faceted wall

anonymous asked:

In slightly different universe they ended up in different alphabet agencies/policeforce. They meet and fall for each other while both are undercover. Who figures out first that the other is a cop/agent too and how?

Club Miami, one of the most exclusive bars on the eastern seaboard, was a multi-story mansion raised on stilts driven deep into the shallow sand flats on the edge of Biscayne Bay. It sat out in the Atlantic like a glittering jewel, exactly one mile off the coast of Miami, Florida, and was only accessible by private boat.

Philip Coleman, arms dealer, player, purveyor of “rare” (read, stolen) merchandise and total bastard, inhabited notorious drug-smuggler Augustus daSilva’s private booth at the club like he owned the damn place.

Untouched by the sweaty clamour around him, one strong, long-fingered hand idly caressing his drink (the thick-cut crystal glass holding a $200 pour of single malt from daSilva’s private reserve), Coleman radiated a cool, cultivated arrogance that was laced with just a hint of thrilling cruelty. It was acting like catnip on the other guests at daSilva’s table.

Clint Barton, Miami-Dade detective (Vice), and deep undercover for the past eight months as a member of daSilva’s crew, fucking hated this guy.

Around Clint the deafening throb of the million-dollar sound system pounded on with an auto-tuned remix of What’s Love Got to Do With It on maybe its fiftieth loop. It was 80s night and the place was wall-to-wall party animals in their shabby-chic best—amped on artisan cocktails, a dizzying array of illegal pharmaceuticals, and the greedy, delicious knowledge that they’d gotten into one of the most select clubs in Miami.

Servers squeezed through the crush of bodies in a flash of sequins and feathers, edging through the crowd with trays filled with thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and martinis that glinted with flecks of gold leaf in vodka specially flown in from Lviv.

The club played host to the glitterati of south Florida; sports stars, actors, politicians and artists rubbed elbows with younger scions of some of the oldest families in the southeast, sowing their wild oats before they settled into their trust funds and got too respectable to blow entire weekends out on the water indulging in one sin after another. Transplants from all over South America and the Caribbean—tycoons, business people, celebrities—mingled with warlords who’d gotten fat off the drug trade, former generals in exile, smugglers, rogues, and renegades.

If just getting in to Club Miami was a near impossibility, taking a seat at Augustus daSilva’s private booth was even more of a get. The booth was raised above the level of the floor in a sweeping curve like an open, bleeding heart, deep red leather seats set against half-walls of faceted mirror edged with neon. To the public daSilva was an extraordinarily successful businessman in import/export. It was an effective cover for the vast smuggling operation he ran, with hooks into major ports all over eastern US. He’d made his fortune in the drug trade, but now he trafficked in whatever the vice du jour was, recently having all but cornered the supply lines for stolen tech—specifically weapons.

And not just the garden-variety cheap pistols that flowed back and forth across the borders into the hands of skinny teenagers and two-bit gang-bangers, but the elite high-tech stuff that would cost well above the annual salary of a Dade County cop like Clint.

daSilva sat in the middle of his booth like a king on his throne. With him were two of his top lieutenants, an array of stunningly beautiful prostitutes, several local movers and shakers, and, of course, that asshole Coleman.

Coleman had a few bodyguards with him, the usual variety of discreet muscle, thick necks and broad cut suits, weapons well-concealed, standing watchfully behind the booth. daSilva’s own bodyguards and backup—including Clint—were arrayed throughout the club.

Coleman wore black—he always wore black—his bespoke Brioni suit flowed slick over his broad shoulders, the fabric reflecting the gaudy neon of the club like oil on water. The silk of the tie at his throat was a crimson so deep it was almost black, a narrow strip of hellfire against the silver-grey of his shirt. Every time Clint’d seen him—and Coleman had been daSilva’s best customer for almost two months now—it the same dark suit, smoke-grey shirt, crimson tie; like a uniform.

There was the brilliant flash of a diamond in his ear; it sparked and fretted as he turned his head to smile at something daSilva was saying, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Strong jaw, a hard profile, mouth set in a cruel, unyielding line, the bridge of his nose misaligned—broken and badly reset—the remnant of a hard-scrabble past that no one would ever know anything about.

Coleman’s eyes were shadowed in the moving dark of the club, but Clint thought they might be blue in sunlight. He wondered if—

There was a hard tap on his shoulder. “I can hear your teeth grinding, compadre,” Costas leaned in to shout over the music. He gave Clint a wry look.

Clint mentally shook himself. Stop staring, Barton, you’ve got a job to do.

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Love Thy Enemy: Choices

Subtitle: No one’s going to read this today, but that’s ok, that’s what reblogs are for eh

Sub-subtitle: WHAT AM I DOING POSTING FIC AGAIN I AM A MENACE AND I MUST BE STOPPED

Sorry, this starts pretty abruptly and will be confusing without any context so:

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS TRAINWRECK OF EMOTIONS - The Emperor’s attack on Luke was quite a bit more brutal than what we saw onscreen, driving Anakin to kill Sheev-o with his son’s lightsaber so that he can live long enough to ensure that Luke can make it off the Death Star.  He intends to stay behind and die, but of course Luke’s having none of that.  With an appropriately schmoopy speech Luke lovingly twists his dad’s arm to come along, until they both have to book it out of there anyway when the docking bay’s atmospheric shields short out.  They blast off in Vader’s personal shuttle, and Luke doesn’t bother waiting for the inertial compensator to kick in before gunning it, so he passes out from the g-forces…

MUSIC: (because y’all know I’m gonna) A Place Among the Stars, Hans Zimmer, Interstellar // Will You Help Me? James Newton Howard, The Village // Special Delivery, James Horner, Bicentennial Man

I LITERALLY COULDN’T HAVE DONE THIS WITHOUT Y’ALL.  I have attacked many of you lovely peeps on my dash as I’ve agonized and torn my hair out and rewritten this disaster like 6 six times over and you’ve been patient enough to read my Google doc and brainstorm and everything aND…*SQUEAK*

SO HERE.  HAVE MY FEELS (again).  (ಥ﹏ಥ)  (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧



The air was escaping.

At least, that was Luke’s first conscious thought, in reaction to the faint hissing noise somewhere nearby.  His fogged brain conflated the docking bay’s explosive decompression with the idea that a piece of debris might have punched its way through the shuttle’s hull.  Alarmed, he tried to move, but his limbs weren’t inclined to follow orders at the moment.

Wherever he was, it was bright, with light passing through his closed eyelids, and he was curled up in a rather awkward position on something curved and pliable with his legs wedged up against another much harder surface, almost as if he’d fallen asleep spilling out of a chair.  If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn he was simply hungover and waking from a very unfortunate nap underneath the Falcon’s gaming table.

It was all just a bad dream, huh, Han?

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DAY 3033

Jalsa, Mumbai                  July 20/21,  2016                  Wed/Thu  12:33 am



Birthday - EF - Sunanda Pandey/Amira, Egypt

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Sunanda .. Amira .. wishing you the best of days .. just a simple wish for the happiness of all and the desire and will to be in the best always .. from your Ef 



‘Rang’ plays on the multi facetted walls and the spirit of the body enhanced by its rhythms moves to higher degrees of effort .. and with the ease of a feather .. there is interjection from near and dear and the results are encouraging .. meets after the efforts of the nasium bring smiles of some positivity and progress .. the hearings in the creative fields seem to be bringing effective results .. a film later, gives opportunity to be with the fraternity and interact with some of the generation that rules today .. we live at a time when the talent of today is superior and so effective and pronounced in their work .. admiration is not enough for them ..

As you drive back you reminisce the days and locations of the early days .. the spots where today large and ominous looking structures occupy the regions where once there was nature and soft settings and the quietude so desired .. and more shall happen and come as time goes by .. we have kept our greens secure and never did cross our minds to break and build bigger and greatly more fanciful .. during my time it shall not happen .. what the next generation does is there desire and will ..

SD Burman .. the maestro, the everlasting voice from heaven, Lata ji, Hrishi da who defied the system and made his own path breaking films , Majrooh Sultanpuri lyricist of eminence ..

What music for ‘Abhimaan’ .. !! Those days of spending time with Burman da in his apartment in a building called ‘JET’ on the market of the road known as Link road .. Bandra, Khar, Juhu ..etc on its way .. he would sing the tunes and his wife would be beside him as a voice of approval .. divine the moments .. divine the tunes that live till today .. divine his sense of perfection .. and the unique voice quality that he had .. a folksy dry emotive, broken .. but effortless in its execution and the lilt of its rendition never heard before … his eternal number ‘sun mere bandhu re ..’ everlasting … the melancholic chant almost of a generation ..

At the recordings of the songs in the studio, he was a man possessed .. no disturbance by anyone .. the silence .. his concentration with one ear covered by one hand of his .. his immediate reaction to a wrong note either by musician or singer .. no admonition .. just a soft gentle word of correction .. those days .. of large recording studios, and a 100 musicians and playing live to the singing simultaneously and getting it right .. how ever did they do it .. i know it because i had the good fortune to be present in most such moments .. and when you look now at the recordings .. its a wonder how the earlier artists ever did manage .. 

Now its a small little room in someone’s 1BHK, just about enough room for 2 people .. and a computer .. that is it .. a microphone appears from nowhere and I sit in that room and deliver .. minutes later voices are put through auto tuners ..and other instruments pre recorded and stored in files are added on through the comp .. at times the track, rough in nature, is mailed immediately to Los Angeles or New York, to friendly musicians, or those who work on contracted conditions and they fill in the orchestration of the song .. and within hours it comes back on mail .. ready for delivery after balancing off the music .. once this done the track goes to expert balancers .. they are a separate group or individuals who clean up the track, bring in their own interpretation and sense and the song is ready to be broadcast ..

Fascinating .. 

Its a world you do not wish to leave once inside .. there have been times when we have been at it all night and not know how time passed .. music does this to one .. it does to me .. and as the days pass by the frustration of lack of learning increases … someday I hope I shall get it right .. someday .. !!!

Which brings me to another frustration .. the thought of ending this Blog and leaving … at times I wish I could be here all night … much like those musical nights .. for being in the company of the Ef is musical indeed ..


My love ..

Amitabh Bachchan  

anonymous asked:

Writing prompt #3 for Hero please?

She Trusted You

When he finally lost her, it was to the Labyrinth of Self. One of the more blatant metaphors of their world, it was nevertheless vast, far reaching, and highly dangerous. It was also impossible to sidestep. We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it- oh no! We’ll have to go through it!

It hadn’t been too hard to begin with. She kept close to his heel, and hung on to his shamboo cane, just has she had done when they were crossing through the dark beneath the sea. The multi-faceted walls provided them with an escort of a hundred reflections, amplifying every move they made over and over. The further they went, the narrower and taller the walls became, leaning at odd angles, until they were moving in a dense, dark crowd of themselves. It was about then that she had started to cry, although several of her reflections had begun to do that some time ago.

He hadn’t tried to comfort her, although he glimpsed a few of the more distant reflections doing so- the ones that were several removes from their own selves where the light started to give out and the greenish shadow started to pile up. He had just tugged her along, telling her again and again to concentrate, to stay real, stay one, struggling not to panic as the weight on the end of his cane grew less and less. When it vanished altogether, he was forced to look at her as he turned to try and scoop her up in a last ditch attempt to hold her together. She had thinned out and split into countless copies, all layered on top of each other and moving only a fraction out of sync. They slipped and spilled through his fingers, and by the time he had taken two paces, she had disintegrated altogether. Her reflections scattered.

He stood there for a moment, arms clutched to his chest, awkward and absurd. All that hard won progress. All those narrow scrapes and odds overcome. Gone in an instant. 

“You could gather her up again,” said a voice beside him. “Take her back to the market. There’s a smelter there who might be able to-”

“You know I can’t afford to waste my time with that.” He turned on his heel, and started back the way they had come. Sparse reflections of the the erstwhile Hero continued to mill through the crowded mirrors, following him or standing still, clutching at his blazer or at his cane. Some had stopped crying. Most had not. All looked alone and lost.

“She trusted you, you know.”

“No she didn’t. You think I would pick a Hero that stupid? And I thought your opinion of me couldn’t sink any lower.”

The reflection of his that had spoken shrugged, and drifted away into the depths of the mirror. The walls lowered and withdrew as he made his way out of the Labyrinth, shedding the silvery, introspective gloom. The ever present Doubts that liked to use the place as a breeding ground made garbled hisses at his approach, but he payed them no attention. Not time for that. No time for grieving, either, for all that he felt it looming in the distance. He could out pace all that. He knew from past experience.

Back in the Labyrinth, somewhere in the fading echoes, one gloved hand took hold of a small brown one, and held it tight.