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Pure chaos and happiness (in the background))

It’s just an accident drawing, juuust a little thought………….

Three more cases of the New World screwworm have been confirmed, including one outside the main cluster in Texas, demonstrating the difficulty of stopping a resurgent pest that could devastate the nation’s cattle industry, the U.S. Department of Agriculture announced Monday.

The screwworm is actually a fly larva that eats living flesh instead of dead material. The flies lay their eggs in open wounds of animals like cattle, but wildlife, pets and occasionally even humans can be infested. The government has a program to breed sterile male flies and drop swarms of them from planes to mate with wild females, which kept screwworm contained at the southern end of Panama for decades.

So far, there are five confirmed cases: three calves and a goat in Texas and a dog from neighboring Lea County, New Mexico. The small dog, which the USDA initially reported as a Texas case, lives in New Mexico and was reclassified as the first in that state.

The dog had not traveled to Mexico or Texas, so authorities were investigating around the property where the pet lived. If they find infected flies, animal inspections in the area will increase, New Mexico State Veterinarian Samantha Holeck said during a virtual news conference Monday.

'They're Betting Our Herd': Texas Ranchers Question USDA as Screwworm Returns

By Reuters

June 8, 2026, at 6:02 a.m.

Sure, he's having a mid-year student join his class, and aside from the medical complications he'd need to be abreast of— kids move districts every year. Every now and then, you'll get a kid halfway through, who comes in with no warning, so he's not surprised.

So aside from that small and insignificant detail, he's having a normal, everyday Thursday. Then he gets the student's name, and his whole world tilts a little to the left.

Claire Gentry.

This is... okay. This is fine. He can deal with this. He's an adult. Ryland Grace, who used to be Riley Gentry, does, in fact, know that people can have the same last names. He'd once had five Johnsons in the same class with him. That had been an interesting year. So, okay. The new kid's got part of his old deadname. No big deal. He can separate his childhood baggage from his duty as a teacher.

So Grace is having a normal day. Aside from that small shock of seeing his new student's name, he can comport himself and get a wriggle on, as it were.

Besides, he needs to get in contact with Claire's parent to talk about this medical issue anyway. That should take his mind off everything.

Okay. Okay. Let's look and see where her parent's contact info is, right; he looks, and he sees, and—

It sits there like a stain, like the piece of his father's brain embedding itself into the wall, into his line of sight. Looking at it is like drowning all over again, like breathing all over again, like being eight years old and almost dying all over again.

Courtland Gentry

With that same stupid swirl he’d do at the end of his y’s.

Ryland Grace is no longer having a normal day. He may have been having a normal day five seconds ago, currently he’s having a panic attack and possibly definitely needs to call Colt. Just a normal Thursday— and excuses language— his fucking ass.

—————

Six is currently having a normal thursday, which is weird because usually his thursdays involve, you know, killing people and not dying. Which is currently extremely disconcerting. Who knew getting shot at 24/7 for eighteen years of your life would have dramatic effects on your brain chemistry and ideas of normality?

Crippling PTSD aside, the reason he's having a normal Thursday is one of the reasons he's trying to no longer have to run and fight for his life. Despite what Claire may think about the glamorous life of being a spy, the best way to disappear into a crowd is to appear normal. It worked mostly the same with laying low.

Get yourself an all-American dream life: a picket fence— or, in their case, a single father in a one-bedroom apartment, with Six taking the couch— an out-of-the-way menial job that pays the bills— thats currently working on film sets as a grunt— change your look and make sure your kid goes to school on time.

Courtland Gentry had, once upon a time, been dead, but it's surprisingly easier to resurrect someone than it is to kill them.

It's a little dicey, putting Claire in public school, but if Six is good at anything, he's good at his job. Good enough that he's currently doing background checks on every single one of the teachers. Good enough that he's already scoped the place out. He already knows the inside gossip. He knows that the principal is cheating on his wife with the cafeteria lady.

But not good enough evidently, to figure out one Dr. Ryland Grace.

Oh, he had everything up until the doctor part, but his childhood and teenage years? A big fat blank, like someone had gone through and scrubbed everything aside from the essentials.

It's a little mystery. Definitely stinks of government meddling of some kind. So where the hell had this guy come from? Witness protection isn't much of his business. What is his business is making sure Claire is okay. And this little mystery is currently making him rethink settling in this district. But Claire has a San Francisco accent, knows the area, and can better absorb into the culture here. And there are only so many places for two white Americans to hide, one without training to boot. So Six will keep an eye on this Ryland Grace, and if anything goes pear-shaped, well, at least he'll have an idea of the first weak point.

—————

What Six has failed to remember; or is currently not even considering, because he would never consider his own siblings in a situation like this— is that, once upon a time, Courtland Gentry made a deal with a man. Not just for himself, but for his siblings: his sister and his brother. That nothing could be connected back to him in any way. That there would be no failsafes and no weak lines leading into his past. That Courtland Gentry, even if someone found out who he was, would never, ever lead them to his siblings.

So Fitzroy made some deals with people who are now dead or retired, and Colton Gentry and then Riley (but soon to change) Gentry were adopted by a sweet couple and subsequently disappeared from Courtland's past. It didn't matter much because Courtland died soon after. And Six considered it his penance. For his siblings' safety, he would never find out who they became or where they were. Just a nod from Fitz every once in a while to let him know they were okay. He didn't know that Colton went by Colt exclusively and had changed his last name to his stage name Seavers. That Riley had transitioned to Ryland and gone by their adoptive parents' last name, Grace.

Jody is having a shit Thursday.

But that's not surprising— everything about this shoot makes her want to pull her hair out. The schedule has changed three times. The director had to be replaced halfway through the third week of filming. And if she has to deal with Tom Ryder's stage directions on camera angles one more time, she might actually push him out the next window.

That said, the only thing getting her through it all was Colt. She giggles a little at the thought of him. He makes her feel like a schoolgirl, like falling in love for the first time all over again. Kind and funny and, Lord, the muscles certainly didn't detract. Everything about Colt Seavers made her stress and anxiety melt away. It probably also helped that they were getting a snog in every chance they had. A little serotonin pick-me-up. But truly, that was the last thread keeping her from blacking out and starting to defenestrate popular Hollywood actors.

(And Colt would totally help her get away with it— but she really couldn't drag a man like him into prison. He was too sweet for the Bonnie and Clyde act— Still hot, though.)

Speaking of snogging, Colt should have been here by now with coffee and, hopefully, his tongue in her mouth. But nada. That was concerning. Unless someone had kidnapped and drugged him, Colt would never, ever miss an opportunity to come make out with Jody. It was, as he'd stated several times, currently his favorite thing to do. Aside from doing other fun things with Jody and tossing himself off buildings.

She gives it a minute; and her concern has turned into worry. So she goes looking for him. He isn't over by the prop table or the craft services tent. Just a few technicians who have no idea where he is. She asks if they're doing a filming block that somehow didn't make it onto her schedule or planner and, thinking of this film, that probably shouldn't be a surprise.

But everyone looks at her funny when she asks. So she assumes no. She finally finds Dan and asks if he's seen Colt, only to get a shrug. “Yeah, like an hour ago. I think he was all types of shaken up. I thought it might've been that last stunt, and you know how Colt gets about being around people when he's not feeling well, so I sent him to his car. You know, get his head straight." And maybe take the hint and go home, is left unsaid.

Shaken up is not a phrase anyone has ever associated with Colt Seavers before. And it makes Jody's hands start to shake a little at even the thought. She doesn't have time to question it further before she's heading toward the parking lot, looking for Colt's car. She finds it. And she finds Colt. And it's somehow both worse and better than she could've imagined. Because instead of bleeding out from some hidden internal injury, he's curled up in the fetal position across the back seat. His hands are buried in his hair, clutching so tightly it looks like he's trying to rip it out by the roots. He's sobbing, these heartbreaking, stifled little hitches that shake through his frame like he's slowly dying. Like he can't properly breathe. Like his body is trying to fall apart. Jody doesn't know what to do.

She's known Colt long enough to know that he is steady. Unmovable. Strong physically and emotionally. But he's also human. And whatever this is has reminded her of that fact in the worst possible way. This has broken him clean in two. She crawls into the back seat with him, and he doesn't even try to push her away. That's more worrying than the crying.

It's uncomfortable. Her arms are pressed against the seats. Her knees dig into old crumbs scattered across the carpet. She doesn't care. She's holding his face in her hands. It's red, like he's been sobbing since he curled up. Tears and snot still stream down his face in steady rivers. He looks like someone died. Oh, fuck. What if someone died?

"Colt?" she asks softly.

Her fingers comb through his hair, stroking and smoothing, like she can somehow push the agony from his eyes. And there is agony there. Fear, too. Something animal. Something that feels like it had been asleep for a very long time and has suddenly woken up scared and clawing and screaming.

"Jo..." His voice cracks. "I—I think I'm going crazy."

"No, no, no. It's okay. You're okay. You're not going crazy." Her thumbs brush beneath his eyes. "What's wrong? I'll fix it. We'll fix it. Whatever it is."

"No. You don't—you don't understand." He sucks in a ragged breath. "I saw him. He was there. He held my hand." "Who was there?" she asks. "Who was there, sweetheart? It's okay. It's okay. We'll find him."

"No, Jo, you don't understand." His voice breaks completely. "He's dead." A sob tears out of him. “My big brother is dead."

Another.

"And I saw him."

His voices shaking violently.

"And he touched my hand—"

————

There are many jobs you can get in San Francisco. The ones you need to get when you don't want people asking too many questions usually have to do with some type of manual labor. Six finds one of those jobs and applies to be a set hand: a grunt to carry the big supplies around and help the techs out. Easy physical labor for someone like him. Still, getting a stunt guy coffee and a sandwich is a little not in the job description, but whatever. He's not here to rock the boat.

He finds the guy over by the craft table, Miami Vice plastered across the back of his jacket just like the tech said it would be. Before the man can even turn around, Six is already sliding the sandwich into one hand and the coffee into the other. There's a call of "Gentry!" from somewhere behind him.

He's turning before he even thinks about it, catching a glimpse of blond hair and a broken nose before the guy looks at him, then turns away completely. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" And he's off again. Nary a thought spared for the Miami Vice jacket who made him fetch coffee and sandwiches.

But the thing is, Colt saw his brother get older.

Their visits toward the end were brief and stretched out over years, but Colt remembers his brother. It's like an imprint, a flash burned into the back of his brain.People don't think he's smart, but Colt's memory is a trap for the things he holds onto.

And sometimes when in a particularly dark mood, he masticates over the idea of his dead brother. What he would look like now. The wrinkles on his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The soft timber of his voice.

And the minute the name Gentry is spoken, it's like something in his brain snaps. Like something he's been holding onto for so long, pressing deep, deep down inside himself, suddenly breaks loose. He feels like he's going fucking crazy. Because Colt didn't cry when his brother died.

But now he's sobbing in the arms of his girlfriend of eight months like a baby, like his brother just died in that prison riot all over again. Like his brother is standing over the bathtub, with the gun still smoking in his hands, blood splashed across his fingers and brains splashed across Colt's face.

He feels like he's going crazy because, hand to God, on the Bible, he would swear that man was Court.

#when this was new the only people who would ever see it were the people who walked past #for most of human history this has been true: you can only see great art if you go to where it lives #if you are lucky there will be great art where YOU live#and beauty will be your neighbor

#but even if so - that's only one kind #one small collection of one single branch in the endless waving rhizomatic tree of artistic development

#you will see the kind of art that is made in your region#and perhaps sometimes a traveler will bring in something wild and strange#with unexpected colors and lines and such an alien composition#and it will take your breath away not merely with its beauty but with its unassailable foreignness

#but now - now we live in an age of marvels

#I have seen these curling byzantine vines. #I have seen the upturned roofs of chinese pagodas. #I have seen the searing brilliant color of andean weaving. #I have seen so much more of the world than I could ever walk to on my own two feet

#beauty is everywhere. everywhere. and I am everywhere too #transported there by that beauty #it's enough to make a man weep

Something I notice is, when men discuss the manosphere, they either centre the reason boys fall down that pipeline on some inner weakness or defectiveness of the boy, ie. "they're just autistic weirdos who want rules for women because they can't get their dick wet," or they centre the reason on women, "feminism had made women too woke, mean and impossible to socialise with."

What I noticed while working is that every single little Tate goblin I had to work with had conservative parents, and I have never once seen that aspect of all this discussed. Boys will reflect the social norms they are raised in within their household. The biggest preventative for manosphere bullshit I saw in the boys I worked with was a dad who isn't a fuckwit and a household that isn't LARPing the 1960s.

push in your chairs when you get up from tables.

when people don't push in their chairs, people with bulky aids like wheelchairs and rollators can't get through. also a lot of people who use canes have wider gaits than able bodied people, and having a chair in the middle of their walking path is a real obstruction. while some of us are able to push chairs out of our way, a lot of us are not, and wind up boxed in/out because somebody didn't push in their chair.