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#when i was s younger man i had a good paying job at a factory plant as a temp worker

prettyhighforawhiteguyblog · 3 months

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I'm the wife in my marriage.

It's funny to me anyway. Funny to me because my wife is the very picture of femininity, loving, caring, sexy, pretty, beautiful wife, loving and adored by all her children. And a satisfied and hot for her husband.

But to me she is beautiful and terrible as the Dawn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love her and despair!

And yet she chose me.

So to all the hella ladies who rejected my advances? Y'all missed out. Because she saw in me what way too many people couldn't. And sometimes still can't.

And she wants to run my life. And the lives of our whole family. And we all kinda love it. Mostly. But it ain't worth the headache or heartache of fighting her on anything. She's Daddy's little princess and her mother is the loving matron and queen bitch of the family and we all stay in line. Mostly. I love to do my own thing too much for my own good. But it keeps our fights about stupid stuff instead of my weed use again.

(I'm dead ass functional and present from 6am on till I finally get my insomniac ass too sleep while high just to escape the constant anxiety about my sick daughter's upcoming surgery, my dying suegro, my mourning wife, disturbed autistic son, special needs princess Daddy's girl I'm spoiling her to death to make her just as powerful and ungovernable mother and it's working too well already. Have you ever negotiated with a hostile bitchy entitled as fuck child? )

Anyway, you wouldn't know it looking at me or talking normal chitchat, but I'm pretty fucking manly. In the way my culture defines manliness. I'm not very masculine. But I'm very manly.

I'm feminine as fuck in my household. I mother the kids, help their emotional development, work on my wife's emotional and mental well-being, and I'm the one never in the mood for sex. And I do every single thing she says. And then she does the discipline and management of the family's affairs. And she's the one who has to seduce me. Did I mention she was sexy as fuck? (While I'm awkward as fuck every time we even roleplay.) And a horny Latina. (That's why these horny sexy, nice, Latinos are taking over. It's natural selection. The Whites just can't compete and as usual are getting their panties in a twist over not being able to compete even with everything in their favor to out reproduce them all but it was too many kids for a nuclear family to handle Whites.) So beautiful hot queen sexy as fuck Latina seduces me every night. #blessed. So fuck yeah I don't wanna fuck up this arrangement. So I do everything she tells me to and treat her real good and let her win every argument and over apologize. Except when I make a rare exception to make a stand in something important or just to make some trouble and have some fun.

Oh yeah. She's a clean freak 😮‍💨 But she's an impatient Latina housewife perfectionist clean freak. So she gets mad at my perfectly good job when company isn't ever coming job and tells me to stop even trying to clean. Go play Minecraft with your daughter to keep her occupied.🤣

I have the best living situation ever. I'll be your bitch my bitchy highness. Just please keep playing with my hair on your lap. Oh, and that sucking my dick the way you do and being right 95% of the time on judgement calls.

So yeah I'm the wife.

And I got a pretty good life.

#and know you know the rest of the story #when i was s younger man i had a good paying job at a factory plant as a temp worker #i liked this job #and it was easy clean indoor temp controlled light labor with a jovial #kindly and generally loving crowd of people all just trying to earn a living in this shit economy #and care for each get along with each other #it was a really nice atmosphere. there was only a little manager taking advantage of a woman's situation to force a relationship.#but she was petty please about the whole arrangement because she was lonely and he was kind and likable and #good looking younger guy #and it made her job impossible to get the boot #even as it got easier to boot #anyways i worked my ass off and just tried to get along with the boss #and it paid great #We could have been poor and happy working jobs like that for life if i really had to got some reason #but anyways this bossman manager sees me sweeping my ass off a clean floor and instead of telling me to go lean on a post for a bit #tells me I'm doing a good job #and that I'll make a someone s fine wife someday #i wanted to slap that smug mother fucker up there head w my broom. But i was laughing to hard at that fuckers joke because i liked the guy.#and i liked my job #anyway #here i am being a good little wife #and I'm living the life of Reilly doing it #i don't know the etymology of that phrase is. only my Dad says it in my experience #it might be good own little creation.#you're welcome #And the mother fucker just let me keep sweeping my dumbass all over a clean floor!#Union strong

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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Haven Gray

CW: Abducted whumpee, description of missing person, captivity, BBU/WRU

Where Is Haven Gray?

r/FindTheMissing

•Posted by u/bananasare2appealing

3 days ago

In the summer of 20XX, 21-year-old Haven Gray texted family and friends to let them know a second job interview they’d just finished had gone well, and they expected to be offered the job.

They made plans to have dinner with a couple of friends to celebrate, but never showed up to the restaurant. They were reported missing by their parents later that night and have never been seen again.

Hey, everyone, this is my first attempt at a post like this, so I hope you’ll go easy on me! Haven Gray is a kind of a personal case to me, I went to the same high school a few years behind them and there was still a lot of talk about what could have happened and like, their picture is in a memorial frame in the hallway by the principal’s office. It’s just a really important case to me and I hope they figure out what happened to Haven one day.

Haven Gray was the oldest of three children born to Matthew and Maria Gray in the small town of Trenton, Indiana. Tall, with long wavy red hair and gray eyes, they stood out in a crowd in more ways than one.

Haven set records for their high school’s cross-country track team, played well on the school basketball team, and maintained a 3.5 GPA alongside plenty of extracurriculars and an active social life.

They then spent two years attending Trenton Community College, looking to finish out their degree at Indiana State University and go into the human resources field. They kept up a part-time job on the side, but during the summer before they would move to ISU, they decided to look for full-time work to help save up some money.

Haven’s mother Maria was interviewed after their disappearance by local news station INNW as saying that Haven was very excited about finishing up their degree and moving into their first real apartment.

Haven had seen an ad on a job-hunting website for a receptionist for a temp agency that specialized in placing HR professionals in nearby companies. Seeing a way to get some relevant experience before they finished up their degree, they applied and were contacted for a job interview.

Here’s where things get just a little weird, before they get even weirder.

Haven texted a photo of the strip mall where the job interview was, and noted that the company was not located in a well-maintained place, which made Haven very nervous. The signage also seemed brand new, which conflicted with information on the company website suggesting they’d been in that location for years.

They waited in their car and called the company phone. Only when someone came out to greet them did Haven go inside for the interview.

The first interview went smoothly, and Haven excitedly called their friends and family to say a second interview was already scheduled with the owner of the small company. It turned out, they explained, that the creepy location was no longer the company’s main location, and their second interview would be at a different address in a much nicer part of town.

They did not give any explanation, if any was given to them, about the reason for brand new signage if the business was in the process of leaving that address. On the day of the second interview, one week later, Haven’s mother saw them leaving in a deep blue top with satin detailing at the neck and gray slacks.

They exchanged goodbyes, and Haven reminded their mother they would be meeting friends tonight, either to celebrate a good interview or commiserate over a bad one.

“My comfort,” Maria Gray said in her interview with INNW, “is that I said goodbye and I love you. I have that, at least. So many don’t get that final chance. I just wish I had known it was the last time. I would have looked at them a little longer.”

From here, Haven is seen on camera at their ‘regular’ Starbucks a few moments later, ordering a large (venti) iced latte. An automatic speed-checker camera next to the highway captured their car with license plate clearly visible driving in the direction of the interstate a few minutes later.

Two hours after this sighting, they called a friend, Natalie Morales, to tell her that the interview had gone well and they believed they would be offered the job. Dinner that night, Haven said, would definitely be a celebration.

They texted three other friends, Maria, and Matthew - as well as a younger sibling. These are the last direct communications anyone had with Haven Gray.

“They didn’t sound scared,” Natalie said in her own interview with True Crime Podcast Now You See Them, Now You Don’t. "Not at all. I’ve thought about it over and over again, trying to ask myself, was there fear there? Had something already happened? And I just don’t think so. I think whatever happened, happened after they hung up the phone. They were excited, said the pay rate was way more than they expected for a receptionist job. The only thing is that they said the guy who interviewed them kind of... gave them the, you know. Made the hair on their arms stand up. You know what I mean? And I thought of that first, when they never... but he has an alibi.”

The man in question is Ladd Prescott, the stated owner of the temp agency Haven applied to. Ladd gave multiple interviews, off-camera and to law enforcement, but he did not leave the office and is seen on in-office security cameras and he is not considered a person of interest in the case.

The final image of Haven’s whereabouts that day comes from the CCTV camera at an ATM for Haven’s bank one hour after the final text message sent to their father Matthew. They are seen pulling up in their car to the drive-thru ATM, where they withdrew $300.

Notable about this footage is three things:

1. Haven appears to look directly at the camera twice, deliberately holding their gaze maybe

2. Their hair, carefully styled when they left for the interview according to Maria, is noticeably in disarray, and they do not appear to be wearing the same shirt they had on when they left (the footage is super grainy, so this is hard to tell exactly, but if you check here you can see that they appear to be wearing a white t-shirt).

3. A shadow just behind them moves independently of Haven, gestures a few times, and it appears - and police believe - that someone else is in the car with Haven Gray directing their movements.

Haven never arrived at the restaurant. When their friends attempted to contact them, the phone went directly to voicemail. This was very out of the ordinary for Haven, so friends called Maria and Matthew, who became immediately worried and contacted the police.

Haven Gray officially was listed as a missing person the next day.

Four days later, their car - with IDs, debit and credit card, a book they were reading, and their resume and list of questions from the interview all inside - was located at a nearby riverfront, abandoned. The only thing missing was the $300 in cash Haven had taken out of the ATM, and Haven themself.

A witness came forward later stating they had seen a man with ashy blond hair who appeared to be in his 40′s or 50′s smoking next to the car the day Haven was last seen. This man has never come forward or been located and his connection to Haven’s disappearance, if any, is unknown.

Law enforcement believes that Haven was abducted within half an hour of finishing their interview by someone who forced their way into the car, and likely directed to the ATM to take cash out and then met someone else or moved into a different car after parking Haven’s at the riverfront.

Weirdly, the riverfront was checked the day after Haven was declared missing, which suggests someone came back and moved the car after the witness saw the smoking man, then moved it back into place after the initial search of the area was over with.

Cell towers picked up pings from Haven’s phone for four hours afterward, heading due east. The nearest big city would have been Cincinnati, so it’s possible the abductor headed that direction. If they did, though, they took a winding route and Haven’s phone was turned off or discarded before reaching the city.

Look, I know this is a big conspiracy theory and there’s absolutely no proof, but I think Haven was abducted by WRU.

Why?

Three weeks prior to their disappearance, Haven attended a bar’s “singles night”. They mentioned to friends later that they connected with a man who worked for WRU as a handler, but then decided they couldn’t handle the reality of what he did and cut off contact before they could have their first real date.

(The handler in question has been cleared during the investigation, but I still have my suspicions)

I know this seems like the flimsiest reason, but Haven’s friends all say that the man was very upset by Haven’s discomfort with his job, tried to keep contacting them for days. I think the job interview is a red herring and it’s this handler guy who is behind it somehow - maybe him, or his friends.

Also, there’s a WRU Training Facility in Cincinnati, Ohio, only a few hours away... and law enforcement never even tried to get a warrant to search there. Easy way to get rid of someone if you did something to them, right?

(I know, I know, WRU has standards and does checks and all that, but seriously. Think about it.)

A year later, improbably, a farmer working to mow the ditch next to his fields found Haven’s cell phone in a ziploc inside a second plastic bag. The phone had been wiped to factory settings and no new useful information was found.

So, where is Haven Gray?

Were they murdered? Abducted? Will we find their body in a field one day? Were they just dumped in the river next to their abandoned car? Are they part of the WRU system now? No one seems to know, and reported sightings of them in Los Angeles, New York City, and even one mention from Sydney, Australia, seem hard to believe.

Haven’s mother Maria says they have no plans to declare Haven legally dead, and they intend to keep looking “as long as it takes”.

What Are Your Thoughts?

WRU NEW ACQUISITION INTAKE FORM FACILITY 005

SUBJECT: 549065

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 06.06.20XX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 1:45 PM

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 005, CINCINNATI, OHIO

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Haven Finley Gray

AGE: 21

DATE OF BIRTH: 07.19.20XX

HAIR: Red

EYES: Gray

HEIGHT: 6′0″

WEIGHT: 153 lbs

SEXUALITY: Pansexual

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject in school for business-related major, excellent with typing, record-keeping, work with Excel spreadsheets, etc. Subject reports regular workouts primarily consisting of long-distance cardio. Subject refused to provide details on sex life but is known to have been active in the dating scene of local area. Subject is known to be gregarious and social.

HOBBIES: Subject mentioned reading as a hobby, with primary interest in fantasy and science fiction. Three books located in subject’s car at time of acquisition.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject is showing some irregularities in heartrate, likely due to fear. No other known concerns.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Matthew and Maria Gray, both living, location Trenton, Indiana. Grandparents are deceased.

SIBLINGS: Two younger siblings: Mark, brother, two years younger, and Penny, sister, four years younger.

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Involuntary.

ACQUISITION DETAILS: Access to subject provided by local business. Subject was apprehended without incident by Handler Benjamin Ralford. Subject was given an injection of sedative and transferred to WRU company vehicle at 3:15 pm. The rest of the acquisition proceeded without incident.

ASSIGNED HANDLERS:

CONTRACT SIGNED: 06.09.20XX 5:55 PM

PRIMARY: Benjamin Ralford, per request, acting as primary. Handler and Processor, Romantic Division.

SECONDARY: Melissa Striker, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

SIGNATURE PROVIDED VOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT NOT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT SHOWED NO VISIBLE SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING. SUBJECT REPORTED FEELINGS OF FEAR AND CONFUSION COMMON TO NEW RECRUITS.

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Haven Gray, aka 549065

PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: Handler Benjamin Ralford, Badge #3345, WRU Attorney Ryan Alderson.

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $125,000 USD

COMPENSATION TO BE PAID BY PROSPECTIVE: $500,000 USD

CURRENT LOCATION: Romantic Division Room #12, post-signing contract

TRAINING PLAN: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance, Dance, Socialization

COMMENTS:

I’m going to take every fucking thing out of that head and put back in only what I want to be there. I think they’ll fall in line once the Drip is really working on them. My professional recommendation is total illiteracy should be emphasized before moving on to other training. They’ll do better with focus and commitment on the skills we want to impart that way. I am also recommending absolutely no scarring unless there is no other option. - Benjamin Ralford, Primary Handler

Scribbled at the bottom of the paper and not put in to WRU’s digitized records system is a note in Ralford’s handwriting:

Should’ve gone on that fucking date, asshole

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump

#epistolary #whump #horror fiction #epistolary fiction #going missing #captured #captivity #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #box buddy #nonbinary whumpee #allyn bb #wru intake form #wru intake paperwork #implied noncon #abduction tw #abducted whumpee

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oh-theres-a-woman · 4 years

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I Only Wanted You; Prologue

A/N: Not quite sure about this opener, kinda worried about it. So, please let me know your thoughts below.

Requested By: @captivatedbycillianmurphy

Taglist: @zodiyack, @hesagod-notyet, @itsfrancisneptun, @fandom-fucking-shit, @amys-small-world, @smallheathgangsters, @hinagiku0, @amirahiddleston, @a-dorky-book-keeper, @theamuz, @queencoraline3, @dylanlover24

Parts: [ 1 ]

Word Count: 740

It was meant to be the beginning to happier days. A beginning for a new life with the man that made each day better. Someone that made things—the demons in [Y/N]’s head die down for a little while. Perhaps, it was the fact she was engaged to the devil himself that his minion’s words and gossips did not eat at her. Forcing her under the waters of thoughts and deep-seeded insecurities.

From the moment she and Tommy Shelby had become engaged after a short time together. Starting off in the less than conventional way. After all, she was under his employment at the big fancy mansion in the country. She was a country-side girl. So, the Shelbys’ first didn’t know too much about her. Just another pretty face that worked in the mansion—one that probably try and fuck her way to the top in their eyes. But that wasn’t [Y/N]. She was a polite and sweet country girl that made Thomas looked at the world from another looking glass. It was Thomas that sort her out, after she caught his attention. Not intentionally—caught his attention either. The way [Y/N] smiled and her eyes lit up and called to him. One day, he heard her singing along to something playing on the radio in the kitchens, washing dishes with the other maid. Giggling at the stories they’d heard in town. Heart heavy with the thought of her family—he knew it because that’s why she first got the job working for him. After first, he was about to reject her due to lack of qualifications, but as he watched her leave down the drive.

Thomas Shelby saw her reach for a little boy’s hand wandering away, he looked like he’d been wearing clothing several sizes too small. While her interview clothes were several sizes too big. Even with the lack of hope in her gaze when she left that interview, he saw that sweet smile to the little boy on the drive. Trying to lift the spirits of the down-hearted boy. It was her kindness that led him to research her name, like all the other candidates. Most of the other girls—in the end didn’t have half as much experience as they made out. Girls from good families, never worked a day in their lives. That had not been the case for the girl, he had seen her even in town working long hours. Or even in the dead of night when he was driving home. She would be walking down the lane with a few other women on the late-night factory shift. She was a hard worker and that is what he needed. So, it seemed settled for him. Granted he understood the situation she came from—Thomas had changed her contract that she would receive a pay out to allow herself clothes for work. On the side slipping in enough for her to get more for her younger brother and sister that she was guardian of to get more clothes and food.

It was the extraordinarily little things that made the woman steal his heart. From a distance he watched her work. Polly was the first to catch sight of the first shifts in her nephew. However, she was wary after the heartbreak that a barmaid had caused him. Mrs Gray almost instantly wrote it off as another pretty-face and one that wished to tame her nephew. She was unsure of [Y/N]. Things changed in their employer and employee relationship one night he was in the village. Found [Y/N] being bothered by someone, a man that was not worth much to remember. He just bothered her, and he stopped that. Smoothing away tears turned to kissing her. She was so innocent and proper; aware that this should not happen. But it was Thomas that shushed those insecurities away. In truth, he had learnt the girl, sweet [Y/N] had even loved him. Not a day in his life did he expect that. Resigning to find another job, [Y/N] found a job in Birmingham and got a simple place. However, Thomas was quick to get a better place for her and her siblings. The moment their relationship became known to the other Shelbys their disapproval was made known. Causing a rising fear and loud anxieties in the young woman that Thomas admired. He didn’t know about what his family’s thoughts did to her. What they’re disapproval meant.

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 3 years

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“Arsonist Is Jailed,” Toronto Star. April 29, 1941. Page 34. ---- ‘A’ Police Court at the City Hall, Magistrate Forsyth For unlawfully wearing the uniform of the R.C.A.F. Walter Taylor, after spending six days in jail, appeared for sentence and was fined $25 or 10 days. ‘Understand you are getting off lightly. It won’t be so easy the next time,’ said Magistrate Forsyth.

Taylor purchased the uniform and wore it in the city different times, a police officer told the court.

‘He tried to get in the air force,’ asserted G. Beaudoin, defence counsel.

Two months was the sentence given Wong Sing, who pleaded guilty of obtaining fruit from a local dealer, to the value of $225, by fraud.

An official of the firm stated Sing, a fruit merchant, purchased the goods and ave a worthless cheque.

‘I gave the money to my bookkeeper. He left the city,’ declared accused.

Facing a charge of robbery with violence, Andrew Watt was remanded to May 7. ‘Bail will be discussed later,’ said Crown Attorney Borins.

Postman Gets Reformatory ‘You are fortunate you do not stand convicted of theft of mail, which carries a minimum term of three years,’ Magistrate Forsyth old Clifford Austin, a postman. He pleaded guilty of delaying delivery of mail.

‘This is still a serious offence. Mail is regarded as secret and must not be tampered with,’ added his worship, imposing two years less a day in the reformatory.

‘He is a first offender and was never in trouble before. He is married, with two small children, and his job is done,’ said Frank Callaghan, defence counsel.

‘I am taking that into consideration,’ replies his worship.

STOLE TOOLS, JAILED ---- ‘B’ Police Court at the City Hall, Magistrate Gullen. ‘I am just back from overseas and am a skilled mechanic capable of earning $45 a week. If I am sent down my wife and four children will be destitute.’ So said George W. Greer, appearing for sentence today on a charge of theft of unfinished tools. ‘I had been drinking and the tools were of no use to me,’

‘You should have thought of that before,’ said Magistrate Gullen. ‘Two months.’

Appearing for sentence for breaking into a Symington Ave. factory, Phillip Ross drew nine months and his younger brother, Robert S. Ross, six months.

Walter Osmerchuck, a first offender, was given suspended sentence and probation for six months when he appeared for sentence for theft of a windbreaker from a store.

MOTORIST FINED $40 --- ‘D’ Police Court at the City Hall, Magistrate Browne. ‘I had too much to drink and I shouldn’t be driving,’ Rocco Pasquale told P.C. Park after he as stopped for driving erratically on Elizabeth St., the officer testified. Pasquale pleaded guilty of careless driving and failing to produce his driver’s permit.

The officer stated accused had been drinking and was in no condition to drive. He had been followed by the police car. He was fined $30 or 30 days on the careless driving count and an additional $10 or 10 days on the other charge.

David Jones was fined $25 and costs or 30 when he pleaded guilty of careless driving on Eastern Ave.

Mrs. Sarah Chapley was fined $50 and costs or 30 days for permitting drunkenness in her house on Euclid Ave.

Constables Harris and Kelso, who visited the house about 3 a.m. April 20, stated they found a man and a woman drunk. They seized 35 pints of ale, 39 empties, and a part bottle of whiskey. The magistrate ordered the liquor confiscated and the house declared a public place.

Motorist Is Jailed Thirty days in jail for failing to leave his name and address at the scene of an accident $25 or 30 days for failing to report an accident and his driving permit cancelled for one year were the penalties given Joseph W. Barnhardt. He pleaded guilty.

Magistrate Browne commended citizens who helped apprehend accused by obtaining the license number. ‘We do not pay enough attention to the good work done by citizens in these case,’ he stated.

Benjamin Zerner testified he was on Sherbourne St. when he saw a boy appear from under the wheels of a northbound car. ‘I did not see the accident,’ he stated. ‘I helped carry the boy into the house and then accused came in. I didn’t see him leave but I told Harold Sheen to take the number of his car.’

Norris Arms said he picked up the boy, David Sheen, four, and carried him into his home. ‘Accused followed me in and asked if the youngster was badly hurt,’ he stated. ‘Then he left without leaving his name and address.’

Det.-Sergt. Joseph Ewing said the car was located some hours later on a west-end parking lot. ‘The car was registered in Shannonville and we obtained the owner’’s name from that place,’ he said. ‘Accused’s mother told me he had told her he was going to move the car down the street. He got in and kept on going.’

Accused came back to the scene later that evening and was arrested there by Det.-Sergt. Ewing. ‘He told me he had become worried and that the child had run out from behind a parked car,’ he said. ‘He said he lost his nerve while moving the car, and had kept on going.’

‘Have you anything to say?’ asked Mr. Browne. ‘It’s not much use now,’ replied accused.

‘The only reason you went back was that you knew the police were looking for you,’ Mr. Browne declared as he passed sentence. ‘While it is true stopped, the fact remains you did not render any assistance to the inured child and you didn’t give your name and address as required by law. You simply sneaked away and, had it not been for the clever boy who took your number, you might never have been caught.’

ARSONIST IS JAILED ---- County Police Court, Adelaide St. Magistrate Keith. ‘Such a person cannot be left at large,’ declared Magistrate Keith passing sentence on George Engwell, 25. He had previously pleaded guilty to four charges of arson in Etobicoke township.

Engwell was sentenced to two years less one day definite, and an indeterminate period not to exceed two years less one day on each charge, to run concurrently.

George T. Walsh, defence counsel, said Engwell was mentally deficient and needed medical treatment. He asked for leniency, as his client was not responsible for his actions.

Pleading guilty of registering bets, Reginald Walden was fined $50 and costs or 30 days.

A charge of careless driving against Archie MacDonald was dismissed. Magistrate Keith ruled the evidence was contradictory. The charge arose from a collision near Scarboro post-office April 2.

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deckyshep · 4 years

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Sweet as a Rose

Original Short Story by R.D. Shepard Written 2020 August 4 Content Warnings: Family, closeted gay relationship Summary: Warren Glenn is a live-in farmhand working for the Rose family farm. One day, the youngest son, Benjamin Rose, visits the family home for the first time since his move to New York City five years prior. After a nice family dinner, the two find something in one another they haven’t found in anyone else for a long, long time. Comments: I wrote this a few months ago, but edited it recently when I felt awfully lonely. There’s nothing that picks me up and dusts me off like gay love. 💛

It was a quiet afternoon in late August of 1953. The leaves on the oak tree just outside the Rose house were yellowing, some already orange and ready to fall to the ground as the nights grew cold and windy. Warren Glenn, a long-time stable hand working for the Rose family’s home and their farm, sat outside on the old rickety porch, eating a quick omelet dinner before he’d head out on his horse to round up the longhorns. Warren was a fit man at twenty-six, though the scruff on his face and the crows’ feet around his deep green eyes made him look a few years older. With his long, curly, black hair pulled up behind his head and his sharp jaw, he knew he would’ve been caught and cuffed quickly by somebody’s daughter if he hadn’t been brought up as a farm worker, evidenced by his deeply tanned skin.

The mother, Catherine Rose, sat inside, sewing up the pairs of trousers he’d ripped over the past few weeks – she chastised him for it every month, but there wasn’t much he could do when he was doing half the work on the farm. Hell if he knew where the older brother was, either – Leon had said something about trading in town up north.

Once the eggs were down his gullet, he made his way back inside, washing his plate in the sink and wiping his hands on his pants and starting for the door. “I’m rounding up the cattle, missus. I’ll be back before dusk.”

“You got that gun on you?” she asked from the living room, peeking around the corner from her chair.

“’Course I do,” he answered, feeling the pistol at his hip. “I’ll be careful. Leon should be back soon if you need anything.”

“Alrighty, baby. I’ll send him after you if you ain’t back before sundown.”

Warren laughed a little at that; Catherine had really taken a liking to him. He walked out the front door and headed to the stables, where Delilah, the black-maned quarter horse, was drinking water from her trough. He opened the door to her stable, scratching under her chin for a moment before pulling his riding gear from the chest at the back of her quarters. Once she was saddled up, he climbed up on her, situating himself before kicking her off.

While rounding up their cattle was a boring affair, it only got worse when their old beagle, Rusty, died last May. Still, it gave him motivation to focus while he was herding them back from the plains – too often did he lose himself in thought, only to lose half the herd within minutes. The longhorns weren’t too aggressive this season, thankfully.

After hours and hours of slowly riding along the borders of the herd, he finally made it back to the ranch, rounding them up past the heavy iron gates of their pasture. He locked the gate tight, making his way past the house to the stable – until he spotted big, bearded Leon on the porch, talking to a younger man a few inches shorter and at least half Leon’s weight. His clothes looked eastern, and though he looked like he’d been travelling for weeks from the bags under his eyes, the pretty blue bowtie around his collar and its matching suspenders looked crisp and untouched. He’d just gotten off a blond draft horse and was petting the creature’s mane at the bottom of the porch steps while he talked with Leon. Leon caught his eyes and tilted his head toward the stables, and Warren narrowed his eyes, bringing Delilah back to her stable and undressing her before locking her up and heading back to the house.

“Good timing, Warren,” Leon exclaimed, winking at him as he approached the porch. “Need to introduce you. B.J., this is Warren Glenn. He’s been helping out around the farm while I’ve been settling shit before heading out to Louisiana with Marcie. Warren, this is my little brother.”

Now that Warren was right up next to him, he could see the family resemblance. The young man – Benjamin, possibly? He couldn’t possibly like being called B.J. – had the same blue eyes and flaming red hair as Leon, though his freckled face was clean-shaven and, to put it politely, babyish. (His long, shaggy hair pulled up in a low ponytail didn’t help much, either.) Strangely enough compared to his family, he seemed more a city boy than anything with his professional little getup. “Howdy, sir.” Felt a little weird calling this young man “sir,” but he had to be nice.

The younger brother laughed a little, holding out a hand to shake – his voice was soft and warm, a stark difference from his brother’s gravelly tone, and he still had a bit of that southern accent lilting his words. “Just call me Benny. Nobody calls me ‘sir’ but my clients.” Warren shook his hand, finding that Benny had a surprisingly good grip. “Good to meet you, Warren. I’m sure you’ve got your hands full lately.”

“I don’t mind it, Benny,” Warren grinned, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good pay, good people.”

“No need to lie for my sake,” Benny snorted, crossing his arms. “I know they’re all crazy.” Leon huffed, landing a playful punch on Benny’s shoulder. “Kidding, I’m kidding. Missed being around the farm.”

“You didn’t even send a letter ahead,” Leon retorted, narrowing his eyes. “What’d you come out here for?”

Benny gave a pitiful smile. “Just wanted to surprise Mama. I know it’s been a minute since I showed up.”

“What’re you doing up in New York, again?” Leon asked, cracking his knuckles. “You’re a boss or something?”

“Executive administrator of manufacturing and development for… well, half the ports in NYC,” Benny explained, dumbing it down with a small laugh as soon as he saw the unamused look on Leon’s face. “I manage the factories making equipment big shipping rigs need to cross the Atlantic. Too much paperwork, lot of boring Christmas parties. But at least I got enough money to live, y’know?”

“Figured you were a city boy,” Warren commented quietly, a hint of a smile showing on his lips. “How’d a young guy like you land a job like that?”

Leon laughed with his whole chest, slapping his arm around Benny for a second. “Young? B.J.’s almost thirty.”

“Almost thirty? I got five years still, jackass,” Benny chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Warren’s eyes widened, and he lowered his head. “Sorry, Benny. Didn’t mean to offend.”

Benny tilted his head, smiling a little. “Didn’t hurt me none. I know I got a baby face, but Leon hogged all of Papa’s beard-growing capabilities.”

“Speaking of parents,” Leon started, looking toward the front door, “you gotta go see Mama. She’ll lose her marbles.”

“Right,” Benny replied, then nodded at Warren. “Again, real good to meet you, Warren. Might as well get cleaned up for supper while we’re at it.”

Warren glanced out to the sky, realizing the sun was already halfway past the horizon. “Good call.”

***

Supper was surprisingly nice with the whole Rose family around. Catherine made chicken stew, and Benny described New York City like Warren always thought it was – a huge, bustling city with towering buildings and thousands of businesses. While he was always curious what was on the other side of the fence, Warren wasn’t sure he’d like living in such a busy place.

When Benny took the dishes to the kitchen to wash them, Warren took the opportunity to head out of the house; he needed to clear his head after being surrounded by so many people. He sat on the porch for a while, watching as the crescent moon slowly rose in front of the millions of stars dotting the night sky. He needed a cigarette too badly, but he’d been trying to quit for ages, and a couple of weeks ago, he’d done the damn thing and just didn’t buy anymore. Still, his leg bounced nervously, and he kept bringing his empty fingers up to his face like he was going to take a smoke. What a shitty habit.

After a good half hour, he heard the door behind him open and close gently. Benny walked down the steps, sitting down next to him quietly. He didn’t speak for a while, merely enjoying the view of the bluish night sky and the moonlight dimly reflecting off the fencing lining the dirt road heading north. Then, he leaned to the side, resting his shoulder against the stair’s balustrade. “I miss it sometimes.”

Warren glanced over at him. His blue eyes were practically shining in the moonlight. “Being home?”

“Being in the country.” Benny looked at him out the corners of his eyes, smiling. “It’s so quiet out here, y’know? Nothing but the wind rolling over the grass. Maybe a creak here and there from the house. I sleep like a baby when I come home, even after all these years.”

Warren leaned back, resting his elbows against a higher step behind him with a soft grin. “Ain’t nothing better than miles and miles of quiet, Benny.”

“I know.” Benny was silent for a few seconds, then he sighed. “Thank you. For taking care of my family. I… I left because I wanted to do them proud, y’know? I got a college education, I make good money, a lot of which I send back to them once a month, I take care of myself… But I know it ain’t enough.”

Warren’s expression went somber, and he reached over, patting Benny’s thigh. “But this life here… It’s not what you wanted, was it?”

Benny shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I wanted more than filling the food troughs every morning at the crack of dawn. I wanted to make something of myself. And I’m doing it.”

“Then I think it’s enough.” Warren leaned back again, smiling warmly at him. “Yeah, your family misses you. But I think they know you were meant to do something else.”

Benny returned the smile, lowering his head. “You ever think like that? For yourself, I mean. You ever get restless out here?”

“Sometimes,” Warren replied, glancing out at the moon in the distance. “But I love what I do here. I think about living in a big city, and it just seems… lonely.”

Benny chuckled a little, turning to him. “Lonely?”

“So many people running around, but you don’t know them from the coop.” Warren took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. “I like my cohorts to be as close as I can get them.”

Benny leaned against the higher steps beside him. “As close as you can get them, huh?”

Warren glanced over at Benny, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks, and he looked back down with a grin. “Yeah.”

Benny looked over his face for a moment, then looked away with a shy smile. Then, he stood. “I wanna show you something, Warren.” Warren raised an eyebrow, but Benny motioned for him to follow as he started walking away from the house, and he jumped up to his feet, following.

Walking the small dirt path that connected to other similar paths leading to the stables, the cow pasture, and the unused barn, Benny made his way down the barn path with Warren behind him, the sounds of their quick steps over the dirt being the only audible noises in the night. Benny made a turn around to the back of the barn, Warren hurrying to catch up, until the younger man stopped at a small door in the barn. Entering the door after Benny, he spotted him ahead, quickly climbing up a ladder along the inner wall. “Wait up,” Warren whispered harshly, starting up the ladder.

When Warren finally reached the top, he spotted a long, thin platform along the back of the barn. In the center was a wooden balcony jutting out a large window, which was cornered by the roof at the top. In the center of the balcony were two long haybales pushed together, as though to make a bed. Walking out to the balcony, he saw Benny leaning over its balustrade, staring out into the distance.

Warren stepped up beside him, resting his elbows against the railing. “Never thought there was anything up here.”

Benny let a hint of a smile grace his lips. “Papa and his brothers built this barn from scratch. They added this little balcony so they could enjoy a beer or two after a hard day’s work.” He looked straight down, tracing his fingers around a nail in the wooden railing. “Used to come up here when I was younger. Mama grounded me when she thought I was sneaking girls up here, but I never snuck anyone but myself into this barn. Girls were too prissy for me, anyway.”

Warren chuckled, watching Benny’s face as he looked over the land before them. There was something magical about the way the moonlight glinted off his eyes. “Never found myself fond of them, either.”

Benny gave him a knowing gaze, turning to face him as he leaned against the railing. “I knew you were a good-looking man, but now I know you’re a sensible one, too.”

Warren pursed his lips, looking him up and down for a moment. Then he stood up straight, stepping just a smidge closer. “You coming onto me, Benny Rose?” he murmured, his hand finding Benny’s on the railing.

Though it was dim in the moonlight, Warren could see the blush come to Benny’s ears. “Only if you don’t tell my mama,” he replied quietly, pulling his hand away only to trail it up Warren’s arm.

Warren gave a soft grin, reaching up to brush a loose lock of hair from Benny’s face. “I’ll keep all your secrets if you let me kiss those pretty lips.”

Benny laughed, resting both his hands on Warren’s chest. “Sounds good, cowboy.”

#rdshepardwriting #gay #mlm #short story

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joyful-soul-collector · 4 years

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About Me

I was tagged by @theswordofpens! I started a new post for this cuz the other one was getting hella long with reblogs lol. Anyway, let’s get on to the questions!

How tall are you?

5′7 or 170.18cm

What color and style is your hair?

That is a debated topic actually. My hair is dyed bright blue, but the natural parts of it people can never decide if it’s black or dark brown. In the summer sun, it’s dark brown, but it’s not always summer and I’m inside 90% of the time, so it looks black very often. So really depends on the lighting of the situation. Though people tend to focus more on the fact that my hair is blue rather than what color the natural parts are lol. My hair is a pretty basic short haircut, short on the sides, little longer on top, a bit of bangs that get in my eyes sometimes.

What color are your eyes?

Again, debated topic, and for the same reason as my hair. Sometimes dark brown, sometimes black, depends on the light.

Do you wear glasses?

Yep! They’re red on the inside and black on the outside.

Do you wear braces?

Yeah, my family was finally able to get me braces a while ago! I guess most kids get them when they’re younger, before their teeth have the chance to get worse, and they only have to have them on for a year or so? But we were only able to get them when I entered sophomore year of high school, so I have to have them for three years since my teeth had gotten so bad. They’re a lot better now, and hopefully I’ll be able to get them off before I go to community college 😅

What’s your fashion sense?

Does fandom nerd count as a category of fashion? I wear a lot of shirts with references to tv shows. All of my shirts have some sort of graphic on it, and I also have a couple zip-up hoodies that are tv show references. I also wear bright red sneakers every day, big bright red headphones that I wear every day, and a wallet chain that I wear every day. So all of that, combined with bright blue hair, seems to make for a... noticeable person haha.

What is your full name?

Marko Polo

(Nice try, I’m not saying personal stuff on here haha)

Where were you born?

Not gonna say exactly where, but in the more southern part of California.

Where are you from and where do you live now?

Alright, so technically I’m from a few different places. I was born in southern CA and lived there til I was 8, then we moved to super north-western WA where I lived until I was almost 13, and then we moved to central PA, where we celebrated my 13th birthday like a week after arriving. I’ve lived here in PA ever since, so that’s five years here in a couple months.

What school do you go to?

A High School

What kind of student are you?

I’m an alright student? I struggle with school, especially with all the moving I’ve had to do. Different schools have different expectations and vary in a lot of ways. I also have ADHD (more inattentive, less hyperactive) and Anxiety, which has not exactly been a help haha. I’ve always needed tutors and extensions and my 504 Plan, but if I have those I can often get good grades!

Do you like school?

School is meh. It’s stressful and exhausting, which is frustrating because I have other stuff I want do outside school, but I can’t do half of it because I have hw and chores and any other random things that need to get done. But my school is very high quality compared to most public schools! We have so many resources and amazing classes, and I love attending there, but unfortunately the people are not my favorite. Most of them are rich kids who have never attended anything other than really fancy schools, so they often take what they have for granted. I’ve heard kids say “our school is trash” while sitting in our Forensic Science class, in front of a school issued computer that we get to take home every day. It bothers me to NO END how some of these people act, but oh well.

Favorite subject?

English! English has always been my favorite subject, I love stories.

Favorite TV shows?

Ohhhhhhh man here we go (in no particular order): Firefly, Dollhouse, Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Demon Slayer, Legend of Korra, My Hero Academia, Sense8, Sherlock, Death Note, Lovesick, One Punch Man, Series of Unfortunate Events, The Good Place, Galavant, Parks and Rec, The Office, iZombie, Kill la Kill, Community, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, The Umbrella Academy, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Naruto, Batman The Animated Series, Travelers, Sex Education, Cells at Work, Death Parade, The Promised Neverland, RWBY

Tbh there might be more but those are the ones I could find haha. If you haven’t seen these, watch em, pretend this is a rec list, and then come and yell at me about how good they are.

Favorite movies?

Again, here we go (in no particular order): The Iron Giant, 10 Cloverfield Lane, Cabin in the Woods, any and all MCU movies (but especially Spider-Man), Into The Spider-Verse, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, anything Bo Burnham, anything John Mulaney, James Acaster: Repertoire, The Prestige, The Usual Suspects, Planet of the Apes, Lars and the Real Girl, Her, Newsies, Baby Driver, Serenity, Liar Liar, Crazy Stupid Love, Bandersnatch, ARQ, Cloverfield, A Silent Voice, Klaus, How To Train Your Dragon, Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog

There are definitely more, I just couldn’t think of them haha. Again, watch these, and then come and freak out with me about how they’re amazing.

Favorite books?

Let’s do this one last time (in no particular order, of course): Ready Player One, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Harry Potter, the Gone series, Saga, Sweet Tooth, Chew, Nimona, The Tea Dragon Society, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Lumberjanes, Invincible, Runaways, Calvin and Hobbes, Prince and the Dressmaker, Here, Plutona, Sculptor, Invincible, The Sword, Ultimate Spider-Man, Holes, Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, The Giver

There are definitely, 100% more books that I haven’t listed, again, I can’t think of them rn. Also, if you don’t recognize half of these titles, you probably don’t read comics/graphic novels. You should be reading those. Read them and then come and rant about how good they are so I get to tell you I told you so.

Favorite past time?

Writing! Watching tv! Reading! Spacing out so much people have to say my name ten times before I come hurtling back to earth! Talking to friends!

Do you have any regrets?

Yeah, I wish I’d stood up for myself when I was younger. I was bullied for a really long time, and even though it’s been a couple years since the last I was bullied, it’s still really hard for me to tell people what I want and and don’t want. I think I’m a little better than I used to be though, which is good!

What’s your dream job?

Author definitely, but I doubt I’ll be able to do that for a real job. Tbh I just want a job that I can do in my sleep. Repetitive, pays well, not too exhausting, that way I have energy and time to do my writing and all the things I want to do at home.

Would you like to be married?

I think so. I want to have a person I can live my life with, who I want to care for and who wants to care for me. If I’m not married I’d like an S.O. or even just a really good friend to live with. I think I’d get sad living by myself haha.

Do you want kids?

I want to be a foster parent! I’ve loved helping people my whole life, and I think this is one of the best ways that I can help someone going through a rough time. I don’t want biological kids though tbh, not really for any one reason, just for a bunch of little ones.

How many?

Dunno man. I wanna help as many kids as I can.

Do you like shopping?

I do! However I don’t do it often because I have no money. I do like walking around stores and looking a cool stuff though, especially nerdy stores like Hot Topic or Boxed Lunch or any book/comic shop.

What countries have you visited?

Canada, usually to visit family, once to see Niagara Falls! Never been anywhere else though, but I have a whole list of places I wanna see

Scariest nightmare you’ve ever had?

TW: SELF HARM/DEATH

Oof, see my dreams are always nightmares, and my nightmares are always hella terrifying. Often they’re of my worst fears: family telling me they hate me, finding the body of someone in my family, old bullies coming back, but in my worst one I found my little sister cutting herself in an old warehouse. I don’t actually remember much of what happened after I woke up, it was so bad I disassociated for the whole day. But luckily, I don’t dream often.

Do you have any enemies?

No? Maybe? I have people I hate, my old bullies mainly, but I’m not around them anymore so it’s not like I spend time hating them.

Do you have any self doubts?

Yeah I have this hilariously fun thing where I think everyone is just pretending to like me because they can’t pick up the courage to stop hanging out with me. Or that if I talk about what’s making me sad/stressed out then I’m being a burden on other people or being dramatic. Slowly working over that but it’s still hard.

Do you have any significant others?

Nope

Do you believe in miracles?

Depends. I don’t believe in fate or the idea that something higher up is pulling strings. But I think crazy cool stuff can happen. But that’s just luck and coincidence. For me, miracles are the positive ends of luck and coincidence.

How are you?

Meeeeehhhhh. School sucks, my sisters stress me out, and my parents are breathing down my neck about fifty different things. But I have a couple good friends and my writing and good stories to read and watch, so it’s not all bad :]

Tag ten tumblrs (tag last ten people in my notifications): @tracle0 @humblesavant @holystudenthologramy @federluftmask @phahbiyah @topazastral @dragon-s-bane @cassius-mortemer @saiko-tsuki @writing-another-star

#tag game #about me

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deathinaprettypinkdress · 5 years

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Shaped Like A Gun: Chapter Two

A/N: I posted this on both AO3 and FanFiction, and I thought I would post it here. I have found so many wonderful Peaky Blinders fanfictions and imagines, and I thought I would throw my hat in the ring, and maybe, hopefully, someone will like it.

Summary: Essie Rosen wanted to stay far away from the crime that occupies Camden Town, and one that her brother is a part of. But after his death and being laid off, Essie finds herself in a desperate position. With no other options, she finds herself working for Alfie Solomons, her brother’s old boss. Her position becomes desperate once again though, as she finds herself falling in love with him. AlfiexOC

Despite having the most peaceful night’s sleep she had in weeks, Essie woke up filled with dread.

She had accepted a job for one of the most feared men in London. She woke up questioning the decision. She could pay this months rent, but after that, she wouldn’t be able to. She’d be thrown out onto the streets. At that point, her only other option was becoming a prostitute. She couldn’t do that. She knew her mother would be turning over in her grave Essie resorted to that. She doubted her mother would see taking the same path of her brother as much better, barely a step up.

But she was desperate and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

She wore a navy blouse with small orange, red, green and yellow floral embroidery at the neckline, and chose a navy skirt that fell halfway down her thighs. She also wore a black stockings and black shoes with a small heel. It was a similar style to what she wore when she was working at the doctor’s office. It was simple, professional and it added a small and subtle pop of color to a dreary setting. And from what her brother had told her of Alfie Solomons and his factory, a small and subtle pop of color would be exactly what was needed. She also brought a navy knit cardigan, thinking it might be cold in the bakery.

She looked herself over in the mirror, second guessing her outfit choice. Was this right thing to wear to the bakery. She assumed it was. It was the same sort that she had worn when she worked at the doctor’s office. She’d be doing the same thing essentially. The only difference was the legalities of it all. But she wouldn’t be doing anything illegal, or at least that’s what Alfie had told her she wouldn’t be last night. Whether or not he was honest remained to be seen. She was tempted to change into a black blouse and black skirt, without any hints of color at all. But she decided not to.

She did like to keep up with current fashions, or at least pretend she could afford to. Without a paycheck, she had to forfeit her guilty pleasure of fashion magazines. But she held on to her old ones, just to flip through. She had plenty of old copies of Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and The Delineator. She had to admit, she was eager to buy more copies now that she was going to have a little extra pay for them.

When she had looked herself over, multiple times, making sure she looked right, overthinking every possible detail, she grabbed her brown coat and black cloche hat and left. She doubted any of the men at the bakery would think twice about what she was wearing, or even knew the first thing about current fashion and she doubted any of them even cared about that sort of thing. But she was still worried, as she was sure that anyone would be going into the workplace of a deadly gangster for the first time, or at all, for that matter. She had decided that it’d be best not to tell Mrs. Hirsch about this job until after her first day.

She had told the other girls who had asked her about where she was going that she was job hunting, the same as she did every day, too afraid of what she would be in store for if she told them that she would be going to work for Alfie Solomons, they’d ask questions, and probably think she was insane for accepting such an offer. They’d put ideas in her head about how he’d kill her if she ever did anything to displease him. Essie didn’t need them to tell her that, those thoughts were already quite prominent in her mind, and she was terrified that she was going to end up dead by the end of the week. She didn’t need those other girls feeding her fears when she was already so terrified.

One of the girls who continued to pester Essie on what Alfie Solomons wanted was Annette. She was a tiny thing, at twenty-one she only one year younger than Essie, and her green eyes always held a sort of mischievous glint in them. She was quite curious as to what Alfie Solomons wanted in Mrs. Hirsch’s house, particularly what he wanted with someone like Essie.

“What was Alfie Solomons doing here last night, Essie?” Annette asked.

“My brother used to work for him,” said Essie. “He died and he wanted to make sure I was getting on all right.”

“Really?” Annette asked. “Never saw him as one to really give a shit about his employees families.”

“Well, apparently he is,” said Essie.

“I hear he’s a bad man,” said Annette, clearly trying to get under Essie’s skin.

“Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” said Essie. She tried to make it clear that she didn’t want this conversation to continue.

“Did he seem very bad when you talked to him?” Annette asked.

“No, Annette,” said Essie, becoming exasperated. “I spoke to him for five minutes.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I don’t know, Annette,” Essie snapped.

“Are you afraid?” Annette asked. “That he’ll kill you.

Yes, Essie thought, but she didn’t say that. She just wanted this conversation to end. Annette was starting to get on her last nerve, which was saying something, considering what an even-tempered, patient person Essie normally was. But she was nervous enough today without having Annette interrogate her about Alfie Solomons. Especially filling her mind with horror stories about him.

“I’m going,” said Essie.

“What’s the rush?” Annette asked. “You don’t have a job.”

“I need one,” said Essie. She wasn’t going to tell Annette. Not yet, at least. “And the sooner I set off, the better.”

With that, Essie left, eager to get as far away from Annette as possible. It wasn’t that she disliked her, it was just that she didn’t want her fears to be any greater than they already were. She was not going to have her fears fed into any more. Besides, she didn’t want to be want to be late on her first day, especially was her employer was Alfie Solomons. She was sure that wasn’t the best idea.

The walk to the bakery wasn’t too long, only about fifteen minutes. But as she got closer, she could feel herself becoming more and more nervous. She would have been a fool not to be nervous. Alfie Solomons was know for his vile temper, and his cruel nature.

The bakery seemed to loom over her as she approached it. She felt like she didn’t belong in a place like this, but she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. She was desperate and she didn’t have much of a chance at getting another chance anywhere else. She didn’t have any chance at getting a reference from her old boss. She considered it a miracle that Alfie would hire her without any. She didn’t know anyone else who would do such a thing. But she was working for a gang leader, a tough, violent gang leader. Someone who was known for having a temper that could be set off by the smallest thing, and Essie really hoped that she would not be one to set off that notorious temper of his.

Essie would keep to herself while she worked here. She wouldn’t step out of line. She wouldn’t ask questions about the business. She wouldn’t stick her nose where it didn’t belong. She would keep quiet and keep out of the way. She would go to work everyday, she would do what was asked of her, and she would go home.

Essie took a deep breath as she began walking into the bakery. She could clearly see that her arrival was unexpected by those in the bakery. The men had stopped working and turned to her. Some were looking at her with lustful eyes, some where looking at her with curiosity, clearly not used to seeing a women in the bakery.

She was sure women didn’t walk in here everyday. Perhaps a few whores for Alfie, but that was probably it. She clearly wasn’t a whore, and any suspicions that she might have been, were probably confirmed false by the way she was dressed, in such a professional manner, as well as her demeanor, the fact that she could feel herself trying to make herself smaller.

It was clear that she was uncomfortable by the stares she was receiving from the men, both the lustful ones, and the curious ones. She kept trying to make herself smaller, and tried not to make eye contact. As if they wouldn’t exist if she didn’t pay them any attention. She had worked in a factory before, when she was seventeen, just after she finished school, while she was looking for a secretarial position, in an attempt to bring home just a little extra money for her mother and brother. The conditions weren’t the best, and she hated every minute of working there. But this factory wasn’t like the one that she had worked at. It was so much darker here, no natural lighting. Granted, the factory that she worked out was fairly dark as well, but there was at least a little natural light on good days. And she had been making clothes to be shipped off to department stores, and not ‘bread.’ Luckily, she wouldn’t be working on the factory floor.

Essie didn’t exactly know where she was going, she just figured that if she kept walking she would figure out just where exactly she needed to be. Or at least she hoped. Alfie had been as vague as possible when he had given her instructions. He had just told her to come to the factory and that she had s job that paid twice as much as her old one. As she walked deeper into the factory, she was becoming more and more nervous. She hadn’t even realized that she could become even more nervous than she already was. But she continued to prove herself wrong with every step she took. She didn’t like looking scared in a place like this, surrounded by so many men who were bigger and stronger, than her short, slender frame.

Essie tried to put her fears into the back of her mind, trying not to focus so much on it, as it clearly wasn’t helping her situation. She worked here, she wasn’t doing anything wrong by being here, she tried telling herself, as a way to help calm her nerves. She didn’t know how long she had walked before she had been stopped by a man, lanky and taller than her, though most people were, with short, dark, curly hair.

“You’re David’s sister, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Essie, holding out her hand. “Esther. Or Essie.”

“Ollie,” the man replied, shaking her hand. “C’mon.”

With that he started walking and nodded for Essie to follow him. Essie did just that. Essie walked a few paces behind him, and her eyes glanced to the side, and she saw some of the men’s gazes shift from lust to curiosity. She quickly moved her gaze directly in front of her, once again trying not to make eye contact with any of the men who were working. He stopped sin front of an office door and knocked on it. Essie noticed that there was a desk outside the office with some pens and pencils, blank paper and a typewriter. She assumed that it was the desk where she would be working. There was a grunt from inside the office. Essie assumed that it was Alfie. Ollie opened the door and poked his head in.

“David’s sister is here,” said Ollie.

“Well, send here in,” Essie heard Alfie say in his gruff voice.

Ollie stepped aside and motioned for Essie to enter. Essie walked inside. Alfie was sitting hunched over his desk looking over some paper work. There was a chair across from his and Essie hesitantly sat down. She folded her hands in her lap. She sat there in silence, waiting. After a moment, Alfie looked up, looking her up and down, and Essie held her breath.

Essie resisted the urge to look down at her lap, as she began twiddling her fingers, a nervous habit she had ever since she was a little girl. But she didn’t want to look too cowardly or timid in front of Alfie. A part of her wanted to, just as a some sort of show that she wanted to keep quiet and keep out of the way of everything, but she didn’t. She looked at him. She would be lying if she said he was unattractive. But Doctor Kennedy was attractive too, and that didn’t work out so well. And she was sure that Alfie was far more dangerous in comparison to Alfie Solomons.

“You have experience as a secretary, isn’t that right?” Alfie asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Essie.

“And you, yeah, left your old position?” Alfie asked.

“Yes, sir,” Essie replied.

“Why did you leave?” Alfie asked.

“Er, my employer and I had a conflict of interest, sir,” said Essie. It wasn’t technically a lie. His interest was to take her to bed, while Essie wasn’t interest in that.

“He wanted to fuck you,” Alfie said bluntly.

“Yes, sir,” said Essie after a moment, a little shocked that he knew that. She quickly added, “If this is about references, that’s why he hasn’t given me any. I’m a hard worked. I was the best in my class when I was at school.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Rosen, this ain’t about references,” said Alfie and Essie breathed a sigh of relief. “But if any of my men, yeah, harass you in any way, you let me know, a’right.”

“Yes, sir,” said Essie, a little surprised by the statement. It was the last things she was expecting, but she was happy to hear it.

“I’m a very bad man, Miss Rosen,” said Alfie. “But there are some thing I don’t tolerate. I don’t hurt women. And I don’t tolerate any cunt who does, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” said Essie. “Thank you, Mr. Solomons.”

“Right,” said Alfie, pulling out a leather bound book that looked like a ledger of some sort. “I hear you’re good at maths, is that right?”

“Yes, Mr. Solomons,” said Essie.

“Good!” he said, handing her over the book. “I need you to balance this out.”

“Yes, sir,” said Essie, taking the book. “Is it right to assume that the desk outside is mine, Mr. Solomons?”

“Yeah,” he said, resuming his work. “Off you go, pet.”

Essie did as she was told. With the book in her arms, she left the office and went to the desk. She took her coat off and and hung it behind her chair and placed her hat in the corner of her desk, and immediately set to work. She almost thought it was odd that he referred to her as pet. Her old boss called her ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ a lot. It bothered her. It sounded like he was being condescending, like he was talking down to her. But the way Alfie said it, she liked it. Perhaps it was because he didn’t sound condescending when he said it.

Essie immediately set to work, doing as she was told. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but she was pleasantly surprised. She hadn’t expected the books to be perfect, and they weren’t but she had expected them to be worse. Mathematics was always a strong suit of hers. She had always excelled in such that subject. Her mother knew she couldn’t keep her son from working for Alfie’s gang. He had been a troublemaker since he was a little boy. But Essie was smart. She could do more for herself than working in a factory. She could make her way up in the world. She would never be some upper class lady, but she could be a self-made woman. And thus, Essie’s dreams of being an artist, preferably illustrating children’s books, were put on hold, and sketching had become more of a hobby than anything else. And in the past few months, she hadn’t had the time to work on it that she wished she could have. She had long since accepted it was never meant to be.

Essie felt like she was letting her mother down by going to work for a man like Alfie Solomons. She had wanted so much for her daughter, and Essie had taken the exact same path as her brother. Granted, unlike her brother, she wasn’t doing any cuttings or beatings or killings like her brother had done. But she was still working for a gang nonetheless. Essie tried to put it out of her mind. If she was lucky, this would only be a temporary position. If she didn’t know if she could get another job. She wouldn’t get any references from her old boss, and she was probably going to have a stain on her record considering her new boss was a gang leader.

But she was in desperate need of a job and she liked to think that her mother would understand. She was in need of a job and Alfie had one to offer. That was all, and Alfie had assured her that what she would be doing would be legal. She wouldn’t be sent out to go do Alfie’s dirty work, she would be quietly sitting at a desk, keeping the books and whatnot.

But, Alfie seemed reasonable enough. He had told her that the men weren’t allowed to bother her, and to go straight to him if he did. The pay was well, and the work was nothing she wasn’t used to. Maybe being here wouldn’t be so terrible. But it was only her first day. Working for Doctor Kennedy had been nice enough for a while. And then it got bad. Essie could only hope that this job wouldn’t be the same. But considering her boss, she supposed that was one of the least of her worries. She had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that it would be, but it was one that she tried to suppress, not wanting to think about that just yet.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders imagine #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons imagine

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how-to-survive-a-factory-tour · 5 years

Text

How to Survive a Factory Tour - Chapter 1

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

—————

”Hey, what can I get you?”

”The usual, Virge. To go.”

”Oh, hey Remy.”

I turn and grab a plastic cup from one of the many stacks.

”You okay?” the guy on the other side of the counter asks, looking over his sunglasses at me. I just sigh as I turn back around. Remy Sleep can’t tell if the dark marks under my eyes are eyeshadow or tired bags.

”I’m not okay (I promise),” I reply.

Remy rolls his eyes, pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead. “Virge, I want a serious answer. I haven’t been able to check on how you’re doing as much since you dropped out.”

”You know I had to. I’ve told you before.”

”I know. You had to get a job, so you can pay for Thomas’ university fees.”

Thomas is my twin brother. Our family is in a rough position. We live in a run-down shack with only our mother, our father having passed on when Thomas and I were five. The only income we have to support us is the small amount our mom earns from her job as a dishwasher at a restaurant, which is not nearly enough. As our eighteenth birthdays had drawn near, I had realised there was no hope of us both being able to go to college with the money we had. If we did, we’d never eat again, and there’s not much you can do with an education when you’re dead. So, instead of completing my final year of high school, I decided to drop out and get a job. That way, Thomas will be able to go to university, get a good paying job and be able to live the life he deserves.

I don’t care if I lose the chance for a future. As long as Thomas is happy, I am too.

”Anyway, did ya hear the news?” Remy asks, changing the subject.

”What news?” I question.

”You don’t know?” Remy gasps. “It was everywhere! All over the internet and TV!”

I raise an eyebrow at the guy on the other side of the counter.

”Oh, right, you don’t have a TV... or a phone... or laptop. Anyway! You’ll never believe this, but Wonka is opening his factory again!”

”No fucking way!”

”Yes way! Look.” Remy pulls out his phone and holds it in front of me. I read it over.

Willy Wonka is the most famous chocolatier in the entire world, and his factory is situated in our town. He has created things that had previously seemed impossible: ice cream that never melts, sweets that allow you to spit in seven different colours, gum that never loses its flavour and so much more. About seven years ago, he hosted a competition in which he sent out five golden tickets hidden under the wrappers five chocolate bars. Five kids won them and got to go on a tour around his factory. Afterwards, four of them left, all in... interesting states. I remember, one was really thin and covered in melted chocolate, one was blue from head to toe, one was covered in trash and the last was paper thin and twelve feet tall. The fifth kid was never seen again.

Rumours spread about what happened to them. Many thought the four kids were insane because of the stories they told. Pipes, chocolate rivers, defective gum, giant blueberries, squirrels, garbage chute, televisions, cameras... I won’t bore you with the details when there’s a book based all around the stories they told. Just go read that. It’s called ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, I think.

But, anyway, back to now.

According to the article Remy’s showing me, Wonka’s sent out five more tickets. This time, however, he’s specified the winners have to be seventeen to twenty one years old.

”You know what this means?” Remy grins. “The age restriction mans there’s a higher chance of us winning tickets!”

”A higher chance of you winning a ticket, don’t you mean,” I correct him. “I can’t waste anything.”

”Seriously? Not even a dollar for chocolate?” Remy raises an eyebrow. “Here.” He pulls five dollars from his wallet and places it in the tip jar. “For a few Wonka bars. Treat yourself for once.”

”Thanks,” I nod as I hand Remy his drink. “That’ll be four dollars.”

He hands over the money, which I place in the register.

“Good luck,’ he wishes me, pulling his sunglasses back down over his eyes. He gives me a wave before turning and leaving.

I let out a sigh as I glance at the tip jar. Maybe I can spare at least one dollar for candy...

”Ma! Pa! Emile! Did ya hear?!”

I run through the house, newspaper in hand. I speed into the living room, where my Ma’s ironing and my Pa’s playing Mario Kart against Emile.

Emile’s my younger brother by eight years. Once I asked why my parents why the age gap was so big, and they said that it took them a long time to decide that they wanted another child. According to my gran, however, Emile wasn’t planned. It doesn’t mean they love him any less, though. My family and life’s pretty much as great as I’d ever want it to be.

I’ve lived in Ireland my whole life. I really like it here, but I’ve always wanted to travel. I don’t want to go yet, however. Gran’s been having problems with her memory; Alzheimer’s, my parents say. I don’t want to go away for a long time and come back to find Gran’s completely forgotten about me. I guess I’m going to wait until... Well, you know.

My parents and Emile all look up as I enter the room, grinning ear to ear.

”Willy Wonka is opening his factory again!” I announce as I hold the newspaper above my head, showing the headline off.

”Really?” Emile gasps, pausing his game and leaping to his feet. He runs towards me, jumping up and trying to grab the newspaper. “Come on, Patton, let me see!”

I hand Emile the paper, and he reads it over, face lighting up with excitement. “It is! It’s true! Aw, but it’s only opening to people between seventeen and twenty one...” Emile’s ten years old. “Oh, wait, you’re eighteen, Patton!” Before I can say a word, he grabs my arm, trying to pull me from the room. I laugh at his eagerness before turning to my parents.

“Be back by dinner,” Ma says, folding one of my blue polo shirts.

“Okay. Bye!” I let Emile pull me to the front door. I grab my wallet and pull on my coat before the two of us step outside. Emile starts running down the pavement ahead of me.

”Be wide on the road!” I call after him, running up to him and taking his hand. “Ma and Pa will kill me if you get hurt.”

”Sorry, I’m just excited!” Emile grins. “You’re gonna go to Willy Wonka’s factory!”

”Emile, it’s really unlikely I’ll actually get a ticket,” I reply. “It’s, like, super super, near impossible.”

”Well, with the age range, it’s even more likely!” Emile points out. ‘”And you deserve it for being the best brother ever!”

I pull Emile into a hug. He’s lying. I’m not the best brother ever, he is. I wish he could go to the factory, he’d love it.

I’m going to try to win a ticket, not just for my own enjoyment, but so I can share the stories with Emile and so he can experience it, even if not in person.

Well, this is a new low. Usually they at least leave a note at least.

I chuck my schoolbag onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I check one more time to see there isn’t a note anywhere. No, there definitely isn’t. Great.

I open the fridge and grab a jar of Crofters Wild Blueberry Jam. I retrieve a spoon from the cutlery drawer and sit down at the table. I pull my book from backpack and start reading. It’s relaxing for a bit... until the front door slams open.

There’s the sound of footsteps running and into the room come my parents and my brother, Robert, all of them carrying two shopping bags each.

‘Salutations,’ I greet. Not that they notice me at all...

My parents neglect me. There’s no other way to phrase it. Mum and Dad are sports fanatics. Football, Rugby, Cricket, they’re invested in it all. And with Robert being captain of almost all the sports teams at his university, they love him and praise him like he’s a God. However, I myself am more academically inclined. For example, I am currently taking physics, chemistry, computer science and mathematics at college. This basically resulted in my parents not caring about me at all. It doesn’t matter I got all A*s and A**s at GCSE, it doesn’t matter my prospects are Oxford or Cambridge, it doesn’t matter I have an IQ of 200. No, because I can’t play sports, but Robert can, so he’s automatically better than me.

Multiple times, my parents have forgotten I even existed. Once, them and Robert went on a four-week holiday to Australia and left me behind. If I didn’t know how to effectively look after myself, I’d have died.

I was seven at the time.

They all take seats at the table and unload the shopping bags, placing the purchased items onto the table. They’re Wonka bars. They didn’t buy anything else. I raise an eyebrow.

”May I inquire why you bought so much chocolate?” I ask as Robert and my parents start unwrapping the bars.

None of them respond, they just continue what they were doing. I sigh, getting to my feet and leaving the room. I head upstairs and go into my bedroom, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. I google Wonka’s name, and the first article that comes up immediately makes me slightly intrigued.

It says Wonka’s opening his factory again. Just like the last time, he’s hidden five golden tickets under the wrappers of five Wonka bars, and those who win them get a guided tour and a lifetime supply of sweets and chocolate. The only difference is, this time, it’s for seventeen to twenty-one year olds.

To be completely honest, I don’t really care much about it. Yes, I’m slightly intrigued, but not enough that I’ll waste money on buying a bunch like the rest of my family. Even with the new age requirements, the odds of winning are pretty much infinitesimal. There’s really no reason to try.

I go back downstairs and take a seat on the sofa, reopening my book.

“It’s got to be here somewhere!” I overhear my brother growl as he furiously tears the wrappers off chocolate bars.

“No, it doesn’t,” I respond, not even looking up. “There are over seven point five billion people looking for these tickets, and even more Wonka bars than that being sold a day. You can’t expect to win on blind luck on your first try.”

I hear footsteps coming up behind me and a shadow looms over me and my book. I close it before turning around and making eye contact with Robert.

“Listen here, you little smartass,” he growls. “I will win a ticket, because I am winner, unlike you.”

He gestures to the trophy cabinet in the corner of the room, where he has a bunch of sports trophies. I resist the urge to remind him of the box of academic awards I have in my room.

“You may as well not bother trying,” Robert continues. “Smarts aren’t going to help you get a ticket. You’re not even that smart anyway.”

How fucking dare he.

I wasn’t going to take part in the contest, but I sure as hell will now.

“Okay then. You go ahead and tell yourself that,” I reply, standing. “Meanwhile, I am going to go to my room and use maths, science, geography and research to find the exact location of the tickets.”

Before Robert can reply, I turn and leave the room. I have a ticket to find.

“Yo te quiero enseñar Un fantástico mundo Ven Princesa y deja a tu corazón soñar!”

I use my hairbrush as a microphone as I continue performing to the handsome man in the mirror. Oh wait, that’s me!

I can hear your judgement. Shut up, I’m beautiful.

As I make sure my hair is perfectly styled, ready for Valerie’s party later, I suddenly hear a yell from downstairs.

“Roman!” Pa calls.

“Yeah?!” I call back.

“There’s some news I think you might want to hear!”

Intrigued, I leave the bathroom and head downstairs. What is it? New Disney movie announced? Surprise Steven Universe episode drop? Gravity Falls is coming back?! TICKETS TO SEE HAMILTON?!

I head into the living room, where my Dad and Pa are sat on the sofas, Dad reading a book, Pa holding the TV remote. The TV’s showing...the news? Why would I be interested in the news? I’m not really the most topical or political person.

Nevertheless, I take a seat next to Pa.

“So, what’s this thing you wanted to show me?” I ask, checking the time. I promised I’d help Val set up, so I’ve got to get to her place early. This hopefully won’t take long.

Pa presses play on the remote. As I watch the report, I leap off the sofa, punching the air.

“¡SI! ¡SI!”I say, slipping back into Spanish, despite Dad saying that we were going to stick with using English until exams, so I’m as prepared as I can be for my English-speaking exam. Don’t see why, though, I’m already fluent.

But the news! The news! It’s amazing! Wonka’s opening his factory yet again! I tried so hard to get a ticket seven years ago. When the tour was announced, eleven-year-old me was quaking! But now it’s my chance! I can finally go and see the what lies inside that mysterious building. I bet it’s full of wonders beyond my imagination...

“I gotta go!” I call to my parents as I run from the room. I pull on my jacket and run from the house. I’ve gotta step into a candy store and buy some Wonka bars before I head to Val’s.

Yep, that was a Heathers reference.

“Honey, what you waiting for? Welcome to my candy store You just gotta prove you’re not a loser anymore And step into my candy store!”

----------

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides virgil #remy sanders #sleep sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides patton #emile picani #dr emile picani #roman sanders #sanders sides roman #valerie torres #sanders sides au #au #charlie and the chocolate factory au #willy wonka #crossover

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ckret2 · 5 years

Text

Tedium

Fandom: Borderlands, pre-canon Characters: Zer0, an OC invented to play off Zer0, and a smidge of Mordecai at the end. Words: 5600 Summary: Blue Collar said he called him "Seventeen" because of his little speech quirk, expressing himself in exactly seventeen syllables at a time. But the other reason was that Blue Collar had the deeply uncomfortable sense that the spindly amateur killer in front of him was just some kid, around seventeen years old, in deep over his head without even understanding how fast he was sinking. "Don't know about other planets, but that's how hitmen work around here: we don't interfere with each other, we don't hunt each other, but we don't help each other, either. It's a lonely profession. I don't want it to be lonely for you." Notes: Zer0's called "he" when the narration is from the perspective of someone who would make that assumption and hasn't been told otherwise, and "they" when the narration is from their own perspective. Warnings: Canon-typical violence & character death.

###

"Don't listen to anyone who tries to hype up Dahl. They're amateurs who like to think carrying a gun with camo on it makes them a soldier instead of a thug. A real professional hitman uses Tediore." Waving his hot sauce-coated chopsticks at Seventeen as he spoke, Blue Collar leaned across the sticky fast food restaurant table, warming up to the topic. "Quietest guns on the market. Easy to make impossible to trace. Break the gun's digistruct chip and toss your pistol in a trash can and boom, the murder weapon no longer exists. There's a hundred places on the ECHOnet that'll teach you how to corrupt a Tediore gun's serial number so it isn't printed on the bullets, in case you're worried the cops'll use it to track down the gun's registered owner—which probably won't be you anyway, since they're a dime a dozen to get second-hand. If you really wanna go incognito, get a five-dollar digistruct chip from the nearest corner store and pirate a Tediore gun. You can even download some with Maliwan barrels if you wanna shock a shield off someone."

Seventeen shifted on the cheap vinyl seat, as if to speak, and Blue Collar lifted a hand placatingly. "I know, you're not a fan of Maliwan, I'm just saying. Now, the only exception to Tediore is rifles. That's when you wanna go Dahl."

Seventeen snorted derisively. "For sniper rifles? That's a waste of good ammo. One bullet, one death."

Sarcastically, Blue Collar asked, "Oh, and I suppose you get a lot of jobs that pay so bad you can't afford to buy four bullets?"

"Yeah."

Blue Collar had no idea if that was supposed to be a joke, but he went for it like it was serious. "Then you're taking the wrong jobs. No wonder you're so scrawny." He jabbed a meaty finger in the direction of Seventeen's chest. Seventeen swirled a straw in a cup of bubble tea in feigned indifference.

"What you call a 'waste of ammo,' a smart killer calls 'double tapping to be sure.' There's a reason a snake has two fangs. You know how many stories there are about freak cases of people surviving a bullet through the heart? There's a lot less about people surviving two bullets." Blue Collar sat back, scooped up some fried rice, and talked through the mouthful. "Your pride at taking some sap out with one bullet isn't half as important as the assurance that he's dead. That's what being a professional is about. You double tap; you hit 'em while they're unaware; and you don't waste a second between kills. Dahl for rifles, and Tediore for everything else."

"But I like Jakobs," Seventeen protested. "I like the way firing feels—"

"That's called 'recoil' and it's a con, not a pro."

Seventeen flicked a balled-up straw wrapper at Blue Collar. "—and I like headshots." Hands pressed to masked head, then expanding outward, pantomiming a brain exploding from a smashed skull: "Pshoooo."

Blue Collar shook his head, equal parts exasperated and charmed. "Yeah, yeah. I know you do. Damn."

They were an odd pair, sitting together with a couple plates of fried rice and egg rolls between them. Blue Collar was a grizzled, heavyset man, dressed like he could be anything from a factory worker to a mechanic to a janitor, depending on what tool belt he slapped on; hence his professional name. He dressed to blend in with a crowd, hid his gun in a tool bag slung over a shoulder or in a pocket if the pistol was small enough, and was never noticed.

Seventeen didn't blend in. Gangly, spindly; perpetually dressed in all black; combat boots and gloves; ski mask and goggles with reflective red lenses. If Blue Collar had said it once, he'd said it a hundred times: stealth wasn't about dressing like some kinda wannabe urban ninja. It was about dressing like the most uninteresting person on the street. His advice went in one ear and out the other—assuming Seventeen had ears.

What Seventeen didn't have was an identity. Never offered a name, not even a professional name—never so much as offered a gender, although Seventeen used a voice modulator set to such a hilariously low pitch that Blue Collar couldn't help but read it as cartoonishly masculine. Calling Seventeen a "he" was only an educated guess, although a guess that Seventeen himself didn't dispute; just like he didn't dispute when Blue Collar started calling him "Seventeen," just to have something to call him.

Blue Collar told Seventeen that it was because of his little speech quirk, expressing himself in exactly seventeen syllables at a time. That was part of the reason, sure.

The rest of it was that Blue Collar had the deeply uncomfortable sense that the spindly amateur killer in front of him—sticking the straw of his bubble tea under a bandana around his face and noisily slurping up the boba left at the bottom—was just some kid, around seventeen years old, in deep over his head without even understanding how fast he was sinking.

He rarely had more than thirty bucks at any given time—and Blue Collar knew he wasn't squirreling away savings anywhere. He slept on couches, benches, and homeless shelters, where anyone trying to track him down after a job would easily be able to identify the tall scrawny kid covered head to toe in black and kill him in his sleep. He didn't know how to market himself, how to make his name known—didn't have a name to make known—didn't know how to make one successful job lead to another, better one. He wasn't building a career, just doing one lousy bloody job after another. Sometimes, Blue Collar saw him wobbling on his feet, like a skyscraper swaying in an earthquake, unsteady with hunger.

And still—still—he talked about challenging, interesting, fun kills; about how burst fire made things "too easy"; about how he thought, if he was missing half of his shots at 200 meters, then he should be trying to shoot from 200 meters more often, not moving to 100 meters where he knew he could hit the target. He was still a cocky kid who didn't get it. Wetwork wasn't about being cool, about making the most impressive trick shots: it was about paying the bills and buying the groceries.

Blue Collar really got the feeling that Seventeen thought, if he got deep enough into the bloody underworld of assassins, normal people problems like taxes and hunger would just disappear.

"What?" Seventeen said, defensively.

Blue Collar looked down at his food, and scooped up a final decent mouthful of fried rice. He'd been staring at the kid, worriedly, a moment too long—trying to figure out if he'd put on any weight at all under that baggy windbreaker in the few months since Blue Collar had taken him under his wing. "Nothing. Just marveling at how you get that straw under your baby bib."

Seventeen huffed and tugged at his bandana self-consciously.

"Jakobs is fine," Blue Collar said, grudgingly. "And it's important that whatever guns you use feel natural to you. But they're a lot harder to work with. High recoil, low firing speed, incredibly noisy..."

"Kills in one shot."

"When you're lucky. And when you aren't, it's that much harder to get the second shot off." Seventeen moved as if to retort, and Blue Collar waved him off. "But if you're committed, you're committed. I get it—some guns feel right. Just know that it's gonna make some jobs harder than they have to be—and be ready to compensate for that."

"I like a challenge." Seventeen picked up an egg roll in one hand and used it to point. "You know I do, Blue Collar. I'm gonna be fine." He held the tip of his bandana out of the way with his free hand, and took a bite.

Blue Collar shook his head. "Edgy little shit," he said affectionately. Seventeen flipped him off.

Blue Collar reached into one of his many pockets, tossed a few bucks on the table, and pulled out a pen. "Listen, I know you don't have your own ECHO unit." He smoothed out his discarded chopsticks wrapper and scribbled a frequency along the length of it. "But if anything happens to you, you find one, and you call me, all right?" He pushes the wrapper over. "This isn't normal in our line, I want you to know. Don't know about other planets, but that's how hitmen work around here: we don't interfere with each other, we don't hunt each other, but we don't help each other, either. It's a lonely profession."

Seventeen picked up the wrapper and looked at it.

"I don't want it to be lonely for you."

Seventeen looked up at him.

"Listen." Blue Collar leaned forward, voice hushed, looking Seventeen in the goggles. "You're new at this. And I like you. I kinda see you like a..." He wrestled with whether "little brother" was fitting, decided "little sister" was straight out, and settled on "... a younger sibling, to me. I wanna help you out when I can." He smiled tiredly. "I'm not gonna be in this business much longer—might be nice to pass on what I know before I quit."

Seventeen looked down at the wrapper again. And then said, so quietly and low that his voice modulator almost distorted the words out of recognition, "Thank you."

###

It was about one in the morning when Blue Collar was stirred by his ECHO unit's buzzing. He groaned, slapped at his bedside table until he picked it up, and stared at it.

Unknown number, no name, just a one word text message:

«Run.»

He stared at it, tried and failed to recognize the number, then let his head drop back on his pillow.

Then bolted out of bed. You work in a dangerous business, somebody you don't know tells you to run, you do it. He had on his coveralls, a work boot, and a random tool belt before he even thought to wonder who'd messaged him.

It was probably Seventeen. Not many other people had his private frequency, and all of them he knew the numbers of. (Didn't have them saved in his ECHO unit—didn't want somebody to get a hold of it and start hunting down the few people he liked—but he'd recognize the numbers by sight.) Seventeen was the only one who might call him from an unknown frequency.

Even though Blue Collar had given him the number in case of emergency, all these weeks he'd expected that if he got a call, it'd be because Seventeen was the one in trouble. Not that he minded the head's up. He was gonna have to thank the kid, once he shook whatever was coming for him.

With a small Tediore pistol in one of his larger pockets and a Pangolin shield weighing heavily on his back, he climbed out the window onto the fire escape with a grunt of exertion and started climbing down.

It was raining heavily. Some high-end Pangolins could keep the rain out along with the bullets. Blue Collar could afford one, but hadn't wanted to make himself so conspicuous, with each raindrop bouncing off and illuminating the invisible shield in electric blue snowflake patterns, so he used a cheaper model. He was glad he had, now, with who-knew-who—police? a corporate assassin?—hunting him in the dark; but he was already soaked and cold by the time he reached the ground. One way, towards a main street, he could see huge sprays of water being kicked up in the lamplight by nighttime truckers. He went the other way, deeper into the darkness.

He felt like he was being followed. Was he, or was that just paranoia? How close was whatever he was supposed to be running from? He checked his ECHO unit, but there was no new info. Just Seventeen's warning. Damn, where was Seventeen? Was he okay?

He'd prepared his escape routes years ago, as soon as he'd moved into this apartment. It's harder to kill in a crowd; harder to find your target, harder to separate and eliminate them. A couple blocks away was a dance club, near it was a bus stop; if he could get into the club, he could stay there until it closed, then slip onto the three a.m. bus with the other tired clubbers going home. The bus would take him to a hub where he could grab a train heading out of town in a random direction.

The ATM near the club only let him take out $1500. That and the hundred bucks in his pocket would have to hold him; he didn't know how sophisticated the people after him were, whether they could track his spending or withdrawals. He'd be working in cash for a while.

There was a short line to get into the club, huddled up against the front wall for the meager shelter of the roof's slight overhang. Cargo trucks came down this street less often than the street in front of Blue Collar's apartment, but every time they did, a pair of kids in a miniskirt and skintight pleather jeans squealed as they were sprayed with water. Blue Collar just shuddered with cold. He kept his back to the club's front wall, squinting, looking for any odd shapes moving in the night shadows.

A thick door opened for the pair in front, and Blue Collar caught a few seconds of throbbing dubstep before it swung shut. Sounded like a remix of a lawnmower. He stepped up to the bouncer.

The bouncer was a massive muscled man dressed in the same mix of matte black and slick neon as the clubbers coming in, but his hair was thinning and he looked closer to Blue Collar's age than to the pleather-clad kids who went in before him. He looked Blue Collar's soggy work clothes up and down, clasped his hands together in front of his belt, and said, "I'm not sure this place is your scene, man."

"I just need a roof over my head for a few minutes," he said, smiling a well-practiced smile, like a mild-mannered salt-of-the-earth construction-and/or-factory worker. "It's pouring out here."

"There's a cover."

"I know, that's fine," Blue Collar said; and then, when the bouncer still looked skeptical, he lowered his voice. "Listen. I'm being followed. I just need to get out of the open."

The bouncer tipped his head up slightly in understanding; then unfolded one of his hands, palm up. Blue Collar shoved fifty dollars in. "I'll give you another if I get out of here alive." Just to head off anyone else trying to bribe the bouncer.

"No worries. It's my job to stop fights." He stuffed the money in one pocket and pushed open the door. "Come on in." His words were almost lost under the thudding bass.

Blue Collar paid his cover and wandered into the darkness and flashing colored lights. A few strobe lights pointed straight in his face, and he blinked hard, trying to clear the spots from his eyes so he could see in the club.

His dark brown coveralls and salt-and-pepper hair didn't exactly fit in with the crowd; but they didn't stand out across the room, either. The crowd was made up of rainbow neon hair—every hue from pitch black to lightning white. Dark clothes with colorful strips designed to reflect the lights and dazzle the eye. Flashing LED-like pictures blinked on and off in front of the faces and over the heads of the dancers, :) and <3 and ☆ and 愛, in green and red and blue, courtesy of prosthetic optical implants or temporary body mods stickers that could be slapped on your forehead. Anyone who wasn't making an effort to stand out would blend into the shadows. Blue Collar waded onto the dance floor, found a narrow gap between a few clustered circles of dancers where he wouldn't get in their way but wouldn't visibly stand out as on his own, and grit his teeth against the garbage disposal roar of music as he tried to figure out what to do next.

It would help if he had the slightest idea what was after him. If it was somebody pissed over a kill, someone's grieving family, he might need to move a town over—or maybe only get a hotel out of town for a few days until the funeral was over. If somebody was getting paid to find him, though, they'd keep coming; he might need to get off planet. If only Seventeen had sent him more info...

One song ended, and the next began: something with a light drum machine and synthesized instruments and an artificially high-pitched singer, repetitive but much easier to think through. Dammit, Seventeen—that was a factor Blue Collar hadn't even considered. He was probably tangled up in this somehow—how had he found out there was something Blue Collar needed to run from? What if they'd taken him hostage? Or were trying to get info out of him? He couldn't leave town without making sure Seventeen was okay. How was he going to check Seventeen's usual haunts while avoiding being seen by anyone expecting him to do just that?

Blue Collar didn't consciously notice that the music sounded like it was building toward something, the singing halting and the drums speeding up, until suddenly it paused and the whole club seemed to hang in anticipation; and then the bass slammed down like a bomb dropping. Something whizzed through the air beside Blue Collar's temple. In front of him, he saw the back of a dancer's head explode, and the body pitched forward.

He'd automatically crouched down before he figured out what he'd seen. Shit! They were audacious, whoever they were. He turned, peering between backs and upper arms in search of anyone who stood out, looking up at the crowds at the bar and tables that circled the room a few steps higher than the dance floor. The bouncer wouldn't have let someone in who looked suspicious, right? Or maybe they'd offered the bouncer more than fifty bucks. Or maybe the bouncer was dead. The first screams started up behind Blue Collar, where the dancer had been shot. He zigzagged through the crowd, heading toward the front, unwilling to exit through a back door and risk getting trapped in a dead end, hoping he could escape ahead of the crowd and the hitman.

He wasn't the first out the door, but he was close. He glanced back as people trickled and then poured screaming out of the club, looking for anyone who stood out—fingering the pistol in his pocket as he did. Nothing but kids in black clothes and flashes of color. He backed away from the door, watching as he went, heading toward the safe shadows of another alleyway.

Blue Collar had scanned over the same figure in the crowd three times, before recognition hit him: he knew those reflective red goggles, and the ski mask around them, and the black windbreaker beneath. His heart leaped into his throat and his stomach dropped. Oh, please no. Not Seventeen.

He was looking at Blue Collar. He flipped up his windbreaker's hood against the rain, and stalked through the panicked crowd, unnoticed, toward Blue Collar.

Blue Collar turned and ran.

Hitmen don't hunt hitmen. Not on this planet, anyway—not unless they're in a corporation's pocket. Had Seventeen gotten a job with a big biz? Even now, running panting through the pouring rain, Blue Collar hoped for Seventeen that he had—corporate assassination was steady work, the kind that came with benefits and could carry you through to retirement if you weren't executed during a merger—but why would they send him after Blue Collar? He made a point to only take personal jobs, rarely political ones; he never messed with business. Why—?

A midnight trucker with a malfunctioning muffler roared past, thunderously loud; a bullet slammed into the back of his head, pounding on his shield. The shield spread the shock of the impact across his entire upper back, but it was enough to bring him to his knees, one hand landing just past the curb in wrist-deep water. He couldn't get up before a heavy combat boot kicked his back, knocking him to the ground as it ripped his shield off. The Pangolin clattered into the road.

"Disappointing."

Blue Collar rolled onto his back, huffing, and looked up at Seventeen. "What the hell are you doing?"

"My job." He pulled out a Jakobs revolver, a cheap thing with the faux wood paneling on the barrel already rubbing off the corners.

"Who?" Blue Collar demanded. "Who hired you, kid? How much?"

He jerked one shoulder in a shrug. "Somebody's cousin. Job you did a month ago. Couple hundred bucks?"

That was all Blue Collar's life was worth to Seventeen? He laughed wheezily. "Damn, kid, you're never gonna make it big taking high-risk low-pay jobs like that. Lord..." He reached slowly into a pocket; Seventeen's aim jerked to follow his hand, but Blue Collar waved him off, grumbling, "You know that's my wallet pocket." Seventeen lowered the Jakobs, but only slightly. Blue Collar pulled out his wallet, pushed himself up with one hand, and held the wallet up to Seventeen. "Here. Damn. I've got fifteen hundred on me."

Seventeen made a disgusted noise. He'd set his dumb voice modulator so low it sounded like a dog growling. "I don't want money."

"No, I know you don't, but you need it." Seventeen didn't move. Blue Collar shook the wallet. "Take it even if you're gonna shoot me. What am I gonna do with it?"

Seventeen hesitated. Then crouched down, snatched the wallet angrily from Blue Collar, and stuffed it in his back pocket. "Moron."

Blue Collar sank back to the wet concrete, holding himself up with both elbows, fingers of one hand dragging in the water below the curb. "You don't wanna do this."

"I do," Seventeen said, sullenly.

"You don't. I know you don't. You wouldn't have sent me that text if you really wanted to finish the job," Blue Collar said. "You couldn't bring yourself to turn down the job but you couldn't bring yourself to do it clean and quick like you should." He smiled shakily. "Don't do something you're gonna regret. You want me to escape."

"I want a challenge." He snarled it so emphatically that he lurched forward with the word. "I wanted to make this hard! I wanted a hunt!"

Blue Collar's stomach dropped again, the way it had when he'd first seen Seventeen in the crowd. Suddenly, sinkingly, he felt like he'd deeply misunderstood his gaunt young protégé. "Wha—Why? Why?"

"Because you're a pro, you're supposed to be badass. You should be a threat!" Anguished, desperate, water flying off the barrel of his revolver as he waved it, vocal modulator fritzing with static, Seventeen cried, "I'm bored, Blue Collar! Every job's so damn easy! I need a challenge!"

Blue Collar had misjudged him. Seventeen wasn't out there making tricky one shot kills out of pride, taking high-risk jobs out of arrogance; he was a junkie. He had the skinniness of a guy who gave up on food in search of a fix; he was trembling, right now, in front of Blue Collar, like he was going into withdrawal without enough stimulation to get his adrenaline pumping.

No wonder all Blue Collar's talk of Tediore, talk of safe and stable and secure, had flown right over him. He didn't want any of that. He didn't want the money. He didn't want to make a living. He wanted all the jobs he could get.

Blue Collar could hear a truck approaching from behind him. Seventeen glanced at it, then held up the Jakobs again, pointed it at Blue Collar's head. Seventeen had taken his advice, about how damn loud those Jakobs guns were; he was using the noise around him to cover up his shots.

"I'm really sorry." Seventeen's eyes weren't on Blue Collar as he prepared to kill him. Blue Collar saw the reflection of the truck's headlights in his goggles. "This was supposed to be hard. You should've fought back."

A moment before the truck passed, Blue Collar swept his hand through the water beside the curb, sending a spray into Seventeen's face. Seventeen reeled back, sputtering and rubbing his goggles on one sleeve; Blue Collar kicked one of Seventeen's feet out from under him, knocking him sprawling headfirst in the street. Blue Collar rolled over, stood, and ran as the truck honked and swerved. He didn't stop to see whether it hit Seventeen.

He crossed the street, waved at another cargo truck coming his way, standing directly in its path; it slammed the breaks, but kept skidding in the rain, and Blue Collar had to dive to the sidewalk to avoid being hit. The driver banged the cab door open and circled around the truck. "The hell do you think you're doing?!" she bellowed. She was waving a knife, a four-inch glowing blue digistructed blade extending from a solid handle, that sizzled where the rain hit it. "Middle of the night, pouring rain, I coulda—" Blue Collar pointed his Tediore at her before he'd even gotten to his feet. She stopped in the middle of the street. "Whoa—okay, buddy, look—I didn't mean to almost hit you, let's be..."

"Back in the truck," he said hoarsely. With some difficulty, he got to his feet. "I need a ride."

He didn't say another word except "Knife, down," until the truck was moving again, heading down the street and picking up speed. "I'm sorry about this, ma'am," he said tersely. "There's a guy back there trying to kill me. Didn't have time to call a cab."

Her gaze flicked to a side mirror, then back to Blue Collar's gun, then forward again. "Would this have to do with the truck that was stopped in the middle of the road back there?"

Blue Collar nodded grimly. "With any luck, he's under its tires." It stung his heart to say that.

She nodded. "Okay. I get it. I'm sympathetic to that." She glanced at Blue Collar. "Now that we're all on the same side—do you mind pointing that somewhere else?"

He hesitated. "You're not going to go for that knife?" Its handle was in a cup holder in the center console between their seats.

"I'm not stupid."

He lowered the gun to point at his footwell. "Yeah. All right." He flopped his head back against his seat, and sighed.

Something crashed into the truck from the driver's side. The trucker swore and swerved.

Blue Collar fell sideways over the cup holder. "What the hell—"

A second impact. Blue Collar braced one arm against the driver's seat, the other hand fumbled on the center console for something to grab onto, and he looked out her window. "Oh, my god." Slowly pulling level with them was another truck—with Seventeen crouched on the hood, one hand on the roof of the cab and the other pointing his revolver through the window.

Blue Collar didn't have time to warn the trucker, didn't have time to do anything but gasp. The first bullet hit his shoulder, and the arm supporting him collapsed; two more shots, a pained scream; the truck veered off the road. When it crashed, Blue Collar's back slammed into the windshield, shattering it, and he tumbled down the hood to land on the ground. The rain poured on his face. He heard the other truck skid and crash a moment later.

He could hear Seventeen laugh—harsh, breathless, exhilarated.

Seventeen took his time coming to Blue Collar's side. When he was in view, Blue Collar could see why; he was limping, one arm wrapped tight around his chest, moving gingerly with pain. "Five shots on one job." He checked the ammo in his cylinder, then clicked it back in place. "Only one left for your head." He dropped uncoordinatedly to his knees and held the revolver to Blue Collar's forehead, apparently too unsteady to feel confident of making the shot from a distance. "Can one-fanged snakes kill?"

With a roar, Blue Collar lunged up, activated the trucker's digistruct knife, and slammed the blade through Seventeen's left goggle lens.

He didn't scream when he fell back. He just sucked in a breath, like he was shocked—maybe scared. Blue Collar hated the sound of it. Damn stupid, ungrateful, self-destructive kid. If Blue Collar had realized sooner what it was he was looking for, what desperation was gripping him—maybe he could've helped him out better, maybe they could have found a way to get him whatever it was he needed.

Voice tight with pain, Seventeen croaked, "Well-fought, badass." He raised his revolver one last time.

The Jakobs was the loudest thing Blue Collar had ever heard.

###

"God, no, I don't actually enjoy Maliwan snipers." Mordecai waved off the suggestion with one arm, briefly startling Talon off his perch on his shoulder. "Sorry." He waved at Talon, calling him back down, then settled back slouching in his rickety folding chair overlooking the rolling Highlands below. "I just like 'em for the utility. There's nothing more satisfying than a headshot with a Jakobs—"

"Yes," Zer0 said emphatically, their back ramrod straight where they sat on the ground beside Mordecai. "Exactly."

"See, you get it!" Mordecai laughed. "But when you're working fast—and me, Lil, and Brick, sometimes we've gotta work fast—most efficient thing to do is have a guy out of the line of fire to slag targets as fast as possible so the guys on the ground can pick them off. And the only guy in our group with that skill..." He pointed a thumb at himself. "Seen you hauling around some Maliwan rifles, too. Same reason?"

Zer0 sighed in frustratin, nodding. "Our skills are wasted," they said. "Anyone can slag and spray. One shot kills are art."

"Yeah?" Mordecai grinned crookedly. "You think so? Me, an artist, huh."

"Mm." Zer0 nodded, inordinately pleased to have gotten that smile out of the more experienced sniper.

They'd been told, years and years ago, that assassination was a lonely profession. Blue Collar had been right. Small interludes like this, when Zer0 could get out of their own head—break the monotonous cycle of long waits and unsatisfying jobs between the rare real thrill kills—were a blessing and a relief. Almost enough to keep them sane.

"Hey, we should hang more," Mordecai said, clapping a hand on Zer0's shoulder. Zer0 stiffened, but found they minded the uninvited contact much less than they expected to. "Don't get a lot of other good snipers around here—or even folks that appreciate me as a sniper instead of just 'the support guy with the slag.' What do you think? I know some good spires in the Dust that let you see for miles around. We can pick off spiderants—I wanna see how far you can really shoot."

An LED red smiley flashed out of their prosthetic left eye. "Sounds fun."

Mordecai got to his feet, considered the folding chair, then decided either nobody would steal it or it wasn't worth preserving. "I'm heading back to Sanctuary. You coming?"

"Later," Zer0 said. "Gotta drive around."

###

Once every few days, when they didn't have enough to shoot and found themself walking along the roofs of Sanctuary on windy days just for the meager thrill of trying not to fall, Zer0 took their technical on a long circuit through Pandora, checking out every single bounty board they could find. They bounced over hard tundra roads and unevenly packed sandy highways so fast it physically hurt, using the speed to distract them from the itch for something to do.

They were bored, god they were bored. It was the kind of boredom that crushed you, suffocated you, like a heavy weight pinning down your chest while you writhed and clawed at the dirt trying to get out from under it. They could feel the boredom sucking on the inside of their chest, threatening to form a black hole in the pit of their abdomen. Their hands shook and their feet bounced, trying to shake off the boredom. It didn't abate. In their heart, Zer0 knew that this boredom was going to kill them someday.

They circled from one bounty board to the next, like a junkie looking for a dealer, looking for a fix to stave off the boredom. Anything, anything—exterminate a skag den, deliver a package, go to a birthday party—anything.

Finally, at the Happy Pig bounty board, Zer0 found an illuminated yellow sign. They pushed down the gas, although they were already going as fast as they could, and leaped out of the technical before it stopped rolling. It crashed into the motel room with the weird altar for human sacrifices. The cultists would have to set up a new firepit.

They flipped through the offered jobs—package delivery, package pickup, take down a local bandit—and then stopped. And they stared.

They felt cold.

«Reward for anybody who brings down the cheating S.O.B. known as Mordecai. Originally from Artemis, last seen with a pack of vault-hunting bandits on Pandora...»

They couldn't move. They re-read the bounty, hoping that the name would change.

It didn't.

They thought of shooting contests in the desert, of long debates about rifle features and sniping techniques, of how the hours melted by comfortably and steadily in friendly company. They thought of Mordecai's breathtakingly infallible aim. They thought of their modest home in Sanctuary—and of Sanctuary's defenses. They thought of the people they considered mutual friends—the powerful people, so very powerful, who would come to Mordecai's defense. They thought of what it would be like to lose those friends—they thought of what it would be like to gain them as opponents.

They thought about the boredom sucking them inside out.

They stared hard at the bounty, until the letters swam together and the reward was a string of digits.

Then they turned to look at Sanctuary.

###

Comments/reblogs are welcome! If you want to leave a tip or like the fic on AO3, the links are in my description!

#zer0 #borderlands #fanfic #my writing

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trespassingassemblies · 5 years

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love and rage for David Oluwale - murdered by police, Leeds, 1969 It’s 50 years since David, a Nigerian British man, was chased to his death by drowning in the River Aire in central Leeds. I learnt about David from Stuart Hodkinson when I first moved to Leeds and his story has shaped my understanding of this place I’ve called home for seven-and-a-half years.

The piece below was published in ‘Remembering Oluwale’ (Valley Press, 2016). It wasn’t written directly about David but he is part of it, part of the people seen as, and made into, rubbish and surplus in this city - in the present as well as the past. In a way it was the end of the beginning of my attempts to write about these things, and much more.

Promises (for David Oluwale)

Security

I watch myself feeling my way around the city wall. I finger the cracks in the stone until my fingers are the cracks, and I walk, as I walk, two fingers, two thumbs, a mouth, a head, a back, two feet, this mouth that we must take bread through, this same mouth. A mouth, a head, a back, two feet, as the sun comes round. The cracks change with light, water expands as it becomes ice.   The place is incidental, then. I am alone, ice pools spread, I am thought in pool, I am still outside the city, I am asleep, and so I surround and am surrounded. Facing the terror, the throat attack which is only a moment, not a policy, not a good deal of time. A motorway or a wall is worse than a bomb. I am pitiful. Exposure to difficulty has made my hands a little rough. There is snow in the cracks in the wall. How far? For a garden, there has to be an idea, a thought of blooming, power, labour. If paradise is a garden, who waters it? That same mouth. My tread rakes earth. I journey.

Social Justice

In the court waiting area, where there are no windows, a woman shows another a black and white photo. And there’s the leg... just there – at once I am floating, the gabbling becomes water, and I am unfixed in my own ocean, with my child, and a terrible refusal for it to be subjected to this, this being forced to pay rent, money extorted from the threat of eviction. I was in the room with another woman, older, and her friend, a younger woman, and the duty solicitor. He went out and she began to cry, again, weary and familiar, grinning into tears. He came back in, springy, efficient. Don’t cry, he said, don’t cry, it’s good news. The council solicitor has agreed to a suspension and for you to pay £3.60 a week. And you might be eligible for a temporary payment to cover your rent. It’s good news, the best possible outcome really! Mind those tears now. As if she had not been crying for ten months. My child can be a person from whom money is extorted – this is my fury beginning - but in no country that I can imagine my child living in (my child now) will anyone be prosecuted for letting themselves go hungry. Pay the rent. My child, who is a woman, eats so little that her periods stop. Pay up. And the judge delivers the best possible outcome of an extorted £3.60 a week, that’s sensible, you can pay that can’t you. Can’t you, says the solicitor and there’s a small nod, Yes your honour, the tenant is agreeable to that. The judge knows his children will never have their rent extorted and a mind that lives on its nerves and severings like that, a womb on ice; he knows the law inside out, as well as they know grief and perhaps a little better, and he knows that he and his dear ones are always inside and that local government is to tough choices as he is to the safety of his ocean, his lake, his home. But how can they demand that the child never be left, she can’t even leave the house, not even to pop out to get bread... she can’t be a mum like that.

Work

In the photographs of the Workhouse, which is also additionally named the Infirmary, perhaps because the two buildings sit side by side, sharing an internal wall, there are a group of men who are known as inmates, or so it’s written here, or patients, as it’s written elsewhere. They work to make the crops grow, or to make themselves better, or a more complete man, or in order that they may eat, or in order that the workhouse can grow and take in more people to be cured, restored to work again, that the city stays in order, that the city can be cured. I sit with them, I am the man with the city’s disorder, I am the woman in the crumpled skirt. People are awful surplus, old men with not even a belt to hold up their trousers, so they must use stolen rope, with not a voice to speak of them, not even to record the crime, not two pieces of paper that agree on what to call them. They are the shape the state needs. Almost. For belonging. Either they aren’t sure what to call you or, waste matter, they think that you must have several names. Certain sicknesses for certain times. Are you still sick, they ask each month, and then every six months, tell us how. Can you wash yourself, what work are you able to do then? You’re not prone, but we don’t know what to do with you, because, you see, you won’t tell us what to do with yourself. We haven’t invented the workhouse yet. Here we are in our past unpoliced, unpolicied state. Apply a sticking plaster to the surplus until something more robust can be constructed. Something with an inside, an outside, and a shared wall.

Progress

Often there are so many fences, it’s surprising not to see one. Out of the gate I go, space winds me. Security fences anticipate attack, rebellion, preformed riots, training exercises. I’ve trodden fields claggy with the knowledge that the fence could not be climbed and I was on the side where I could be caught. Your whole street does not work in the factory. This street was built for the works. That space at the top of the hill where nothing has been built and something has been demolished. Housing infrastructure is no longer dictated by industrial infrastructure; development is about ‘regional growth’ and we’re segmented, market delineated, an A2 or a C3 shopper. Everything about us is known even though there is so much to know, a city for people so various would either be a single palace or a various mess. Everything about us is used to plan the shops we frequent to buoy The Economy up, the shops that sometimes close without warning so when you go to buy cheap stationery, you trip instead over a grey chasm lying like a joke among the moving shoppers.   

An Important Man says he is mystified by that fact that the expansion of jobs in the US and Europe has not resulted in higher wages. Capital is a great mystery, and that mystery of these cities of the North, their fragmentation, their porous suffering. The failure, the inability, the impossibility of planning. The collapse of local government, and the decline of civic architecture; ‘good works’ have gone the way of ‘the works’ at the top of the street, where the space is. I have stood at the top of a gasometer and looked out onto the huge plain, of factories, canals, of woods and houses, half in smog and half in green. I have wondered what was this all made for? And why is it still here? Down by the empty mills, it mostly feels like a mistake, a chewed field, a nightmare of someone who woke up in the morning, in any year you’d care to name, who woke and cried and asked God for another dream.

#davidoluwale #leeds

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eureka-its-zico · 7 years

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Bad Moon Rising - Chapter One

co-written by @tabi-ears

Scenario: They were raised for only one purpose: to fulfill one man’s desire for ultimate power. What happens when the four of them lose the person who’s kept them chained since infancy? Are they meant to avenge him or start over? Is it possible to be more than what they’ve become? If only the answers were that easy…

A/N: This and 2 other chapters were previously worked on by the both of us. It’s an original idea we came up with one night and decided just to run with it, and is 3rd person based. Finally, it was decided that we would share this with you. Now I do warn you, this story is much darker than anything I’ve previously shared. Please keep an open-mind and have the patience to learn about the characters throughout the progression of the scenario. As always, we thank you for reading! Much love, Jenn & Missy

Genre: Mafia AU

Pairing: Seunghyun x OC, Zico x OC

Disclaimer: Any gifs used are not mine and belong to their rightful owners and are only meant to support the story visually for fun. The following chapters have graphic depictions of violence so please be aware.

It was another assignment.

Something to do in the name of the good, the bad, and maintaining that balance in their madness. No one knew how the four of them came to be. The mystery of whether they were plucked from the streets or snatched from their mothers breasts was something whispered amongst the unsavory characters that feared them. They carried no records of a name: faceless beings that appeared like the boogeyman out the corner of your eye. The only thing certain was that all four of them held the promise of an unmarked grave. These unnamed figures arriving outside the compound an hour ago.

S’s long body relaxed on the hood of the impala releasing a cloud of toxic smoke into the night air; polluting it with villainous thoughts they considered normal. M turned to look at him. Her gaze roaming over his motionless figure and eyes transfixed on the sky. Between the days that consisted of training and plotting out exit strategies he talked loosely if there was such thing as a heaven. S held onto his theories in his soul that allowed him to daydream about entering its like a viking to the gates of Valhalla. If only to destroy it.

The sound of the trunk slamming home alerted M to L’s presence as she rounded the side of the car, duffel bag in hand, and pulled out a pair of leather gloves to slip over her fingers.

“He come back yet?”

M shook her head before she snapped an instructing finger at S to hand over the cigarette. Her cigarette. His head jerked in her direction with eyes blazing a deadly fury at his interrupted thoughts, but M was unmoved.

“We haven’t seen him come back yet. Well, well speak of the devil- “

It was as if the mention of his presence was enough to summon him. The way Ouija boards promise chances of last minute talks with loved ones, only to send something darker in their place.

Z made his way out of the cloaking darkness of the desert. The moon highlighting strong features that barely softened with the child-like roundness of his face. His eyes reminiscent of a tigers that felt ominous to the point his sharp jaw line and pouty lips did nothing to help make people feel at ease. He was a stark contrast to the statuesque shape of S on the hood of the car. S’s features striking except for a cleaner cut jawline that reminded many of a Roman statue. God-like with his only charm being the grace he gave those to not have to see death in his eyes before he smothered them with a pillow, and silenced them with a trigger.

 Z’s long legs carried him up the slope until he stood a few centimeters away. His chest barely rising at running five miles back leaving the compound far behind. His duffel now empty and discarded at the front tires of the Impala. All except for the explosive charger held in his hand.

“We ready to do this?”

He seemed bored and, more than likely, was. He’d done his part and the need to finish something he believed to be a trivial task blazed in his eyes. S slid off the hood in a graceful movement of limbs until booted feet puffed a cloud of dust from the ground beneath. His hand reached to pull his Browning Hi-Power from its holster to remove the safety and cock a bullet into place.

“I’ve been ready. I was just stuck waiting on you.”

S moved to the side of the car neglecting the cold stare the younger man sent him. He leaned in through the window and produced a black suit jacket from inside.

“Oh, I’m sorry would you like to be the one to sneak in and place the explosives? I don’t think you’re smart enough- “

“Boys!” L yelled her irritation readable in her voice and features. She handed M her last knife giving her enough time to finish concealing her own weapons. M’s movements swift as she slid the blade home into the wrist holster she’d secured moments ago. “If you’re done arguing we have work to do.”

“Let’s do it then,” S replied coldly.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt under his jacket and moved forward, expecting the other three to follow at his back. A Viking king leading his men to claim Valhalla.

____________

“How the fuck could you ingrates let this fucking happen!”

All four bodies were kneeling on the floor with hands sprawled out in front of them with their foreheads rested against the cool cement floor. S in particular remained quiet; his shoulders rigid, as he listened intently to the scolding they deserved. A small river of blood flowing down a jagged line between the four of them from the bullet sized hole that tore through L’s shoulder.

Z’s gaze peaked from the sides of his peripherals to watch her sway against gravity for the fifth time. Her eyelids fluttered open and closed to a rhythmic beat with the obvious war she ragged to stay conscious. The lack of a hand that was previously supporting the wound now leaking at a steady pace. M knew what he was thinking. She always did when it came to how he noticed L, because it was the exact same way she noticed S.

Her eyes combed up the length of Appa’s body to make sure he wasn’t looking before she reached out to lightly tap Z’s shoulder. His eyes darting over to M just as she shook her head in hopes in their silence he received her message: don’t. Her lips mouthing, “She’ll be okay,” and prayed it was enough to calm her oppa’s nerves.

“You had one fucking job. ONE! You are supposed to go in undetected! That was the whole fucking point of this goddamn assignment and instead you- “A brutal kick landed on Z’s shoulder sending him flailing back. S’s shoulders noticeably became tenser while he struggled to stay motionless against the urge to protect his dongsaeng. “You fucking idiot! You are supposed to be the smartest, but apparently you are the fucking retard of the group.”

“Appa, I’m sorry- “

“I don’t want to fucking hear it! Because of you L is going to be out of commission and you fucking knew I needed her to make rounds this week. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

The question was rhetorical. No one moved to answer. The only thing the three of them knew was that L was dangerously close to passing out. At the snap of Appa’s fingers two men in lab coats came forward to lift L off the floor. It took everything in Z to not reach out and take L back from them. The worry that housed itself in his gut making him careless. In the end, Z wasn’t able to fight the twitch his hand gave. Unknowingly, it slid across the floor after the doctor’s and even that small of a movement was enough for Appa to see.

“What do you think you are doing?”

The factory they called home was large. The width large enough that it would take a dozen men, in a chain with arms outstretched, to reach the other side. Old iron pipes and gunmetal catwalks lined a second floor and only aided in making the cement encased building feel colder. Somehow, within so much space, Appa was able to make those seven words resonate around them. The rage no longer needing to be seen on his face as it suffocated them in fear.

“I just want to make sure she is okay.”

Z knew he sounded weak. The very thought violently rising bile to the back of his throat. L herself would’ve damaged him for his tone alone, but he refused to back down. The choice was already made and, regardless how it ended, he refused to further be a coward and repent.

Both men knew his words showed weakness, and his hidden meaning exposed. M wanted to move to put herself in front of Appa, to defend Z from the coming blow, but realistically she knew if she did they would all pay the price. The loud crack of the whip resounded off lifeless walls as Z made no move to block himself or touch the blood leaking freely from his cheek. His face turning violent as it swelled, and heated, until the crimson of his cheeks and liquid matched.

“You fucking idiot! It is your fuck up that did this to her in the first place. I didn’t make you to be weak, boy. Do I have to send you to isolation? Will that jog your memory of your purpose?”

At the threat of the isolation room everything grew quiet. The tension straining through each of them was the only sound they could hear besides that of their own rushing blood, and L’s dragging feet.

“Appa.”

Appa’s withered face rested solely on his eldest. His earlier words left frozen in this throat; watching S as he moved to sit up on his knees.

“If I may, I will take responsibility for him. He is my dongsaeng. Any punishment you wish I shall deliver.”

Appa stood motionless; his tongue rolling around in his mouth as he mulled over S’s offer. Out of all of his children he knew S, his eldest and greatest achievement, would deliver. No matter the cost. His protégé mirroring the same coldness as his own.

Appa made his decision in a second; a sharp nod in agreement while he placed the whip back on the silver tray beside him. His arms crossing behind his back as he took in the remaining three. Eyes watching intently as Z resumed his previous position of bowing at his feet.

“See to it he gets thirty lashes before the dawn, S. You know what will happen if it is not done.”

“Ye.”

“You are all dismissed.”

The three of them waited for him to exit first before they made a move to get up. The first thing M did was go to Z. Her hand snatching the handkerchief out of S’s jacket pocket to start cleaning at his wound. She’d barely been able to start when Z’s hand gently wrapped around her wrist to stop her. His eyes darkened with guilt as he gave her a childish smile before letting her hand drop to her side.

“I deserve this.”

“It was a mistake.”

“I was in charge of shutting off the alarms. I missed one and L got shot. I accept my punishment: it’s what I deserve.”

“S saying something!”

M glanced back over her shoulder at him. Her eyes frantically searched his somber expression while he continued to move like nothing was happening. His hand reaching in the inside pocket to produce his lighter. The flame flicked to life moments later sparking the end of his cigarette to glow a perfect cherry red.

“Go ahead and get some rest,” he commanded. “I’ll be by your room around a quarter to dawn.”

“Ye.”

“S- “M tried to argue but S simply turned to head towards their dorms. A huff of agitated air followed at his back from the woman he’d ignored.

“They’re both like that,” Z mused. “Always leaving before you can get a word in.”

M looked back at her oppa with a wayward smile creasing her lips. She hooked her arm with his and began to walk after S with her partner in tow.

“Difficult bastards,” she muttered earning her a chuckle from the man beside her.

_________

It wasn’t until she’d dropped off Z at his dorm, locked in lovesick conversations and regret, that M found her way back to her own. Not in the least bit surprised to find S leaning against the doorframe of his dorm a few doors down. His eyes took in her small frame until his gaze landed on hers. The both of them chained in a silent hell of dancing around what they knew, but couldn’t say.

“Feelings are dangerous things, M. We have no need for them here.”

“So we’re just supposed to let them wither and die?”

She’d never gotten a response to her question. Just an endlessly growing list of more that she knew would never be answered. Forever kept silent behind guarded eyes and an even more guarded soul.

They were magnetic. Dynamic. Passionate. Swallowing each other and the world around them whole. A force to reckon with, hidden behind scorpion tails and bull horns. Two predators, fighting for control within each other. Naturally drawn to one another like magnets on a table.

Her kindness shocked him because how does one possess that? How did the demons that kept him up at night not get to her? Those demons hushing; becoming dormant once she touched him.

He believed she was good, even though he dismissed her kindness when the bull was released and her once pure demeanor was filled with rage that could cause hurricanes and topple mountains. Normalcy would swim through his veins because he realized that they were the same. His heart would beat steadily in knowing he wasn’t alone. Their eyes helplessly watching each other’s movements. Pupils dilating, eyelids flickering. Never straying too far.

They were both so hard. And yet, she was softer. And he admired that. Even when she was covered in bruises and blood leaked from her knuckles she never managed to hate the world. But that purity in which he loved could just so easily slip away once that switch flipped. Taking the lives of others is a guilty task to those who weren’t like him. It took a toll on pure hearts. So he guarded her. He guarded her heart and mind so she wouldn’t end up in the dark like him. One that doesn’t allow you to feel. He wanted to feel what she felt but feared it even more. He loved her. In the most psychotic, possessive way. But she did too. And maybe that was her flaw. That despite his darkness she needed him. 

Natural born Alpha’s who clawed at society’s expectations and norms. Pissing on their enemies and welcoming those who were close to their heart. He had demons, and so did she. They ate away at their brains like maggots on a corpse. Only finding relief in each other, for which they’d kill. 

_________

She couldn’t remember her family anymore, just that she supposed she had one. There were too many countless nights she’d been lulled to sleep by the soft sound of a woman’s voice reading her bedtime stories. It’d been a memory that ate away at her when she’d first arrived there. Now it haunted her every so often when she tried to find solace in cold sheets and a dirty pillow. Until, finally, the memories of a life before this hell was nothing but a six-year-old’s imagination.

It was a deadly thing to try and get used too. The first time she’d met the others, there’d been two other children that’d been dropped at the feet of Appa. Three of them that slowly dwindled down to just one with the others never earning the privilege to receive a name. M was sure she actually had a real name before she’d been brought there, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember. Her first interaction with L a vivid one. M had made the mistake of thinking another little, but older, girl would be her friend. Someone to lean on and give her comfort. She’d clutched to L as she asked if she could recall her name, only to be silenced by cold eyes, a busted lip, and instructions to never ask again.

M could recall the terror she felt the second time Appa made his grand appearance. His words harsh and spitting like hot coals as he informed her and the other children the main rule in his house: You fight or you die. Dread so pure corroded in her veins until her nerves felt fried. The fear seizing hold of her bones and spotting her vision in black stars. Her child’s mind unable to understand before Appa called for S to enter the room. Even at a young age S was impressive. His eyes dark and endless, resembling oblivion, as he glanced over the three of them.

He’d been Appa’s first child. His golden son who, at twelve years old, was merciless and never questioned an order. He’d been instructed to assist in their training and to show no mercy and to weed out the weak. L only being asked to help him when it was required. Soon, three children dwindled down to be only her. When she thought too long about it, M could remember the sickening sound of the boy, who’d been the same age, cracking in two. The way the body fell like a heavy lump to the dirty stone floor, and the lifeless expression on S’s face as he looked at the small child he’d killed.

Kill or be killed.

This was her reality now and there was no room for weakness. M didn’t want to die; she didn’t want to be weak. In the beginning all she could remember was how much she hated him. How her small body shook when he entered a room and cause her chopsticks to fall from between her fingers. How swollen black eyes struggled to scan for his presence in hallways and kitchen. The only reason she felt a semblance of safety was because of Z.

He’d had a tall frame even then, but lithe. He’d taken care of her when she’d been too exhausted to get back up after a brutal day of training. Her small body rolled into a fetal position until he picked her up and carried her to bed. When he feed her when her arms were too bruised to move. Later bringing warm water to help ease her muscles and to soak blooded hands.

M knew her resolve was the only thing that kept her alive besides the kindness of a boy who showed it in secret when he wouldn’t be in danger of getting caught. For the longest, M felt nothing but fear in her heart when she looked over at her oppa and unnie. The both of them always discussing things in private; conversations M felt grown-ups were meant to have. She watched fights between the pair with mystified eyes that someone could ever be close to taking S down. No matter how close L got, however, she never succeeded.

“They’re not that bad, you know.”

Z offered up one bitter night in a weak attempt to ease her broken soul. It’d been a vicious day of training. Her lack of coordination costing her a beating with a bamboo stick by L at Appa’s request. The older man demanding that she hit hard and harder to the point M thought L would kill her. The punishment brought on by her inability to open up a switchblade. She wasn’t able to keep her hands from shaking causing the blade to tumble to the floor. The flashback enough to make her hands curl in the edges of her pillow in hopes it was enough to smother out the possibility of keeping that shame forever.

“How can you say that? They’re so…mean.”

Mean didn’t feel like an adequate word to be used to describe the two. M wanted to find worse, but her seven-year-old brain couldn’t find one. She only knew that she was starting to hate them.

Z carefully placed a warm washcloth on her exposed back. It forced a small cry of pain from M’s lips that she silenced against the pillow. The action left Z to stare down at her with pity, and his hands to fidget in his lap as he struggled to find the right words to comfort her. He knew this routine. He’d been through it himself, and he would’ve lied if he didn’t omit that when the three kids came, he’d been glad. Glad someone else got to suffer with him when it came to his hyung.

“It’s hard to explain. They’re only like that because of Appa. He has a lot of expectations.”

“What does he want? I just want to go home.”

“This is your home now and, if you want to live, you better start realizing that.”

The arrival of a third voice left them both startled. M’s head whipped up from her pillow while Z already stood to drop down at the edge of the bed and bow repeatedly in apology. The shadow of L’s figure in the doorway held the same imposing threat as S’s. She was only ten but, with her arms crossed and making her entrance, M could’ve sworn she was colossal.

“Why are you in here?”

“I…noona…I just came t-t-to- “

“You know Appa will have you whipped if he catches you stuttering,” she interrupted. “You promised him you were working on it.”

“Yes, noona,” Z replied back. Another bowing fit hitting him reminding M of a toy on a spring.

“No one wants you here! Go away!”

M didn’t regret the fire in her small voice. She didn’t want to see L or S’s stupid faces ever again but, unfortunately for her, L didn’t seem to care. If anything it only brought her attention back to her.

“I came in here to tell you that I decided to help you.”

The information wasn’t what she’d expected and M felt the surprise widen her eyes. Her mouth grown slack as she asked meekly, “Why?”

“I like you. You have courage. But you have to get better, if you don’t, Appa will get rid of you.”

M didn’t need to ask what she meant by, “Get rid of.” She’d seen how Appa handed over guns to S and directed him to shoot kneeling men asking for second chances. How S pulled the trigger like he was just stepping on a bug or killing a rodent that entered a home.

The following weeks were spent with L teaching her the easiest way to do things. Taking the time with M to run around obstacle courses she’d created just to work on her agility and speed. Showing her the most effective moves that blocked blows and to think quickly on your feet by searching for makeshift weapons. More often than not M would end up catching a blow that sent her spiraling down to the floor. L always there with an extended hand to pick her up and push her forward.

When it came time for her next sparring session with S she’d noticeably gotten better: landing a surprising hit that actually sparked shock in his eyes and a piercing shout of joy from Appa. M allowed her happiness at landing her first blow to overtake her, and it made her blind. Not realizing that spark of surprise she’d caused turned deadly. She didn’t get a chance to correct her error. One minute, she was victorious, and the next M was knocked on her back, her lungs screaming for air, and S’s fist raised back strike down at her face.

Before he could land the hit, L was there spinning him around, and earning the punch meant for her. The hit landing solid against her nose causing L to stagger back and fall to her knees. A steady flow of blood seeping between her fingers as she held her hand protectively over her face.

“That’s enough!”

At Appa’s words everyone grew still. Their bodies waiting like toy soldiers for him to direct them into action. M couldn’t remember much except the proud smack on her back she’d received from him. She knew somewhere in there he instructed someone to take L to the infirmary to have her nose looked at. That Z was watching her be led away by men in black suits.

After that day M felt like she’d earned S’s respect in some way, but it didn’t stop the brutality of his training sessions. Time continued to age them, and yet, it didn’t change the fact S remained untouchable. It wasn’t until her sixteenth birthday when L surprised her with a cupcake with a tiny candle that she felt brave enough to ask questions.

“How long has S been here?”

M didn’t think she would receive an answer. The look of mirth on L’s face slowly ebbed away until she turned to look out at the atrium in the center of their industrial home. The only bit of green they saw unless instructed to go out to run an “errand” for Appa. It seemed like she would never answer. Until she did.

“He was the first one here,” L spoke softly. “They say he’s Appa’s real son, because he’s been here since he was a baby.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

M’s innocent question seemed to spark a brutal storm. L’s face hardening to the point M couldn’t stand to keep her gaze locked with a dead woman’s eyes. So she shrugged in an attempt to play innocent and looked out over the atrium. She needed that moment to get rid of the look her sister still had that sent shivers down her spine. In her mind, M believed that what they were was a family. Past things like meeting an acquaintance or friend. Simple words too light when you were bonded over a lifetime of blood and broken bones.

“I don’t mean to upset you, unnie. It’s just no one ever talks about it.”

“Your curiosity is going to cost you one day.” L let out a heavy sigh before taking a long pull from her cigarette. “You and Z, both.”

At the mention of the younger oppa M’s lips quirked up remembering the last time her and Z shared their usual late night talks in her room. How the boy never realized he’d been rambling on and on about L. Both of them stuck at home while their elders were off doing something Appa wouldn’t allow them to join in just yet.

“You’ve got to earn your place.”

M could vividly recollect the sound of L’s struggle to carry in a half unconscious S. The smell of wet grass and copper spilling into the conjoining rooms and above. L’s soft grunts the bread crumbs M and Z needed to find the two of them perched in the center of the main building. S’s chest exposed with L pressing large gauze against his stomach that blossomed red. There was no doubt in her mind that they’d been talking in hushed tones. At first, M wasn’t able to tell what about until she ignored Z’s urgent hand gestures to return to the safety of their dark corner and cautiously move further down the stairs.

“…you were careless…”

“What do you want from me?”

“How about to pay goddamn attention next time?”

“You’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

Even from a distance S’s low timber rattled her bones and M felt the urge to bow to his authority. To apologize for L’s careless words, but to M’s amazement, L didn’t budge.. Instead, she met his cold eyes with her own. Her hands completely stopping from bandaging up the wound to reach out and take hold of his face.

“Hyung, we’ve been through much, you and I. You’re the one that taught me feelings are useless; they’re dangerous. Do you mean to tell me you suddenly no longer believe that?”

M never got to hear his reply because Z’s sudden sneeze alerted the two of them they weren’t alone. Their eyes actively scanning the outer rooms of darkness that the two youngest used to cloak themselves until they were back to the safety of their dorms. Ever since that night, M felt her curiosity grow to the point she couldn’t contain it any longer.

“I was two, I think.” L spoke through a cloud of smoke. Her eyes squinting as she stubbed out her cigarette.

M nodded her head trying to hide the small smile of victory she felt at getting her unnie to answer. It was always like pulling teeth to get S or L to do anything, really.

“Z told me he came here when he was six. Like me.”

“That’s true. Maybe that’s why you’re both a pain in the ass.”

“We’re close. Like you and S hyung.” M’s curiosity ignited again and she was unable to stop herself as she eyed L. “Have you and S ever…”

L looked confused until realization flew her doe eyes wide and disgust scrunched up her nose.

“Oh god no. What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know. I mean you’ve both been here the longest so- “

“Let me impart some wisdom with you that S has shared with me, M: Feelings have no place in what we do. They’re a danger to people like us.”

“But you love me.”

It was amazing how much L could remind her of S sometimes. How L’s once light exterior could become so callous and reserved in the literal blink of an eye. M watched as it happened then, as L’s hand moved to scoop up her cigarettes and she stood to leave her.

“I don’t love you. Your family, M and we take care of our own.”

_________

“Try again. Try harder.”

As the months and years passed, M was allowed to go out on more assignments, but with more assignments came more training. With that training came time spent with S and she wondered how she could go from absolutely loathing someone to wanting to understand them. The boy he’d been had grown into an even deadlier man. The deadliest, and cruelest thing, M felt since her teenage years was how handsome the cosmos had made him.

She always assumed it’s what was part of his charm; what made it so easy for both he and L to gain access to parties meant for only the beautiful and the rich. What made her believe that maybe the two of them were closer than everyone thought. Beautiful people flock together, didn’t they?

Even into adulthood M felt a little awkward. The only confidence she found was in her ability to wield blades of any make and style. How easily she could make the steel become an extension of her body and slice through the air with an accuracy that few could ever hope to possess. The greatest gift she’d received was on her 21st birthday. A katana greeting her when she’d walked into her room. All the bullshit forgotten as the duffel slipped free from her hands and her feet sprinting to her gift. Her palms cradled it with care as her fingers danced over the woven horsetail braids that laced around the handle. The sound of the blade being removed from the sheath slicing through the quiet of the room until the steel glinted in the rough fluorescent light.

M thought it must have been from Appa; who else could afford such a gift? But the sound of feet shuffling at her door, the person that stood there, instantly made her think otherwise. S leaned against the frame with his arms tucked securely against his chest. He watched her with interest, his gaze skimming over the blade in her hands.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

He grunted out, “Good,” before turning on his heel to retreat from her dorm. M’s head now filled with more questions than answers. It wasn’t until their next sparring session that M started to realize just what was going on.

He’d knocked her off her footing with a hard elbow to the face giving barely any time to right herself before he advanced.

“Try again. Try harder.”

M swung out blindly, a distraction that he easily took, and used her distraction to her advantage. Her knee coming up to land a solid hit in his kidney. The opposite leg moving up to hit the other side while she anchored herself. M followed up the blows with an elbow to the back of his neck. It caused him to hunch over just enough for her to continue landing blows onto his back. Even M knew it was a weak shot; her arms unable to reach anything vital at his sides. It didn’t take S long to recover. It never did.

Before she could prepare herself for his attack he’d had his arms around her waist, lifted her off the floor, and slammed her down hard on the padded mat of the gym floor. Her legs struggled to find good placement to aid her in gaining the upper hand in their game of dominance. The two of them moving in a death roll with neither of them able to stay on top for long. Finally, as it always happened, S bested her and M found him on top with her arms pinned above her head. She wasn’t sure if it was just the heat of the moment or the added rush of adrenaline that caused her to be so brave. Whether it was bravery or foolishness M was never quite sure, but she held no regrets when she leaned forward and kissed him. It didn’t feel foolish when he kissed her back. In that moment all M could feel was his hand moving to cup her face and a tongue tracing across her lips and exploring what she was willing to give.

Just as fast as it started it had ended. He was off of her in a flash and bolting for the door leaving her behind to watch his retreat. The only person she could tell was Z, because she was more than sure S was probably off telling L. The two of them going over their mantra of, “Love has no place here; feelings get you killed,” until it turned them blue in the face.

It’d been months since that incident, but S’s lips left a stain on her own that she couldn’t shake. His already guarded exterior turned impenetrable around her. The only time she’d been able to read him when he watched over her on their shared assignments: he defended her when she never asked.

_________

The smoke of his cigarette lingered around him creating a mask that hid him partially from view. He hadn’t moved from his position against the doorframe and he wouldn’t enter his dorm until she was safely inside. The both of them staring through a void that shared in their unsaid words and frustrations. The conversation they’d shared months ago replaying like a broken record.

“It isn’t foolish to love someone.”

“I can’t love you, M. Beauty has no place around a man who only knows how to destroy it.”

At the time M wanted nothing more than to argue with him. To somehow believe anything she could say would be enough to convince him that he was capable of being more. The cold reality, however, was that their life was breed for chaos. How could they ever believe they were capable of more than that.

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guidedbygunpla · 4 years

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Gundam Sports Story Chapter 1

It is the year 0086 of the Universal Century. Nearly an entire century has passed since Earth began moving its burgeoning population into gigantic orbiting space colonies. A new home for mankind, where people are born and raised. And die. 5 years ago, the cluster of colonies furthest from the Earth, called Side 3, proclaimed itself the Duchy of Zeon and launched a war of independence against the Earth Federation. Initial fighting lasted over one month and saw both sides lose half their respective populations. People were horrified by the indescribable atrocities that had been committed in the name of independence. Eight months had passed since the rebellion began. They were at a stalemate. Then thanks to the brave men and women of the Earths Federation, Zeon was beaten back, their hold on the earth, and the colonies surrounding it, shrunk, and grew smaller every day. Until finally, the Archduke of Zeon, died in a surprise attack he was not aware of, leaving his own son Gihren Zabi in charge of the duchy. He too fell in battle. Within days after Gihrens death, an armistice was signed, and peace was established in the earths sphere. however. The weapons that won this war, the mobile suits, had proliferated far and wide, their powerful helium fusion engines were capable of great things, some retrofitted to power full factories, and ships that flew further and further out into the stars. However, as at the end of the last great war, when Britain and its allies had trained thousands of men to fly, there was suddenly a love of flying, now here in the universal century there too arose a love, a love of mobile suits. Thus sport leagues grew up near and far, as derelict mobile suits, and military surplus found their way onto the civilian market. Everything from racing, boxing, and even great feats of acrobatics soon found themselves being proformed by giant, metallic bodies. One such league was the MSMMAA, the mobile suit mixed martial arts association. Every year, there is a great tournament where countries vie for glory, honor, and the right to claim that they can produce the best mobile suit pilots in the earths sphere. This tournament is called the MSMMAA Earths Sphere Grand Prix.

______________________________________________________________

A great Scramjet flies high above the clouds, a Japanese flag and the Canon logo emblazoned on its side. Inside we see a woman, her hair cut short, reddish brown in color, wearing a red sport jacket, with a Canon logo on the right chest pocket. Beside her is another woman, older, reading off statistics. “so last weeks match only netted us 76 million viewers, we can do better than that, and the sponsors are counting on us to pump those numbers up, we don’t need to worry about repair costs, Canons contract with us promises they will cover repairs, planet side transport, and basic salaries, but we are relying on gatoraid and Yamaha to pay for any hotel fees, colonial transport, and any increase in the staffs bottom line.” “okay, so what do you suggest we do Milly? We tried feigning issues with the suit and stalling for time until later in the night when more colonial viewers are watching last year, and neither tactic worked….and before you suggest it, I wont do what the EU team did to Maya last year, having her come out in some skimpy form fitting normal suit. Just embarrassing.” The woman in the Canon jacket sighed, taking a sip from a blue bottle of gatoraid as she did so.

“well whats something that makes you unique, maybe we could capitalize on it in battle, your Newtype abilities maybe? I know we usually don’t try to showcase those too much because you say it can be quite draining in combat, but perhaps?” Milly said jotting down the idea on her yellow office pad

“well…..its not the worst idea, stage some real close calls, pull out at the last second….it will be really exhausting but we only have a handful of matches left of qualifying, and then 2 weeks off before the tournament actually begins, for me to recover…Im not a huge fan of it long term, but maybe something like that could secure more viewers before then…not bad Milly” “well, Cat, that’s why you pay me the big bucks” Milly said as she folded her note pad up and walked out of that room of the Scramjet, as she walked through the door, Cats husband Ryu was just walking in. Ryu was a nice man, a bit younger than Cat, she had just turned 30 a month ago in March, and Ryu was just about to turn 27. He was well kept, a bit portly thanks to the lavish life style his wife had brought him these last few years, and soft spoken. “I just got Ohm to bed, he never wants to settle down when we’re on these things” he said as he sat beside her, grabbing her drink and taking a swig of it. “I swear to you, they change the flavoring or something to that every time we fly, it tastes so gross up here” he said handing it back to her. Cat lauged “its bitter, its just because we’re so high up and travelling so fast, the blood in our tounge isn’t where it usually is….stuff tastes different” she said taking another drink

“I bet you taste the same” Ryu joked leaning in to kiss her the world rushed by behind them

The scramjet was travelling at 95,000 feet, at nearly mach 4. They were flying home to Tonosho, a town in Kagawa Japan. Cat, short for Catalyst had emigrated to earth just after the war. She was born on Side 4’s Moore Colony, and was working as an accountant there when Zeons forces attacked. She said she didn’t remember how she survived, just that during the commotion a federation saberfish fighter jet crash landed near her, and the pilot blew the hatch before falling out of it, she doesn’t remember why but she jumped inside and sealed the hatch. She says that day is when she realized her abilities weren’t just good luck and good intuition like she had always believed. She felt someone elses movements in her head, she saw someone turning the ship back on, and piloting it out of the colony. She let the sensation take over, and she escaped the colony unscaithed. The image of the giant pink monoeye of the zakus haunted her nightmares for months after that. after piloting the ship out of side 4, she was picked up in the thunderbolt debris field by the battleship Halifax, and after they looked her over and listened to what she said happened, she was shipped back to jaburo. They did scans of her brain, and put her through days and days of psychological evaluations. They told her she was going to be conscripted into a prototype Newtype Combat Corps that the federation was putting together, along side the famous Operation V Gun Fighters who had lead the federation vanguard in so many battles during the war. Luckily for her, the week before she was to be shipped out, jaburo was attacked, and she fled in the chaos. She eventually found herself in Coqueiral, and fell in with another group of deserters, one of which was Ryu, who had been working as a data analyst for the federation, when after the siege of jaburo he was to be conscripted as a soldier as well, said they were going to put him in a Ball, and throw him at the enemy if need be. He wasn’t ready for that, and he ran, like so many others from the underground bunker.

So how did they both get here, flying on a corporate scramjet, millionaires, in a mobile suit fighting league? Well it all started in Japan in the summer of 0082

Chapter 1 – the summer of 82

Catalyst and Ryu were able to take advantage of the chaos on earth that followed zeons surrender at A baeu qu and bribed their way onto an international flight to japan out of Peru. Some of Ryus family still lived there, those who hadn’t immigrated to Side 7 back in the 70s. His Aunt and Uncle were able to find them a small apartment in Tokyo. They gave them a tiny bit of money to get a start, but they were still deserters from the federation military, and even though the federation government had largely allowed most of the surviving countries on earth to try to rebuild by themselves if they wanted to, there still were federation military bases all over, and though the Republic of Japans government had tried its best to keep the federation out, they were still present here and there. So finding jobs was proving very difficult. Soon however, as the heat of the Japanese summer made itself known, Catalyst and Ryu found themselves pregnant, and the idea of trying to raise a child on the run, with no money, and no future, proved too much for them to bare. Catalyst decided that she would go to the Japanese government and see if there was any way they could help them. She figured the worst they would do is threaten contact the federation and have them deported, at which point they would just start the running and hiding process again. While there they asked why she deported, the Japanese weren’t big fans of the federation, and didn’t want to give them over if there was no reason too. Handing over a pregnant woman to the federation to be executed for desertion wouldn’t sit well with any moral person. She explained she didn’t want her newtype gifts to be taken advantage of, she didn’t want to kill, she didn’t believe the zeon were totally wrong, that though their actions were vile, their goal of spacenoid independence was valiant, and that the actions of the federation were no better, though the Federation had never launched a colony at Australia like Zeon did, they did destroy dozens of side 3 colonies during the early days of the war, and during the final weeks after A beau qu, ultimately driving the Duchy out of their home on Munzo, and to a colony out by Mars known as Axial.

The man she spoke to, was a senator for the Tokyo arm of the Social Democratic party, he had served in the 210th airborn division and fought in the battle of Newyork. He agreed with her that the actions he had seen during those days didn’t paint the federation or zeon in the best light, bombing their own people to prevent the zeon from capturing strategic targets, flooding the subways, to prevent their use as bomb shelters by the zeon, even though hundreds of thousands of people, of federation people were using them as bomb shelters when the flood waters came. He offered her an out. The Japanese government had recently signed onto the MSMMAA, and needed a pilot. The pilots who represent their countries bypass many federation laws, and cannot be persecuted by any government save their own. A rule put in place to prevent jailing a fighter to avoid the outcome of a match. They didn’t have the financial resources of places like Brazil, the Greater European Union, China or the Kievan Federation, let alone sides that had been untouched by the war like side 1 or side 6. Japan needed a leg up, an ace up its sleeve, and a newtype with nothing left to lose seemed like just the ticket.

So she joined the Republic of Japans Mobile Suit Team. She signed on as the fighter for the Canon team, Canon, thanks to the backing of the government, were able to purchase a decent starter suit for her, a RGM-79GS GM Space Command Type. It had been used in the defense of side 6 during the tail end of the war and its right arm had been torn off by a Gelgoog. Canon was able to purchase replacement parts and have it shipped to japan for de-armament and modification per the MSMMAA regulations.

The MSMMAA had strict regulations for what could and could not compete in the tournaments, the suit had to be salvaged, or army surplus. Its VIN number must indicate it was produced before June 15th 0081 Earth Standard. The reactor in the suit, cannot exceed +200KW of the primary suits requirements for 1G standard operation thus an acguy is limited to a max of 2069kw and a 1st gen GM cannot exceed 1449kw. The primary suit is defined as a suit which makes up at least 30% of the parts of any one mobile suit, if a suit is made up of so much scrap that its parent suit cannot be determined it will be limited by the most common suit in its weight class. All guns must be removed from the suit in such a way as to prevent them from ever functioning again, and beam weaponry must have their I field generator removed and capped. Additionally, Minovski scrubbers must be put in place to prevent pollution of minovski particles on earth, the moon or any other body designated as a special combat location per MSMMAA guidelines.

The Gm commander arrived in Tokyo bay on july 15th of 0082 and Catalyst and Ryu were there to greet it, along with a team of 10 who in the coming months and years would become some of her best friends. There were her body guards Ballet and Fyo, former night club bouncers. Milly, Catalysts marketing liaison, Dyrik Masters, the head of mechanical engineering and fabrication, and his team of 5 Linos, Kai, Rita, Suzette and Sanchez, and lastly, Her coach Lt. Tenneth Jung, the federations Ace of Aces, who had left the force at the end of the war, and had decided to move into mobile suit combat training as it paid substantially better. As soon as the GM was floated off its barge and onto the Samson mobile suit carrier, Dyrik and his team went to work looking over it. It turns out that who ever Canon hired out to replace the arm had done an awful job, and most of the joints were going to need replaced, and to fix any balancing issue with the other arm, they would have to replace the balancers on the other arm just to compensate, the legs were in good shape, but the joints in them were in bad shape, hadn’t been oiled in at least a year, and the space use oils they had used hadn’t been switched out once coming earthside and were largely clogged with sand and salt, resulting on fairly heavy corrosion all around.

Upon getting the suit back to their headquarters, a mobile suit hanger that Canon had purchased, they strung the suit up to see just what all was going to need to be done. Tenneth had her and Ryu follow him to the pilot lift. And lifted all three of them right up to the cockpit of the GM.

“so tell me, Catalyst, do you have experience piloting mobile suits at all? From what I read of your record it seems like you’ve only flown saberfish and a few commercial planes here earthside.” She nodded “it’s Cat by the way, only my parents and police call me catalyst” she leaned into the cockpit, a feeling of ice shot through her mind, as she felt hands moving around the cockpit, the pedals moving in tandem, the arms lifting and dropping, menus racing past. “it shouldn’t matter too much, im a real quick learner, haven’t really ever had to read a manual or have someone show me how to do much of anything in life” she said as she lifted herself up over the railing to the pilot lift, and jumped into the cockpit, Ryu reaching out after her as she did so. “ah yes, there was that in your notes too….very strong newtype abilities, rivalling that of the great Terra Stormrider the Gundam Ace and Char Aznable the red comet.” He said as he leaned across so that his upper body rested just above the main control panel “but newtype abilities can only get you so far, a lot of piloting these things is knowing what they can do, knowing when you can use the weight from one part to swing another ya know.” Cat nodded again as she flipped a few switches on the main control panel to turn the GM on, put into service mode so she could look over a few things while the mechanic team went about tearing into the GM’s guts and fixing the damage that the machine had sustained thus far in its life. “I respect your point of view on Newtypes Mr. Jung, our abilities are hard to understand. The main abilities that I have been able to manifest are foreknowledge and a physical 6th sense, I can feel something is about to happen before it happens, and when I see something new, I can usually feel someone else moving through it, and learn how to operate it by following those sensations. I think you being here is how I can comprehend what all of this does. I probably should actually get a manual on how to operate all of this, probably isn’t going to be as easy as Book keeping.” She laughed as she slid her finger across the touch screen display on the main console, the GMs readout scrolled past, a lot of the sensors were reading null or error. “well Cat, I’m sure we can find some old manual here for you, though I think this suit is going to end up pretty heavily tailored towards what you’re comfortable with before all said and done. This cockpit has to be modified if memory serves, padding and what not added…guess athletes need a bit more protection than some flyboy like yours truly. Then, we needa figure out what sorta fighting style you’ll be wanting it to conform to, if youre wanting to fight with swords, axes, just the fists etc. MSMMAA doesn’t have ton of rules about what weapons can and cant be used as long as their temp doesn’t exceed 3000 degrees F, and aren’t beam or bullets….we’ll get you sorted out Cat, with your Newtype abilities, and my know how of these dang GM’s we’ll win you that championship belt.

#gundam #chapter 1 #fanfic

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parrisher · 6 years

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fiction, future, and prediction (stevebucky fic)

on ao3

hey guys! this is my first ever marvel fic! it’s kinda prose-y but i hope you enjoy it! the title is from “fourth of july” by sufjan stevens btw!!

“Steve Rogers always knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he wouldn’t make it to twenty-five.” The story of two boys growing up in Brooklyn, New York, how they left, and how one came back.

Steve Rogers always knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he wouldn’t make it to twenty-five.

He was born premature, and by the tender age of eight he had coughed and rattled his way through influenza, scoliosis, polio, and the chicken pox. His momma worked three jobs to keep up with his trips to the doctor, and when she was gone, he sat alone and thought to himself about a lot of things. He wondered what his father was doing—his momma had whispered in his ear late at night how Domnall Rogers was out fighting the bad guys, flying across the world to make sure the evil people were stopped. He played doctor with his teddy—the poor bear was always sick. Neighbors reported hearing a voice through the walls. He was one of his favorite people, after all, out of his small world of Sarah Rogers, the doctor, and his favorite nurse.

When Steve was nine, he met James Barnes, fourth child of seven. There was a knock at the door one day while his momma was at the factory, and even though she had told him never to let in strangers, he peeped through the crack in the door. There was a boy outside, head down, kicking the carpet with worn-out play shoes, and that boy couldn’t hurt him, right, because the boy was only a little bit taller than him, and that meant someone to play with. So he opened the door, and the boy’s wide, friendly blue eyes locked onto his face. Less than a second passed before the boy’s face lit up with a grin, and Steve learned that Bucky (because Bucky was better than boring old James) could charm the pants off whoever he wanted.

When Steve was twelve, he caught influenza, and he knew for sure he wouldn’t get out of that dingy beige hospital room. His momma wasn’t there. Her boss had told her that if she didn’t come that day she couldn’t come back, and the hospital was more money than they paid to live in their boxy little apartment for half a year. But Bucky was, and as Steve’s vision grew hazy, he could see his best friend’s outline, feel his hand gripping Steve’s arm, hear his pleading tone but not his words. When he woke up, Bucky was there, snoring, after two days of almost falling asleep standing up waiting to hear news. When he laughed at the sight, Bucky started awake, and Steve saw the tears in his eyes, and that same huge smile that Bucky had when they had first met.

When Steve was fourteen, he got in his first fight. He was walking behind the grocery store to throw away some trash when he saw two boys talking to a girl who had the same expression as he did when the doctor came around with a big needle. Steve hated those damn needles, and right then, he hated those boys too. He walked right up and started asking them questions. By the time those boys finally got distracted, Steve ended up with a black eye, a broken rib, and cuts and bruises everywhere. His momma, rightfully, freaked out. Buck just raised an eyebrow and told him not to go too far away from then on.

When they were fifteen, Bucky got his first girlfriend, and he told stories about her warm skin and soft lips. Steve started staying at home more often. There were fewer fights that way, and anyways, his momma liked it better that way—she said it kept his lungs safe. But Bucky always came home at the end of the day, and made sure Steve knew he was still Bucky’s number one.

When Steve was eighteen, his momma caught influenza. But she was getting older, and working three jobs for almost twenty years cost her in the end. Steve spent his first ever paycheck on a suit jacket and flowers to put on a little headstone with a cross on the top.

Steve and Bucky moved in together. Bucky still had his girlfriends, and Steve still picked a fight with anything with a mouth, but things were different now. Bucky had a dream, and they both knew it. White picket fence, pretty wife, four kids. But every day, Steve wondered if it would be his last. He had never really thought about what he wanted when he grew up. In all honesty, he had never thought he would make it that far. So he lived day by day, fighting, laughing, going out with Bucky, even if it was just to humor him.

They only went to a nightclub once. Flying on the high of pay day, they burst through the doors onto the dance floor. With every drink, the two felt warmer and fuzzier. Steve leaned against the bar, eyes locked on Bucky who, even while dancing with a pretty girl’s hand in his, still stared back with that same steely blue gaze. It was even stronger with alcohol.

Bucky dropped the girl’s hand.

The two stumbled through the busy streets of Brooklyn on a Friday night, laughing all the way home at Steve’s stupid jokes. They could barely stand up straight. Steve blinked, and they were home, facing each other, two deer locked in each other’s headlights. Then their breath touched, then their lips, and the liquor in their system pushed them into a bed. Hands on bodies, breath caught, moans, stillness.

Steve woke up the next morning with his head pounding on Bucky’s worn-out mattress, and before the other boy could wake up, he pulled on his shirt and walked back over to his own bed.

The next day, Steve signed up to join the army.

When Bucky found out, he was furious. The two didn’t speak for three days. But when the notice came back that “Steven Grant Rogers does not meet the U. S. Army’s health standards,” he comforted his friend anyways. Steve tried again and again, and Bucky came to realize they wouldn’t let him in, and seemed guilty for feeling happy.

In the meantime, they lived the best lives two poor young men in a hard part of Brooklyn could. They went to the carnival. They watched movies. They went dancing with Buck’s “lady friends”. They made sure Steve was still breathing fine.

It was almost ironic. Steve had applied for the army seven times, and gotten rejected every one. But he came home one day to find Bucky curled up on their little couch, and a letter open on the table stating that “Mr. James Barnes has been chosen to serve our country in Regiment No. 107”. Seven rejections, but Bucky had been plucked from his life in one shot. Steve felt a cold weight settle in his chest. He sat down on the couch and held Bucky in a hug, barely getting his arms around as they mourned for the dreams they wanted and the shit they got instead.

Everyone around Steve and Bucky would have thought their lives went back to normal. But the friends were both counting the days. Twenty-one more days of laughing. Seventeen more days of bad dock food. Eight more days of seeing the other’s face.

On Bucky’s last day, he winked at Steve, and said that they were going to the future. They went to the carnival, each arm in arm with a girl who obviously liked the same one more than the other. A man was showing how a flying car would work when Steve saw a recruitment station. He knew it had to be a sign, those places would take anyone! And when they stamped a regiment number on his form, he ran home beaming. He burst into the apartment only to find Bucky’s suitcase gone, and a new sketchbook on the kitchen table next to a little note saying he would write.

It felt as though the world had stopped spinning.

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye.

Ms. Peggy Carter wore lipstick the color of blood and high heels in the mud, but something about the look in her eyes reminded him of Buck.

He jumped the hurdles and climbed the ropes and ran the miles, scared of losing oxygen but more scared of having to go back to their two-person apartment by himself. He never really knew why he jumped on the grenade. They told him it was because he was a good man, but who knows? Maybe he’d simply rather die than go home.

When the doctor told him what they planned to do, he accepted. In Steve’s head, there was no way to lose. They clinked glasses in silence.

The lab brought back every time he’d gone to the hospital and thought he wouldn’t come back out. And those damn needles, big and thick and dripping with god-knows-what concoction of chemicals. They closed the doors.

Maybe the electricity killed him and brought him back in a new body. But when Steve woke up, he could breathe right and stand up straight and kick his right knee in a way he hadn’t been able to since he was four. And for the first time in his life, he chanced the thought that, maybe, he could live a little longer.

The tour was the worst part. He could do everything he’d dreamed of when he was younger, but they stuck him up onstage to entertain the troops, the ones he should have been fighting alongside. Every night, he got up onstage. Read off his shield and, eventually, from memory about how buying war bonds was the key to victory! Stage punched Hitler in the face. Wave to the sullen soldiers. Go to his train car and punch a bag until his knuckles bled.

Weeks passed like this, day after day after day. Until one gloomy day camped out in rainy southern Italy, when Steve heard a passing rumor that a regiment had been captured by HYDRA. When he learned it was 107, he was terrified, both for Buck and for how excited he was by the prospect of fighting for him.

Somehow, Steve had never considered that anything would change between him and Bucky. It had always just been the two of them, for better or for worse. But when Steve hopped the fence and turned corners and dodged bullets to free the soldiers, he found Bucky on a cold metal table, looking smaller than Steve had ever seen him. And when Bucky opened his eyes, the first thing out of his mouth was how Steve was taller. And at that moment, Steve realized he didn’t have an excuse to make Bucky stick around anymore. He didn’t need protection; the tables had turned in a way neither of them could have expected.

But even as Red Skull’s face was peeling off his bones, Bucky was making jokes. They escaped with the rest of the soldiers as the base exploded behind them, and for the first time since Bucky had left, the world went back to the way it had been before. As they marched back into camp, Steve finally felt like a damn hero.

Reveling in their victory, the two went to the bar with the rest of the soldiers, forgetting their rules. Steve was flushed and grinning wide. Bucky mumbled something about ‘the outfit’. But then Peggy showed up in that red dress, and Steve realized he had to choose.

Even many years later, he was never sure.

Steve had forgotten about Coney Island. He thought Bucky had too. They landed on the train in silence, and as soon as Steve stepped out, the doors closed. Looking back, Steve must have killed that soldier in an instant to get back to Buck. One had “had him on the ropes,” but it was backwards, reversed.

When the side of the train opened, Steve felt time slow until every second was an hour. He was knocking down men. Shots were coming from every side. Bucky was holding his shield. The last man fell.

Bucky slipped.

Steve ran to the edge of the train, stretched out his arm further and further and further. But he grabbed at where Bucky’s hand had been seconds earlier, before the metal pipe Bucky had been hanging from had snapped without warning. James Barnes fell hundreds of miles into a snowy mountain ravine, and the sound of his scream echoed all the way down.

And this time, the merciless world kept turning, in spite of the fact that its best creation had just taken his final breath.

A part of Steve Rogers broke that day. Something was unmistakably, irreplacably different. A certain light behind his eyes had died, the one that always sparkled with laughter when Bucky told a joke.

He read and reread the sentences Bucky had scrawled in his sketchbook before he left, never to return to the noisy, brown-walled one-bedroom in Brooklyn.

Dear Stevie,

I know when you’re reading this, I’ll be gone. I’mma come back, though. ‘Know I promised I’d wait ‘till you got here, but you know I like thinkin’ of you at home sittin’ pretty waitin’ for me. But I’mma come back, and when I do, you’ve gotta bring some good food home, ok?

We’re going to the future, pal. I love you.

-Buck

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and vowed to kill every damn Nazi on the planet.

He flew onto the plane to capture Red Skull. But Red Skull vanished, was drawn away by a beam of light, and Steve knew it wasn’t his problem anymore. What was his problem, however, was the carrier full of bombs headed for New York City.

Peggy came on the line. They both knew there wasn’t enough time. He apologized for missing their dance. She tried to talk him out of it, but it was his choice.

His choice.

Steve drew in a breath, and tipped the controller down.

How damn poetic, that he was falling into icy terrain where no one would ever be able to find him. As his stomach flew into his throat, he kept his eyes ahead.

At least they would remember his name. Captain America, the no-longer-living legend who sacrificed himself to save his country. He would be a hero.

He got up and, with a grim finality, laid down underneath a window, heart pounding.

But what about Bucky? What about the one who died too soon to fall with him? The one who laughed by his side and cried in his arms, whose heart beat with the same rhythm? What about the boy who saved Steve’s life, made him wake up in the morning, loved him every damn day with everything he had in him?

Steve closed his eyes and prayed they remembered the lover, not the fighter.

The plane hit the water.

He woke up in a hospital bed, baseball game on the radio. The familiar crackle caught him off guard, and his head jerked up as the door opened to a woman. She was so close to Peggy, so damn close he simply wanted to believe it was her, but his gut instinct was on high alert. A cheer came from the radio, but for some reason it sounded like the same cheer as in 1941, the one with Buck in the nosebleeds. It was almost right. Almost, which made it very, very wrong.

Steve jumped up and ran.

He ran out of the room, and he wasn’t in a hospital, but a giant warehouse with cords and beeps and whirring everywhere, and anyone who saw him seemed to jump, so he didn’t stop to look around. He just kept running, out the door and down the street until a sign caught his eye, the brightest pink he had ever seen. And as soon as he noticed that sign, another jumped out at him, then another, then another, until he was surrounded by bright colors and flashing lights and billboards miles high, and all Steve could do was turn in awe and fright as cars formed a circle around him.

They told him it was the future. He had made it.

Fate really was a bitch.

We’re goin’ to the future, pal. I love you.

Steve Rogers, who wasn’t supposed to get to twenty-five, was ninety-four years old.

But the boy who was supposed to take him there never made it to twenty-three.

#stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stevebucky #stucky fic #stucky fanfic #stevebucky fic #stevebucky fanfic #captain america #marvel #marvel fic #marvel fanfic #userlys

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gingilocks101 · 7 years

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A Letter to my Father

Dear F,

You probably think this is about me wanting you to like J; it is not. Our argument at the barbecue was never about that. What it is about is you starting a fight trying to call him a prick for no reason and then thinking I’m overreacting or being unreasonable for asking you to not be a dick for no reason. You had spent the last week essentially bullying him like you do to the rest of us, complaining about him for the smallest things, acting like a degree means you can’t be absent minded or make human mistakes, and then trying to get S to take him home because you didn’t want him there anymore. Newflash, twat face: you fucking invited him! Suck it up!

I don’t give a fuck either way about whether or not you like my fiance because I don’t need your approval. You’ve never approved of anything unless it directly benefited you. What I care about is that you treat him like dirt for no reason. He’s never done anything but be polite to you, and you’re here acting like a prick and thinking you can. And I’m the immature one for not just accepting it? Fuck off, fuck off, fucking die. You are 55: I shouldn’t be told to just let you get away with being a grade A fuckwad because you can’t even be polite.

And you’re supported by other adults aged 50+, like Mum, Auntie A, Auntie S, Uncle P (who isn’t 50+ but is close enough) because apparently being a dick is “just how he is”. Your whole life you’ve been allowed to do what you want, and now you’re “upset” because I won’t talk to you anymore? I don’t need you and your emotional abuse, your misogyny, your bullshit life. You have been on this planet for 5 and a half decades, and everyone tells me that I need to be the mature one and just accept blame, apologise and grovel. Why? So you can just do this all again, over and over and over until you finally die? I refuse.

Besides all of which: your reasons for disliking J are bullshit! He “thinks of nobody else but himself,” says man who has two ponds that only he wants. They are two ditches in our garden into which you just throw money we don’t have; one of them in the ground with no fencing or anything to prevent falling into it. You have a six year old running around your garden, and it’s only last week that you actually did something because you were going to have drunk people in the garden at your party on Saturday. And even then, all you did was put solar lights around the edge; still no fence, nothing to actually stop an accident.

You tried to move the family to Crawley so you didn’t have to sit in traffic on the way home from work. That was your immediate response, before considering leaving ten minutes later to avoid it, before anything else. Did it matter that your youngest two were doing GCSEs and A Levels? Did it fuck. All that mattered was that you were stuck in traffic on the way home and you didn’t like it. You hadn’t even been in the new job that long; maybe two months? Traffic sucks, yeah, but two months is nothing. Mum hits traffic on the way to work every single day, and she’s been working there for about 16 years. And before that she worked in schools and colleges since leaving the factory, when she was probably also in traffic. It is life in our cities, towns and other urban areas. That is the modern age.

Which, I know, you hate. Hence why you tried to tried to make us all move to rural Cumbria so you could set up a fish farm. You expected Mum to quit her job and work in a cafe on a fish farm despite the fact that she hates cooking and baking in all forms; just because you don’t want to live in London anymore. You have no experience in fish farming, no experience in even running a business, and angling as a business is collapsing as younger people just aren’t interested. But you are Super F. This risky venture will obviously succeed, purely because you’re in charge. You know everything about everything, so you cannot fail. And all those who have been in the business 30 years who are closing down shops because they can’t carry on? Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about, do they? God, you sound like Nan, trying to tell me the doctors don’t know jackshit about antibiotics or the human body.

“He only thinks of himself,” said the man who turns the simple act of helping me to move in and out of university every September and June into the F. B. shitshow. A man whose daughter was returning to university, 200 miles from home, and you decided to move me in by driving me and dumping my stuff because you “didn’t want to sit in traffic” on the way home. You stood in my new kitchen with all those housemates I hadn’t yet met, and made my mother cry, because she didn’t believe you all summer.

Not that you give a fraction of a fuck about my degree beyond how expensive it is for you, how much it’s costing you. You routinely belittle my likes, interests and passions: you don’t bother attempting to connect with me unless it’s one of your own interests like old punk/rock music; newer music or songs you don’t like result in you bitching or moaning over it so I can’t hear it, or until I get fed up and change it or turn it off. The same happens with TV shows, and then you say “oh, I didn’t say you couldn’t watch it!” You are slowly reducing the things we can watch to fishing shows and Fake Britain: you dislike American comedies, you hate panel shows, none of us like soaps, you try to force D to stop watching kids’ TV (I remind you that he is six)...

When we went to visit universities you complained about the lecturer, and said that people with English Literature degrees “just think they’re better than everyone else because they’ve read lots of books”. All the lecturer had done was talk about the course he taught when I asked him for an overview. I will have a degree in English Literature by the end, and yeah, I will think I’m better than you. But not because I’ve read classics that you can’t stick, like Tess of the D’Urbevilles, or Wuthering Heights. I’m better than you because I’m genuinely likeable; I can be polite even if I dislike people (sorry L, I do try!); and I treat people fairly, as best that I can. The last time you cared about my university experience was the summer of 2012, when I was considering Oxbridge. And even that was to use me as a trophy daughter: you paraded me around your birthday party telling all your friends and brothers and sisters that I was thinking about Oxford, because it made you sound good. You couldn’t give less of a fuck about me, really.

You make me feel as though I can’t be freely religious at home: I ended up telling P and K and other people from uni that I feel unable to go to church when I’m at home. You mock me on Sunday mornings if I do go, asking if I’m “going to see [my] imaginary friend with low self esteem” or calling religion “mythology and fairy tales” and those who believe “idiots”. You do this to the point I feel uncomfortable to go anywhere on Sundays by myself, which is exactly your goal. You hate religion and the fact I have one with such vitriol that I cannot understand why you hate me calling you an atheist. Only atheists are that violent towards people with faith. On top of that, you constantly bring up how much you hated Seville Cathedral and how the Church is “a business”, or the “world’s greatest scam”. When I went with the school in 2012, Seville Cathedral was one of my favourite things. You ruined that. Mum promised we wouldn’t take you to the cathedral, but you insisted! And I’m convinced that was just to have the excuse to abuse me further. You make such a big deal out of religious events: you refused to take me and T to the church for little E’s christening, tried to make digs in my ear during D-G’s christening, and you refused to even go to D’s dedication. You sat in the pub and willingly missed your own grandson’s dedication, and then spent the after party loudly criticising S for having him dedicated, as it’s apparently “indoctrination”. Your violent campaign has served to make me only feel able to express or explore my faith in Chester; hence most of the important people are those that I met at church, or in chapel and chaplaincy: P, G, K, V, Fr. P & A...

And after all of that, you believe and desire me to be completely dependent on you. I have constant reminders about how you pay for everything and that it’s your house (despite Mum paying half but that doesn’t fit your narrative). My bedroom is “not your room; it’s the room in which you are permitted to sleep”; you’ve been saying this for years. And whilst yes, it is technically true, it also subtly chips away at my privacy. If it is your room really, it suggests I have no privacy and no right to my bedroom. It suggests everything is flimsy. You won't pay for me until I "love you again"? What is this bullshit? At the moment, J is providing his own food at our house because you complain if he eats. I’ll say again: you are denying a guest food, and yet I’m expected to be the grown up and apologise for asking you to be polite. Do you hear yourself when you speak? Or is your head too far stuck up your arse? Besides, you don’t really pay for me anyway! While you’re wasting money on fish, literally throwing all of the family money into a ditch, I’m expected to get a job alongside my studies. It doesn’t matter what I say about doing two degrees, about being a full time student, about how you’ll still demand me home in the holidays, or about how the stress will literally kill me. You won’t listen to any of it: it will always be because I’m “lazy and expensive”. And yet! And yet: despite refusing to support me when I have no money, you still desire me to support you in retirement. No?? You can’t refuse to support me and then demand I support you; it doesn’t work like that. It’s an investment, F. You put in what you want to receive; I am not obligated to support you in your old age if you will not support me now. It works two ways.

You accuse me of wasting money on my degree, and then spent £200 without asking on concert tickets when the family couldn’t afford it. Your current reasoning for why we’re in so much debt is not for anything logical like you wasting money on your ponds, but because I am eating. That’s right: your current excuse for why we have no money is because I eat too much. It makes no sense because, by your own admission, “it’s not like you eat much anyway”. So what the actual fuck? It makes no sense at all. You dislike that I asked J’s dad Te for help with Spain after you refused. You expected me to have it done in advance so you could throw me off a plane and leave again, like Chester. I can’t do that, so I went to someone who can help me in the way I need it, but you are bitter. I don’t have to jump your hoops and do everything your way. Like how you’re refusing to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, and keep saying that other people will also refuse if you tell them to, such as my cousin C. That’s just another transparent attempt to make me beg for your attention, to turn something into being about you. “Oh, why isn’t F walking her?!” Well, I refuse to let you make everything about yourself. That’s why I’m asking S. Suck on that.

There are more things I can scream about: this is 21 years of emotional abuse, 21 years of scars, 21 years of trying to get approval that will never come. I’m over it. I will never apologise, and quite frankly I’m beyond insulted that you haven’t even thought to do so.

I’ll see you in Hell, and I won’t stop to say hi.

Yours sincerely,

Hannah

#gingilocks101 #gingilocks writes letters #family stuff #abuse tw #religion and stuff

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djrelentless · 7 years

Text

“When Did Youth Become More Important Than Experience?”

July 21, 2009

In my profession as a DJ, I have noticed a disturbing trend over the years. It seems that everything is being marketed to the youth. Today's music, today's club scene....all are marketed to look like everyone is in the mid 20's with perfect bodies and perfect skin. We have artist as young as 14 singing about subject matters that only adults shouldknow. And thanks to technology, we have kids with laptops and the internet at their finger tips calling themselves DJ's. Programs that practically mixed the songs for them (if they bother to learn how to mix at all) and people being paid to be human iPods. There's no talent in that. I started in radio with my uncle back in 1980. I learned about programing before I learned how to mix. I learned the history of music in the clubs and on the radio and how the two could meet and shouldn't meet. But now with the way music is marketed, you are being programed to like certain songs. The hits that are all over MTV and the radio were picked out for you. You had no real choice in the matter. It used to be that DJ's made songs into hits. Now, everyone is playing "follow the leader". If Junior or Peter plays it, then it is a must for your set. Do you even know where the samples for some of your songs come from? Most don't. And looking around the NY nightlife, I can see my signature all over some staple places. Did you know that I was the first and only African-American DJ to spin at The Monster? I'll probably be the last. Did you know that the reason View Bar has video is because when it was the Break, the owner didn't like me taking a job at Baracuda, so he offered to put video monitors in the Break (which later changed in the View) if I would leave Baracuda. The sound system and format at the Hangar started with me and DJ Smokey back in the 90's. And I am the reason TJ the DJ has a spot in the scene. I talked the owners into turning Xes into a video bar, but after getting all the knowledge they needed out of me, I was replaced by a younger and inexperienced version. The cool and open format that is at Posh was my doing. When I went there, they were only playing 80's music, because the owner didn't want any Hip Hop played in his establishment. But when he saw the reaction of the younger customers, he changed his tune. Too bad I was replaced by a bartender who had no DJ experience, but is now a hot commodity at the Ritz. And now you are being programed on who is the best DJ and hot spots through advertising dollars. When I arrived in New York in the early 90's, HX and Next were new magazines. So, you had to travel around the city to figure out what party was right for you. I miss the legendary DJ's like Troy Parrish (Sugar Babies) and Tennessee. They made you feel it and know that you were having a good time. Junior Vasquez wasn't the top remixer for Madonna and Cher then. He was just the man who turned Sound Factory out. And Danny Tenaglia would serve up some tracks that you would spend 2 weeks looking for in the record stores. This doesn't happen anymore. The kids go where the rags tell 'em to go. No discovery and no adventures. And the other disturbing truth is that there is a double standard in the DJ world of New York. There is a racial divide. If a black DJ plays Hip Hop in certain establishments, he is told he is bringing in the wrong crowd. After he is fired or "let go", a white DJ can come into the same establishment and play the same thing and even worse (hardcore thugged out Hip Hop) and is praised for being innovative. Why is that? Of course there are some black DJ's who are doing just fine in this Pop Gay Scene of Next and now the defunct HX. But where does someone who has helped shape the scene find a job now in this age of the laptop DJ? I probably have been spinning longer than some of these kids have been on this earth. And for my colleagues who were on the scene back in the 90's most have disappeared or moved away. September 11th, 2001 forced our club and bar scenes to scale back on pay. Which I believe led to the type of DJ's we have in all your hot spots today. And the sad thing is that the youth who is coming out today think that this is the best that we have to offer. these will be their "good old day". Only because they don't know anything else. For them, hearing a DJ letting a song end and pushing play on the next one is normal. This would get you boo-ed out of the booth years ago. And because some DJ's are making this the new standard, everyone thinks they can be a DJ now. It's really embarrassing to have to tell my friends from Europe that these are our top DJ's on the scene or that the scene in L.A. has DJ's that mix. In the Urban Gay scene, I still have a strong following. Mainly because there are no restrictions on what I can play. However, I am restricted by the urban crowd because of their tastes in music. Introducing them to other styles can be hard. So, I am stuck. Stuck catering to a limited scene and unable to express myself to a bigger audience. I dream of playing for a room where I have total freedom to combine all my knowledge. Where I can mix Lady GaGa with Funkadelic with a splash of Shirley Bassey leading into a hot tribal mix of Marilyn Manson. How can it be done? With programing. A long lost art form that used to make or break a DJ. Now that skill is not required. So, I ask....when did youth become more important than experience?

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