hello all i’ve archived this and turned it into a real life blog so follow @unwynd for more subpar content
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Not today Justin
Xuebing Du
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JBB: An Artblog!

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@unwynd-a
hello all i’ve archived this and turned it into a real life blog so follow @unwynd for more subpar content
i am....tempted to put this on its own blog instead of using a sideblog but also i have so many threads i don’t wanna lose HMM
wavebraek / joel.
the thought of it makes you laugh and you even let the smile stick around for long enough that she must see it; god, your face crinkles and cracks with the effort of moving it that much, for once out of the sheer satisfaction of doing it and not out of necessity. it’s not some lie you’re tryna pass off to tess or your contacts, you ain’t faking it neither, just trying to get by. it’s real.
(you like this kid, in spite of yourself. typical joel, tommy’s voice rings out in your head, always getting in your own way.)
“oh yeah, people had all kinds of weird jobs back then. some people’s only job was just to play cd’s and talk on the radio, and they’d get paid a whole hell of lot to do it.”
money is kind of irrelevant. you know of it, but bartering gets you further when you don’t end up with a gun in your face or trying to scam you out of your food no matter what. you two have spent far too long with aching knees running away from assholes with guns who’d rather see you full of bullets than swapping a knife for a sweet walkman and a candy bar.
“why would anyone pay anything for that?” you wish the fire was higher, but the risk of light flickering through the fogged-up windows is something that already puts joel on edge, and you can’t remember a time where your shirts didn’t stink of wood smoke and dead people. your fingers splay out, hands spreading atop the fire to spark some kind of life into them, and you can’t help but watch him when he laughs. he’s a grumpy fuck alright, but sometimes, he is alright. he listens. and he answers your questions. and he’s not going anywhere.
“there’s a tape deck in the car. must be old.”
wavebraek / joel.
(you don’t want to tell her what you think: that right now is about as the same as you can remember, folk killing other folk over the same shit they been killing each other over for centuries. except now it’s got an uglier face. a more desperate hint to it. but there ain’t nobody out there trying to keep things the same, no matter what their intentions might have been at the beginning.)
“okay. yeah, i think i can manage that.”
god, she’s so much like sarah sometimes it aches in places you forgot existed. that cavity of your chest feels close to caving in sometimes in a way it hasn’t since – well. well, just since.
“before, we had these places you could go to and get real lessons. from professionals, y’know. they were - community centres, mostly? think maybe you would’ve liked that.”
when this is all done, he could teach you how to swim. when this is all over, you could find a quiet place where you two won’t be bothered and he wouldn’t have to lug you around on a wooden pallet because the sight of water that you can only see pitch black in makes you uneasy. the goddamn water. you don’t mean to sound presumptuous, even in your own head, but when this is all done, you two can be left the fuck alone and you’re better with a gun every time you’ve gotta use it, and you hear your heart thumping hard and fast in your ears before you know what’s happening.
“it was someone’s job to teach people how to swim?” you like it when he tells you about before -- how people went to school even when they were old, and how the old posters, bleached in the sun and blowing, tattered in the wind showed a completely different side to whatever you’ve heard about before before.
“man, that sounds like a weird job. did you guys have people to tie your shoelaces too?”
wavebraek / joel.
“maybe.”
you ain’t a man of too many words. never have been, not even when things were easy - easier, you ain’t generous neither - but she’s got that look on her face that always somehow manages to get under your skin. she’s got a way of that: scratching your surface.
“i mean, it weren’t perfect but it was better than – well, whatever we’ve been doin’. not sure i really understood that at the time.”
maybe. joel talks and you listen -- calls you a wisecrackin’ son-bitch or tells you not now, ellie, ‘cause you’re two wrong moves away from being on your own again, and that terrifies the shit outta you, and you dig your fingers into the hooked tab of the canned soup you’d both shared and you twist it until it falls off in your hand. you don’t look at him, but you’re cross-legged and inching as close to the low fire as he’ll allow, before you continue.
“there’s gotta be something out there, right? like how it was before?” before. you don’t know any before. your before was military pens and armed patrols. sometimes joel tells you about it all.
“you could teach me how to swim.”
@wavebraek / joel.
“boston feels so far away.” not geographically, but -- well, also that. but the time you’ve spent on the road, slinking through the shadows and praying to whatever’s out there that you can hold your breath and your nerve for long enough to allow a clicker to limp past, it’s all changed. you’ve changed. (you hold that knife with white-tight knuckles and you don’t sleep as much as you used to. people look at you like you’re some freak show because you’re just reaching five feet and there’s an old comic sticking out of the busted zip of your backpack.)
“do you think we’ll ever go back to something like that? not like. boston. but. i don’t know.”
Shoot in gas masks (งಠ_ಠ)ง
So how long do you nerds expect to keep me locked up?
wavebraek / amma.
oh this is just borderline masturbatory. does she really think amma is so fucking stupid? there are enough hokey crime shows out there for her to know that csi: lesbian here isn’t going to goad her into confessing anything important. so far, all they have is teeth and her lawyer says that it won’t be enough to convict. or, at least, not in any real way.
(her records will be sealed, her life will be boxed up, and when she turns 18 they will give her an apartment and find her a job and she will finally be free.)
“and what is that, exactly?”
“i’d like you to tell me that, actually.” actually, you’ve read the reports. you’ve read with detail the torture they’d been subjected to, ropes, teeth, death and all, but you stay quiet and stare back over at her until she wants to talk. you have ways of making people talk -- whether it’s the push-pull of conversation that eventually lures it out, or the one-up she might have on you. (if you have to goad her, you will. you couldn’t do that. look at you.)
“anything you say to me can’t be used in your prosecution. i work with the fbi, but i don’t have or want any prosecuting power, and i’m not particularly interested in the politics of law enforcement.”
you don’t care what she’s done as anything more than an academic interest. you don’t squirm easily, and it takes more than a medical report to turn your stomach. (you read natalie keene’s whilst eating a sandwich. you had to put it down a couple of times.)
“i’m interested in the research. what made you think the way you think, and do the things you do. i’d very much appreciate your input.”
honestly there’s nothing that can compare to creating OCs and imagining scenarios with them with a person you trust. i don’t even mean in an shipping sense, either – just you and your friends making up people that also friends and imagining them in ridiculous, hilarious, adorable, angsty situations. like holy shit the knowledge that they are enjoying themselves with what you create and you’re enjoying yourself with what they create and you’re both just having the time of your fucking lives playing barbie with your own creations, safe in the knowledge that they aren’t fucking judging you or thinking ill of you for the silly little scenarios you’re imagining, no matter how cringe they might be. no cringe zone. just friendship.
it’s pure, simple bliss y’all
wavebraek / amma.
the game is up. well. mostly. camille comes by with a lawyer and that same pathetic look she plasters on her sad, swollen face, like a dog abandoned in the street desperately awaiting its owner to rear up around the corner.
this woman is new. clean, neat, possessing a sense of togetherness most people do not, and she supposes it must be her mentality which sets her apart. amma has an unwillingness to fall for the great lie of the universe: that people are anything more than simple matter; perhaps this woman thinks the same.
“fbi, wow.” she aims for genuine. just a little girl awed by the big bad lawman. “guess i really am in trouble.” like she’s been picked up trying to buy liquor. god this is boring.
“i have nothing to do with your arrest. and i’m not a cop.” you don’t believe the heavy-handed bill tench approach is the best way to get any information out of anyone. you’re... a softer approach. a sit back and listen. you hide behind your Solitary Pursuits, behind books and research papers that you’ve spent the last three years typing up, in the basement next to the burnt coffee. you have your own way. tench is half way across the country on another case, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you wait.
you’re looking straight at her -- she’s no more than thirteen, fourteen max, and you want to root around her brain. finding out why someone would do something like this, or how they could provides the necessary framework for future investigation. your work here is meaningful, even if it means placating a child in an orange jumpsuit. you’re always surprised to see prison grime.
“i would like to ask you about what you did.”
anna torv as dr. wendy carr in mindhunter (2017 - )
@wavebraek / amma.
you’re used to the basement -- quantico kept you chained to the coffee machine on the lower levels, books either side that pile up in your office. wind gap, missouri, is a little nowhere-town that stares back at you and doesn’t blink without watching your every move. (you won’t stay long -- a county jail isn’t somewhere-enough to keep a brewing serial killer with a thing for teeth. you figure she’ll chew her way out if they’re not careful.) wind gap, missouri, is a tumbleweed lull of midwestern niceties that sound an awful lot like the scrape of an empty beer can scuffed across the middle of town under the heel of a worn-out converse boot.
you lean back against the chair, your leg folding over the other. (you have a notepad resting against your lap and a pen you click every so often in your free hand.) there’s a buzzer that sounds, loud, hostile, and in she comes.
“good afternoon. my name is doctor carr, and i work with the fbi. what would you like me to call you?”
me thinking about poi: root was literally 100% right about everything and if the team followed her instead of Harold bitch team machine would’ve come out on top in the end