like further development towards that.
Lounge singer Waverly is a good look, and damn can Dominique sing, but my main thought during the scene was ‘who are all these people in a dark, smoky lounge during the day?’. It’s winter, so the sun would set pretty early, yet it’s fully light out when Waverly is singing. I guess there really isn’t much to do in Purgatory.
Regarding the Bading Bading scene, I find it interesting that Waverly was willing to use the ‘Tacos are tasty’ code to call in the BBD backup (not knowing there wasn’t any), but she’s upset when Wynonna shows up and blows her cover. It highlights how much Waverly wants agency and a form of independence. She wants so badly for Wynonna to view her as an equal, the way she feels Wynonna viewed Willa. Waverly is tired of Wynonna having to come to her rescue, and it makes me wonder if we’re building towards Waverly being the one to rescue Wynonna at an opportune moment this season.
The “You know when my birthday is, right?” call back to season 1 hurts. Wynonna is the one Earp Waverly would expect to remember her birthday (we know Ward didn’t). You know Waverly is going to tuck that interaction away with the rest of her fears revolving around inferiority and not belonging.
Underrated Earp sister moment of the episode: “No, damn it.” -Waverly, “Stupid bitch.” - Wynonna, directed at Siri. Simultaneous expletive dropping Earp sisters are a favorite of mine.
Tucker is super creepy and extremely manipulative, and his scene with Nicole had my spine straightening. God I hope Nicole is the one to ultimately take that weasel down by the end of the season. It certainly feels like they’re setting that up. We know Wynonna will be required to deal with faux Mercedes and Beth (insert woeful ode to the real Mercedes we hardly knew, but loved), but let Officer Haught remove the walking embodiment of patriarchal bullshit from our screens, please.
I love that Nicole is getting her own storylines outside of her relationship with Waverly. I know there was no Wayhaught this episode, but I’m honestly fine with that. I love the character of Nicole Haught all on her own, especially as they develop her more and more as an individual. She plays so well off other characters and with multiple dynamics that it would be a crime not to utilize it. Not to mention, I feel like seeing her in her own element only strengthens the Wayhaught relationship. It’s like when you meet a couple in real life, and for awhile you only know them as an entity, but when you finally have the chance to interact with each person one on one it cements for you why they work so well together. Understanding the individuals helps you understand the couple in a multi-dimensional way. I love it. Give Nicole scenes with ALL the citizens of Purgatory, as far as I’m concerned.
I adored when Doc showed up at the lounge. His little ‘woohoo’ chuckle and the way he takes the time to scoop the hat up off the floor during a gun fight are a delight. I felt like we were given a glimpse of him in his 1800′s form, as Wyatt’s right hand man, irreverently wielding the moniker of one of the greatest gunslingers to ever live.
Sign me up for the begrudging respect Doc and Dolls display to each other. There is nothing like two competitors acknowledging each other’s strengths and showing reciprocal admiration, despite having reservations.
And now, to the scene. You know the one. If you’re like me, you didn’t see the final moments of the show coming. That means something to me, because I almost always guess the twist or see the surprise before it happens in shows and movies. It’s a testament to the show taking it’s time over the first four episodes in building the Waverly possession storyline. Everything felt like it was hurtling towards a painful showdown between Wynonna and a youngest Earp sister who no longer possesses any of her kindness or care. But then, oh but then, the show switched the field in a single moment.
Something that really jumps out to me in this scene is when the Goo demon states how strong Waverly is. We know she’s a brave little toaster, but this almost seems to be more than that. When Wynonna says she won’t let the demon kill her, the Goo demon says “If only”, which suggests to me it would be difficult to do so. Maybe it’s just the writers’ testament to Waverly’s strength of character and perseverance, maybe it’s more. We’ll have to wait and see, but I loved the ambiguity.
I think I ended up typing SCROFANO’S FACE about five times while taking notes on this episode, but it really is a sight to behold in the final scene. When she holds up Peacemaker to Waverly and it glows, you can clearly see on her face the realization and the pain it brings that she failed to protect another sister. Oh Wynonna, baby, in a town full of demons, with your family curse hanging over your heads, you can’t protect Waverly the way you want to, it’s impossible, but I feel how desperately you need to try.
Moments later, Wynonna is clearly freaked out by seeing her sister possessed, so she stands stock still, which is rare for her. It tells you she’s desperately trying to get a read on the situation to figure out how she can save her sister without harming her. It gives the Goo Demon the moment it needs to make the contact required for a body transfer. And thus, a true ‘I did not see that coming, WTF’, moment is born.
I wonder if the Goo can sense the internal strife and darkness in Wynonna. When Gooverly says “It’d be so easy” it seems to suggest it won’t be nearly as difficult to possess Wynonna as it is Waverly. It could also be referencing her extra powers, but I’ll be very curious to see how in control the Goo manages to be next episode.
Some random fave dialogue from the Episode:
“I’d maim a duck for a spoon right now.” -Who hurt you Wynonna, and why did it give you a dislike for ducks?
“More like crap cakes.” - A classic Waverly quip that I’ve missed with all the demon possession going on.
“You can start fires with your mind?!” - This was one of those places I typed SCROFANO’S FACE, because it was like getting to behold the face of a dog who’s just been told they’re a good girl and getting a treat.
“There’s no one in the bushes?!” - Why is this show so top-shelf?
“My sister’s in there you bitch!” - Protective punch-throwing Wynonna can be on my screen anytime.
“Bad news, they ran out of pumpkin spice.” - Of course Jeremy is a pumpkin spice guy, nothing has ever seemed more in character to me.
“Asscapade.” - Actual dialogue, or Melanie Scrofano adlib? Inquiring minds want to know.
I have to finish this off with a reference to the 2X05 preview. We see Wynonna wielding Peacemaker just fine at one point, so, either the Goo makes another jump, or Wynonna is able to stave it off at times, allowing her to handle the gun. We know Peacemaker is sentient in some way, and can sense when the demon in someone is in control, but doesn’t seem to be able to sense anything when the demon is dormant. It’s evidenced by Dolls, and by Waverly being able to hold the gun in 2X03.
I’ll be curious how it plays out. We know there’s more twists coming, Andras warned us to ‘Just wait’, so I’m preparing myself. I can’t wait to see Melanie handle goo-ified Wynonna.
Also, the Homestead seems to get pretty trashed in the episode, so prayer circle that we get tool-belt wearing Nicole Haught and Doc Holliday fixing the place up afterwards.
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The Search (11/16)
Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth.
Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, Psychological manipulation and trauma
Rating: T
Synopsis: [Canon Divergence - Alternate S15] The Reds and Blues saved Chorus, but it has been a year and they are still missing. A motley crew has been gathered with the common goal of finding the war heroes, though the road is more troubled than anyone seems to realize.
A/N: Hey, everyone! Another update coming in right at the wire and I apologize for that but also I kinda feel like celebrating every time I make my own crazy self-imposed deadlines so actually yay! We’ve got some really ridiculous weather where i’m at right now, but not as bad as many in the US right now. If you’re affected by the current storms at all I hope you know you have my love and prayers
Special thanks to @analiarvb, @theshadowlord, MKDemigodZ-Warrior, Yin, @cobaltqueen, @secretlystephaniebrown, and a wonderful Guest for the comments and feedback!
Revelations
Carolina didn’t know who was standing in their way, and she wasn’t sure she cared. The color patterns on the armor had come to be as clear to her as Red and Blue, and the way he was quite easily sizing them up only made her more certain that he knew exactly what they were there for.
“He’s another mercenary,” Carolina determined, teeth gritting.
“Yes,” the mystery figure answered in a voice she was far from familiar with.
“Hey, fuckface, we weren’t talking to you! You’re not a part of the effing conversation!” Li’l Grif screamed shrilly.
“Were you with Felix and Locus?” Washington asked, stepping up to Carolina’s side.
Immediately, the mercenary’s head turned toward them in particular. The reaction was not nearly as calculated or calm as the rest of his overall demeanor. It was enough to send a chill down the spines of lesser soldiers.
“You,” he said thickly, hinting for the first time behind the crackle of words that he was utilizing a voice filter. “Both of you. You must be the Freelancers. Agent Carolina and Agent Washington.”
“That’s not fair,” Carolina replied sarcastically. “Here you know us, but we don’t know you.”
“I was expecting you,” the mercenary continued. “Hargrove mentioned you by name. I thought, given his concern, you would have appeared sooner.” He then turned his head just slightly, looking at the rest of the crew. “The additional company is also unexpected.”
“It can’t be more unexpected than what we feel about having to deal with yet another merc jerk,” Washington complained.
“In my business, knowing names isn’t as necessary as being known by reputation,” the mercenary acknowledged. “I would think that such a thing could be something you respect as former soldiers, but perhaps it’s been too long since you were nameless numbers in line. That ego’s the sort of thing that would get you picked up by a special ops project as flashy and at the front of the UNSC’s science division in the middle of the War while good soldiers were dying, Which means my associate’s belief that there was any commonality to find between us was gravely misplaced.”
Eyes narrowed, regulating her breathing, Carolina steadied her stance and readied her fists. “You worked with Locus and Felix then.”
“I do,” he said firmly in return.
“Did,” Carolina said, smirking under her helmet. “Something Wash and I can take at least partial credit for. But it is most definitely a did.”
Washington was entirely still beside her until she ended her clap back, then he slowly turned his head toward her in disbelief. “Really? That’s the angle of negotiation we’re going for here?” he asked.
“We have this, Wash,” she assured him.
The mercenary tilted his head ever so slightly. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Carolina said confidently. “I do.”
“Carolina, we need to talk about this,” Wash began, voice heavy with concern.
“There’s no need to talk about anything, I can handle this,” Carolina told him firmly. “I’ll handle the merc leftover, you take everyone into the temple and make sure we catch Hargrove and put an end to anything he’s trying to do with our guys in there. Because you know if this paid, loyalty-free lackey is here then the guy who bought his leash is.”
“We don’t know anything about this guy,” Washington tried to argue.
“We know he has a long ranged weapon and was stupid enough he brought it to fight against the martial arts and close combat specialist of Project Freelancer even though these bastards like to go and act like they know every little thing in our personal dossiers,” Carolina snapped.
Washington seemed intent on not moving for a moment, continuing to stare Carolina down as if it would mean anything.
But, as always, Li’l Grif was around to break the ice of any situation.
“Okay, no one has a fucking clue what the eff you’re talking about! Can we just go in where it’s not raining ice!?” she screeched.
Dylan Andrews turned and glanced in Kai’s direction. “You mean snow?”
“Hey, listen, lady, I know what the fuck I said, because I just said it,” she lashed out in return. “And you’re a field reporter? Fuck off, dude. Go back to anchoring for cable with those lame ass assessments.”
For a moment, everyone turned to look at Kai in shock at that sick burn. Including the mercenary.
“Fuck, maybe I should just let you all continue to roast each other alive, make my job easier,” he said. “But, probably knowing what a son of a bitch I’m working for, he’d find that as a loophole for not paying me.”
“What the hell is with you mercenaries and televisions the size of billboards?” Washington asked, baffled and unimpressed.
“Televisions? Fuck, no. That sounds like something Felix would want.” the mercenary replied candidly.
“And you?” Carolina pressed.
“Mortgage payments,” he replied flatly. “Also the missus could always use a larger minivan. So, you know, there’s always that to look forward to.”
“That almost sounds mundane by lethal mercenary standards,” Carolina admitted.
“Well, when you spend your first ten years of adult life being taught a skill set only useful for a war that ends halfway through it, it helps to pay the bills to work with what you’ve got,” he said flatly.
“Fuck that, your career counselor sucked ass,” Kai responded. “Did you even consider joining a circus? You could always work really hard at it and be, like, the two-ton man. I thought for sure that my brother was going to do that but he had to go and register for college and put himself on the map to get drafted. Fucking idiot nerd idiot.”
Junior turned and let out a honk toward Kai.
“Oh, I’m a sword swallower,” Kai answered. “Been working on that one for a long time. It helps when you suck enough dick to never have a gag reflex again. I don’t think I can even throw up with alcohol poisoning anymore.”
“Wash, get everyone out of here! Now!” Carolina barked at him before going stiff and looking at Kaikaina. “Wait. What.”
Before the moment could be responded to appropriately, however, the black and purple mercenary was on her and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the butt of his sniper rifle was crashing into her helmet right along the jawline. It was a thunderous crack that was loud enough to send her stumbling back into the snow, barely able to keep balance but still staying on her feet through sheer force of will.
The mercenary stood his ground. “I prefer ranged weapons because distance delivers a challenge. It doesn’t mean I’m unfamiliar with close quarters combat,” he informed her. “It’s a rookie mistake to size an opponent up and think otherwise.”
There was a deathly silence between their group and the mercenary for a few long, heavy beats.
“Wash,” Carolina said darkly.
“Carolina, just—“ he tried to interject, but Carolina was so beyond that point of reason anymore.
“Take everyone inside. Make the rescue,” she ordered in a hiss. “I’m going to go positively ape in a moment and it’s not rated low enough to be seen by minors.”
“I want it on record that I’m perfectly legal, doctor. And I’m pretty sure that includes, like, drinking and porno rentals,” Li’l Grif spoke up again. “So. Y’know. You can’t tell me not to do that, Officer Washington!”
“Kai, I have positively no interest in your porn and dildos. Least of all right now,” Wash warned angrily.
Carolina could see in the way the mercenary’s shoulders were lining up, the way he was slowly beginning to circle left, that her challenge had been accepted. Before things could heat up further, she turned to all of them and screamed at the top of her lungs.
“GET IN THE GODDAMN TEMPLE NOW OR YOU’RE GOING TO GET IN MY WAY. GO!”
In rare form for her crew, they all scrambled to get out of the way of Carolina and the mercenary. Even though Washington visibly hesitated, the moment Kaikaina and Junior passed him, he followed through. He had his priorities straight, after all. Just as Carolina had hers.
“If you’ve read my records then you must know how this is going to go,” she said, rolling her shoulders. She needed to give everyone at least some time to enter the temple so they wouldn’t be foolish enough to step back out and get caught in the crossfire.
If fighting Felix and Locus had taught her anything, it was that these rank mercenaries weren’t something to be taken lightly. As much as her pride would like to deny it.
“I have read them. And they are impressive,” the mercenary assured her. “And judging by you sending your group ahead you’re not taking me lightly either. I appreciate that. Not everyone takes me as seriously at first glance. I’ve stuck to the shadows so long that my reputation hasn’t met the bile of my associates.”
“Right, so you’ve made it clear,” Carolina said lowly. “Guess I should be impressed that someone I’ve never heard of has rubbed shoulders with the two genocidal monsters that we kicked the asses of back on Chorus. But really it just makes me find you despicable.”
“Guilty by association,” he replied. “I can respect that. Though, if I were to judge by the company you keep… Your carry through could use some work.”
“Well, you’ve only got me to judge right now. And I’ve only got you,” she replied. “What name do you need on your tombstone?”
He laughed. “Let’s stick with Siris,” he replied. “At least for now.”
“Fine, Siris,” she replied before lunging forward without warning. “Tell your buddy Felix hi for me when you meet him in hell!”
The speed boost had activated a split second after her first foot left the ground —something minute and without consequence to nearly anyone else in the entire galaxy. But Carolina was aware of it. Horrendously so.
Her natural reflexes would never match that of a living smart AI, one that could preemptively begin her suit’s enhancements within moments of conceptualizing them. Even with Carolina’s spine being plugged into her suit, it was still slower than having the mindful direction of Epsilon there, firmly moving in task and even faster than her.
And it was without that impossible reflex, within that hair’s thin second of time, that Carolina could see that her lunge hadn’t been the first move of the battle.
Siris was already in action, dipping down beneath Carolina’s first strike and backing away from her second.
Everything about the mercenary read long range combat skills, but he did the unexpected by being the first to close in the space. And more specifically, he had closed into her personal space. And in defining the boundaries of their battle, he was quickly taking control of the whole fight.
Carolina released a frustrated growl, rotating pivot feet in order to conduct a quick snap kick to either land on Siris or at the very least drive him further back from her space. She needed the space and, more importantly, the momentum to really take advantage of battle.
Either Siris was even less familiar with close combat than his body language portrayed, or he was genuinely just fucking with her. She was beginning to think it was the latter because even as the snap kick only led to him laying low to the ground and avoiding being hit, he wasn’t making all that many moves against her.
Sure, her defenses were up and she was ready with each move to block and cover her openings, but he wasn’t even trying to go for them regardless.
Then, as Carolina began to punch down at the back of her adversary, he made his move.
Holding onto the butt of his sniper rifle, Siris swept his weapon as quick as a whip, contacting with the ankle of the foot Carolina was using to hold herself up and balanced.
Despite herself, Carolina fell forward with the simple maneuver.
Thinking fast, she tucked into a roll the moment she hit the snow covered ground and rolled from her fall over onto her feet.
Realizing that left Siris with her back open, she glanced just enough over her shoulders to have a peripheral on him. And just as she suspected, he was coming at her with a kick of his own. Still, she kept her cool.
She could make do with that.
The moment Siris closed in, Carolina grabbed onto his legal the ankle and brought him over her shoulders and dow, as hard as she feasibly could, slammed him back first into the ground.
Even with his helmet on and the filters heavily modifying his voice, Siris his the ground with the air spilling from his lungs.
It gave Carolina something to smirk about as she straddled Siris’ chest and began punching his helmet for good measure. “Where!” she snarled between hits, “Are! They!” she stopped long enough to grab his shoulders hard and shove him back against the ground. “Tell me!”
“Who?” Siris coughed out, looking at her through his visor almost defiantly. “Do you mean the Reds and Blues? Did you really come all this way for them?”
“Of course I did!” she yelled at him grotesquely.
“Or do you mean the AI Epsilon?” he asked.
Immediately, Carolina froze in place. Even if she didn’t mean to, her entire body revolted against her as she looked down at Siris with wide open eyes.
“Because those two things have very, very different answers,” he continued lowly. “And if you came all this way thinking you’d get one without the other… well, things are going to be a lot harder on you for the trip back.”
“What. Do you. Know?” she spat out at him.
Siris tilted his head. “You did come for the AI. Do the others know?”
“What? What do they need to know?!” Carolina shook him again angrily, leading to Siris shaking his head almost in pity.
“I know that there’s more than just good virtue behind your need to get back your AI, Agent Carolina,” Siris explained darkly. “I familiarized myself with your records, no doubt. But even more than that, I familiarized myself with everything I could find on you since leaving Project Freelancer, including the abilities you put on display when fighting my accomplices. You’re impressive, skillful. But you’ve learned a reliance you never had before. I don’t know if it’s from having two AI stuck in your head by the end of the program or if it’s from the past year of letting your AI buddy take too much responsibility for you, but you improved drastically with AI.”
Without warning, in an impossible maneuver, somehow Siris managed to kick up his right knee impossibly high, slamming into the small of Carolina’s back and sending her face forward into the snow behind them.
“But now without AI, you’re even slower than your PFL records,” he continued.
“How the hell did you—“ Carolina began, turning just in time to see sparks flying from the very leg that had kicked her at the impossible angle.
Siri didn’t so much as flinch, reaching down and clicking the leg back into place. “You Freelancers aren’t the only ones with enhancements,” he informed her before taking the robotic leg and bringing it down on her helmet.
Emily Grey, MD, PhD, DVM, DACVIM, DACVP, et al. was unaccustomed to the idea of not being smart enough or fast enough or intimidating enough to not solve a problem which was right in front of her face. And she was particularly not used to feeling that way when the weight of dependence was on her — not just of her friends and travel companions, but of all of Chorus.
Being a doctor in an unending civil war might have numbed others to the sense of failure, but for Doctor Grey it only heightened her sense of aspiration.
If there was a happy ending to be found among all the refuse they were currently going through, by god she intended to lead the charge.
Which made it a little bit irritating that as she traced her fingers over the ancient etchings of the inner sanctum’s wall, she was forced to hear Agent Washington repeat himself again.
“I need to get back out there and help Carolina,” he said.
“Repeating that ad nauseam hasn’t been particularly helpful so far,” Dylan Andrews told him flatly. “And admittedly I don’t know much about Agent Carolina compared to most of you, but I feel like she would find that insulting.”
“Yeah, dude, she’ll take your balls and mount them on Sheila’s dashboard,” Kaikaina Grif said, leaning against the opposite wall to Doctor Grey. “Just chill. Homegirl’s gonna kick ass and take names and then remind them that you two are the law, fuck yeah.”
“We’re not cops,” Washington said abruptly.
“Tch, sure, keep telling yourself that,” Kaikaina replied with a wave of her hand.
“I already know it, you’re the one who can’t seem to—“ Washington stopped and looked around the room again. “Everyone hush.” They paused for a few beats and then Wash turned back toward them. “Nevermind. I thought I heard—“
“Shh!” Doctor Grey finally hissed out, turning just enough to level a glare at all of them. “I will have you know that translating a dead alien language into its modern iteration and then translating that into my native language is causing an unprecedented amount of brainpower on my part. And all of you are being loud and unhelpful.”
“Sorry,” everyone said at once with Junior honking.
Looking back to the wall, Emily found her spot and continued in the newly found silence.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Kaikaina groaned. “What the fuck do we have to read the stupid wall graffiti for right now? I fucking hate reading. It’s never done anything for me. Like ever. And now there’s dudes with binoculars who aren’t just interested in getting a peek of my tits, and we’re supposed to be finding my Big Bro and his friends inside of this cold ass ice building in the middle of nowhere.”
Dylan Andrews looked at Kai and hummed to herself slightly, tapping a finger against the cheek of her helmet. “You have a very… unique way of reaching your points, Private Grif.”
“Hey fuck you!” Kai snapped. She paused for a moment and looked at Andrews. “Wait, was that an insult or not?”
“It wasn’t,” Andrews assured her.
“Cool, thanks, but still, totally fuck you like what even,” Kai replied almost scathingly.
“She was just remarking on the fact that you beat around the bush with metaphors no one in their right mind has ever asked for,” Wash explained, clearly at wit’s end.
“Nah, I leave beating around my bush to you and the ladies,” Kai flippantly responded.
“Shut up,” Wash spat back before visibly tensing up. “Wait. What.”
“Bow chicka honk honk!” Junior cooed.
Taking a deep breath, Doctor Grey rose to her feet, eyes closed as she worked desperately on finding her center. She then spun around toward the ragtag team and opened her eyes. Then, she bellowed at the positive heights of her vocal cords.
“ALL OF YOU BE QUIET!!!” she screamed.
The echoes of Grey’s outburst continued on through passage ways around them, the icicles hanging precariously above each passage way giving a precarious chime as a result. They all looked around to make sure that she hadn’t accidentally caused their doom through a cave in or icy impalement before looking back to the doctor.
Clearing her throat and collecting a deep breath in her chest, Doctor Grey put her hands on her hips and glared angrily at all of them. “I am translating ancient alien texts in order to understand what this temple was constructed by the ancients to do and therefore why it would be of any interest to a mercenary or even Malcolm Hargrove himself. It could be vital information for moving forward and, most importantly of all, for understanding what he plans on doing with our abducted and subjugated friends.”
Everyone seemed to be a cross of sheepish and slightly ashamed in response to the declaration, which for the most part had been Doctor Grey’s goal. At least it was until there was a gentle laugh.
“Why, our dear Doctor, if those were the answers you were looking for, all you had to do was ask,” an outrageously pompous and rage inducing voice concluded just before a potato headed man in a parka stepped out from one of the halls. He wore a rather assuming smile and an ascot like, as Emily’s dear friends the Reds and Blues would say, a complete and utter cockbite.
Without a moment’s hesitation, both Washington and Kaikaina had their respective signature weapons out and aimed at the Chairman’s head.
“Malcolm Hargrove,” Dylan Andrews said slowly. “Chairman of the UNSC Oversight Subcommittee. I have a lot of questions for you given the documented evidence I and my associates have collected over the past thirty-six hours. Very damning evidence, I should add.”
“Fuck the theatrics!” Kai screamed out angrily. “You better tell me where the effing fuck my brother is, you douchebag!”
Junior peeked his head out from between Washington and Kaikaina’s legs and lout a vicious BLARGH to add to the sentiment.
“This temple’s a repository for ancient alien technologies,” Doctor Grey announced, slowly stepping forward. “Just like many of the sites on Chorus. That’s why you were interested in Chorus and that’s why you’re interested now here. But what did you need our friends for?”
“I will answer both your questions at the same time,” Hargrove replied with a chilling glee.
“Oh, that’s convenient, fucking over achiever,” Kai hissed in return. “I hate over achievers.”
“Kai, be quiet,” Wash warned.
“You be quiet!” Kai replied angrily.
“What are you up to, Hargrove?” Washington demanded, ignoring Kaikaina’s rebuttal for the moment.
About that time, Doctor Grey could hear the chimes of the icicles again, steadier and quieter than they had been before. And when she strained, those mysterious footsteps that Washington had been hearing were finally audible to her own ears.
“Agent Washington, I am doing something which you never managed,” Hargrove replied darkly. “Completing a deal. I am letting you know where your friends are and why I am in need of their… volunteered services.”
Suddenly, every hall leading into the large inner sanctum had at least two of the Reds and Blues at each doorway, guns up, utterly silent.
Immediately, Kaikaina perked up and lowered her glock. “Dex!?” she cried out, looking at the orange armored Red. “Dexter! It’s me! I’ve been looking all the fuck over for you! …Dex?”
Washington did not lower his gun, but he openly stared behind Hargrove as the two Blues stepped out and in front of him, their own guns raised. “Tucker? Caboose? What… What are you doing? What did he do to you?”
Rather than answer, the entire group stood coldly and silently, prompting a chuckle from Hargrove.
“They are doing what I want them to do,” Hargrove answered. “Because I have power, and because I have influence, and because I deserve the loyalty of every man, woman, and child saved by my strategic and diplomatic handling of the Great War. Because I am owed, and because I finally have seen the way of wiping insolence out. And whether they wanted to or not, I made sure the Reds and Blues saw that all for themselves.”
“Fuck, dude, your evil speeches don’t answer a goddamn question,” Kai whined.
“I would have to agree,” Doctor Grey said, racking her brain for a way out of the current situation.
“Perhaps you need the right question,” Andrews proposed. “You’ve gone through a lot of additional trouble to frame us as well as set us up for some fall. It’s obvious that there’s something you want from us. What would that be?”
“Ah, an intelligent reporter,” Hargrove replied. “My least favorite kind. But you are right about your question. I do want something. I want something only the Freelancers were capable of delivering right into my hands. Which they did. Marvelously, I must add.”
“We don’t have anything,” Wash replied plainly.
“You do,” Hargrove said before shifting his gaze from Washington down to Junior. “I needed him. The prodigal son. The messiah. The Great Destroyer.”
Grey was taken aback, as was everyone else apparently, all turning to look at the equally baffled looking alien child.
“Blargh?”
#writing#rvb fic#RvB: The Search#Agent Carolina#Tucker Junior#Agent Washington#Kaikaina Grif#Siris#Emily Grey#Malcolm Hargrove
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PRAYER CIRCLE TIME Y’ALL
Were you going to the Toronto, Chicago or Denver OUAT conventions?
Well since Jen cancelled. (I do wish her all the best)
It’s time to send out good vibes for her replacement, and the first person that came to mind is Josh Dallas. He would be an awesome replacement. @lizacstuff thinks so too. I know he doesn’t really do cons a lot, but who knows, maybe he would do the thing.
A CAPTAIN CHARMING PHOTO OP WOULD BE JUST AS GREAT.
ANYWAY, JOIN ME IN A PRAYER CIRCLE FRIENDS!
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A Campus Argument Goes Viral. Now the College Is Under Siege.
Evergreen State College has a Day of Absence tradition in which black people leave the campus to show what the place would be like without them. This year, organizers suggested the reverse: that white people who wanted to participate would leave while nonwhites stayed, and both groups would attend workshops to, as the email announcement put it, “explore issues of race, equity, allyship, inclusion and privilege.” Does the revised plan of whites leaving campus: (1) make sense as “a forceful call to consciousness,” or (2) “is a show of force, and an act of oppression in and of itself.” Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?
It started with a suggestion that white students and professors leave campus for a day, a twist on a tradition of black students voluntarily doing the same.
A professor objected, and his argument with a loud and profane group of protesters outside his classroom soon rocketed across the internet.
On Friday, more than three weeks later, Evergreen State College had to hold its commencement 30 miles from campus, at a rented baseball stadium where everyone had to pass through metal detectors.
In between, Evergreen, a small public college in Olympia along the Puget Sound, found itself on the front line of the national discontent over race, speech and political disagreement, becoming a magnet for extremes on the left and the right.
After the dispute gained national exposure — amplified by the professor’s appearance on Fox News, his op-ed in The Wall Street Journal, and right-leaning websites’ heaping derision on their newest college target — the professor, Bret Weinstein, said he had to stay away from campus for his own safety and move his family into hiding.
Student protesters briefly occupied the president’s office to press their complaints of racism on campus. In one encounter, the president, George Bridges, was recorded meekly complying with a demand not to use hand gestures when he spoke because they were threatening.
The campus has received threats of violence via social media and calls to the county sheriff and 911 that forced administrators to lock down the campus for three weekdays in a row. The college had another lockdown on Thursday, as dozens of professed free-speech defenders tangled with anarchists who were waiting for them at Red Square, the campus plaza named for its red-brick walkways.
“I thought I’d be speaking from Red Square where graduation is traditionally held, and then as the alt-right backlash hit us, I wondered if we’d have graduation at all,” Anne Fischel, a documentary filmmaker and Evergreen professor, said in her commencement speech on Friday. “No one should see this graduation as a return to normalcy, to the way things were before. For one thing, the lives of some of our community members have been threatened, and they can’t be here today.”
Since the presidential election in November, colleges from Middlebury to Auburn to the University of California, Berkeley have become swept up in a running battle over free speech and politics.
But the conflict at Evergreen has been deeply distressing to many students and faculty members who see their college as a little utopia that has produced such creative alumni as Matt Groening, the creator of “The Simpsons,” and Macklemore, the hip-hop artist.
Students at Evergreen, founded in the progressive fervor of the 1960s, have no majors or grades and study in small groups, taking interdisciplinary classes where a marine biologist, for instance, might team up with a philosophy professor and a music professor.
“There is a tradition of trying to work things out,” said Ruth Hayes, a professor of animation. Referring to Professor Weinstein, she echoed the feelings of a number of her colleagues: “That he took this public I just feel like is a breach of trust.”
What also sets the Evergreen turmoil apart is that it began not with a controversy-courting guest speaker like Ann Coulter or Milo Yiannopoulos, but a Bernie Sanders-backing biology professor who has been a fixture at the college for 15 years.
The conflict stems from the college’s Day of Absence, a tradition in which black people leave the campus to show what the place would be like without them. This year, organizers suggested the reverse: that white people who wanted to participate would leave while nonwhites stayed, and both groups would attend workshops to, as the email announcement put it, “explore issues of race, equity, allyship, inclusion and privilege.”
In an email to his colleagues, Professor Weinstein, who is white, said that when black people decided to leave, it made sense as “a forceful call to consciousness.” But to ask white people to leave, he wrote, “is a show of force, and an act of oppression in and of itself.”
“I would encourage others to put phenotype aside and reject this new formulation,” he wrote.
What followed can be viewed by anyone with a smartphone: a protest outside his classroom in which students derided his “racist” opinions and called him “useless,” preceded by an expletive; his appearance on Tucker Carlson’s Fox News show; and scenes of students and professors arguing with other professors and their college president.
“Yes, they were rude,” the president, Mr. Bridges, said in an interview about the meeting in which he put down his hands. “What mattered was de-escalating the anger.”
And though students occupied his office for a couple of hours one afternoon, he said he never felt threatened.
“I was hired to be a change agent,” he said. His mission, he said, was to ask, “How do we address the equity gaps here?”
Professor Weinstein, who declined to be interviewed, has been lying low. But he is quite visible online, with a growing Twitter audience and a new blog offering his subscribers insights into “evolution, civilization and intolerance” for a nominal monthly fee.
On the other side, Naima Lowe, a media professor who has opposed him, and Rashida Love, the director of Evergreen’s First Peoples Multicultural Advising Services, who sent the email announcing the format of the Day of Absence, have also made themselves scarce, after being mercilessly ridiculed online.
There is a bigger context to the dispute, faculty members say. Overall enrollment at Evergreen has been declining since 2009, while minority enrollment, which now stands around 29 percent, is rising.
Some faculty members have said the college has not been adequately serving minority students, and an “equity council” developed a plan to address those issues. Professor Weinstein was among those who objected to parts of the plan. He saw its call for an “equity justification/explanation” for each potential hire as code for racial preference.
Ms. Lowe, who is black, said that he was misinterpreting the proposal and that its goal was to hire people with the right skills and experience to relate to “marginalized communities,” regardless of their race. As for the Day of Absence, held in April, organizers have said that it was voluntary and that no one implied that all white people should leave.
But the time for academic word-parsing has passed; the final days of the term were marked by riot police officers, barricades and metal detectors.
Strange alliances have formed. On Thursday, a group calling itself Patriot Prayer, a right-leaning band of 60 or 70 people from off campus waving American flags and one showing Pepe the Frog, a symbol of the alt-right movement, was joined for a while by two students.
One of them, Tamara Lindner, said she had been a student of Mr. Weinstein’s wife, also a biology professor at Evergreen, and wanted to support his right to free speech.
The other, Colin Trobough, said he was distressed at the way Evergreen had been portrayed. “I love Evergreen,” he told the Patriots gathered in the traffic circle.
The group marched onto campus, where about 200 people awaited them: anarchists and “anti-fascists” looking like graphic-novel ninjas, with black scarves hiding their faces and hoods covering their hair, flanked by aging professors in rumpled rain slickers.
The Patriots’ leader, Joey Gibson, strolled into the crowd of ninjas, where he was sprayed with Silly String, hit in the head with a can of it and then attacked with what may have been pepper spray before state police officers in riot gear restored order.
The college spent $100,000 to rent the minor-league stadium in Tacoma for the commencement on Friday. “I’m very glad we’re all here together,” Mr. Bridges said in his address, acknowledging the “fierce and disturbing” events of recent weeks.
Ellis Paguirigan, a 1991 Evergreen graduate whose daughter, Melia, was graduating and planned to go into ocean conservation, said they were both disappointed in Professor Weinstein’s stance.
Melia had Professor Weinstein in her freshman year and liked his class, Mr. Paguirigan said. But, he added, “my daughter is a person of color — she kind of takes it personal.”
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