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Pound the Table | An X-Men Self-Insert
- Thread starter October Daye
- Start date
- #3,051
Was Erskine dumb for not documenting his work, or was he the only scientist in comics to truly understand the potential dangers of what he was creating?And Erskine didn't bother documenting his work.Why are Marvel scientists so smart and yet so dumb?
Refusing to let anyone know the secret to making super soldiers means they can only be made when he wants to, and his strict criteria means that we get one Captain America instead of ten thousand US Agents.
Honestly, I'd say Erskine's one of the few comic book scientists who didn't completely dump WIS in favor of more INT.
- #3,052
As a wise man once said: "Science isn't about why, it is about why not!"
- #3,053
It also means the medical industry is deprived of a revolutionary new technology that could alleviate the suffering of millions.Refusing to let anyone know the secret to making super soldiers means they can only be made when he wants to, and his strict criteria means that we get one Captain America instead of ten thousand US Agents.
- #3,054
Two things though.
One, apparently Noa has made enough of an impression of Magneto so he didn't jump to dropping bodies in a very public manner. I don't know nearly enough about classic Marvel to even guess at the significance of this change, but I am interested in how this will effect his relationship with Charles.
Two, I'm on board with questioning how fast this jury finished things up. Things were already a bit sus when Andrews threw out the Dr Doom case, meaning no matter the verdict it would likely be successfully appealed, even with them facing re-election. Them using their success with this case to get elected, only to have it be overturned, is a short term deal. Implying they valued getting it done, over doing it properly. Maybe they're that short sighted, but maybe there's something hinkey afoot that also pushed the jurors. Even if the more favorable jurors had some well hidden, more subconscious, bigotry I don't think it would be that quick. No matter how much a loud mouth spouts off, or how charming the DA was, the evidence was overwhelmingly on the defense's side.
I don't know how this lines up with potential story lines, there's a chance that everything is as it appears to be. If so, I can still look forward to these issues taking over the culture war. You can't really one up things as they are, with Ole Cap mentioning what's happening in the same breadth as what the Nazis did.
That said, I have to wonder how that appeal is going to happen. I guess he's officially on the run right now, and that's it's own mess without Noa having to find a firm to take her on. Perhaps she'll take Matt as a partner, and start he own?
- #3,055
In the comics I am most familiar with, 80's to late 90's, this is how the formula worked. It wasn't that you couldn't replicate it, plenty of people had, see Nuke, Black Widow and Hulk, but that the results were never pretty. Nuke went nuts and required "Medication" to function, Black Widow was a pale imitation and the formula ravaged her body and we all know what happened to Hulk.Baroo? No, it hasn't worked because no one has successfully replicated his actual procedure. (I believe Vita-Rays are still a mystery.) Steve Rogers isn't a perfectly moral man anyway, that's boring - what he is, is a good man.
"Oh, baloney."
A. The Comics Code Authority got started because comics had 'adult content' and were easily purchaseable by young teenagers. Swearing and sex in the pages of DC/Marvel is nothing new.
B. Moral ambiguity makes a story more interesting. Any twat can give you a narrative about the angelically pure good guys triumphing over the dastardly demonic villains, but when people are trying to figure out what the right thing is, that's how they really show who they are. Captain America struggles, and makes mistakes. He's never been that bland lantern you want.
Oh and I know that comics had swearing and sex before hand, although the sex was quite seriously toned down vs modern comics, but I was specificlly talking about CA. He never swore, ever, and so when he did it was a special moment of "Oh Shit" because you knew he was about to do something special.
I would posit in return that any talentless hack can write a story where the hero is the punisher in a different hat, the villains are barely any worse than the protagonist and the comic is inevitably colored like you ran out of colors lighter than brown. Both absolutes are rather boring no, and I will agree that a simple Black/White story can get repetitive, but that is why you write other things. The OP wrote about a paragon in a world of grey, and I think that is where the most interesting stories are, where a paragon is challenged and nonetheless surpasses it.
Certainly, that kind of story would be my number one wish. Some of the best CA stories have elements of that, where CA has to wrestle with that fact that his choice isn't always the one that is most effective. You mention in another post about the correct choice and the right choice, and I think that is really where its at. CA having to realize that in a world of increasing grey that the right choice isn't always the choice that gets the most done or makes the most people happy. But then staying steadfast, because keeping that code, keeping that pure white fire is exactly what he needs to do. It would certainly make him a paragon.And yet, think about how utterly fascinating it is to see a 100% absolute moral good person try to exist in a world of grey. The lengths to which they have to go, the compromises and sacrifices they need to make to keep to their strict morals and ethics…Why can we not get a comic exploring how HARD it is to do that, which just makes Captain America all that much more of a paragon?
- #3,056
It also means the medical industry is deprived of a revolutionary new technology that could alleviate the suffering of millions.
Could is not the same as would. Do you honestly think a formula that produces instant super soldiers would be released to the public so little Timmy could be cured of his heart issues? Or would it be hoarded explicitly to produce super soldiers?
Erskine was very afraid of the possibility of abuse. And given the Red Skull, he was every bit as justified about that fear.
Helping millions is not worth birthing a thousand Red Skulls.
- #3,057
Do you think the public is going to put up with the government hoarding life-saving medicine?Could is not the same as would. Do you honestly think a formula that produces instant super soldiers would be released to the public so little Timmy could be cured of his heart issues? Or would it be hoarded explicitly to produce super soldiers?
If there are millions of superpowered civilians, a thousand Red Skulls are irrelevant.Helping millions is not worth birthing a thousand Red Skulls.
- #3,058
...okay, that is the sort of question that'd merit moving to Whitehall to answer it, both because it's gotten really off-topic and going any further in this thread would warrant a derail warning, and because holy hell I don't think you realize what a powder keg that particular topic has been for the past couple of years.Do you think the public is going to put up with the government hoarding life-saving medicine?
Maybe not in terms of raw personal power, no, but they're gonna be relevant when they start convincing/coercing a sizable amount of those millions of new superpowered civilians to raise hell against the rest of society.If there are millions of superpowered civilians, a thousand Red Skulls are irrelevant.
- #3,059
Sure but at the same time this is Marvel-verse America we're talking about here. Sometimes they don't just touch the lightning rod, they start hugging it.
Then somehow gain super powers from that and use them for hypocritical villainous deeds.
- #3,060
To be fair, he wasn't wrong.The issue was I think he was afraid it'd be misused,
Russians got a bootleg version to try and make super assassins.
The Nazis bootleg version created Red Skull.
Then you had Hydra's Winter Soldier fuckery.
- #3,061
Do you think the public is going to put up with the government hoarding life-saving medicine?
Yes. Not only will they accept it. They would refuse it because it ticks the big government and big pharma neuroses. Also, radiation paranoia because of vita rays.
And then they take bleach enemas for autism or something similar.
If there are millions of superpowered civilians, a thousand Red Skulls are irrelevant.
Those civilians are irrelevant as anything more than chaff. Having muscles does not make you a fighter. It just makes you better at it without providing the will.
Most will just sit there and do nothing while the red Skulls wreak havoc, or worse, end up signing on with the skulls like any other would be gangster or lynch mob.
You know, like the anti mutant mobs in this setting?
Good people are a lot rarer than apathetic ones. Certainly rarer than sociopaths who would use the power to be the next red skull.
- #3,062
1) While there are people who believe in quack medicine like 'bleach enemas', they're in the minority, and would be quickly overwhelmed by those who take the serum and see immediate and significant benefits.Yes. Not only will they accept it. They would refuse it because it ticks the big government and big pharma neuroses. Also, radiation paranoia because of vita rays.And then they take bleach enemas for autism or something similar.
2) The serum was developed in the 1940s. It was before Watergate, when trust in government was significantly higher (a much bigger problem would be those who want to keep the serum to white people only).
If there are millions of civilians with the serum, and a thousand Red Skulls, then it really doesn't matter how much military training the Red Skulls have. No one can take on a thousand to one odds and win.Those civilians are irrelevant as anything more than chaff. Having muscles does not make you a fighter. It just makes you better at it without providing the will.Most will just sit there and do nothing while the red Skulls wreak havoc, or worse, end up signing on with the skulls like any other would be gangster or lynch mob.
You know, like the anti mutant mobs in this setting?
Good people are a lot rarer than apathetic ones. Certainly rarer than sociopaths who would use the power to be the next red skull.
And that's assuming the civilians have zero combat training, and that none of them decide to join the military. If even 1% of the civilians decide to join, the Red Skulls will be outnumbered ten to one.
- #3,063
You know that threads can be created by anyone?
- #3,064
And Erskine didn't bother documenting his work.Why are Marvel scientists so smart and yet so dumb?
The issue was I think he was afraid it'd be misused, so he'd always be on hand to provide a veto. Or he wanted job security, 50-50.
To be fair to Erskine, If I recall his origin correctly, the good doctor started his research in Nazi Germany, or Nazi occupied territory, and was forced to flee/defect to the Allied Forces shortly after the creation of the Red Skull. If that is indeed the case, Erskine would have destroyed all his research before fleeing, so that the only copy of the formula left was in his head, thus preventing the Nazis from regaining the formula, even if he was captured before getting to safety.Was Erskine dumb for not documenting his work, or was he the only scientist in comics to truly understand the potential dangers of what he was creating?Refusing to let anyone know the secret to making super soldiers means they can only be made when he wants to, and his strict criteria means that we get one Captain America instead of ten thousand US Agents.
Honestly, I'd say Erskine's one of the few comic book scientists who didn't completely dump WIS in favor of more INT.
Another thing to keep in mind, there *was* a war going on, and spies were everywhere, so Erskine couldn't afford to write his formulas back down even after he was in the custody of Allied Forces. If he wrote it down, all it would take for the Nazis and Hydra to regain the formula would be a 'janitor' going into Erskine's lab/office, and taking a picture of the formula with a spy camera.
- #3,065
Both. The two things are not always mutually exclusive.Was Noa's choice to ring Magneto the right or the correct?
- #3,066
Chapter Thirteen
I wanted to get this up before the FFXIV expansion went live, so I kinda cranked it out. And it ended up being one of my biggest chapters so far, purely by accident.
Anyway. This chapter ties up a few loose ends, lays down a few plot threads, and hopefully teases enough stuff to keep y'all entertained and guessing while I go grind a bunch this Friday and over the weekend. I have given myself these three days to be bad – after that, it's back to a regular schedule of actually being productive!
[Friday, September 8, 1989]
"... tough on the mob, tough on mutant terror, and tough on crime!"
The radio in the corner of the locker room was on a commercial break, and of all the ads that it had to play, it would be this one. Out of all the dozens, even hundreds of different things that could have been advertised on this station, it had to be this.
"Lou Young: fighting to keep the city and streets safe, for you and for me!"
"You know what I wanna know?" One of the other women in the locker room, a brunette with her hair pulled into a messy bun, asked as she stood there half-dressed, hands on her hips and facing the alcove we kept the radio in. "How in the hell is he still leading the polls? Actually, no, how is he even still in the running at all?" At this, she turned to face me, her eyes pointed somewhere on the floor just behind me.
Specifically, she stared at the tip of my tail.
"You've got a lot to learn, Casey," said another woman with brown hair in a short pixie-cut, tossing Casey a water bottle as she crossed back over to her locker to get her skate socks. "Young's leading, yeah, but he's also got a record number of challengers."
A few other items went into the locker, including a law enforcement badge, before she closed it and turned back to us, then stood on a bench and clapped her hands a few times to get all eyes back on her.
"Alright ladies, listen up!" All of us looked up, and in my case, very far up. "We're up against some girls from across the river in Jersey. They're talking a lot of smack, and part of it is they're claiming that their pizza is better than ours."
A chorus of boos came from most of the others in the room. I was one of the ones who hadn't said anything, mainly because I was too busy with the laces on my skates. The last time I'd managed to get to roller derby, my scales had been freshly shed, and I'd had to loosen the skates to not irritate the new ones. Now, though, my scales were in no such condition, so I didn't have to worry about that… and instead I had to tighten my skates back up.
"Now, head on out there and get some warmups in. Maybe intimidate the visitors a bit, huh jammers?"
A few cheers at our team captain, and then the girls were out of the locker room en masse, leaving just two of us: me on my bench, and the captain herself, who stepped down from her bench and sat beside me before reaching around me to pick up my helmet.
"Glad to see you could make it Noa," she said, even as she moved to thread my horns through the straps of the helmet. Just another requirement when everything is designed for ears, and you don't have any. "I'll admit I've been getting a little worried."
"You know how things can get sometimes Cate," I told her, taking over on the helmet front once she had it looped semi-comfortably around my horns. "I try to make it when I can, but it's been a little more hectic than usual of late."
"A little more hectic?" Cate scoffed as she ran a hand back through her short hair, sitting down next to me to get her own roller skates on. "Try a lot. And not just for you. The special agent in charge wants to ask you a few pointed questions, and I'd like to get those answers to him before he gets a chance to make your life uncomfortable."
I sighed, staring up at the fluorescent lights hanging on the ceiling of the gym.
"Let me guess, the mutant that took St. John?" I asked.
"Got it in one," Cate confirmed, and I bit back a curse under my breath.
Because now I was stuck telling a lie to one friend to cover for another.
I had first met FBI Field Agent Cate Caine, captain of the local roller derby team and probably my best friend in New York City, back in 1981, as part of the same case that eventually ended with my first appearance on the cover of the Daily Bugle. There was a lot of baggage that I didn't want to revisit there. Suffice to say, the two of us were at odds during the case itself, with a bit of legal trickery on mine and Sam Lieberman's part forcing the FBI to back off of the issue entirely.
Of course, the utter clusterfuck that case turned into in the weeks after acquittal brought the FBI right back in, and Cate with them. It was an utterly horrible time, and I will forever be thankful that Cate was able to look past our earlier animosity to reach out a hand in friendship when I so desperately needed one.
Now, let me head off the obvious questions. Cate knew what I actually looked like, and had known within a couple months of meeting me. Yes, she knew I was lesbian; heck, when she first met back up with me after the case, it was an accident, because we were both patrons of the Stonewall. And yes, to answer the obligatory question, we did try dating. One date. And it didn't even last the whole date, because it became very obvious that despite how we were in our professional lives, neither of us was the take-charge type in a relationship.
Instead, she became my best friend. Partly because the two of us understood what it meant when the other went completely incommunicado for a few months at a time, and didn't begrudge the other letting work take over her life for a time. Partly because when we did have time to spend together, we didn't let work interfere.
Except now it would, because I had to lie to her to protect both my client and my friend. Or at least, fudge the truth a little.
Or maybe a lot.
"I have my suspicions," I said, turning the possible things I could say over in my head. "I am fairly certain a friend of mine knows who he is, but he hasn't said anything as such to me. And given where and how the two of them most likely met, I would be surprised to get anything conclusive."
"Maybe," Cate hedged. "Maybe not. Your friend – what is his name, and how did he meet this mutant? If we know that, we might be able to get him to tell us."
"He's not an American national," I said. "His name is Erik Lehnsherr. And as for where he met this mutant?..." I trailed off. Instead, I just showed her the underside of my left forearm, and drew a few fingers from my right along it.
Understanding blossomed in her eyes, and Cate instantly shook her head with a frown.
"No point then," she said, a combination of relief and annoyance in her voice. "He isn't about to tell us anything about someone who was in the camps with him, then." Cate looked up at the ceiling and breathed out hard, tapping the floor with her roller skates. "The kid's safe, though? You know this?"
"I do," I confirmed for her, standing up from the bench. "I'm not being told where he is, but I've spoken with him. Different payphones each time, but we've spoken."
"Good." Cate breathed in deep, and then sighed, letting all the tension out of her shoulders. "Alright! Work stuff over. You ready?"
"You have no idea," I said with a smile. The two of us shared a laugh, and then joined the rest of the girls out on the roller derby track.
The rest of our team, resplendent in their green and gold, squared off against the visiting Jersey girls in concrete-gray with emerald green accents. I could hear quite a few barbs levied at each side, along with a fair bit of rancor, hissing, spitting, and everything else you'd expect from rival sports teams. Believe me, just because it was all girls didn't make the teasing and taunting any less vicious.
That said, there were boundaries, lines that nobody was willing to cross. Nobody lobbied insults at the way one of the Jersey girls' purple(-dyed?) hair slithered and writhed, moving and gesturing like it was another limb. Nobody dared comment on the adam's apple that made itself apparent on Leticia's neck when she swallowed. Nobody's eyes lingered on the thin, silvery lines of scar tissue running horizontally along both of Michelle's thighs.
And while eyes certainly turned to see my tail waving behind me, the horns on my head, and the scales running along my body, nobody stared.
It was a welcome relief to know that that, at least, had not changed.
A blown whistle drew our attention, and almost as one we turned to see someone walking between the two teams, rubber end of his cane clicking on the hardwood floor. It was a man, short blond hair fading to gray at the temples, wearing a white doctor's coat out of place here in a roller derby rink, brown corduroy pants, a sky-blue button-up shirt, and a darker blue tie.
"Good evening everybody," Dr. Donald Blake said, both hands resting on his cane. "It looks like I'll be your referee again tonight."
"You've been the ref since I've been here!" Candace called out, drawing some laughs. "And you'll still be the ref after I die too, I bet!"
"Gods, I should hope not," Dr. Blake said with a smile, prompting a few chuckles from us. "Now, while I know that there can be some roughhousing here, I expect a good, clean match."
"No roughhousing, really doc? What do you think this is, field hockey?" Leticia asked, her voice heavy with amusement.
"Or hey, if you wanted clean, you should've ref'd water polo!"
"Sylvia, dear, water polo is just as brutal, with the added negative of being wet and chlorinated," the doctor fired back. "Regardless. We want a clean match, no fighting, no kicking, just some good, skilled roller derby. Of course," the doctor said, pointing at himself, "that's never a guarantee, which is why I'm here."
"Thank you, doctor!" One of the girls on my side said (I couldn't recognize the voice – must have been one of the newer members), prompting a few chuckles.
None of us really knew why Dr. Donald Blake supported our little roller derby leagues. I'd asked Cate, but he'd been involved in the scene even before she had been, and even the people who'd been here first weren't entirely sure. What little we knew was that he spoke with a very slight Norwegian accent, he kept mentioning a brother that nobody had ever seen, and that he was apparently trusted by both the Fantastic Four and the Avengers. But that was… pretty much it.
What mattered more, though, was his actions. His card routinely made the rounds at the Stonewall when people needed medical help. He provided several people with insulin, hormones, and other medicines either at cost or free. And while I hadn't had to try and source it from Dr. Blake, he was one of the few doctors I'd heard of that didn't try to patronize when prescribing birth control.
Simply put: he was a good man, and for whatever reason, he decided to spend his hard-earned money making things easier for people like me.
"Now then!" Dr. Blake pointed at the Jersey girl with the prehensile hair. "Miss, as much as I would stare at your hair the way I did lava lamps during the 60's and 70's, I will have to ask you to tie it into a bun. The same goes for any of you with hair down to or past the small of your back," Dr. Blake said, pointing at the rest of the Jersey girls… before turning to face us. "That means you, Simone."
"But I braided my hair this time!" Simone, an NYU junior, said with a pout.
"And it still reaches the small of your back, I can see it from here," Dr. Blake followed up.
A few of us chuckled at that, myself included, even as Simone grumbled and skated back to the locker room.
"Since it'll be a few minutes before she's back and we can start," Dr. Blake said, walking up to my team. "I'd just like to let all of you ladies know that I have appointments available if any of you need a physical, or any other medical exams." His eyes lingered one me for a moment, and raised an eyebrow.
"Thank you for your offer, doctor," I told him with a smile. "But I already have an appointment with my primary care physician scheduled."
"One with discretion, I assume?" Dr. Blake asked, eyes falling on my horns and scales.
"Absolutely," I confirmed. "And convenient. Though I admit, he can be a little bit… eh, strange."
[Sunday, September 10, 1989]
"Now search inside you." I frowned, opening my eyes ever so slightly as I offered a raised eyebrow at that. "Eyes closed, Noa. Look with your mind, not with your eyes."
"We've done this before," I murmured, but did as I was asked, and also kept my fingers on what looked for all the world like a crystal ball. The one time I called it that, though, I had received a death glare so focused that I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd spontaneously combusted. "You don't need to give me the instructions every single time, Stephen."
"And yet, I will reiterate anyway, because you consistently go from meandering to focused every time I do," Dr. Stephen Strange said as he shifted from looking over my left shoulder to passing by the right. "Now quit distracting yourself by trying to hear my facial expressions, and focus."
Much as I would have liked to disagree, the good Dr. Strange was correct in that I was distracting myself. It was a bad habit of mine when I got frustrated.
And I was indeed frustrated, because it was starting to seem like my capacity for magic had failed to grow at all for the third year in a row.
"Find the connection." Stephen's baritone rang in my ears, even as I turned my focus inward. "Feel the magic, and let it flow. As much as you can manage."
I felt for it the same way I did when I hooked my fingers around a strand of light. The sensation came from a similar place as my power, an odd sideways that I didn't quite have the right words to describe. But this one was slightly… I suppose 'deeper' would be the closest word I could think of? It wasn't quite right, but it was about as close as I was going to get without having to borrow some of Stephen's textbooks on metaphysics and devoting a month to self-guided study.
Regardless, I found that spot, that odd connection. And once I had a grip on it, I pulled, and tugged, and coaxed as much as I could from it.
The not-a-crystal-ball in my hands lit up brighter than any bulb, shining a clear, pure white that I could make out even through closed eyes. It was so bright I had to lower my head ever so slightly, and even then it shone so strongly that I knew I would see a spot in my vision for the next minute or so afterwards.
"Hold it," Stephen said. "A moment longer… okay. You can let it go now."
The dam slammed shut immediately, the orb of light fading back into clear crystal. Moments later, my stomach made its displeasure at being empty known, and the first traces of a headache began to gnaw at the back of my eyes and press against my forehead.
"Well?" I asked, reaching for my glasses on the table in front of me and sliding them on. One silver lining about not being employed: this was my fifth straight day without having to put in contact lenses. My eyes hadn't been so free of itchiness in years.
"Same as last year," Stephen said, holding a light meter in his hands. Given the way my magic tended to manifest, it was the easiest way to tell what my throughput was. Maybe not the most accurate, but certainly simple. "No real change. Comparatively speaking, you are in the bottom five percent of magic-users."
And of course, there was that. Congratulations Noa, you have superpowers, and can use magic. But your power's only real use is letting you live a more normal life, and your magic is barely more than a party trick without outside help or substantial wind-up time.
This was probably a rather common fate, and I probably wouldn't have used any more substantial powers anyway, but it was the kind of thing that would have been nice to have and not need.
"And do we have any guesses as to why that is, this time?" I asked, still blinking the bright spot out of my vision.
"Perhaps," Stephen hedged. "You brought your foci like I asked, yes?"
There was no real need to give a verbalized reply here. Instead, I gestured with my tail at the bulky duffel bag that I'd brought with me to 177A Bleecker Street. Stephen, taking the hint, picked up the bag and opened it, then withdrew the four objects from inside.
"You never did tell me how you got your hands on these," Stephen asked, turning the slightly-ornamented wooden scroll pins in his hand as he took them out.
"You mean you don't think I could have just bought four Atzei Chaim to do with as I pleased?" I asked rhetorically, a bit bemused. Stephen, to his credit, simply raised one of the Torah rollers and gestured in question. "Okay, fine. A particularly bad tornado rolled through St. Louis, ruined the synagogue, and they were going to be disposed of anyway. So I took them instead."
"And you've somehow managed to use them as a focus for magic," Stephen said. "With no training on how to make them, and no idea whether they were a fitting material or not."
I just shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed.
"Do me a favor." Stephen set the four Torah rollers down on the table in front of me, taking the not-crystal-ball and putting it off to the side in the process. "What you did with the orb was letting as much power flow from yourself into it. I want you to try and do the opposite with these."
"Clarify?" I asked, though I was already reaching out to lay my hands atop the wooden scroll rods.
"Rather than trying to draw on your own magic, try and draw from these, and into yourself."
It was a strange bit of advice, and as I closed my eyes and cast out with my magic, I couldn't help but wonder why.
The answer presented itself in short order, though: four points of what I could only identify as light, so similar to the one I felt within myself, pressed against my awareness. Carefully, I tried to tug at them the same way I did when casting, and felt all four respond. Though I couldn't see it, I felt as the light unspooled, twining around my fingers and seeping into that same point so close to my heart, and yet also not. Again, I didn't know the right words to describe that sort of mystical geometry, nor did I care to learn.
All I could say was that once the four motes of light faded, my hunger faded from a painful bite to a dull gnawing, and my headache faded from 'monkey with a mining pick' to 'squinted at the newspaper for too long'.
"The reason your magic never grew any stronger," Stephen said, picking up one of the Torah scrollers and running a finger along the top, "is because you had bound it up inside of these. You attuned yourself to them. But because they weren't prepared to be used that way, a large chunk of the magic that should have rested in you had to stay inside of them. To hold open the connection, as it were."
A motion of Stephen's hand later and the Torah scroller in his hands disappeared. Moments later, the other three followed suit.
"I want to see what happens if you try to use this."
His hands reached into a pocket, and moments later emerged with… I wasn't quite sure, actually. It was a small cylindrical object, glossy in the light, and a little bit larger than a highlighter. There was what looked to be a lid on one end, and a clip, but with the way Stephen was holding it, the lid should have been turning. And it wasn't.
"What is that supposed to be, exactly?" I asked, standing up to get a closer look at the object in his hands.
"A mezuzah," he said, "made to look at least partly like something else – namely, a fountain pen. The disguise isn't perfect, and it won't hold up as a pen to a close inspection," Stephen explained as he handed me the glossy navy object, ornamented with small, gold engravings of Hebrew characters, "but I'd argue it's more portable than half of a scroll."
I held the mezuzah in both hands, testing its weight before reaching out with my magic. It came easily, small streams of light flowing from my fingertips, filling the engravings of Shin, Dalet, and Yod along the… what was this made from? It felt to me like it could have been metal, but I couldn't be sure. Regardless of the material, it was cool to the touch, and moments later, I felt an awareness of it snap into being.
With nary a thought, and the briefest flicker of light in the engraved Hebrew spelling out "Shaddai" on the mezuzah's surface, it floated into the air, and an impulse had it floating above and behind my left shoulder, following my gaze.
"How do you feel?" Stephen asked, his cloak peeling off his shoulders to vaguely motion at my new focus. "Hungry? Headache?" The corners of the cloak came up, moving almost like hands, and tapped at the mezuzah where it hovered. It budged, and I could sense that movement in space, but it returned to its former position without any effort.
"Fine, actually," I said, sending the mezuzah in a lazy figure-eight in front of me now. "I'm still a bit peckish, but this is… I don't know," I admitted, bringing a hand to my lips in thought. "Something about this focus is easier to use, and I can't put my finger on it."
"Well, we'll stick a pin in it. Anyway." Stephen snapped his fingers. His cloak stiffened, moved as though it were turning an invisible head in its collar to look back at the good doctor, then zoomed back to its position around Stephen's shoulders in the blink of an eye. "I want that focus on you at all times."
"Really?" I asked, reaching to pluck the ornate mezuzah out of the air. "After years of telling me to stop using a focus, you want me to have this one?"
"Well for one, this is a focus made for you by the Sorcerer Supreme, not a fancy piece of driftwood you brute forced into the job," he said. "And more importantly, Noa? You didn't spend all those years as an outed mutant," Stephen replied with a grimace. "As much as I wish it were otherwise, your situation has changed. Like it or not, you are in danger now, and you are simply too small and too weak to protect yourself otherwise."
I didn't bother trying to fight Stephen on this. Why? Because, well… he was right.
I'd been mostly shielded from anti-mutant bigotry and sentiment by my own powers. But while I could count on the poor memory of the general public (and John Jonah Jameson's utter stranglehold on the narrative from that day) to ensure your average Joe on the street couldn't recognize glamoured me for a mutant, the same couldn't be said of everybody. And given the staggeringly high odds that the one person who decided the "mutie lawyer" needed to be taken down a peg would be able to physically overpower me?
I could understand his point, even if I disliked the way he phrased it.
"Very well then," I told Stephen, waggling the mezuzah in my hand before putting it away in my purse. "If you insist."
"Good," he said with a nod, relieved. Then his demeanor shifted, slightly, from concern back to professionalism, if a different kind than before. "Now Noa, remind me: when was the last time you were here for a proper checkup?"
"... um." That caught me ever so slightly flat-footed, and I had to actually think back. When was the last time I actually visited Stephen for something requiring his prefix instead of his title? That must have been, uh. "Last November, I think?"
"Ten months," he said. "Not quite long enough for me to justify a yearly physical. But, I do believe you're due for a flu shot!" Arcane traceries spit out from the ends of Dr. Strange's fingers, forming a small portal in front of his hand. He reached in, and a moment later, found himself with a handful of latex gloves and a syringe.
I could only wilt in dismay, as I knew the time of stabbing had come.
And if anything, my displeasure only made the good doctor's grin grow wider.
[Tuesday, September 19, 1989]
Not having to put in contact lenses was a perk of not having to go into work every day.
Having to use the New York Subway because I couldn't bill the firm for a car service instead, on the other hand, was a definite negative.
I absolutely hated using the subway. It was crowded, damp, old, pungent… and this was before I got to the rats.
Or more specifically, this one rat that I kept seeing at the Washington Square station… how in the world did a rat get bigger than the average dachshund?
And more than that, where did it keep finding pizza!?
Regardless, the biggest problem I faced was the crowds. My glamour was incredibly fragile, which forced me to travel at off-peak hours if I wanted to get anywhere in a timely manner. The few times I hadn't been able to, particularly early on during my time in Manhattan, I'd found myself going past my stops because I couldn't push my way off of the train, then having to double back. It was a massive waste of time, and one I hadn't been keen on revisiting.
Unfortunately, until I had my new firm open and started bringing in cash flow, I didn't exactly have a choice. So instead I took the A line north, then swapped to the L, whereupon I headed east into Alphabet City, and exited at the 1st Avenue station.
I exited onto the street, and immediately stopped in at the local newsstand. Somebody in my building had been swiping my newspaper if I didn't get around to grabbing it before 7am, so I hadn't had a chance to look at the headlines. Thankfully, a news stand was maybe half a block away from the stairs down into the subway, so I was able to pick up a copy of the Bugle with little difficulty.
"Anything interesting?" I asked the newsie running the stand as I handed him a dollar.
"Well aside from that Spider-Man, I think the sports page is leaking!" He handed me a copy of the paper and a quarter for change, then flipped the newspaper to the lower half of the cover and pointed at a headline. "Would ya look at that, some good news for a mutant for a change, huh?"
"I couldn't agree more," I said, putting my change away before I read the headline and the first few sentences of the article, which itself was a follow-up from an article last week. A pro golfer came out as a mutant last week to show solidarity, and was summarily dropped by all of his sponsors. Now, though, the Bugle was reporting that he'd been picked up by two Japanese companies: Sony and Subaru.
"Can't say the same for that tennis champ though," the newsie said, running a finger along his silver mustache and adjusting his aviator-style glasses. "All them accusations of cheating with mutant powers, and a month and a half after the tournament? Felt mighty convenient."
"I don't really follow the tennis scene, I'm afraid," I told the newsie, folding the paper under one arm. "So I'm afraid I can't really comment."
"Well I looked, there's a recap and update on page nine!" The newsie tipped his hat at me, and nodded. "Bit of a scary world for mutants right now, I'd say. You be careful now, miss!"
"I will," I said, feeling a little chill run up my spine at his particular choice of words even as I started walking south and east. Something about that man at the newsstand set me on edge… but he also had an air of comforting familiarity. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I couldn't linger on that though. There was still an important errand to run today, and so I began my walk to the appointed location. Or, as I would be calling it once everything else was all set, I thought as I found my posting front and center in the advertisements of the Daily Bugle, my new office.
It was a recently-renovated building in Alphabet City, fixed up following a period of unrest (and a bit of the Avengers getting somewhat reckless). The building itself wasn't anything special, just a regular old office space, though the interiors were disappointingly painted in the beige and brown so common in the eighties. Why people thought that was hip and trendy, I wasn't sure, but personally I hated it. Unfortunately, this was what I could find, so here I was.
To get into the building, I had to walk past an exterminator's, which took up the lion's share of space on the first floor, and had eye-searing neon signs out front. It was a bit of an eyesore, but from what I had seen, they took care of the building at cost in exchange for a reduction on their rent, so it was a fair arrangement.
As I walked inside and headed up the stairs, an absolutely wonderful scent floated into the stairwell from the other major occupant of the ground floor, and I had to resist the urge to turn around and grab either a late breakfast or early lunch. The other major occupant of the first floor, alongside the exterminators, was a Jamaican restaurant. I don't think I've ever had Jerk chicken that tasted quite so good as when I stopped in just after signing my lease for the office space here. It was savory, it was sweet, it was spicy, and the chicken was outrageously tender. I'd ended up getting another half a chicken to take home for dinner that night, and wished I'd gotten more.
I ascended three flights of stairs to the fourth floor, and stepped out of the stairwell into a hallway with ugly brown carpeting. If you have ever been in any corporate space you know the type: patterned and colored so that coffee stains wouldn't show, no matter how many of them you spilled. It was drab, it was bleak, but it was effective.
And given that I'd seen the realtors who also had office space on this floor spill coffee pretty much every time they got out of the elevator? The landlord was getting their money's worth.
Ignoring the carpeting, I turned left out of the stairwell and walked down to the end of the hall, to suite 401. I slid my key into the lock, turned the deadbolt, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.
Once I got inside, I was able to see that some of the furniture had been moved in already, since I'd given the building super permission to supervise. Cushioned chairs with backs that opened at the bottom dotted the outside of what I would set up as a lobby and reception. A large desk, big enough for two people, stood before a large frosted-glass wall, and a hallway deeper into the office extended to the left of the desk. A door was set into the frosted glass, with brown paper covering a spot that would be about head-height for anyone else. The paper needed to stay on there for a little longer, so I kneeled down to unlock the door, whose lock went into the floor, and then pushed open the door into my new office space.
Floor to ceiling windows covered the back wall, the same way they had in Sam Lieberman's office back at LL&L. The view, however, was nothing so impressive: being a fourth floor office, all I could really see was… well, more buildings. They had character, yes, but it was nothing like the gorgeous view of Central Park that LL&L's litigation group had.
Filing cabinets sat along the left wall, next to a door that led to the other hallways of the office, as well as a back entrance and exit. It was the doorway I'd be using once things actually opened up; clients and visitors used the main entrance, the staff did not.
In the middle of the space sat a large, wide half-donut shaped mahogany desk, my office chair already set up behind it. I had yet to get my work computer moved over from my condo, so it simply had the spot marked on the desk in masking tape. A white cardboard box of stuff sat on the desk, and I reached in, then placed the various framed accoutrements from my old office out on the desk.
I turned around to face the walls, and started scanning for spots to hang these. My license and J.D. would need good billing on the walls, yes, but I also wanted to highlight the framings dedicated to accomplishments and career highs. In my opinion, those were just as important as the rest, and—
The deadbolt on the side door unlocked mere moments before it opened, and an unfamiliar woman stepped into the office space.
But I was a bit too busy jumping out of my skin to pay any particular attention to the newcomer.
Holy—!" I yelped, almost dropping the framed newspaper article in my hands.
"You need to be more aware of your surroundings, Schaefer," the woman said, swinging a small backpack around to her front as she stepped forward. She walked up and dropped it on my desk, even as I frowned at her for the rudeness, then stepped back and crossed her arms.
"Would it kill you to be polite, Raven?" I asked, turning to the backpack and opening it up. It had a few letters in it, with addresses in Brooklyn and the Bronx on them. They each held the same return address, or lack thereof, anyway. Where the return address should have been was just a name. Six letters, one bit of punctuation.
St. John.
"I do believe I told you not to use that name," Raven Darkholme said as she made herself at home in my office, flesh rippling before settling back down to a normal consistency.
I took a moment to eye her, and found myself both impressed and unnerved. Once again, she looked completely different from how she did the last time we met. And just like that day two weeks prior, her appearance was utterly unremarkable. Nothing about her stood out: the mousy brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, the mud-brown eyes, the skin ever so slightly tanned by a summer sun… all of it was so boring that I doubted I'd remember this woman if I met her again.
And that was the point, I thought to myself. This was the fifth skin I'd met the shapeshifter in, and I wagered that just like every other time before, I would forget what she'd looked like within an hour or two of seeing her.
"I am not going to call you by whatever moniker you choose to use when engaging in activities that may not be strictly legal," I told her, thumbing through the letters in the bag. "In fact, you probably should never have told me your preferred 'title'. Erik hasn't even said anything of the like to me, and you should have followed his lead."
"Says the woman who does nothing but hide away," Raven fired back.
I looked up at her, scanned her from head to toe, and raised an eyebrow.
"Funny, coming from you," I said. Then, without waiting for a response, I turned around to spread the letters out onto my desk.
One each to St. John's parents, one to each set of grandparents, and five to various friends of his. There was also one addressed to me, but if the past was any indication, it was a simple request for an update on the status of his appeal. Thankfully I'd prepared for that one ahead of time, otherwise I'd have to put up with Raven's pleasant company for longer than I'd prefer.
I set those letters aside on my desk, then reached into my purse and retrieved a set of five letters. A shared letter from Jonathan and Linda, another pair of letters from his grandparents, one from Katherine, and an update on his case from myself, all found their way into the backpack on my desk.
I'd scarcely finished zipping it up before Raven ripped it out of my grip and swung it over her shoulder. Honestly, what did Erik see in this, this… harridan? I'd barely spent more than a grand total of two hours in her presence, and I already wanted to strangle her.
"Two weeks," Raven said, walking to the door. "You know the number to call." She put her hand on the door handle and pushed down, and I realized that as much as I would love to be alone in my personal space again, there was something I needed to ask.
"Before you go." She turned around and crossed her arms, scowling at me. I took her surly expression as a signal to keep going. "You've been less than cordial towards me since the moment we met," I told her, sitting on the corner of my desk. "I should think I deserve to know what I did to deserve that treatment."
Raven turned back around and opened the door, but stopped before going through.
"It's nothing you did," she said, even as her hair, flesh, and even clothing rippled and writhed, settling into an appearance similar to the janitor I usually saw on this floor. "I just thought I had you pegged. I was wrong."
Then, without another word, Raven left my office, leaving me alone in the empty space. She'd probably be exiting through the side door in a few moments. And from how long it took the back exit to close, she just let the door close on its own, and didn't even bother to lock the door behind her. Sure enough, a quick check showed me that, just like the last time we'd had this little rendezvous, Raven left the door unlocked.
What. A. Bitch.
What I wouldn't give to… no, I shouldn't think that way. There was nothing wrong with having a disagreement with somebody, and I was more than professional enough to maintain a cordial relationship with somebody that I disliked. As peeved as I may have been at Raven, and even more so at Erik for making me go through her as an intermediary, there was no point in complaining about it.
Instead, I turned back to setting up my office. Now that I thought about it – a left-to-right progression would probably be the best place to start, wouldn't it? If I hung my diploma and license on the left side of the door, and then started hanging things in chronological order going to the right… hmm, would that work, actually? It would wind up particularly uneven once I got to the newspaper articles and awards, now that I thought about it.
No, that was not the best way to do it. Back to the drawing board, it would seem. It was hard to imagine just how difficult finding a good arrangement could be until you had to manage a larger space than normal, but—
A sudden loud, insistent knocking on the door to the office space startled me from my musing, and I backed away from the wall, not even bothering to straighten the frame, and looked towards the front. Who in the world was knocking? Janitorial staff shouldn't have been coming in here until after regular business hours ended, so why was—
The door opened, and even through the frosted glass, I could see a fuzzy shape step through the door and allow it to close behind them.
I scowled, cursing myself for forgetting to lock the front door – and right after I'd cursed at somebody for not locking the back! Regardless, I put on a neutral expression, and walked out to the front.
"I'm sorry," I said before even looking at who entered, "but this office isn't open for business for another few weeks." The person flinched for a moment, seeming indecisive, before standing up, shoulders squared and chin high, and turning to look me in the eye.
She was a young woman, couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and light makeup complemented the cream blouse and black pencil skirt she wore. Part of me wanted to ding her for wearing flats instead of heels, but that was the bitter, spiteful half that wanted others to have to endure what I went through, and I quietly stuffed it back into its box of schadenfreude at the back of my psyche.
"Have you hired a secretary yet?" the young woman asked.
I blinked.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, a bit bewildered. There were a lot of things I expected this person to say, from wanting legal advice to asking how to sue somebody to needing a defense attorney… but are you hiring was not what I'd expected.
By way of response, the young woman pulled a sheet of paper from a folder in her arms. I expected her to walk over towards me to try and shove it into my hands, but blinked in surprise when instead, the paper just floated towards me through the air, text facing me the entire time, until it hovered a foot and a half in front of my face.
Leaning out from behind the resume, I peered at the girl, and could only raise an eyebrow in surprise.
To her credit, she didn't even flinch. So, I shrugged, and went to checking the resume.
It was… a bit of a mess, I had to say. Parts of her experience were attractive and useful – a high school job working in retail, and a part-time college position in a department store, both lent themselves to a public-facing position like secretary-plus-receptionist at a law firm. But there was a particularly large gap immediately after college that worried me.
More than that, this was not the proper way to do this.
"You want a job?" I asked, plucking the resume out of the air.
The woman opened her mouth as if to respond, but then shut it, and merely nodded instead.
"Then come back a week from today for a proper interview," I told her, folding the resume in half as I lowered it. "Bring a transcript, list or letter of reference, and a cover letter. And wear an actual suit. You dress to the nines for an interview, then ask about dress code once you have an offer."
I waited for a response. The only answer I received was, again, a nod. With a sigh, I turned around to face my office door, and pushed it open before addressing the girl again.
"And don't think you get an edge just for being a fellow mutant," I said as a parting shot, letting the glass door fall closed behind me.
I walked around my desk and sat in my new office chair, leaning back with a soft groan as I did. Two days, I thought. I'd put out word that I was hiring a secretary and a paralegal two days ago, and already had a bite. That was a good sign, yes. A very good sign, actually.
But for the love of God, I thought as I tore the resume in front of me in half, then in half again. There was an order to this. Procedure and protocol were key, especially when you were applying to work at a law firm.
And from the way that girl froze up when pressed, odds were she wouldn't be able to hack it in the actual interview.
What was her name, even? I read it on her resume, but I couldn't even recall. Sarah, Susan, Sandra?
Oh, whatever. Just went to show: if you want to make a strong first impression, make sure it'll be good first.
[Friday, September 29, 1989]
[Erev Rosh Hashanah]
[St. Louis, Missouri]
If there was one thing that I would say was part and parcel of being Jewish, I would answer with one word: tradition. We tended to get very set in our ways, and liked the comfort and familiarity of something stable and repetitive. Heck, I'd been getting takeout from the same Chinese hole in the wall every Christmas for the past six years. Even when the weather was utterly horrid, even when I felt terrible and didn't want to go outside. It was a personal tradition to get Chinese food on Christmas, and my personal tradition to get Sichuan Beef from the same place every time.
But that was a small tradition. Right now, I was taking part in a much more important tradition.
I was visiting my parents for the high holidays.
I would absolutely have preferred to just travel with a carry-on, but unfortunately, I had a bad habit of packing too much to be able to get my own carry-on into an overhead compartment easily. Instead, I just checked a bag, brought my briefcase and purse as carry-ons, and suffered through the discomfort of airline seats with stiff, solid backs.
And then we got delayed, because the plane had to circle around a patch of bad weather, adding an extra forty-five minutes to our flight time.
It was a welcome relief when the plane touched down in St. Louis, Missouri. Once off the plane, I found a restroom, stretched my poor, abused tail, and primed myself to hopefully remember where I was going.
Lambert International Airport was just as it had been when I'd visited last year: cracked and dirty linoleum, peeling carpeting laid down at some point in the mid to late 70's, and carts with squeaky wheels. Baggage claim was slow as usual, and then it was a pair of crosswalks to get to the rental car center. The car Hertz gave me was literally too big for me to reach the pedals even with the driver's seat all the way forward, so after a half-hour discussion (argument) with the front desk (and then a manager), I found myself on my way in a cheap Chrysler sedan, pre-Iacocca vintage.
Going from traffic in Manhattan to traffic out in the Midwest was quite the whiplash, let me tell you. Even when I hit what could charitably be called 'heavy traffic' for the city, I was still rolling along at a steady twenty-five miles per hour. It took maybe thirty minutes to get out to Creve Coeur, and I took the usual left turn at the synagogue, then pulled up to the curb outside the first residence past the synagogue.
I would have pulled into my parents' driveway, but oddly enough, there was an unfamiliar car parked there. It was also a rental car, similarly to the one I'd driven over here, which set me a little bit on edge. The high holidays tended to be just for us. Who in the world could be visiting, and have done so on such short notice that I wouldn't have gotten a call, or even been paged?
With this in mind, I grabbed my suitcase out of the trunk, set my briefcase over its handle, and wheeled up the walkway to the front door, leaving my glamour in place instead of letting it break apart. Rather than use my key to let myself in, I rang the doorbell, and waited.
"One minute!"
I heard someone yelling from inside the house, followed by a rapid-fire string of Yiddish that I couldn't quite make out through both the front and screen doors. The front door opened up a few seconds later, then the screen door, and then I found myself pulled tight into a pair of spindly arms.
"Aaah! Noa, dear!"
I hugged back, letting my glamour crumble under the embrace as we rocked from side to side in our hug. A good twenty seconds later, we pushed back from each other, and I smiled at my mother.
"Hey Mom," I said, in English since we were outside of the house. "Sorry I'm late, the flight was a bit delayed."
"Oh that's fine, that's fine," Rifka Schaefer said, reaching around me to grab my suitcase as I spoke. "We saw you on the news and in the papers again, honey – you've gotten too skinny! Have they not been feeding you over in New York?"
"I've been eating fine!" I protested, switching to Yiddish once we crossed the front door. "It's just been a hectic few weeks, and maybe I've missed one or two meals."
My mother left my bags in the foyer, then led me into the kitchen. Once there, she turned to face me with a bemused expression, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot. Oh, and she raised one eyebrow.
"... one or two a week?" I amended, weakly.
"I thought so," she said. "But oh, you picked a great time to come!"
"I come this time every year," I told my mom, feeling a bit confused.
"Yes, but this year an old friend of your father's happened to be in town, and stopped by! He's even sticking around for services in a few hours!"
That drew me up short, and I suddenly couldn't help but panic a little.
"Mom!" I said, then waved a hand at myself. Specifically, at my horns, scales, and tail, which were clearly on display, with someone that was absolutely a stranger in the other room.
"Oh don't worry," she said, waving me off. "If I thought there was a problem I'd have told you to put your face back on before coming inside."
"You don't know that!" I hissed, unable to keep the worry out of my voice. "What if—"
"I know that voice!" boomed a voice from the other room. Moments later, a tall, gangly man, yarmulke on his head, talit on his shoulders, and well-kept beard adorning his chin, stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. His eyes fell on me, and he crossed the space between us in the blink of an eye, picking me up into a grand, back-breaking hug.
"Aah, my bubbeleh is home for the new year!" Rabbi Aaron Schaefer quite literally lifted me bodily off the ground and spun me in his arms like I was still a child. My stomach jumped a bit when he did this, but I also couldn't help the happy giggles at this treatment. I felt like a kid again, and it was all too soon that I was back on the ground and just giving my father a normal hug. "I was worried you wouldn't make it!"
"Blame the weather," I said. "It tried, but I still made it in time for services!"
"Yes, yes! Ach, you're too skinny!" I could only turn to shoot a glance at my mother when my father said this, who simply offered me a bemused expression. "Rifka, do we have any kreplach left? We need some meat back on your bones!"
"Aaron, dear?" Rifka stepped up and put a hand on his shoulder, pointing back into the room. "Aren't you forgetting…?"
"Ah, you're right!" Aaron waved his hands in the air, as if cursing himself for forgetting. "Noa, I must introduce you to my friend!"
"Before that, you're sure your friend is okay with, well, this?" I asked, waving a hand over myself.
"Aah!" My father said, then turned gravely serious for a moment, his pitch dropping. "There were a few mutants like you in the camps with us. Jew, Romani, homosexual, mutant… we were all equal in our suffering there," he said.
And then, like the flip of a switch, his mood brightened.
"Max!" Rabbi Schaefer yelled into the living room, then walked into the doorway separating it from the kitchen. "My daughter has arrived! Please, come meet her!"
"Are you sure I'm not intruding? I was just going to take my leave, I don't want to impose—"
"Max, it's no harm, truly! Please, come, say hello!"
Alarm bells went off in my head when I heard that voice. It was shockingly familiar, and I'd heard it quite a few times over the past two years. But it couldn't be, I told myself. What were the odds that—
"Noa, bubbeleh!" Aaron walked back into the kitchen, trailed by a man who froze at the sight of me, his friendly smile turning into a rictus grin from shock. "Max, this is my daughter, Noa. She left us to live in New York, but ah, she comes home for the high holidays, good daughter that she is!"
I wanted to say something in protest, but I couldn't form the words at the moment. Instead, I could only stare at the man that had walked into the kitchen behind my father.
"Noa, this is an old friend of mine, Max Eisenhardt. If not for him, I wouldn't have made it out of Auschwitz alive."
And meanwhile, the man I knew as Erik Lehnsherr stared back at me, his expression making the apology I knew he couldn't quite voice.
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha'olam, asher kidshanu b'mitzvotav, v'tzivanu, l'chadlik ner shel Chanukah.
Once again, for any of you who are feeling generous: you can find a link to my Ko-fi page right [HERE]. Happy Chanukah, and a Merry Christmas to all of y'all who celebrate that holiday.
Just... keep Mariah Carey away from me.
The first one: when family was in town for Thanksgiving, I managed to impress upon them the severity of the situation. My brother is going back out to LA for the first time in 3-4 years, and before that happens, all of the alcohol is being relocated out of his reach. Our parents are monitoring the situation very keenly, and starting to put some controls in place. (Thank God...) He'll be out there for two weeks, but while he's out there?
Leading into the second... purely by serendipity, I may end up with a multi-month period of not having to worry, because said brother needs a major surgery. And given that our dad is a surgeon, and knows dozens of other surgeons he trusts out in LA, and my brother works 100% remotely... well, he'd be out there for it.
All of this being said, this is a band-aid, not a fix. It is a temporary reprieve that gives me some much-needed breathing room, but it will likely not solve the ultimate issue without a lot more pushing.
But it's something. And that's what counts.
After I helped a friend of mine and her girlfriend clear one of the Ultimates on FFXIV (which took a good 20-25 hours of suffering because people don't know how to do Titan Gaols...), she went and reserved me a spot on an artist's commission wait list, complete with paying for it. So while there is a bit of a wait... anticipate more art of Noa within the next couple of months!
Sucal
Now what have you done?
- #3,067
- #3,068
That she won't be successfully guilted into dating.At least it's an old friend that she won't be guilted into dating
- #3,069
you might be wrong on that given Mags has three kids would not be surprised if it Erik does nothing to her instead it would come from mom Schaefer constantly applying the pressureAt least it's an old friend that she won't be guilted into dating
- #3,071
The writing quality, plot and characters are good, but there's tighter emphasis on legal stuff than I find interesting.
The best parts of this story for me are the interactions, the investigations outside the courtroom, and people's reactions to things... Everything other than the actual stuff that happens in court. So I enjoyed this slice of life/transitional chapter more than the actual climactic parts that just finished.
This is a "it's not you it's me" thing, I guess, as a reader that's not quite in the target market.
I will keep reading because there's enough of the other parts to keep me interested.
I am really hoping that there will be a weird encounter where Erik is roped into going with her parents to watch some roller derby and meets Dr. Blake, on a night JJ decides to send Peter Parker to get some human interest pictures or something. Then they all end up having Chinese after.
- #3,072
- #3,073
- #3,074
Hi Thor!
and ooh, awkward. going home to find magneto in you family's house is not what you want after a long haul flight around bad weather
- #3,075
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