launched eighteen years ago, the cassini orbiter is set to crash in to saturn next september, ending its mission to collect data (including these true colour images) on saturn, its moons and its rings. the latter of which,, composed mostly of ice, are thought to have formed only a few hundred million years ago, long after the planet was created some four and half billion years ago.
though a hundred and seventy million miles in diameter, the main rings are only half a mile thick, with the brighter bands showing areas of greater density, and the darker, less dense areas swept relatively clear by the gravity of saturn’s moons - clear enough, anyways, for the cassini orbiter to pass through one of the gaps basically unscathed.
saturn has over forty moons, including one found within a ring gap. these photos show the distant rhea and titan - the latter of which is larger than mercury and has its own atmosphere and hydrocarbon lake - and the inner most mimas and enceladus - the latter being notable for its encompassing liquid ocean of water and geothermal activity.
As April draws closer, I’m guessing a lot of us are tense. I know I am. Historically, a lot of copycat shootings happen in April. Most are caught because law enforcement has stepped up since eighteen years ago, but it’s reasonable to be especially nervous this time of year. It’s not only the eighteen-year anniversary, but also Eric Harris’s birthday, which I know has and will tick something people. I think it’s also interesting to note how many school shooters dressed in trench coats or heavy, dark clothes: Dylan and Eric, Adam Lanza, Kip Kinkel, Jason Dean (although fictional), the list could go on.
One tip I’ve picked up from interviews is this: if you find yourself caught with no way out and are forced to wait until the coast is clear, play dead and cover yourself in blood. Do not move. This has proven to save countless survivors in the past.
Stay safe, make smart decisions, and when keeping Columbine in mind, speak of tragedy gently and respectfully; the family and community’s pain is still very raw, and always will be. Whether you believe there were thirteen or fifteen victims that day, Columbine and the survivors are never something to joke about, or characters you can manipulate.
These words were spoken eighteen years ago today. A finale, an empty apology, a farewell. The last words of two young men, said on videotapes that would never get to see the light of day. The personal address belonging to a legacy that they hoped for, but could not yet conceive of.
I look at these words today, and wonder what I can say in turn. Wonder what I can say that would somehow be meaningful in the face of a tragedy that repeats itself year after year. Wonder which words to use this year, because they are eluding me almost entirely this time. Wonder at the time that has passed already, just as much as at the time that is still to come. Wonder for how many more years we’ll remember.
Today’s a day of silent wonder at what it takes for a goodbye to unfurl into murder and finally plunge into suicide.
Today’s one of those days on which “sorry” doesn’t cut it.
Why is Columbine so overrated? Virginia Tech surpassed it in kills, many kids who shot up schools were troubled teens and Eric and Dylan weren't the first duo to shoot up a school.
I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing here. It’s not about the kills. It never was about the kills. Columbine was the first of it’s kind. It was the event like no other. Two boys, from good homes and a “top” school, working together secretly planning for months to blow up their school and kill a mass quantity of students. They caught the school administration and the authorities off guard with their pants down. The world watched in abject terror as they had never seen such a thing before calculatedly planned by our own kids. Luckily the bombs never managed to go off but the boys still managed a terrorist-like siege on the school. SWAT had no clue what sort of animal they were dealing and because of that fact, the boys were allowed the upper hand over the authority that stood outside helpless for hours. Sure, there weren’t many kills but the psychological terror of something grand scale that had never happened before is what defines Columbine..and to this day. Columbine was the blue print that defined all future school shootings. I hate to use this term, but this event became the “pioneer”. Other disenfranchised kids got the message loud and clear from the boys - regardless of the Basement Tapes never being released.
Seung-Hui Cho of Virginia Tech mentioned that he himself was inspired by Eric and Dylan and ‘got’ what they did and why. Virginia Tech was a result of Columbine. Without Columbine, it’s not too terribly likely that Cho would’ve felt compelled to do what E & D had done to make his own rage-cry mark on the world. Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook and all the rest after it.. are a repeat performance to the point where people have become completely numb to these events. No, it was never ever about surpassing kills. In the end, surpassing kill count is meaningless. Just look at Sandy Hook: massive kills and children. Yet, sadly, the world has managed to recover and forget so quickly. People tend to see it as ‘more of the same’ derived from Columbine. Expecting to trump Columbine through kill counts is irrelevant. It just never was about that. Any would-be shooter that thinks it is, is deceiving themselves. They will always be another just another disillusioned, isolated, marginalized casualty jumping off the same death cliff of Eric and Dylan. Columbine will always be the definer, the start of the end of an innocent age. Yes folks, now even our youth can make war along side adults. Other shootings thereafter are merely the ripple effect still echoing from that epicenter eighteen years ago. The world is stuck on brushing yet another faceless, nameless shooter under the carpet and deflecting on how mental health should be better, bullying should be prevented or talks of tighter gun control. Yet, nothing ever changes in society and the cycle of destruction continues on in this karma-like repeat spell that Eric and Dylan helped create in our global consciousness.
((okay ive gotten shit ton of passive aggressive asks for him and china and romano they’re cOmIng PatienNce ples. ))
hi hello is this thing on yes thaNK YOU WELCOME FOLKS
TO THE BRAGINSKY BOYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS *eight grader airhorn
okay it jus one boy
wowie what a man
such a tol boi i mean are you short????
are you tall??
it doesn’t matter
he;ll do it all
like i can see him in sweater vests and button ups and his lil scarf for some reason just with you on his shoulders mounting a paper plate on the wall because he’s fucking weird as hecke
oKAY SORRY GETTING OFF TOPIC AGAIN
YOU GOT A RUSSIAN BITCH BABY
he wont cry if you call him that dont worry he isn’t a shark he’ll just snark
WOO ON PAR WITH THE RHYMES TODAY I AM A RAP GODD KACHOW
he m e mes im so sorry,,,,,
like he’s such a fucking dad it’s never funny they’re all from 2009 and you’re probably cringing but he thinks its funny and he doesn’t have a visible sense of humour so you chuckle and tell him that that cat in the ceiling is hilarious - “how did he get up there heh sillyy cat” " :,<)) gee bab e i dunno aha h ahA" *scrapes teeth along cheese grater*
i havent even explained oh me oh m y
dearest apologies friends
viktor is seen by most as tall, dark, and mysterious (spoiler: he is),,,
i see him, also, as this , like, almost snobby quiet guy?? that was brought up sheltered from the outside world?? ya dig??
he doesn’t suck a whole bunch, he’s just inexperienced
he loves to read and write and is a pacifist ((so you could sayy,,,, he wanted to write, not fight,,,, ive already made three im so sorry))
so,,, he does not want to fight with you, eve r
but he will not hesitate to tell you if he doesn’t like something you’re doing - my dude doesn’t have time for fuckery - unless it’s meant to be fun - like,,, - he doesn’t want to be mean, but he doesn’t like that you are being mean, ya dig??????
so the dude is like Ivan, just harder??? like physically and emotionally
he’s been very distanced from people his whole life, so he comes off as rather blunt, crude, and cold,,
m'bOI DOESNT WANT TO SCARE YOU OFF WITH HIS INTIMIDATING AURA;;;
HE WANTS UR LUV UR LUV IS HIS DRUG
im sorry it’s not 2011 anymore someone drag me from this pit
he is like francois and kuro;;;;; he likes romanticism
he also likes quiet
so gentle, quiet dates at home are his favourite
he isn’t one for social interaction,,,
but if you really wanna, then he will go !
he really likes ballet and opera and classy things
my dude will d r a g you to recitals and performances all the time
he’s a theater nerd
HE’S LIKE THAT ONE DRAMA KID NO ONE EXPECTED
you can hear him humming to les mis while he reads and francois hating the room a little bit less because of it
i feel like he’s actually so ripped but if his skin touched sunlight he would be banished to sibera - welcome home comrade
he likes,, soft - if you have a soft body he has a new pillow and a lead head - rip @ur thighs they are asleep
he and francois go to poetry slams often and he wants you to come too so he knows someone
he will lift you
if you are in the way you’re on the ceiling now bye like,,, you are i n the spot he needs to vaccuum at that exact second right then all the time what the hecke he just mopped and you’re s t an di n g i n th e f ll oor with your s OCKs
yOU were just in the Ga Ra ge you H e ck Er
you’re on the chandelier now
no you’re not he needs to dust up there get down what the fuck e Swifter no Sweeping™ !!
he is ur mom and ur dad
did u do ur laundry?????????????? no?????????????? good he already did like seven weeks ago catch the fuck up “honey where are the ??? bills???” “i did them approximately eighteen billion years ago? get on my level?”
he speaks to you *and only you* in a friendly joking way
he speaks fluent sarcasm to everyone - if you aren’t familiar with the language you will be the first day into the relationship
t o u c h this boy he needs your touch like he needs a i r
he will most likely complain but he is a dirty liar
the dude’s hair is messy 24/7 but it looks so,,, good,,,,
he’s an early riser but hates waking up which is The Worst™ - he’s got breakfast ready at 3AM tho
read to him! he will Die
if you know russian he will never speak english to you again it’s settled -if you don’t you will never speak english again it’s settled, he’s teaching boy howdy would he be a sexy teacher holy fuck
i feel like his ass is so firm it could crush coconuts between its cheeks - its its own entity
he unfortunately is good friends with Zao and is unfortunately dragged on unfortunate events all the time, unfortunately,,, - save him - he is a cry for help
he goes on trips a lot and no on knows why? like sometimes he’s gone and then he’s back and everyone is like????? where go?? - “i was in wales. doing things.” “hey sorry im late i didnt want to come”
he sometimes calls you in the middle of the night when he wakes up from a nightmare, but most of the time if you dont answer he’ll just listen to your voicemail so he knows you’re still there
aAAAAAAA WHAT A SALTY BEAN
he gives a good ol’ massage - not the most empathetic but he isn’t apathetic either, he just isn’t the best comforter
i feel like he is vladimir putin and leisurely rides bears with matt
i dont understand him at all like he will be crying in his bathtub, bottle of whiskey and pure vodka mixed, watching Barbie in the Pink Shoes one second and on top of the empire state building with three pitbull bodyguards and a Gucci cigar - i don’t eventhink those exist but he has one??? he doesn’t even smoke that often??
looks super cute baking muffins in a pink apron at 4pm on a Tuesday
looks super cute gutting a fish on a rock in the siberian tundra at 4am on a Thursday
he always wears longsleeves but looks SO GOOD in short sleeves or tanks like FUCK
his sweaters hide his secrets but you can wear them so you know he used to want to be a cowboy when he was seven and b o u g h t a wax replica of indiana jones for his collection
he looks so damn good in a suit holy shit
i feel like he’s a tailor but only for dolls, its cute - he will make you origami things all the time idk why he is so good at them tho
he’ll wrap the two of you in a blanket burrito on a hot day and refuse to let go “get off my lawn”
youre dating a grandpa
he is kinda a sugar daddy tho, but he’s reserved and doesn’t wave it because he is an Adult McGrownUp
actually is probably a traffic conductor in his spare time, but only in andorra? on the weekends? that’s probably where he actually is
viktor lOves tobe called vitya and its probably as good as a daddy kink
Today, it’s been eighteen years since the Columbine massacre. It’s sad to keep in mind that, eighteen years ago, twelve students and a teacher had their lives taken in a violent and devastating way, while two others were victims of themselves, their own minds, and all the shitty things they went through during their lives. It is even sadder that all of them could still be alive today and doing whatever they had planned to do in the future. But, unfortunately, we can’t change the past or even go back in time. It’s sad that we got to know who they were through a tragedy. Every one of them was talented and had so much to live for. So much to experience, see, and do. I want them to be respected. Not just the thirteen victims, but Eric and Dylan as well, because they deserve it. Because they were humans, they were lost, and they thought it was the right thing to do.
Prompts: 115.- “Here, take my blanket.” 130.- “I had a bad dream again.”
Summary: Reader gets down to the ground just to find out Bellamy, whom she was dating before she got locked up and who thinks she’s dead, is there as well. She doesn’t approach him at first because she’s afraid, but later when night comes they share heartfelt moment under the stars.
Word Count: 1226
I didn’t like the idea of going down to the radiation soaked planet at all, but I couldn’t complain much since I wasn’t even meant to be still alive. I had passed eighteen years a long time ago and it was miracle I was still alive. I was lucky to have a friend who had changed my records the moment I had been arrested for stealing some clothes that were meant for Octavia, Bellamy Blake’s sister.
what if connor has burns on his hands from where he tried to rescue ziio from the fire when he was a kiddo and that's why he wears fingerless gloves. what if haytham saw them. what would his reaction be??
After Haytham and Connor got on the deck of the Aquila, Mr. Faulkner, who had been taking care of the ship, greeted both of them - the first on with curiousity, the second one with cordiality. “I’m glad you made it” he said, patting Connor’s shoulder and pointing his head at the burning warehouse that they were leaving behind. “It sure looked nasty” “It was” Connor nodded, glancing at Haytham, who walked away from them. “I can take the helm for now, if you want to rest, Captain” Faulkner offered. Connor nodded gratefully. However, when Mr. Faulkner left him, the Assassin didn’t go to his cabin, but instead headed towards the prow. He preferred to be on the deck, instead of below it and the clear, salty air helped him recover his strength more efficiently than the stuffy atmosphere of the cabin. Connor rested his palms on the ship’s side and took a deep breath. He realized that his hands were still shaking slightly. Connor clenched them into fists. The incident in the warehouse moved him more than he’d like anyone to know. Especially his father. Fire was his weakness, ever since he was a child. Findng himself in the middle of the burning building almost made Connor lose control of himself. The Assassin glanced at his hands, where the memories of the events that took place eighteen years ago were burned into his skin. He noticed that his fingerless gloves – the only part of his usual clothing that he hadn’t hidden under the disguise – were all blackened and, at some places, charred. There was more material burned, than intact. Connor took off his useless gloves and threw them overboard. He’ll need to find another pair. Maybe there was some spare in the cabin…
“Don’t you want to have those dressed?” Connor flinched, disgruntled that he allowed his father to sneak up on him. “It’s too late for dressing those burns now, father” he said coldly, crossing his arms on his chest and hiding the burned hands “Eighteen years too late” Haytham, who stood next to him, was silent for a moment. He wasn’t expecting this answer. The Templar thought those burns were new, acquired only some minutes ago. “I see” he finally said, his tone less curt than usual, yet still far from sympathetic. Connor stood motionless, with his eyes fixed somewhere on the sea. He still wasn’t sure whether he could believe his father. He wanted to believe him so badly. He wanted to believe that his own father was not a monster who sentenced the woman he claimed he’d cared for to such cruel death. “I was trying to save her, you know” Connor said, not really sure what for “But I wasn’t strong enough.” “You were a child” Haytham responded after a few seconds “There was nothing you could do” “No” Connor shook his head, feeling angry, but this time for a different reason “But maybe if you had been there it would have been different.” “Maybe it would” Haytham said quietly “I wish I had been there”
Connor finally looked at his father. The older man’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, but there was some absent look on his face, that made Connor guess that the man’s thoughts were actually very far from here. Who knows, the Assassin thought, maybe deep inside my father is human, after all.
Eighteen years ago today (April 18, 1999) “The Great One” Wayne Gretzky, played his final game in the NHL. Gretzky is seen here posing for a photograph surrounded by his Rangers teammates during his final night.
Seeing Rogue One again did a lot of things, but more than anything perhaps it reminded me of how useless and generic the ending is. That it is perhaps the most uncreative way of ending a war movie ever, even for Star Wars and that’s saying something for a universe that is know for generic storytelling.
Killing off five men of color (yes I am counting Saw in this) and a white woman is nothing new. It achieves nothing in the universe that other movies haven’t already done. And killing off characters of color once a narrative is done with them, have been done by white story tellers since time immemorial, because they cannot envision that they could hold relevance for any story, any life, than that one short, narrow story they had envisioned for them. And instead of confronting their own prejudices and lack of creativity, they’d rather kill them off so they don’t have to face their own failings as creators.
Even Jyn, though she is white, does not posses quite the same immunity to being killed off that white male characters do. For to white men, even white women don’t really always exist as people with stories in their own right, that can be expanded upon.
And as I said, killing the Rogue One crew and Saw Gerrera, does nothing that Star Wars have not already done before.
That Rebels can and do die? Did anyone watch the Original Trilogy and pay any sort of attention?
That lead characters can die? Qui-Gon proved that on screen with his dramatic death eighteen years ago. So did Padmé six years later.
And Han Solo’s death in The Force Awakens showed that even the golden trio of the Original Trilogy is not immune.
Killing of the Rogue One crew achieved nothing, narrative or creatively, that have not been done to death in main stream media. It didn’t even have the vague justification of being new to Star Wars. All it proved was that the white, straight cis guys behind this is a lot less creative than people give them credit for. And that LucasArts on a whole are struggling in the extreme to envision stories for characters are aren’t white guys, beyond the limited narratives they have designated to them.
Where a white male character is allowed to survive simply because and be given a detailed story arc long after they should have been allowed to die - peacefully or violently - characters of color and women regardless of race are offered no such prospect. Only a quick and usually violent death as suits whatever story line the white guys are planning.
Eighteen years ago, on New Year’s Eve, David Fisher visited an old farm in western Massachusetts, near the small town of Conway. No one was farming there at the time, and that’s what had drawn Fisher to the place. He was scouting for farmland.
“I remember walking out [to the fallow fields] at some point,” Fisher recalls. “And in the moonlight – it was all snowy – it was like a blank canvas.”
On that blank canvas, Fisher’s mind painted a picture of what could be there alongside the South River. He could see horses tilling the land – no tractors, no big machinery – and vegetable fields, and children running around.
This is David Fisher’s American Dream. It may not be the conventional American Dream of upward economic mobility. But dreams like his have a long tradition in this country. Think of the Puritans and the Shakers and the Amish. These American dreams are the uncompromising pursuit of a difficult ideal.
Chibs Telford x Reader x Esai Alvarez
(GIF isn’t mine)
“Hey mama,” a voice lifted you from your focus on your paperwork to the door of your office at TM. He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his light brown eyes sparkling and a smile that made butterflies dance in your stomach.
“Hey,” you smiled, getting up from your seat as he sauntered in to give you a peck on the cheek.
“I was just passing through, wanted to see if you wanted to get some lunch?” he took your hands in his and looked down at you. He didn’t tower over you, just a couple inches taller, but you still had to look up to catch his gaze.
A sad smile glinted across your face and you looked over your shoulder at the mounds of paperwork that were piled on your desk. The repo business was booming lately and you had to put in long hours to keep up.
“I’m sorry, Esai, but I have lots to do,” you pouted and he smiled, “It’s okay mama, I know I dropped in on short notice.”
He let your hands loose and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand coming to rest against your neck as he leaned in and kissed you once more, “I’ll call you, and we can make plans, yeah?”
He took a half-step back from you.
Your eyes fluttered as you stared back at him, “O-okay,” you smiled and he grinned back at you.
“Walk me to my bike?” he asked, his eyebrows raised as he held out his hand for you to take.
Chibs was sitting in the garage alone, watching as you and Esai walked across the lot back to his motorcycle. He scoffed as he stood, walking to stand against the bay door as he cleaned his hands off with a shop rag.
You had only been back in Charming for a month, the truce between SAMCRO and the Mayans hadn’t been in effect for two weeks, and yet Marcus Alvarez’s son swooped in and swept you off your feet. It didn’t matter to Chibs whether beefs were settled with the Mexicans or not. Soon enough there would be more issues that would tear you between loyalties, or worse, your connection to two MCs would put an even bigger target on your back.
Chibs didn’t trust young Alvarez to keep (Y/N) safe.
He didn’t trust anyone to keep you safe except SAMCRO.
You were walking back up when you noticed Chibs glaring at Esai from within the garage.
“Is everything okay?” you asked, stepping up to the garage door and looking up at the Scot.
“Aye,” he responded dryly, turning around and chucking his rag across the garage as he walked back over to the Chevy Nova he was working on.
“Chibs,” you began, walking to where he was leaned over the engine of the old car, “I’ve known you for like, my whole life. I know when you’re pissed,” you spoke coolly, not wanting to push too hard in case it was none of your business.
“Why d'ye bring the Mayan aroun’ here?” he bit out, not looking up from the car in front of him.
Your eyes widened, “Is there something going on with the MC and the Mayans again?” you asked worriedly.
“Nae. I just don’ want him sniffin’ around,“ Chibs growled as he finally looked up at you, “Ye shouldn’t be seein him, (Y/N).”
You were shocked, this whole attitude and conversation was out of the ordinary for Chibs. He had been your best bud when you were younger, playing your games and laughing with you. Yeah you had been away for a few months, traveling before you settled down into the adult world, getting a job and working for a living, but you never expected his demeanor to change so much within such a short time.
When you left he was your best friend, now that you were back he either acted like he couldnt be bothered with you, or that you were somehow a kid that needed to be looked after.
You weren’t normally one to cause a scene, but as you and he were the only people in the garage area, you decided to get things off your chest.
“What happened to you?” you spat, disgust in your tone.
“What?” he asked back, standing straight and facing you with his arms folded across his chest.
“I leave and we are in good terms, I come back and all of a sudden you’re acting like you don’t know me, or I’m a child. My head is spinning! I can’t keep up with these moods of yours.”
You let out an exasperated sigh.
“Ye know what,” he began, “I’m jus lookin’ out for yer best interest. An’ it ain’t with tha’ Mayan!”
You rolled your eyes, what had gotten into him?
“Chibs! JAX said it was okay. I asked him before I ever said yes to Esai to make sure it wouldn’t cause any problems. If your VP, my TWIN brother, is okay with me getting to know Alvarez better, then who are you to say otherwise?”
“I don’t give a shite what Jax says. I said ye shouldn’t be seein him, (Y/N), much less lettin him come around here!”
You growled with frustration, your hands balled up into fists as your eyes shot daggers at the Scotsman in front of you.
“John Teller died eighteen years ago Filip Telford. You are NOT my Daddy.” You were fuming.
Silence filled the garage.
“Aye,” Chibs huffed after a long pause, “I gotta get back to work,” his tone was ice cold, so much so, that it actually hurt you to hear it.
“Hey!” you spat, reaching out and grabbing his arm as he walked away from you, yanking at his limb with all your strength, just barely turning Chibs around to face you. He didn’t speak, his jaw twitching as he glared down at you. You gulped, suddenly aware that the man in front of you was dangerous and regretting your harshness towards him. You cleared your throat, looking up at him and speaking, this time more softly.
“Why are you acting this way, Chibs?” you pleaded with the one person you truly considered a friend.
“Drop it, lass,” he sighed, shaking his head and looking down, unable to maintain eye contact.
You stepped closer, “Chibby…” your voice was just a whisper and he winced when you reached out to take his hand, “…talk to me.”
He mumbled something to himself that you couldnt comprehend before he took a deep breath and looked up at you, fire in his eyes as he did.
Short Bellarke wedding fic in very far future canonverse, because a Griffin-Blake wedding is my aesthetic.
Bellamy looked up from the floor, squinting in the orange light of the setting sun, glaring down on them. Selene sat beside him, the train of her coat draped over the wall.
This was the daughter Bellamy knew. Her dark hair woven into Grounder braids halfway along her scalp, before falling loose in soft waves down her back. The crescent tattoo around her left eye stood out like a rose in a patch of weeds, inky black against her golden skin. The deeper slices on her face had been stitched. The shallower ones had been left open to heal themselves. The paint was mostly gone, but Bellamy could still see the faint silhouettes of her war markings. He figured she could, too. She had showered and scrubbed a thousand times since she’d make it back home.
Bellamy raised an eyebrow as he waited for her question.
She folded her hands in her lap. “Why didn’t you and Mom ever get married?” she asked finally.
When I saw that @loveinpanem‘s April challenge was focusing on spring, hope, and renewal, I couldn’t resist using the opportunity to post the next chapter to my post-Mockingjay fanfic, Meadow Grows Green. It focuses on those same themes, and I’ve drawn upon my own real-life experiences recovering from grief, trauma, and PTSD to write this. If you’d like to read the first two chapters, they are available on FFN and AO3.
HUGE thanks to @deinde-prandium for cleaning up my mess, and to @bigbigbigday006 for pre-reading and providing advice and insight.
Summary:Putting yourself back together after falling apart is the hardest thing to do. But Katniss has always been a survivor… And maybe now she can even learn how to thrive. Post-Mockingjay, canon compliant, Katniss and Peeta healing and growing back together.
It makes no difference to me that it’s my birthday. As far as I’m concerned, I shouldn’t ever have had one again. I’m not entirely sure I should have had one to begin with. If I hadn’t been born on this day eighteen years ago, how different would things be? I can’t help thinking of all the lives that would still be preserved today. Would Prim still be around? Would she even have been born if I hadn’t, triggering that sequence of events?
Maybe it would have been just as well. Then she never would have had a life to lose in the first place.
The others insist on celebrating my birthday. Well, by that, I mostly mean Greasy Sae. No doubt, she’s acting on orders given to her by Plutarch himself, who probably would have made a nation-wide event of the whole thing if I weren’t so unpopular for ratings right now. No, the Mockingjay who murdered the wrong president is not the right person to be making a fuss over at this point. That’s fine by me. The last thing I want is any more attention.
It was the tapping on his bedroom window that woke Dean. Normally he wasn’t a light sleeper, once he was asleep it took Sam pouring water on him to get him to wake. The tapping, however, managed to wake him. With a groan, Dean rolled over a checked the time. 5:56am. What the hell? He thought as he looked over to the window and saw yet another small stone hit the window.
Hastily, Dean got up out of his warm bed and padded across his room towards the window. Looking down he bit back a smirk when he saw who was stood down on his lawn. With care, he opened his bedroom window.
“Really? Throwing rocks at my window? That’s cheesy Cas.” He called down to his best friend. “What are you doing here? It’s the ass crack of dawn.” He said to the sweater and scarf-clad figure of Castiel Novak. His best friend of fourteen years.
“You have such a way with words Dean.” Cas called back with a shake of his head. “Hurry up and get down here, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“For little ol’ me? What’s the occasion Cas?” Dean asked as if he didn’t already know. It wasn’t every day that he turned eighteen.
“Well, eighteen years ago today God decided the world hadn’t suffered enough so he gave you. Plagues and floods have nothing on your terrible taste in music and cheesy feet.” Cas said. Dean flipped him but still grinned.