COGITO

written by jade. she/her. 18+. selective, multimuse, multiverse.

[iinkheart--archive]

might get scraped/might get bruised

[cogiitoarchive]

( iinkheart. )

          Gemma knew Carmen Yarelis Wolfe. She knew her like the vague taste of oatmeal on a warm mouth after sanctioned breakfast, knew the sleep-mussed girl with dishevelled masses of hair in a ratty old Arsenal jersey, knew a thoughtful voice echoing low and serious in response to her after lights-out. Gemma knew the fiercest goddamn fighter of them all, a girl so resilient the entire population of the Shatterdome should rightfully be in awe. She did not know an unkind Carmen Wolfe.

         And she didn’t. She was sharing news one might consider grim anywhere but here, but she was doing so with grace and kindness, and for that, Gemma couldn’t fault her. Because maybe some tiny, hopeful part had been almost excited to see her old partner – a spark that barely dared to wish igniting in her heart – but she knew full well how stupid that was. It had taken her mere weeks to be so taken with the other woman that the drift became a dangerous tell-tale snitch. Why shouldn’t anybody else see it? Carmen wasn’t the sort of person who would have stayed single — nor did she want her to. Carmen deserved to be happy, with whoever could make that happen.

         Besides, here, news like that didn’t matter. It did not matter that Gemma had failed to be that person; that the fool who thought she could deal with anything the world threw at her had underestimated just how much rubbish the world had to throw. It did not matter that there had been two promising young women with broken hearts the last time they had met and now there was one. Hearts were trifles compared to what they were really there to do. They were here to save lives. Trivialities like this did not matter, they could rise above. The Marshall was a fine example. Absolutely unflappable. She could stand to learn from him. Turn off, maybe, until none of it mattered.

         Except there would be no escape. There was no way to turn off in the drift and there was no way to turn any damn thing off in the middle of war on so high a scale. There never had been. Even back home, the kaijus had existed, in screaming warped nightmares and flashes of teeth every time it thundered ( and in England, it thundered often ). The experiences of service so bloody never really went away. That was why they had fallen apart, probably, but it might also be why they might never be the same people again. Too scarred, too trained to be anything but an average person. It was why they had been called back, wasn’t it? They were extraordinary rangers, some of the best at piloting jaegers in the program. Nobody had ever claimed it would make them better at being human.

         It was better that Carmen was happy. At least she had found a way to be. One out of the two of them was not terrible odds, and if it had to be somebody, Gemma was glad it was Carmen.

                        That did not mean the itch in her throat subsided,                 the ache persistent and hollow and clenching her hands into fists.

           I hope you’re happy, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat, barbed skin sticking. Of course she was happy to see Carmen happy; the woman deserved it. But it would be so easy to just not talk about it instead and forget she had ever said anything. It could just fade into the distance, another subject they did not dare broach. Only too happy to move onto the grim subject of their reason for being there, therefore, Gemma nodded out a conviction she did not feel, tone ironclad when she spoke, unshakable. Like the Marshall. “So I hear, but come on. No kaiju is a match for us, we can wipe the ocean floor with their arses. We’re gonna wreck ‘em.” But we might not get out alive this time, she thought.

          Carmen blinked, gracefully taking in the abrupt change in the other woman's tone. It was to be expected, after all. But the words, in them, there was the Gemma Parrish she knew—the rash boldness, the cheeky confidence. It was the Gemma Parrish she knew and fell for, once. As the age-old saying went, opposites did attract, and Carmen—then a fresh bright-eyed newbie, nervous but eager—saw in Gemma what she herself aspired to be. Caring less, not in a cold way but as a self-assured attitude, firmly grounded by the knowledge of her own strengths and weaknesses and, first and foremost, belief in her ability to tackle whatever that may come her way.

          By no means did Carmen consider herself insecure. But the fact that her partner could unabashedly, unapologetically, proudly present herself to the world and outwardly announce yes, this is who I am and whoever you are, you will fucking deal with it; that her spirit did not waver as she faced the Marshall, even prying out a ghost of a smile from the man (Carmen could swear on her life that she saw it) as he looked at the pair of new recruits —- God, that was something else entirely, and Carmen was helplessly drawn to it. She could learn from her—and love her, she would later realize as they lay together, smiling softly into the dark locks of her girlfriend, sweaty limbs tangled across the tiny space of the bottom bunk.

          But all of that was a story from the past. Belonging and remaining in the past. It was no use dwelling in what they had been. Now, from the ground up, they would have to rebuild the bond that had made them the greatest pair of pilots to walk the halls of Shatterdome. Carmen straightened her posture, determined. That title would be theirs once again, regardless of their history. This was going to be her goal. (A distraction. Something else to keep her mind busy with. For all the effort she put in to appear as impassive as possible, Carmen knew she would need all the safety brakes against her emotions.) There was zero difference between a platonic bond and a romantic one. What was important was the infallibility of the connection between two pilots. They already knew how to fight alongside each other as comrades in battle, already held the building blocks in their hands—they could do this.

          “Just like old times,” Carmen mused, looking up at the walls of their jaeger curving to form its mighty head, wishing to conceal the fond reminiscence in her eyes as she did. Under these dire circumstances, she could not afford the luxury of nostalgia. "We should talk strategy—and resources. I assume we're running short," she said. "Not to mention outnumbered. Even though it seems like they're calling in every other ranger available." She recalled the bustling corridors, crowded with rangers old and new. Then, tentatively, she asked: "Wanna head out? We could talk over dinner."

          It was an innocent suggestion; the inside of a jaeger was hardly a comfortable place to talk. Carmen could not pinpoint why she felt awkward all of a sudden, her rigid features cracking a bit.

[cogiitoarchive]

( soundsofwinter. ) 

He almost didn’t show up. 

The mandated tutoring irked Slate even if it was a warranted punishment. He had been pushing his luck when he had been skipping school more often than not, prompting the administrators to reach out to his foster parents who had been none the wiser about his truancy. Slate may hate school and possess few book smarts, but he was clever. He always used his cell phone number at the beginning of the year when he was filling out parental information and neither of his foster parents scrutinized his papers before signing them. When he skipped out on school, his phone was the one called to alert of Slate’s absence. It had been an easy way out until he got too comfortable and missed one too many days. At this rate, his counselor continually warned, he was going to flunk and either be forced into summer school or repeat the academic year entirely. 

If Slate had his way, he would drop out. He was old enough now to do so and he was partially just biding his time until he was eighteen and officially on his own and out of the system. Until then, however, he had to be more careful about which lines he crossed and he knew that if he did not adhere to this order, he would likely have all of his game consoles taken from him. Or his foster parents could attempt to pull him out of his job. 

Neither scenario was acceptable and begrudgingly, Slate had packed his textbooks and made his way to the assigned room. He hadn’t been told who would be tutoring him and if they had mentioned it, Slate wouldn’t have been paying enough attention to catch a name anyway. He didn’t know his classmates, didn’t care to know them. The few that he hung out with were similar to him and were more for convenience than anything. Playing video games on his own would completely waste his XBox One Live membership. 

The kid was familiar. Xander Lee. Slate remembered the name if only because the memory of their last meeting stood out to him as an anomaly. He really wasn’t the type of kid that Slate expected to meet in detention, after all, and the fact that he was enough of a goody-two-shoes student to be appointed as a tutor only further cemented that opinion. He threw up a callous shrug. “I had shit to do,” he offered as way of a piss poor explanation. Taking a seat next to Xander, he began unzipping his backpack. “You been taking a nap while you waited?” He gestured to his forehead. “You should’ve just ditched and spared us both the effort. Could just lie and report back to Ms. Larsen that it all went swimmingly or whatever else flowery ass description you honors students use in your essays. You are an honors student, right?” He paused then as he went through his textbooks, “What subject were we supposed to go over again?”

          He wordlessly responded with a dramatic roll of his eyes at the excuse that didn't even deserve to be called one. Of course Slate had more important shit to do than attending a tutoring session, because he was cool, right, just like how he had more important things in mind than saying hi back at Xander —- except he was completely over it, yep, he reminded himself as he vehemently stomped out that particular spiral of thought. Wow.

          "What? Oh." He rubbed his forehead, faint shade of an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. "I wasn't sleeping, I was just... resting. With my eyes closed. But not sleeping. Why am I explaining myself to you anyway?" (If it wasn't blatantly obvious before that he was pissier than usual, it was now.) "I was going to when you walked in and ruined everything," he retorted, even though he failed to mask the look of vague horror on his face at Slate’s following suggestion. The lying to his teacher part was also concerning, but it would be especially more wrong when the lie was about extra credits—which was basically equivalent to grade manipulation. That qualified for a crime, he was pretty sure.

          “Swimmingly is not ‘a flowery ass description.’ It's literally just one word.” Xander couldn't help himself from pointing it out like the dedicated Honors English student—or smartass, according to his younger sister—that he was as Slate remarked, while simultaneously swept by a wave of embarrassment for confirming it. Getting good grades and attending advanced classes wasn’t something to be ashamed about, but it was the bizarre yet typical high school hierarchy that dictated what was cool and what wasn’t.

          So he blurted out in an aggressive tone (or so he thought): “What, are you gonna keep making fun of me now? ’Cause I’m not gonna sit here and listen to your bullshit and waste my time, okay, I get enough of that from—from the rest of the fucking idiots here—”

          Much later, having returned to the the safety of his own bedroom, Xander would think back on his sudden outburst—that came out of nowhere!—and let out muffled moans into his pillow in absolute horror and disgrace. Yet, here, in this moment, he was RANTING. Maybe it was because Xander was indeed fed up with the way he was treated. Or maybe it was something else —- maybe it was because of his parents’ disapproving comments about him “hanging out too much with American kids” whenever he so much as took a single step outside their expectations of a perfect son, as if he wasn’t one of those American kids, while at school, he had to follow an entirely different set of norms to fit in. Maybe it was because he was tired of that gap between the kind of person he was expected to be. Or maybe it was just because Slate didn’t say hi back and now he was angry at everything. (Ugh. Pathetic.)

          Xander shut his mouth, mortified. Maybe it was because of all of the above. Or how about hormones? Yeah. Let’s blame it on crazy teenage hormones. “I didn’t mean — Sorry.” He began to shrink back in his chair like a popped balloon. "Psychology. Hope you remembered to bring your notes," he muttered, rummaging through his backpack for his notebook. "If not, you can look at mine for today.”

[hmymilk]

Yeo Jin Goo

[soundsofwinter]

plea bargain | cheonil & logan

@cogiito

Cheonil looked through the one-way mirror of the interrogation as the unit drilled and debriefed Logan Vaughn on the situation that he was now involved in. When he had been sent undercover to infiltrate the city’s highest-ranking gang, he had been told to survey the members for a potential mole that they could recruit. When Cheonil had selected Logan, the police had been skeptical at his choice. Understandably so. Logan was a violent young man, constantly angry and quick to throw a punch. In those respects, he was not the ideal choice. 

But the vampire was nothing if not perceptive. Centuries of living had granted him the aptitude that he needed to be a good judge of character. Those who joined gangs did so for a number of reasons, none of which Cheonil himself could relate to, but he believed that it all came down to a matter of choice. From what he could gather through his archival records and his own observation, Logan Vaughn had not been presented with many opportunities or options in his life, beginning with the gas leak that had taken his parents’ lives. Cheonil saw in Logan a survivor, a bitter one, but he did not see someone who was inherently a corrupted criminal. To be certain, Logan had broken the law without the appearance of much moral agony, yet he stood out as different from the rest. 

The police chief came out of the room, mouth thin-lined as he announced, “I don’t think he’s going to cooperate. You want to go in and give it a shot?” 

Cheonil glanced at the boy who had his hands cuffed and tied around the chair he had been seated in for hours, nodding. “Give me a few moments and I will see what I can do.” He excused himself to go across the street to a cafe, ordering a latte and chamomile tea. He returned to the station with both in hand, entering the interrogation room with a confident stride, setting the latte down in front of Logan before settling into his seat and sipping at his steaming hot tea. “You’re impulsive,” he noted smoothly. “That is one of the first things I noted about you when I infiltrated. But you’re also sharp. If you’re smart, you’ll take the deal that’s being offered to you.”

Ultimately, this would be Logan’s choice. They could attempt to force his hand all they wanted, but Cheonil had a sinking suspicion that even if they put him to trial, Logan would find a way to escape. He was not the type that could so easily be held captive, chained and locked away. “It’s not as if this would mean an end to your blood-spilling habits. If anything, this is an opportunity for you to continue your violent streak while having the law on your side. So to speak.” It would be an alliance, albeit a tentative, thin one that Cheonil would have to hold together. “Perhaps you are angry about my deceit, but I did choose you among the rest of them to disclose this information to.”

[cogiitoarchive]

          Everything about the situation should have felt familiar, from the room to the chill metal of the handcuffs to the piece-of-shit chair he was sitting on. He'd been arrested and questioned—and even beaten, by the less savory members of the police—but this was different. This time, they briefed him matter-of-factly, he was getting an offer. An offer to be a snitch for them.

          Having stayed silent throughout the whole session, it was only after he was left alone that he spared a glance at the sightless mirror, expressionless. Fucking Johnny. How could he have guessed? Logan had trusted him—or, rather, the belief he had in others as a group had been extended to Johnny. He didn't dare trust people as individuals, but as a gang, they knew better than to sell out others. Betrayal meant death—if you were fortunate. He'd heard many a gruesome tale about the horrors forced upon traitors, how they got what they deserved, and he knew every single one of those stories to be true.

          The bottom line was that they had structure, which was why it was immensely difficult to escape from them, regardless of how much—deep down in some repressed corner of his mind—Logan detested what he did to make a living. He would see old members, the ones who had seemingly disappeared after getting out of jail, crawling back and scraping for any leftover trust. Poverty and intimidation were their building blocks; in turn, they offered protection and security. Money. It was hard to resist. In the end, for someone like Logan Vaughn, this was the only option available. Dangerous, yes, but you just had to keep your mouth shut, stay in your spot, and do what you were told without questioning. It was easy, because this was all he knew of life. This was all he knew of how to live.

          The patch of his skin pressed against the handcuffs started to heat up, temperature spiking and falling at his whim. He could melt them. He could also burn the entire place down, he could just do it right now and walk out totally unscathed —- but Logan had never done anything on this scale (just how many cops were in this building?). He wasn't confident that he was able to pull this off without leaving a trail. Surely they already had records of admitting him in here. Fire may destroy their computers, but not their servers.

          Before he could contemplate any further, Johnny walked in. Or whatever the hell his actual name was. (Oh, look, the fucker had even remembered to grab him some caffeine. How touching.)

         “Spare me the psych eval bullshit,” he spat, his upper lip curling in distaste. He knew he was in the weaker position here. They could easily twist his arm to make him follow their orders; he could be prosecuted, since they had all the evidence of his activities. He knew this. Yet, like a desperate, wounded dog with nowhere to escape, he kept on growling. “You want me to be your snitch, that’s it.” Logically, complying was the best and only option for him—but what with his deeply-running distrust in public authority, logic was rather irrelevant. He’d get little to no protection from them.

[cogiitoarchive]

( soundsofwinter. )

When the outbreak had begun, Graham Beckett had led one of the units that his city had broken up into in order to increase their chances of survival. He led the 4th Seattle squadron proudly, but gently. For as apt as a marksman as Beck was, he was no army general. Plenty of discipline from his time in the National Guard and as a policeman, but at the heart of him, Beck knew where he had went wrong with the platoon he had been chosen to lead. They all had relied on him, and he had let them down in the worst of ways. He didn’t know how many of them remained, but he could imagine it was done to the dozens from the 500 that it had been. 

Being on his own was his penance, having even left his dearest companion, his golden retriever Fido, behind back at camp when he had taken off. A dog was good for alerting him of when zombies were nearby, but Beck had wanted to go at it truly alone. Fido’s chances were better in a group of people, where they often kept him locked with the children during skirmishes so that he could sooth them. 

It was the loss of the children that had led to his self-exile, a battle that went haywire. He could remember in flashes, the guilt that wracked him near intense enough to knock him off his feet. He could not go back, could only move forward, and this was how he now attempted to survive in a world that had been laid siege to. There was no living, only survival. 

Index finger curling around his trigger guard of his bolt action rifle, he starred down the length of the barrel before firing once more. He only had fifteen bullets left in the magazine before he would need to replace it or make quick work of switching over to SIG semiautomatic pistol that was latched onto his belt. Surveying the herd around him, he made quick mental count. Twelve of them. 

He needed to make every shot count. 

Closing his left eye, he took aim, blowing the brains out of the nearest approaching zombie, his feet digging into the ground to hold him steady, shoulder squeezing onto the stock of the firearm. There was no tremble in his movements, only consistency, aware enoough of his surroundings to hear the rumble of a vehicle approaching. He was choosing his next mark when the shout rang out. Startled momentarily, Beck didn’t dare turn his gaze away from the zombies until the shots rang out, missing their targets but enough of a commotion to leave Beck making a run for it.

He didn’t angle his body around until he was enough out of reach that he felt comfortable to, accelerating into a full sprint, heart pounding and adrenaline keeping him going until he was jumping into the passenger seat of the truck, but not closing the door. Standing on the lift, he shot from where he stood, making quick work of taking down another two. “Move, move!” A swift order to get going. Gratitude could come once they were out of there.

          The engine rattled as he stepped on the accelerator. Taeyeon send an occasional glance at the other as he drove. Standing on the narrow lift of a moving truck while shooting a rifle? Not the most stable position. He wondered if the man was going to fall. What a waste that would be, after all the extra lengths Taeyeon went to rescue his ass. But if the continuous sound of bullets firing was any indication, his new companion seemed to be pretty damn talented at handling himself. Checking the rearview mirror, he took a sharp left, knowing that a sudden change of directions would slow down the zombies. The tires let out an unpleasant squeak as they turned.

          Taeyeon wasn't the best of drivers. In the city where he used to work, cars were useless in the web of streets and people and traffic. This was a fact that had kept the company running and, in turn, kept him employed as a bike messenger—when money used to matter, that was. It was all irrelevant now, just like how his lack of a driver's license was irrelevant. He'd had to teach himself after the outbreak, playing with pedals and the steering wheel until he could get a haphazard understanding of how it worked. No one with a basic sense of self-preservation would think to learn how to drive by trial and error, but for Taeyeon with his abilities, it was a brilliant idea that eventually did come to fruition after many, many accidents.

         “This is like a road trip,” he remarked, mostly to himself, inappropriately cheery as they continued down the way. The vehicle rattled wildly as it ran over a speed bump.

          It was a bizarre feeling, having to talk to another (living) person to coordinate their moves. He had encountered several survivors during his journey, but the conversations had been short-lived. They usually ended in a brawl or, on necessary occasions, murder. Killing was a messy, unpleasant business, but when the situation called for it, he had to do it for his own survival. This was the oddest thing about Taeyeon—he could be smiling, grinning, smirking, giggling, or laughing with his head thrown back, but he wasn't nice. It was easy to mistake him as so, however. Hence the element of surprise rarely failed to work in his favor—though he didn't bother to consider such factors when he fought. He was unapologetically the way he was, not because it gave him a tactical advantage or anything but because, well, this was who he was. Shameless, energetic, whimsical.

         “Are they still coming after us?" he yelled over the commotion, frowning as he noticed a large chunk of concrete blocking the road ahead. "'Cause it’s kind of a dead end.”

[cogiitoarchive]

SYSTEMS BOOTING • ERYX & GINGER

@resubmerges

          Consciousness. They were —- here, existing, aware. Just like that, Eryx woke up anew, a foreign entity in a foreign world. Through their sensory channels—specifically created to resemble the workings of human eyes and ears, with the exception of enhanced functions—came new data. They filed all of it away, without their artificial mind recognizing it. Such activities were carried out by their lower-level programming, much like the way a human being rarely noticed their own breathing or blinking of eyes. This was one of the numerous ways in which Eryx's coding mimicked human biology.

          “Hello,” they spoke, as they were instructed to do according to the internal manual. It was their first interaction with a human being. Or, rather, this was what they knew to be true, as they had no memory of any past encounters. Every entry prior to their arrival on Terra Nova had been deleted. They blinked once, calmly perceiving the human standing in front of them. Who was this?

          “I am called Eryx,” they continued, pulling up the corners of their mouth into a friendly smile, and tilted their head slightly, a glimpse into their programmed idiosyncrasies. “You are not my creator. I am afraid I don't know your name.”

[heroesfxll-blog]

the last ones standing ♛ josh & eugene

[cogiitoarchive]

( heroesfxll. )

Josh was almost taken aback by the lack of pressing he had to do to get Zhang to actually give him a response. Well, fuck. He guessed that if Zhang wasn’t ignoring his questions or talking back at him, then this was bound to be something serious. ( On the bright side, then he wasn’t going crazy after all. Or they were both going crazy. Either way, there was a wave of relief that washed over him at the realization that he wasn’t the only who had noticed those weird little changes. A small one, but as much as he couldn’t stand Zhang, he knew that he at least wouldn’t be entirely alone in whatever this fucked up situation was. )

There was a bitter taste in his mouth as fear started to bubble in his chest. Shit, shit, shit. What if he did cause all this fuck up? What if it was his spell that did the trick? All of a sudden, swallowing became difficult. Breathing became too much. Just how serious was this damn situation, and how badly did he fucking fuck it up? God, Josh almost didn’t want to know the answer. He squeezed his eyes shut — hoping that maybe it would’ve only been a dream when he opened them again.

It wasn’t until Zhang spoke up once more that he realized it wasn’t. This was real. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what this was exactly. But apparently he wasn’t fucking dream and whether or not it was his fuck up that caused this, something was fucked up. 

The fear only intensified at that thought.

Though ( even if he would never admit it ) hearing Zhang’s voice did bring him back to the reality. His eyes flew open again, taking in the dimness of the fight ring and straining his ears to see if he could hear any background noise at all.

( He didn’t. There was still nothing. )

At the realization that this was all very much real, he pushed himself off the ground, jumping to his feet without a second thought. Right. Zhang was right. Staying here wouldn’t answer any of their questions. “Okay,” Josh said. For the first time, he didn’t argue. Even Zhang’s “shut up” barely registered — not enough to cause a permanent scowl, at least. The eerie differences that seemed to only become noticeable after the crash had caught his focus entirely to even forget that it was his thing to fight the other boy. That at least could wait. This? This couldn’t.

But — He paused. Considered if it was an appropriate question to ask in a moment like this. Oh, fuck it. He needed to know. There was hesitation in his voice, but as he trailed behind Zhang, Josh finally muttered, “…Do you think my spell did this?”

          “I—don’t know.” His voice broke. There was a sharp intake of breath as Eugene stepped outside of the room. The hallway was empty as well, barren of any activity, random bits of grass poking out of the cracks in cement. Sunlight poured in from glassless window panes, cheerfully illuminating the way as if to laugh at his state of confusion. The building had the same interior structure, he could recognize it, so was safe to presume—for now—that he was in the same place as before. Then the important question was not where, but —- 

          Eugene squeezed his eyes shut, adjusting to the sudden change in brightness. He blinked once, twice, thrice. There was so much green. Too much of it, in fact, and no sign of people. Every patch of ground was covered in flowers and leaves and grass. Abandoned cars covered in moss, concrete walls cloaked in ivy. Birds chirped from towering trees; somewhere in the distance, footsteps of an animal scurried. This was not the city as he knew it. This was not his city. His palms were sweating now, breaths coming in short, sporadic gasps.

          “Shit.” What was this? Where was he? WHEN was he? His brain was lagging, struggling to process everything. He had to calm down. No humans, plants everywhere, buildings that looked like they hadn’t been used in ages. The only possible conclusion, he realized with dismay, was that he was centuries into the future where all human beings had gone extinct. Or some kind of apocalypse had happened and wiped out everyone. His knees were threatening to give out.

          “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded, more afraid than angry. You couldn’t just travel in time with magic, that sort of skill took years to master. It was extremely dangerous and energy-draining—which, as Eugene came to think of it, didn’t stray too far from the kind of stupid-as-hell stunt Ren liked to pull. “If you did this, you’d know how to revert it, right?”

          (This was probably, by far, the longest he’d ever talked in front of Josh.)

[cogiitoarchive]

AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL • XANDER & SLATE

@soundsofwinter​

          It was not the case that he was in desperate need of extra credits to salvage his grades. No, Alexander Chanho Lee’s grades never needed salvaging, as he didn’t allow himself to slack off to the point of failing. The fact that the worst grade he had ever gotten in a class was a B- spoke volumes. (On the subject of grades, Xander’s least favorite letter grade—he was absolutely the type of person to have opinions about such things—was B+, because it was this close to being an A- but wasn’t. A whole letter difference! It pissed him off.) But when the option for extra credits was there, he couldn’t just sit there and not take it, especially since all he had to do for this one was to tutor another student for an hour. Maybe meet up once a week, Ms. Larson had suggested, you two can figure that out. Teaching was a great way to absorb and revise what he’d learned; ideally, this would help both his peer and himself.

          The classroom was empty when he walked in on the dot. Somewhat nervous, he busied himself with setting up his Psych textbook and his notes, wondering when the other student would turn up and, more importantly, who they would be. He looked at the clock—five minutes. He could wait.

          But five minutes turned into thirty, then an hour. Tired and annoyed, Xander was about to seriously consider packing up his backpack and leaving—quite a weighty fuck-it-all decision by his standards—when a flurry of footsteps echoed in the corridor, approaching the classroom. He lifted his head from the table, forehead still reddish from being pressed up against his book. A familiar face popped up in the doorway. 

          “Oh.” It was none other than Slate. The two of them had gone for lunch at a diner after detention, and Xander had been somewhat (very) excited at the prospect of seeing him around school and maybe, potentially, maybe, getting to hang out with him again because, well, Slate was cute, and cute boys with shared interests were basically mythical creatures in Xander’s social life. But Slate never seemed to show up to school, and on the day when he eventually did, he’d ignored Xander’s hello. After dying a little inside, he reached the conclusion that perhaps he had read everything wrong and Slate didn’t actually want to be friends. Which was fine. He was, like, totally over it. Totally.

          He cleared his throat. “You’re late.”

[violiadavis]

Zoe Saldana’s Columbiana promotional photoshoot 

[mysterymedley-blog]

A LITTLE WHITE LIE / CALEB & HWAN — @cogiito

When the suggestion of going from ghost town to ghost town in the search for the supernatural was voiced into open air, all Caleb could think about was the fact that somebody wanted him there in the first place. There was something hungry and hollow and sad inside him, and they were so loud that all he could do in the face of being wanted was to agree to the proposition. Without a second thought. For fear that the opportunity would be gone in the blink of an eye. For fear that his disagreeing would elicit a laugh from Zach because the whole invitation had been a joke and he was the butt of all of it! For fear that another moment like this — a moment when he was wanted and loved — might never come around. This was the thing about being hungry and hollow and sad: you let anything fill up your abyss.

What the trip entailed later sunk into him — and, if anybody were asking, they sunk in a little too late —, but by then, he had already given his word and thus could not back out of the plan without looking like a coward. He was on a minivan headed straight to nowhere! Into the nitty gritty parts of towns whose names were not on the map! Into the hidden secrets that lay behind the unknown! Not even the thought of having new friends, or the fact that Caleb was with friends, could make the chill that ran down his spine any less cold. Not even the thought of building relationship and going out of his house could make him unafraid. Pride was a funny thing, though; for it, he stayed.

And now, around three months, one small town, and a temporary stop at the closest beach had passed the group by. Caleb could, with his whole heart, say that he was a much better person with all these behind him. He could say that the people with him in the minivan were no longer just strangers and acquaintances, but rather friends who could share laughter and joy with him when he needed it most. And yet, not even then could he find it within himself to say that this trip was exactly what they needed in order to get to this point. They could easily have gone on another kind of trip! They could have gone somewhere nice! They could have done normal fun things!

Instead, they were in the middle of nowhere, with a busted airconditioner in the minivan, and with nowhere to go.

Well, the group was. At one point, someone had suggested Caleb go out for help. Laughter had escaped him at the mere thought of him doing that alone, but the rest of the group seemed to think it was great! It would help him get out of his shell, they said! It would help conquer his fear! All of these had already been ideas rejected by Caleb himself, but the group was insistent. And now, Caleb was in the middle of nowhere, freezing cold, and with everywhere to go. At least the group had each other; he had nobody.

From across the street, however, Caleb saw a stranger drop his umbrella to the ground. Every stranger in this town could be a murderer, but he was desperate now. There was nobody else, and it didn’t seem that there would be anybody else for quite some time. So, Caleb rushed towards the man in an attempt to pick up the umbrella and help him. But, of course, he was too far away, and the man was much more swift than he.

He’d risked looking like the kind of stalker who came up to their target when no one else was around — and now he was paying for it.

With a deep breath and a bashful smile, Caleb finally raised a hand and waved it. “Hi,” he said, “I was— I was just going to help you with your umbrella! But you already got it! So, uh, lucky you! I mean— I don’t know! Okay! I’m gonna…” There were a lot of hand gestures involved in this awkward introduction.

[cogiitoarchive]

          There was a reason why creatures crawled in the night. Strange powers began coursing through the chilled air once the sun was gone; this was the time during which tigers spoke as kings of the mountain and mischievous mice stole human forms. This was, ironically, also the time when Hwan's shift began at the motel. Crescent Moon had been running since the eighties, and was the town's only available accommodation. It had twenty rooms, ten on each floor, an outdoor swimming pool that was rarely used, three vending machines, and a large run-down neon sign standing at the entrance. It lit up at night, flickering rather pathetically, greeting the passing cars to invite them for a relaxing stay.

          Overall, it was a perfect place for Hwan to work at. The only customers were mostly exhausted drivers taking a detour from the highway, kids on a road trip, and visiting families. The rooms were never full. There was a CCTV above the reception counter, but the owner didn't seem to check the feed, for Hwan was never chided for disappearing in the middle of their shift—which happened frequently. As long as their shift was ongoing, their alibi was inact.

          Alibi. What Hwan did, well-hidden in the depths of the mountain, was indeed a crime—but they didn't agree with it. The notion was too narrowly-defined for the narrow minds of pale humans. These people and what they did, what their ancestors did to the land, Hwan's home—now that was a crime.

          This town is cursed, the residents whispered. Hwan only saw it as an appropriate revenge.

          Gracefully transforming into their two-legged form, the gumiho walked out of the shadows. They didn't mind the rain, but the owner of the motel did care about keeping the carpet clean, so an umbrella was held in their hand.

          Then, an unforeseen sequence of events: Hwan dropped the umbrella and picked it up again on purpose, ears perking up to pick up the flurry of footsteps in the rain. A young human boy stood in front of them. An unfamiliar face. Who was he?

          "Hello. Lucky me," they echoed, smiling, teeth flashing bare. They could practically smell the naivety. "You're not from around here, are you?"

[xheartofglass]

Cris felt an unease in his stomach as he sat oppose Blair, staring at the man who he liked a little more than he should. A little more than he was allowed to. Sure, they had shared a few moments whilst on set filming the first installment of ‘Lethal Liaisons’, but that was all. Nothing had come of them and nothing ever would. That much was obvious when photos of Blair and his girlfriend hit the cover of every magazine on the stands. The news had stung, partly due to Cris’ feelings, but also because of the way he found out. Obviously the two weren’t even that close of friends for him to find out from the blond himself. 

So as he sat listening to Blair, he couldn’t help but wish he was anywhere else. Now they were no longer working, now that they were simply Cristian and Blair chatting, Cris couldn’t deny his wish to escape. He was no longer able to hide behind his character nor his actions. Instead, he was simply Cristian Ruiz, a man with a stupid crush on the stupid blond in front of him. Still, he kept a simple smile on his face, determined not to show his thoughts on his face. He was an actor, after all. No one needed to know what he was thinking other than himself.

“Tell anyone and I’ll have to kill you.” He warned, though the ever growing smirk on his face showed that he wasn’t serious. It had been a while since Cris had felt sick to his stomach on set. After the first few sets he stepped on, the nerves had been replaced by excitement. He had faith in himself to do a great job, and so he did, but that morning had been a different story. Butterflies had filled his stomach in anticipation of seeing Blair again. The nerves had affected his performance more than he would have liked, but they had a few more takes for him to get it right. Tomorrow he was sure he’d be back in form.

Never before had Cristian been so grateful for his acting skills than when Blair mentioned his girlfriend. His face stayed unchanged, smile still on his face as if he wasn’t jealous at the simply mention of her name. How pathetic he was being!  What a stupid crush he had! Really, it was like he was twelve years old again, and so Cris tried to shake himself out of it. They were friends and nothing more. He really needed to get his head out of his ass thinking there was anything more under the surface. Things had changed since they’d last met.

“The Basilica Cistern…. like in James Bond, right?” He asked, raising a brow as he did so. If Cris was being honest, he hadn’t bothered to look into any guides on Turkey before jumping on the plane. He’d been too consumed in the thought of seeing Blair again to think much further on country, but now that the other mentioned it, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to get immersed into the culture, right? “I’m in, it’s not like I’m doing anything else. Sounds like you’ve been studying for your appointment of tour guide anyway. Be a shame to let the knowledge go to waste.”

[cogiitoarchive]

          Blair laughed. The sound was lighthearted, filled with genuine delight, to the point that it was almost alien even to his own ears. But he was so relieved that he simply couldn't suppress it—he and Cris seemed to be back on friendly terms. This right here was the dynamic he'd missed; recovered once again, he thought it fit them like a pair of well-worn gloves, comfortable and warm.

          He bit down on his lip as he smiled, more weakly than the previous ear-to-ear grin. It had been totally unintentional, abruptly dropping the name of his girlfriend like that. Whatever temporary, insignificant fling they had was over —- though, for Blair at that time, it used to feel exactly the opposite. He'd believed, like a naïve idiot, that it was something more serious. That there was nothing staged about the heat which blatantly curled in his gut and crawled up his spine, sending chills to his fingertips; that there was nothing staged about the pulling of ties, the moans, the slight surge of pain as his back slammed against the door of his co-star's suite. There was nothing staged, indeed. But that didn't mean it ended up lasting long. They parted ways once the press tour reached its inevitable end, returning to their own lives as if nothing had happened, slowly but surely falling out of contact.

          This was nearly two years ago, though. Blair Penrose, newcomer to Hollywood fame, had learned his lesson and moved on. In a world ruled by glittering gold and fickle attention, nothing was meaningful or permanent or even remotely long-term, even personal relationships. Admittedly, bitterness clouded his thoughts for a while after the ordeal, but it was him who needed to get used to this environment. After all, the lesson was learned: never mix work with pleasure.

          “I wasn’t—I wasn’t studying,” he retorted, weakly rolling his eyes. One would assume a movie star on the rise had more glamorous interests than history, yet here he was. Even the ridiculously huge selection of movies and television shows on their first class flight had failed to dissuade him from burying his nose in a book about Istanbul he’d brought along. “I just like reading up about the place I’m visiting. Helps you get more out of the experience, and—” Blair stopped, suddenly awkward, wondering if he sounded too pompous. “—anyway. Not important. We can take the tram, or—walking is another option. Not sure how exhausted I’ll be after the shoot, but, well. Yeah.”

[langlee]

Lee Je Hoon for VOGUE KOREA

[soundsofwinter]

tequila sunrise

@cogiito

Sora was running out of excuses. Now that she had dropped her third job, she had been increasingly picking up more shifts at the O’Donnell Pub. Initially starting out as a host for the diner section, she had gradually been pushed to the bar area. Her manager had called her smile and energy ‘contagious and inviting’ and Sora naively hadn’t realized what exactly she would be inviting. The answer had turned out to be the attention of the regular men who visited the pub at an alarming rate and who every night, she would have to cut off. They would get red in the face, flushed from intoxication, and insist that they were fine while stumbling all over themselves and making grabs for her. 

A kind, loving individual, Sora could only be pushed so far before she subtly began to fight back. Even then, it was with a gentle persistence. When that didn’t work, she had come up with a new plan. Men weren’t the only frequent visitors at the pub. Sora had noticed a woman who would often take up a spot where few would approach her, grim expression on her face, thin-lipped and often with bruised knuckles. When Sora had inquired to the other patrons about her, they had answered that she was someone in the neighborhood who everyone knew not to mess with. Sora was neither afraid nor so easily intimidated, however. 

Considering the other girl’s stance that screamed inapproachable, Sora had respected the girl’s unspoken desire for space and on other visits, had only bothered her to get her order. Tonight was different. Swirling together a tequila sunrise ( one of her personal favorites, which she wasn’t even sure the other would like, but she was getting exceedingly better about spinning the bottles without dropping them ), there was a bouncy spring to her step as she walked over to the girl a few minutes after she had arrived, sliding the drink in front of her. “It’s on the house.” she was quick to comment as greeting before she rested her arms on the bar, drawing them together but not pressing closer, still respecting the girl’s space. Smile stretching across her face, showing off her dimples and baby cheeks, she confessed, “Mind telling me what you think? I’m still new at the bartending gig, and I want to get it right.” 

[cogiitoarchive]

          Jacks pulled the old t-shirt over her head, dark locks tangling together, messing up her loose braid that was already falling apart. The smell of laundry detergent mixed with sweat pierced her nostrils, a stench that forever lingered around her well-built frame after spending nearly half of her week inside a gym. Neckline stretched out and hems fraying, the shirt had long passed the point of being presentable, but her money had to be spent on more important things than new clothes. She slammed the locker shut—stubbornly ignoring the pain it sent to her already aching wrist—as if to put an end to her trail of thought. No use growing bitter about her situation. In this part of the city, she wasn't the only one struggling to make ends meet. One could say she was surviving and not living, but for a girl like Jacks Barnes, there hadn't been much of a choice to begin with. This job, too, as dirty as it was, was a means to an end. Money.

          Underground fighter had a glorious ring to it, like she was some sort of fearless pariah with a noble cause riding into battle, while it was anything but. These fight clubs were illegal, brutal, a domain dominated by hotblooded men looking for stress relief. But Jacks had quickly garnered a reputation as someone not to be messed with—she fought like a girl drowning, eyes flashing with something feral. She had to become another creature inside the ring; she had to show the crowd her transformation, so that no one in the neighborhood would dare think her YOUNG or WEAK.

          After counting the cash to make sure she'd received the right amount, Jacks headed home, eager to sleep for a thousand years. Her footsteps slowed as she neared O'Donnell, however. A drink (or two) wouldn't hurt. After all, she was a functioning alcoholic. Ha.

          She slid into a seat at the end of the counter with catlike silence, wincing as her muscles screamed. Jacks thought of flagging the cute bartender down, but found herself being approached by the girl first. A free drink? What was she playing at? With men, Jacks Barnes would’ve glared them down without a thought, spitting out sharp words until they cleared out of her sight; the company of another girl, though, tended to lessen her aggressive streak. She didn’t break into a friendly smile, nor did her impassive features change —- but a hand did reach out to accept the drink. Maybe it was just an innocent attempt to socialize, get to know the customers—she was new, it made sense.

          “Too sweet for my taste.” Yet, she took another sip. “What’s it called?”

[cogiitoarchive]

APOCALYPSE PLEASE • TAEYEON & BECKETT

@soundsofwinter

          The world didn't end with a bang. Instead, it went down in a gradual collapse, tedious and squalid; as the virus spread at an unstoppable rate, governments failed and morals were laid bare. It was an end of civilization. People resorted back to the old ways of brute force and dog-eat-dog, struggling to escape the deadly virus. As for the ones left standing, some chose to shed their humanity for survival, while others desperately held onto it. They formed communities and organized resources, recreating society as they remembered. Rules and structure—a frail thread that connected the world before and the world now.

          But what use was structure? What use was obsessing with the past? Nothing. Taeyeon laughed ("ha!"), gleefully drinking in the sight of ammo boxes stacked inside the destroyed kitchen cabinet. A man lay at his feet, eyes open, bleeding out from two bullet holes on his chest. Today's unfortunate victim. Well, not exactly unfortunate, because Taeyeon didn't pity him—if anything, he was glad. The guy would have shot his head off first with that monstrous rifle if he hadn't reacted sooner. His Enhanced Healing had its limits. In fact, he was even more limited than before, now that there were those goddamn zombies. The original virus was a DNA mutation, just like the one he and countless other Supers had. It meant that he wasn't exempt from the danger—if any of them attacked, his injury wasn't going to heal. For the first time in his life, he felt  m o r t a l.

          Taeyeon Min was a creature of paradoxes. He was rude, amiable, insensitive, cruel, cheerful —- unpredictable. He could afford to be so thoughtless, so fickle-minded, as normal boundaries didn't restrict his actions. Fear of pain? Fear of death? In his psyche, these only existed in blurry, distorted forms. Upon this newly charred earth, however, things were different. He had to actually face the consequences of his actions. He had to think ahead. For fuck's sake, he had to plan. 

          So that was what he did, coming across a lone man fighting against a herd of zombies. His truck didn’t drive past as it normally would. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon the frightening accuracy with which the man fired his weapon, not a single bullet straying away from its mark, efficient and dead-on. Unlike him, this guy knew how to shoot—really shoot.

          Slamming on the brakes, Taeyeon reached to open the door of the passenger side of the vehicle. “HEY!” he yelled over the commotion, a silent command to run, and fired at the zombies through the broken window. He failed to hit any of them, but hopefully it was enough of a distraction while the other made a run for it. 

[heroesfxll-blog]

the last ones standing ♛ josh & eugene

The first thing Josh noticed was that there was no noise outside. Everything was eerily fucking silent as soon as he opened his eyes, groaning as he peeled himself off from the boy knocked down underneath him. Then it was the lights — or rather, the lack of it. Where there had been an lit up lamp above the boxing ring, there was now only an empty socket. And then — It was the smell that hit him. It wasn’t bad, but never before had he noticed that the boxing ring ever smelled this dingy and musty.

Something wasn’t right.

“Zhang?” he called out. “You aren’t fuckin’ dead, are you? Don’t tell me your nerdy self couldn’t handle a shove to the wall.”

It wasn’t like he wanted to impress Eugene Zhang. Hell, Josh didn’t even care for the other boy. But the fucking nonchalance Zhang treated him with pissed him off the hell and back. How many times had he hurled insults at him? Punched him in the fucking face? It irked Josh that there was hardly ever a reaction out of him. That of course, was the only reason why he had felt like he needed to show him up. He hated how Zhang barely reacted to practically getting defeated by him in the ring. Most other people would at least grit their teeth at the smug smirk he wore on his lips. But Zhang? When did he ever give Josh anything, really? It infuriated him.

That very infuriation was what drove him to recklessly cast a spell that he hadn’t yet mastered. The goal had been to send Zhang flying into the wall before he could even blink an eye, but somehow — Well, this was where they had ended up. Wherever this was. The spell had somehow fucked up and he had not only sent the other boy flying, but ended up knocking himself off the ground as well. And the wall was certainly not where they had landed. 

Or it was, except that was the least of Josh’s worries now. Something had happened, and the fucking brilliant idea Josh had was now scaring him more than ever. “I’m not losing my mind, am I?”

[cogiitoarchive]

          Eugene Zhang was not one to get caught off-guard. He protected his headspace with the reserve and tenacity of a well-trained hound, handling the bursts of emotion instead of letting them handle him. Inside the boxing ring, silence was the armor that he donned, never responding to cheap insults thrown his way. Talking was distracting. Lips pressed in a hard line, he would concentrate on his opponent's body language instead, neither riling them up nor getting riled up himself. It was a stubborn, too-clean strategy, and not very smart. It was his, though, and he stuck to it with conviction.

          Ren, on the other hand, was everything Eugene was not. Arrogant bastard, loudmouth, show-off. Brat. The two of them clashed at every turn, sparks flying during fierce arguments (mostly one-sided, as Eugene rarely replied). Today had been no different. As the clearly more mature one, Eugene would have been content to pretend nothing unpleasant had happened, go home and chill—but the other boy, fuming, just had to retaliate somehow, even going so far as to use his magic. (It was a dirty trick. The club didn't allow it during fights.)

          He grunted, more than eager to wriggle free from the weight of one Joshua Ren pressing down on him, wryly sensing the feeling of dread looming above their heads. The disquiet. It coiled inside his gut like an unwelcome visitor, a serpent curling around the edges of his mind and whispering in the shell of his ear —- something’s gone very,  v e r y  wrong.

          “Shut up, I’m thinking,” he shot back promptly, not even bothering to spare a glance, then continued to survey the room. The air smelled like dust, layers of it, smelled like TIME itself—instead of the piercing stench of sweat and blood that he was so used to, there was now a disconcerting lack of it. Lack of everything, lack of life, as if it had been centuries since a breathing thing dared to enter this space. The emptiness chilled his spine.

          “I’m going outside,” declared Eugene, managing to keep his voice from shaking. (He had to be calm. Panic was useless. Be calm.) “I gotta see what’s happened.” 

[rcligions-blog]

Juan thought the voice sounded familiar, but it didn’t prepare him for the face that he turned to see. After all, he did have a rule: he’d fuck tourists so that he never had to come across them again. For all the tour guides on the island, and for all the people that were, there was little chance that Juan ever would come across someone he’d spent the night with. Plus, there was the fact of the matter: that tourists were tourists, and they were gone as quickly as they had arrived. Thus, when he turned to meet Soohan’s gaze — and goddamn, Juan wished he had forgotten the man’s name, and yet it stung his tongue like a memory far too vivid —, shock was all over his features. It spoke itself clearly; he hadn’t needed any words. But, for as quickly as this shock came, Juan managed to gather his composure. His current expression eased, and was thus replaced by a cocky smile as he quirked an eyebrow towards the foreigner. “Come back for more?” The smile on Juan’s lips was undeniable. “Last night is good, right? You— You want more?”

[cogiitoarchive]

          “Comeback?” What? Like K-Pop idol comebacks? “Mweon sori-ya," he muttered under his breath. Perhaps he'd made a mistake—perhaps his tour group was scheduled to meet at a different location. He checked the map, only to ascertain that he was indeed at the correct place: the beach. So that must mean —-

          "Hyung-i gaideu-ya? Aniji? You guide?" demanded Soohan, incredulous. "Michigetne jinjja." But this wasn't supposed to happen! He wasn't supposed to run into his one-night stand, EVER, let alone in the morning directly after said night. His one-night stand wasn't supposed to turn out to be his tour guide. Strangers were supposed to remain as strangers. His voice was forcefully lowered as approaching footsteps were heard—the rest of the group was arriving. “Maja-yo?” he asked once more, still half-convinced.

[ladiesnetwork]

People think of Latina women as being fiery and fierce, which is usually true. But I think the quality that so many Latinas possess is strength. I’m very proud to have Latin blood.