I have this image of Joel Heyman, one of the most widely recognized founders of the notorious RT Crew, meeting lil Gavin Free for the first time.
Like, imagine, Gavin was over in the US for a bit, helping Gus with some hacking and following Burnie and Geoff around like a lost puppy, and Joel stumbles upon him.
Maybe Joel was away, overseas maybe, talking to some fences about the Monet paintings stashed in the warehouse (and maybe looking into a gold heist on the side) and he finally comes home, to find a kid (a literal kid, Jesus Christ Burnie) lounging around the penthouse.
Joel knows about Gavin, there’s no way he couldn’t with how often Burnie and Geoff, and even Gus, praised the “dumbass little genius,” but he had never seen his face before.
Gavin notices him, and nearly breaks his laptop in his haste to stand up. Joel stares at him for a moment before gesturing him to follow. Gavin scrambles after him.
“So…” Joel drawls as he leads the other through the maze-like halls of the penthouse. “What’s your schtick, kid.”
“Hacker,” Gavin states instantly. “Burnie brought me to—“
Joel waved that away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I meant what else.”
Gavin shot him a look of confusion. Joel groaned obnoxiously.
“Y’knoooow, what else did he bring you for? There’s no way he brought you here just to hack, I mean, we already have Gus, and Jason, and Burnie’s no slouch in the technical division himself. So, why’d he bring you all the way here?” Joel stops in the hallway, Gavin nearly slamming into his back. Joel turns and stares intently at the younger man. “What did he see in you?”
Gavin looks mildly affronted, and Joel wonders if he should backtrack when Gavin speaks again.
“I ran a crew, back in England. It was small, pretty damn small for all that we accomplished, but it worked. I spent most of my time hacking, or planning, but I was a frontman too.” Here, he hesitates, averting his eyes, before he looks back at Joel.
“Geoff has some plans…and he’s teaching me to be a frontman. New identity and everything.”
Joel scrutinizes him for a second before he continues walking.
“Have you thought of one yet? An identity?”
Gavin shrugs sheepishly. “All the ones I’ve come up with are rubbish. I think Geoff’s beginning to think I’m a lost cause.”
Joel hums before stopping abruptly in front of a door. He digs the key out of his pocket and unlocks it, gesturing Gavin in.
“Uh…Joel?” Gavin asks while Joel rummages through his drawers. “What exactly am I doing here?”
Joel ignores him, muttering to himself. He finally finds what he’s looking for and exclaims, slamming the drawer closed. He holds up something to Gavin’s face.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Uh yeah, gold?” Gavin reaches for it, but Joel snatches it away.
“Nope,” Joel says, popping the ‘p.’ “This, kid, is pyrite. Also known as ‘Fool’s Gold.’ To the untrained eye, it looks identical to gold, but its not. Just sulfur and iron fused together.”
“Hey!” Joel snaps, glaring. “I’m giving you a lesson here, shut the fuck up.”
Gavin puts his hands up in surrender, and Joel huffs once before continuing.
“This, this is your identity. The point of the frontman is to be the face of the crew, while also gaining information. You have to make it easy for people to trust you, while also fearing you. You pick a role and that’s the role everyone will know you as. Does that make sense?”
“You have to be like Fool’s Gold. You have to look shiny and expensive. You’re forcing people to look at the crew like a precious metal, you understand? But you have to be more than that. Fool’s Gold has edges, like a crystal, and it’s stronger than regular gold. It may not be actual gold, and you—“ he pokes Gavin in the chest “—may be playing a role, hiding behind smoke and mirrors, but you can’t ever let anyone else know that. The crew depends on no one ever finding out. That’s the point of a frontman.”
Gavin looks at him, equal parts awed and overwhelmed.
“I—“ Gavin clears his throat. “I think I understand. Thank—”
Joel waves away the appreciation, tossing the piece of pyrite to the other.
“Get outta here, I’m exhausted. Who just got off a long ass flight? This guy! All you fuckers don’t even know what it feels like to be Joel. And where’s my appreciation? ‘Oh Joel can you do this, can you do that?’ No! Everyone can just go fuck themselves!” Joel ends his tirade, smiling a little when Gavin laughs.
“Get outta here, kid.“
“See you, J-Roll.”
A few months later, Joel hears about Geoff’s crew out in Los Santos, wrecking havoc all along the shore. He hears about his second-in-command, his brawlers, his sniper, and his mercenary. But, mainly, he hears about Ramsey’s Golden Boy, and Joel can’t help but laugh.
something that always struck me as odd about the prequels is how palpatine was able to forge a relationship with anakin in the first place.
this is definitely my biggest problem with the jedi, in relation to anakin: they let palpatine, a middle aged man, get anakin, a child, alone. the fact that palpatine’s even insistent on it at all should be ringing alarm bells. there should be Stranger Danger warnings going off, people! you’re dropping the ball, men!
and i understand that, according to the comics, palpatine threw his political weight around, saying that the senate has total control over the jedi. that you can’t deny the chancellor. but that’s incorrect - the republic is corrupt, but it’s not a dictatorship yet. as anakin’s legal guardians, the council has the full right to refuse palpatine access to anakin - it doesn’t matter who’s knocking at your door, you’re supposed to protect your charge.
but the jedi handed him over. the second palpatine pressed, they folded; and no one tried to curb anakin’s interaction with palpatine, even though it should be clear that an old man wanting to talk with a minor day after day after day is suspicious. especially since the jedi were suspicious of palpatine anyway.
I feel like types have two very different fears when it comes to being mistyped:
For one, being mistyped equates to having to completely rewrite your way system of logic. That every single revelation you’ve ever made becomes moot because it was built upon faulty and baseless reasoning. You have to start over.
For the other, being mistyped equates to having to completely rewrite your system of identity. A label that has become an integral part of the way you perceive yourself becomes completely wrong. You have to rebuild your self identity once more.
“ you’re SERIOUSLY claiming you made this ?” the frenchman creased his brows together at the debatable statement — it had never been a COMMON sight for someone to have such cooking skills, with the exception of their chefs. thibaut took another bite from the dish however, humming contently. “ fine, i’ll give it to you ; it tastes surprisingly good. ”
Whenever a book or article I’m reading describes Gorbachev as like, “the new, younger leader of the Soviet Union” all I can think of is “Introducing the new YOUNG and HOT general secretary” because it’s basically the same context as that “why don’t they just elect a young Pope” post.